Upper Mississippi Harvest No. 31

No. 31

UPPER MISSISSIPPI

HARVEST

UPPER MISSISSIPPI

HARVEST

About Us Students of SCSU’s English Department have been producing a literary journal that showcases student creative work since 1991. With each spring’s publication, our mission is to present inspiring, creative talent of the students of St. Cloud State University to the campus community through our publication. Student submissions are accepted in the fall of each year, and evaluated through a blind judging process between the fall and spring semesters. We receive more and more fantastic submissions with every call-for-submissions and it’s quite a challenge to narrow them down for the journal. Thank you for cracking open our 31st edition of Harvest. We hope you enjoy it.

poetry Lie

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Paige Gerlach

The American Dream

Samantha Fitzpatrick

Baby Smile

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20

26

Ode to an Introvert

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Observing in the Chair at the 72 Cabin in Hackensack, MN Madeline Christensen

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Of Cellars and Stars

74

In the Cloud

77

Strung

85

Little Falls

86

A Single Piece of Paper

88

Brandi Zinnel

A Rainbow Caught in a Storm

33

Nightly Adventures

42

Memories of Snowfall

54

Patriotism

58

Sarah Richardson

Samantha Fitzpatrick

Quentin Marriner

Melissa Okumura

69

Samantha Fitzpatrick

Brandi Zinnel

Anna Lashinski

Where They Can Go Kailey Goins

Ayan Ahmed

An Ode to Bubbles

60

Jacob Kruger

Brandi Zinnel

The Summers Nostalgia

Fear of Death

Sarah Richardson

Melissa Okumura

Mallory Morris

fiction What Makes You Smile?

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The Fisherman's Touch

21

A Fairytale Moment for A

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Tony Kraidon

Daniel Kuechle

Fairy Mother

A.J. Kleinschmidt

Time's Up

46

Well Wishes

50

Anna Lashinski

Prologue

Leanne Loy

Alone II

73

Almost Had You

81

Tony Kraidon

Anna Lashinski

MEDIA Lisbon

Hailey Thielen

8

Never-ending Ice

43

Shanna Pirness

Tree

19

Mushroom and Friends

53

It Will Still be Light Out for A While

25

Untitled

56

Prague

61

Central Park

70

Greece

76

Snake Bath

78

Feminine Mystique

80

C. Oleson

Shanna Pirness

Coney Island

Hailey Thielen

28

Flowers

32

Slowly Strolling Sisters

34

A Tree in Spring

36

Nirvana Sphinx

41

Cara Ann Krippner Olivia Way C. Oleson

Breanna Rhodes

C. Oleson

Hailey Thielen Hailey Thielen

Hailey Thielen

Dakota Johnson

Olivia Way

Marguerite Crumley

NONFICTION Stains: A Soldier's Reflection on What Remains

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Benjamin Korman

King of the Forest

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How to Make Korean Army Stew

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Daniel Kuechle

Isaac Holmes

Stains: A Soldier’s Reflection On What Remains Benjamin Korman If I hadn’t known any better, I would have assumed that this girl had just landed on the moon by the way she tentatively hopped, as if to test the earth’s gravity, waiting to see if the ground would either spit her out or swallow her whole. For all she knew, she could have been walking on fragile glass or elastic fabric. She gave a cringing look of caution, not knowing whether to proceed or retreat, as she checked for a magnetic pull or push with each and every step. This action, coupled with the white and desolate backdrop, truly set the celestial scene. The sharp, pink contrast of her hijab stood out like a highlighter against a blank white page of possibilities, and it was this detail that ultimately pulled my attention from my peripheral. I soon found myself gravitating towards her instead of back towards the direction of the parking lot, I was already late for class.

It was safe to say, based on her actions and appearance, that she had never seen ice before, let alone walked on it while suspended over the black hole of the water’s frigid depths, each footstep furthering her frontier. The buckling booms that broke through the ice bounced its broadcast beautifully, as if there had been great blue whales bellowing below its surface. At this, she seemed to stop for a moment, arrested by hesitance while she calculated her movement from shore up until where she then stood. Caught in a brief balancing act of internal negotiation, she resumed her prodding advancement across her uncertain surface.

As she continued to press on, I could hear what I assumed was her mother sending out signals from shore in their native Somali dialect.

“Stop! Stop! Where are you going?” the mother cried. In return, the little girl transmitted quick and concise snippets of foreign jargon that auditorily registered with a heavy emphasis in vowels. “Mamma, I’m fine!... I’m fine, Mamma!” I must’ve looked down, in the time it would have taken to check my watch, when I heard the mother cry out again, this time in simple desperation, “Please! Please!” She was worried, no doubt, and seemed as unfamiliar with the ice as her brave little pioneer had been; a cautious sense of mortality, or lack thereof, was their only dividing factor. Of course, being a native Minnesotan myself, and having grown almost too comfortable around ice in midwinter, I had actually laughed at the scene unfolding before me. I had crossed many similar lakes and rivers on foot many times before while ice fishing, and I weighed at least ten times that of the girl. She No. 31

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was fine. Still, I recall wanting to cheer the little girl on; to reward her for her bravery, or maybe for her brazen act of rebellion at the expense of her mother. All of this, despite the horror of what I now realize the mother must have been going through that cold winter day. And in hindsight, this may have been the only thought which had stifled my breaking into applause at that very moment, all in praise and admiration of the girl's sense of blissful ignorance, which she convincingly guised as bravery.

It would only be a few years later until I would come to fully experience and appreciate this breathholding, heart-dragging, and time-melting sensation of helplessness that was displayed by the mother on that January day. This time, the tables would be turned.

I would be the one playing the part of a foreigner as I traversed a similarly arid and desolate land. And instead, I would be met with the onlooking stares of locals who did not laugh, as they had seen others try and fail at what I myself would soon be attempting. After all, there isn’t all that much of a difference between a frozen river and a roadway ridden with IEDs. So like the little girl, I too would be counting each and every one of my steps, trying to remain as brave and as light on my feet as she had. I would stop every now and then to negotiate with myself as well, knowing full well that one misstep, one miscalculation, and the earth could likewise give out from underneath its uncertain surface, spitting me out, only to swallow me back whole… And thank God my mother wouldn’t be there to see that.

Most people, when asked what they do for work, generally respond with something along the lines of, “Well, it was just something I always wanted to do.” That, or the classic multi-generational trend of, “Well, my father/mother had done so, and their father/mother had done so before them, and their parents likewise (and so on and so forth).” Other times, they’ll give a simple, “Well, it pays the bills,” or even a “Someone's gotta do it,” if they are feeling particularly self conscious and defensive about their occupation. I guess in many ways, I myself have fallen on some of these answers from time to time.

What’s funny though, is that for me, the conversation usually never even gets to that point to begin with. When most people first inquire about my job, they usually grow exceptionally quiet when I reply with, “I’m a soldier.” At best, they may break out the classic, “Well, thank you for your service” line, which, though greatly appreciated, is often very awkward and uncomfortable for a veteran to grapple with ( I always felt pretentious when thanking others for thanking me. ) Otherwise they may default to the questions previously mentioned, leaving me in limbo with yet another strange debacle of explanation. Of course, I can’t blame anyone for not knowing how to respond, I myself don’t know how to act when meeting other veterans, especially others who have given so much more. I usually 2

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resort to growing quiet myself, yet such quietness stems more from a place of mutual understanding rather than from not knowing what to say. And, in my experience, it is what’s not said that is left ringing the loudest in the ears. For every story a veteran tells, there are five to ten that they are not telling.

My first memory of the September attacks had been when my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Ruggemor, read a children’s book to class about the events of that heavy day. The book was Fireboat by Maira Kalman, and was published the year after the towers fell. I sometimes wonder if it was written to make the topic more digestible for the kids, or for the adults… maybe a little of both. I now likewise ponder about the absolutely horrifying necessity of having to explain such events to children, especially through the format of brightly colored illustrations and short, elementary sentences…as if that could ever be enough to convey such suffering that even intellectuals fail to put forth adequate words to. If anything, that book left me with more questions than answers. And to this day, I grow more and more confused when I try to wrap my head around the events of that day.

I sometimes try to place myself amongst the panicked pedestrians I’ve seen populating the video footage. Other times, I envision the freezing sensation of hesitance that comes from having to choose between burning to death or jumping to it. I even imagine what it must feel like to hate a group of people I don’t even know, so much, that I am willing to kill myself in order to kill them too. I wanted to tell myself that such an event had to have been an accident, despite what the parents, teachers, and the rest of the adults affirmed.

A fellow student of mine back then, a small, and reserved blonde-haired, blue-eyed little girl named Victoria, had a father in Iraq around the same time. This had been in 2004, shortly after the major invasion had taken place. What really puzzled me, though, was why she would cry whenever that book Fireboat was read to us in class. My then six year old mind could not comprehend nor draw the connections between that event and the lifetime of war and retribution that would inevitably follow, aging side by side with my generation.

We had just gotten in from a routine “route familiarization,” a recon patrol, and all I could think of was taking a shower. It had been an exceptionally long day out in temperatures that often reached and exceeded 120 degrees fahrenheit. Such radiance intensified to the point in which the asphalt roads melted just enough to meet each footstep with a slight, suctioning effect. What’s more, is that our AC units had broken down in our humvees, and we weren’t allowed to crack any windows, in the advent of grenades and stray bullets. This, combined with the nauseating aura of decay and human waste, made for a sickening spectacle. Such smells often stole any semblance of oxygen from suffocating nostrils causing involuntary coughing and No. 31

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choking as the lungs wrestled for air. This was especially the case when certain discoveries were made with regards to the source of the various odors at question. Though, in most instances the effect was still the same, no matter what the flavor of the day had been.

The burn pits had been particularly potent on that day, as our bloodshot eyes and reddened noses had attested to. And as I said, all I could think about was a shower. I wanted to remove this cancerous filth from me for fear that it may flourish if left to fester. When we were finally released from our debrief, I used up my remaining energy to race back to my tent and cleanse myself. The often appalling smell of the latrine and shower room paled in comparison to that which we had encountered outside the wire. I remember scrubbing ferociously everywhere I could, prioritizing the eyes, hands, face, and feet, everything else in descending order after that. A threeminute ‘combat-shower’ wasn’t much time to accomplish much, and I was left with the feeling of never truly being ‘clean.’ This was not the place to sit and contemplate life while enjoying a 20-minute soak. And even if it had been, such reflection would have only left me feeling even more depressed and despondent. Free time in a place like this can be soul-sucking. So, with no time to waste, I doused soap all over my head and face. The sweaty sting of the eyes, having soon been replaced by that of the soap. This was a good sting, a new sting, a cleansing sting. The kind of sting that reminded me of when my mom would clean my cuts and scrapes with alcohol pads whenever I managed to get myself into some trouble, washing away the worry of such wince-inducing wounds. It was these reminders that reassured me that everything was alright, things may not have been great, but they sure were alright. And foolishly, I think I truly believed that I could likewise cleanse the images that had been seared into my mind earlier that day, scarring my retinas along the way, but such wounds are near impossible to locate, let alone sterilize.

The next day, children were running up and down the area where it happened, laughing and giggling as they made their way down towards the wadi to swim and bathe themselves. One boy, who couldn't have been more than six, even waved and smiled at us while he stood directly in the bloodstained streak, as if it wasn’t even there. That stain was the only evidence left of that poor boy from the day prior, a purple bruise that scarred the sand. They hadn’t even bothered to clean it up, as it would soon be washed out by the flash floods of the upcoming rain season and swept away in the wadi, taking with it any and all other filth and decay that littered the vicinity; the very land itself left struggling to erase the evidence. I had hoped that the authorities had gotten to the body before the dogs and crows had, but the smell suggested otherwise. The smell, though… Now that was something that even the rain failed to alleviate… The stench there was so layered and complex, a true recipe of redolence, that 4

Upper Mississippi Harvest

over time our noses had developed to the point of either blindness or an intense ability to dissect such aromas. Like taste-testing, the individual ingredients could be identified with careful wafts. I used to be disgusted by the stagnant smell of the cities back home which usually only amounted to the tepid traces of trash six bags that, at most, simmered on the curbs for no more than twenty-four hours or so and consisted mostly of food and material waste. But over there, the odors moved, and seemed to seep straight up from the very ground itself, cologning the inhabitants with equal measure, making each breath a laborious burden to harvest anything resembling oxygen. We had no choice but to breathe nasally, however, since no one dared to open their mouth, which would have rendered them vulnerable to swallowing dust and disease carrying flies which often nestled amongst the decay and sewage. The flavor of the scent itself mirrored that of rotting fruit and vegetables, mixed with an iron-like, earthy infusion of blood and manure.

I then imagined what it must have been like to be that now dead boy, and to realize that this final scene would be the last for my eyes to see, the smells singeing my final breath. I imagined the desperation I would have felt, the clawing search for any way out, like a trapped animal deciding if I should gnaw off my paw in order to escape and maybe live a little longer, at least for a while. And then, I would wonder if that would even be worthwhile, or if I would just let go at that moment, and surrender, realizing that the hell that surrounded me was not worth the fight to retain. And as my final seconds would draw near, I would probably try to speak once more, to call out for help, but would instead be interrupted by an intoxicating desire of wanting to vomit, as even my insides would try to escape such a fate.

The voluntary and involuntary functions of my body would betray me, as they had betrayed that boy; the nervous system running haywire in an attempt to put sense to the stifling set of stimuli.

Tunnel vision would couple with a hammering heart-rate, adding to the disorientation. I, too, would probably wet myself… And at any rate, such a plea for help would have likely fallen on deaf ears; the local women steering the attention of their onlooking children back towards the laundry and various seven chores they had come to the washout to do. Our own team had been instructed to turn the other way, as intervention did not align with our mission’s ‘interests.’

I once read that the human head can retain consciousness for a few seconds after decapitation, and that it can even respond to being called by name… I wanted to call out to that boy, if only I had known his name, expecting some sort of answer or explanation in return as to what just happened… If only I knew his name… But I knew well enough what had happened, I was just trying to understand why. To this day, I am convinced that no one, regardless of fault or wrongdoing, deserves to die in the manner that boy had.

No. 31

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Each subsequent patrol was a new frontier. We were playing ‘cowboys and Indians,’ and we were certainly in Indian country; the Wild West. The bands of local African tribes and clans looked at us in much the same way medieval peasantry must have looked at their oppressive lords of ‘nobility.’ Whatever divine providence that had brought us here in the first place, some thirty years ago, had lost its inherent value and seemed to have already bled out; its stain in the sand having been overlapped by the fresh blood being spilt for fresh reasons. What started as well intended humanitarian work had somehow wandered off into war. So while we trudged on through this, our new colony, we were still left to question our presence. After all, whenever the military is involved, the situation is usually bleak at best. Each route recon felt as though we were hot on Death’s trail.

A dog, found carrying a severed human hand, bloodied rags and mounds of bullet casings, a blown-off leg left strewn-out, images of sick and starving children. These are the elements that can’t be fired back at, like a ghost whose presence is unavoidable and impossible to pinpoint, leaving us haunted by its aura. We just had to ignore it, and hope that eventually, it would all wash away…

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Upper Mississippi Harvest

P

LIE Paige Gerlach Sometimes we lie, Because it’s easier to believe that it happened that way.

Other times we lie, Because we want to believe that it happened that way.

Lastly, we lie…

Because we want everyone else to believe That we really are feeling… okay.

No. 31

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M

Lisbon

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Upper Mississippi Harvest

Hailey Thielen

No. 31

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P

The American Dream Samantha Fitzpatrick This dreadful sound means it’s time to wake up Eyelids still heavy Mind still dreaming Drip drip drip The faucet water tastes like metal This obnoxious noise says to start my day Vision still blurry Brainpower still weak Drip drip drip The bitter coffee looks like midnight This ongoing ring reminds me of my purpose Sight still restricted Sanity losing touch Drip drip drip The tears have watered my artificial plants

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Upper Mississippi Harvest

f

What Makes You Smile?

Tony Craidon Three bells rang. Badger Drakos stood and lumbered to the center of the ring where he held his gloves just below his chin, alternating top and bottom fist. The defending world heavyweight champion did not take a defensive stance. Instead, John “The Joker” Hankins regarded Badger with a sneer that could only be interpreted as both angry and cocky. Joker had not held his opinion back during the first press conference when the fight was announced, and it was clear he did not think Badger had earned the right to touch gloves in the same ring as the Champ. A sentiment he upheld just before the bell, refusing the most basic show of sportsmanship in boxing.

Badger did not mind. He had done the right thing, he knew.

Joker’s rejection was just one more in a long line of people who doubted his ability to overcome adversity through perseverance.

Badger smiled. Unlike his adversary, he held no hate in his heart.

Only a desire to test his mettle. To be a better version of himself.

The two fighters were both undefeated, but in very different ways. Badger’s record of 12-0 was hard won. Every fight had been a challenge, every punch tested his resolve. He had been knocked down in every fight, and in every fight he got back to his feet.

Badger’s blood had stained every ring he stepped out of, and he was proud of that. Everything is earned, he'd hear the echo from his father’s ghost every time his gloved fist was raised in victory. It wasn’t an impressively comprehensive battle history, but event coordinators, the boxing commission, and Badger’s coach all believed it worthy enough to face the undefeated heavyweight champion.

Joker had never been knocked down. Not in 36 professional fights. Not in his eight amateur fights. Not on the streets he grew up, where there was never a shortage of challengers. He was a machine that regularly made light work of his opponents, and rarely showed anyone else respect.

Both fighters were known for their heavy hitting, but only Joker had his hands registered as “lethal weapons” by the city of New York.

Most thought this was just an honorary title, a city paying homage to a champion from its own streets. Badger wasn’t concerned. After all, it had yet to be proved he himself wasn’t immortal.

Joker had earned his moniker because he was always wearing a ghost of a smile. Always. But it wasn’t the kind of smile that would put someone at ease. Instead, it often left people feeling uncomfortable.

Joker had only once ever acknowledged it, right after he won the No. 31

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World Heavyweight Belt.

“When you’re the apex predator, there’s no reason not to smile,” he said into the mic before swiftly leaving the ring with his entourage.

Badger raised his fists up, and cautiously took a step toward the champ. Thunk thunk. Joker, smiling psychotically, defended his personal space by taking two left jabs at Badger’s forehead. The crowd erupted at the first contact. Badger took the message and took a step back. He raised his gloves a little higher and peered through his forearms at his target. Joker looked relaxed, confident. Badger thought this was a mask. Somewhere, deep down, Badger suspected Joker feared him. Why else would he have protested this fight to anyone who’d listen? Still, he took the contract. “An easy $50 million,” he had told the press.

For Badger, it wasn’t about the money. Or the fame. In fact, having come from inner city Detroit, the $2.5 million he had made over the last three years was about $2.49 million more than he knew what to do with. But that’s what his barren but beautiful wife Janice was for.

She handled all the finances and legal stuff, Badger just stepped in the ring and won. That’s what Badger did. He won.

He had been the recipient for the Butkus Award his senior year in high school for an impressive 37 tackles and 17 sacks. That same year he was voted class President. Badger earned his four year degree in chemistry in just three years. He spent the next four years in the Army in the armored cavalry and was on track for Staff Sergeant.

Everywhere Badger went, he was the success story. He lived by his father’s motto, “Everything is earned.” He was a powerful and inspiring influence to everyone he interacted with. Classically handsome, ladies wanted him, and of course, the men wanted to be him. Badger didn’t arouse jealousy, but rather inspired others to be agents of productivity.

Win or lose this fight, however, and it was on to other conquests.

He was driven to win, but humble enough to recognize the simple honor of just being a 32-year-old in the same ring as the 26-year-yearold champ. He intended to hang up his boxing gloves for latex gloves.

He was going to spend the next few years establishing himself as a renowned tattoo artist. He always had a flair for art and felt it would be an honor for others to appreciate his art enough to stain their skin.

After that, who knows? There was too much life left to live for Badger to anchor himself to any one vocation.

Thunk thunk thunk! Joker, still smiling, reintroduced himself with three more left jabs. The first one landed directly between Badger’s eyes, the other two glanced off Badger’s gloves and shoulders. More cheers from the crowd.

“He’s playing with me,” Badger thought.

No sooner had the thought occurred to him when Joker threw another single left jab, causing Badger to lean right into a wrecking 12

Upper Mississippi Harvest

ball of an uppercut to the sternum. The wind escaped Badger. He took a few jumping steps back and lowered his hands in effort to catch his breath. Joker didn’t pursue. Instead, he cocked his head from his left to his right, then very deliberately nodded his head, as though confirming his inevitable victory.

Badger danced around the perimeter, keeping his hands at his sides, conserving his energy. He never took his eyes from Joker, who stood in the middle of the ring…smiling. The spectators roared, frothing with bloodlust. He heard jeers and cheers, but nothing coherent. It was clear this was a Joker-friendly crowd. Psychologically, the fight was against him. Badger realized Joker was in his head.

He did what he had done during combat in the Army. He focused his thoughts and pushed any doubt from his mind. The noise from the stadium melted away. Badger pulled his shoulders in tight and raised his gloves to the front of his head. As in times of great stress, the ghost of Badger’s father coached him from within the walls of his mind.

Introduce yourself, his father said simply.

Badger faked a right cross, shifted his weight to his right foot and delivered a monster left hook. It connected to Joker’s jaw. Joker had ducked in anticipation of the right cross, but was caught by surprise with the left hook. Joker’s nervous system did a factory reboot, and he went down. Every able person jumped from their seat, including the gentlemen in the commentary booth. One of commentators jumped up so fiercely, his headphones were ripped from his skull and laid useless and stupid on the desk.

The sound was deafening. Oh how quickly Badger won favor with the mob. Underneath the roar was the sound of money being exchanged rapidly. Camera flashes burned with fury, trying to capture a historic event. No matter the outcome of this fight, the picture of John “The Joker” Hankins on his back in the middle of the ring was going to go viral. Badger remained focused and unfazed. He stood vigil from behind the referee. He didn’t get lost in the sound.

He didn’t lose sight through the frenzy of flashes. He paid no mind to anything but Joker.

“One!” the ref shouted pointlessly into the wall of cheers and jeers.

Joker’s eyes blinked once, twice, three times.

“Two!” The clouds parted from Joker’s expression, and one of anger and violence took its place. He looked at Badger fiercely. He got to one knee.

“Three!” the ref continued the count.

“Four!” Joker didn’t immediately get to his feet. Instead, clearly intentional, he let the ref continue his futile counting while he stared at Badger.

“Five! Six! Seven!” And before he counted to eight, Joker stood.

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He brushed the ref aside when he perfunctorily checked on Joker’s state of mind. To anyone watching, Joker’s state of mind seemed pretty clear. He was no longer smiling.

“You have my attention,” Joker mouthed silently to Badger. It was unclear if any of Joker’s psychological warfare was having any effect on Badger. Badger looked like a photograph, stoic and unmoving.

Badger knew he had accomplished something just now. But he didn’t think about it for too long. What was important was to gauge Joker’s response without bleeding too much. The referee motioned for the fight to continue. Both fighters walked forward to meet each other again.

Instead of unleashing a fury of heaving hits, Joker resumed his left jabs like he was just getting warmed up. Most jabs missed Badger, and the few that found Badger were easily blocked. But at 2:57 in the first round, Joker’s left shoulder twitched as though he was going to deliver another jab, but before Badger could process the decoy, Joker supplied a sledgehammer of a right uppercut. Now, it was Badger’s turn to reboot the nervous system.

But Badger’s reboot time had been trained through plenty of experience to be swift. Badger fell back against the ropes, then bounced forward to land on his knees when he became aware of the situation. He held out his gloves to break his fall. He didn’t allow his body to hit the mat. Summoning all his strength, he bounced back into a defensive posture. The referee didn’t have time to start the count. The bell rang. He stole a look back to Joker as he walked to his corner. His infamous sneer had found its way home, and Joker regarded him once again as an undeserving opponent.

The next four rounds remained somewhat unremarkable, but clearly in Joker’s favor. For every punch Badger landed, the faster and stronger Joker countered with four or five of his own. But Badger remained vigilant, and wouldn’t allow Joker to land any ‘knockdown’ strikes. Badger whiffed a few times himself, and the crowd seemed to settle back into casual conversation as these two Goliaths faced off.

By the sixth round, Badger’s face was badly cut and swollen.

His nose was broken, and he was struggling to breathe. His trainer, Bobby, wasn’t worried.

“I’ve seen you take worse,” he told Badger while the medic patched up the gash on his left cheek. “But if you don’t start hitting back, I have to consider throwing in the towel.”

Badger, usually very mellow and amicable (qualities that made it almost impossible not to like him), shot back with a fiery intensity few people knew him capable of.

“Don’t…you…fucking dare.” He didn’t yell, but the passion in his voice was unmistakable. Bobby just shrugged as though to say, “It’s your funeral. I get paid either way.”

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The bell for the sixth round rang. Badger growled as he found his feet. His arms felt heavy. He heard his father in his mind once again: This is how you earn it. No one owes you anything.

Joker jumped from his corner, punching his fists into one another.

The smile had worn, but was still there. Joker had controlled the fight so far, and looked confident he would be victorious. Just one more notch in the belt. Just one more payday. Joker danced to the center of the ring, and as soon as Badger was within striking distance, Joker planted his right foot and concentrated all his power through his hips as he landed a devastating right cross. Badger immediately went to one knee. Joker automatically dropped his hands to his sides and looked to the judges table to make sure they were watching.

All of that happened in less than a second, so the referee didn’t have time to separate the two fighters and begin his count. Badger, as though having his bell rung cleared the clouds from his head, capitalized. The moment his knee hit the mat, he sprung back up, bringing all of hell behind an uppercut Joker wasn’t expecting.

Joker fell flat on his back. No smile, just confusion and fear. The photographers, seeing history happen twice through their lenses, snapped pictures furiously. No matter who was crowned victorious, these pictures would likely haunt Joker for the rest of his career.

“EARN IT!!” Badger yelled over the ecstatic spectators.

Joker stayed down until the count reached eight. As soon as he convinced the referee he was still in the fight, Badger was on him again, throwing a frenzy of jabs, hooks, crosses, and uppercuts. When Joker brought his arms up to block the blows to his head, Badger moved to the body. One particular punch, seemingly sponsored by a freight train, hit Joker in the solar plexus. It was Joker’s turn to drop to one knee. The two warriors were immediately separated, and Joker took advantage of another seven counts to catch his breath.

Badger was pacing back and forth like a caged bear, waiting for another opportunity to prove he had every right to be there. When Joker found his feet again, he decided the best defense was offense.

But Joker discovered something alarming: he was tired. Instead of knocking Badger around like he had been, he found empty space everywhere he explored with his fist. Badger was demonstrating a swiftness Joker had yet to see. Joker threw a right hook, Badger side-stepped and knocked a jab into Joker’s forehead. Joker threw a few rapid jabs and Badger rope-a-doped him. Badger busted Joker’s upper lip, and blood filled Joker’s mouth. Badger, seeing his opportunity, swarmed Joker with alternate punches to the body and head. Many of them were blocked, but it was clear Joker was losing his concentration. The crowd roared. The bell rang.

He knows who you are now.

The next five rounds upset the Vegas odds. Badger held control of the conflict, allowing Joker only nine percent connection of his No. 31

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throws. Conversely, Badger landed a stunning forty percent of his strikes. Badger was knocked down in the eighth round, but it didn’t take the referee more than the count of four before Badger was back in control again. Joker was knocked down two more times, though he wasn’t down for long either. Frustration clouded Joker’s focus, and he took risks he otherwise wouldn’t. Badger, though less experienced, looked like a veteran of combat sports as he read Joker’s moves and countered appropriately. For Badger, the hope for an early end through the placement of a lucky (or good, depending which version you’d prefer) punch had been replaced with going the distance. He was no longer entirely confident he had the strength to put this one away. He had hit Joker with everything he had before, and Joker just kept getting back up.

Badger began to conserve the power behind his punches. It was a strategy that seemed effective. By the twelfth round, it wasn’t entirely out of the question the judges were scoring Badger ahead.

Both fighters were fatigued. Both fighters were slippery with sweat and blood. Their faces looked like two-day-old mashed potatoes. Every time they moved to the center of the ring, they were subjecting themselves to punishment that rivaled swinging into a wood chipper feet first. Their mettle had been tested, and both men had proved their existence.

Badger, in an uncommon display of respect and sportsmanship, walked to the center of the ring with both hands extended, meaning to entice Joker to reciprocate the respect he had earlier been denied.

A mutual hush blanketed the inside of the arena as spectators were simultaneously puzzled by Badger’s gesture and eagerly awaiting Joker’s reply.

They didn’t have to wait long. That haunting sneer crept over Joker’s face as he bypassed the sportsmanship in favor of a right cross, immediately followed by a left hook. Badger didn’t have enough time to take a step back and raise his gloves in defense before Joker repeated his attack. This time, the right cross knocked Badger to his knee. Badger rapidly rebounded to his feet like he had before, but Joker was anticipating it. Joker connected a dominating left hammer punch, knocking Badger to his other knee.

Badger, not wanting to relinquish the momentum he had built these last few rounds, bounced right back up again. This time, he stood with his fists up, ready to block Joker’s insistence he stay down. He didn’t come this far to lose to a technical knockout. He wouldn’t be knocked down again. Joker smashed Badger in the face, but Badger wouldn’t go down a third time.

Joker swung again, expecting Badger to be rattled. But before his punch was dodged, he saw something disheartening in Badger’s eyes: determination. Joker kept Badger on the defensive as he played “This Old Man” on Badger’s ribs. There were a few satisfying cracks.

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But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t rock Badger enough to knock him down.

What are you holding back for? This is it, sacrifice everything and only your character will remain.

Badger considered this spectral advice. Sacrificing a jab to his jaw, he countered with a right hook directly to Joker’s left temple. Joker stumbled into the ropes. Badger, in a moment of motivation, slammed his fists together just before cocking back and driving another right hook into Joker’s face. Joker’s knees forgot for a moment and he went down. The crowd screamed like banshees denied an outlet. What was once a hostile audience, now clearly changed allegiances in favor of the underdog. Using the ropes like a ladder, Joker pulled himself back up. He assured the referee he was still there, and the fight continued.

Joker threw an obligatory punch in Badger’s direction, but Badger blocked it effortlessly. Badger answered by crashing his fists into Joker’s face and head.

Despite the beating Badger had taken, he looked good. He looked like he had enough gas to drive to New York and bring Joker’s mother a homemade blueberry pie. Joker saw this, and for the first time in his entire life, realized there was real potential he might actually lose this fight. He imagined the disgrace he would feel, and decided he would rather die. When losing is not an option, what else can one do?

With four seconds left in the match, Joker reminded everyone why his hands had been registered as lethal weapons. Driving forward with every ounce of strength he had, Joker slammed his fist into Badger’s chest. The rib cage broke jaggedly, and viciously punctured Badger’s heart. Confusion washed over Badger’s face as his arms dropped to his sides like two marionettes with severed strings. He looked questioningly at Joker as he fell first to his knees, then onto his stomach and face. There he lay as the bell rang. There he lay, as he bled furiously internally, flooding his organs. There he lay, dying. Badger’s wife, Janice, jumped from her seat in the front row. Bobby held her back, as she drowned in panic. The love of her life, the man she’d come to believe invincible, lay slack in the middle of the ring. She watched as her husband’s eyes went dim. Before the medic could rush to his side, Badger breathed his last breath. Joker simply looked down, and smiled. . . . . . . . . .

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. . . . . . . . . . .

You’re still here? What are you waiting for? A moral?

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Tree

C. Oleson

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Baby Smile Brandi Zinnel I am summoned by a cry, not my name, At any hour, greeted by the sun or moon.

Flailing limbs thrash wildly in my firm ones, A dance of desperate hunger unknown, Abated only at the drip of milk Beads lying on the tongue that curves beneath.

That tongue flits and writhes as an orca’s calf, For this beastly one has stopped drinking now, His lips curve up high and his eyes alight.

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f

The Fisherman’s Touch Daniel Kuechle The sky was lit with the deep reds and purples of a late summer afternoon as Devon parked his car in the gravel lot next to the Cold Spring dam. He was a young man just out of high school, his hair was long, black, and unkempt in a tangled mess, his skin was a ghostly pale, and his eyes sunken, bloodshot, and tired. As he pulled the key out of the ignition, he closed his eyes and sighed, “No backing out this time.”

He slowly walked out of his car, as he closed the door his finger rested lazily on the lock button out of instinct but hesitated. It won’t matter, he thought to himself as he simply left his key on the footstool under the door.

He sheepishly walked with his hands in his sweatshirt pockets catching a passing glance of an old man stepping out of his own car.

Old Mr. Marsh is what the town called him, he was a short, stocky man, whose limbs always looked twisted and stiff, his elbows and knees never really straightened out, his fingers always looked slightly curled, and his back was always hunched, he walked with a cane most of the time. Stories said that he survived a near death experience in Vietnam and that’s where his deformities came from.

Devon looked away from Mr. Marsh as soon as he saw him, he was hoping nobody would be here today. Whatever, we went through this, it won’t matter, Devon thought again.

As he walked up the stairs of the dam’s bridge, he could hear the roar of the Sauk river’s rapids, as it passed through the dam and the waterfall continued on the other side. A thin mist of water splashed onto him as he was walking, it felt cold as ice against his skin in the already cool air. He began to shiver not because of the cold but because of his fear of heights, he’d always struggled with this bridge ever since he was a boy. Come on, keep it together, just keep moving. He began to walk much slower than before, he could feel the weight of his body double, each step felt like he was walking with bricks for shoes. It became difficult to breathe, his focus so intent on walking that he had to remind himself to breathe, his shivering intensified as tears began to roll down his eyes. Just keep fucking moving damnit, we’re almost there. He gritted his teeth so hard that they might disintegrate into powder under the pressure of his clenched jaw.

He slowly took his hands out of his shirt pockets and touched the railing of the dam, his hands felt as if they were freezing, and No. 31

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almost cemented in place against the railing. As he looked over the side, his heart began to pound at a thousand beats per minute as he saw the water at the bottom. The stream was rushing at breakneck speeds, the water being pierced from below by slabs of granite that have weathered into sharpened cones over time due to erosion. More tears began to roll down his face as he thought to himself, Come on, it won’t matter soon, nothing will. Just climb up the side.

With a gulp and a deep inhale Devon slowly lifted his right leg over the railing and balanced his foot on the other side, he sat for what seemed like hours before he got his left over. As he balanced himself, he closed his eyes and kept them shut, and grabbed the railing so hard he could have bent the metal in his grip. He was afraid, he has come to the dam many times before but never has he stepped over the railing. He began to quietly weep, thinking to himself, What are you waiting for? Just fucking do it you pussy! Why wait, you think anyone is gonna save you? Nobody gives a shit about you, and nobody has for a long time. Nobody will ever remember you, they’ll hear about your death and say, ‘that’s so sad’ and move on with their lives. you’re a joke and always have been. So why don’t you do everyone a favor and get this over with?

Through his teeth he began to growl to hold back his weeping and slowly pushed forward, the mist of the waterfall still hitting his face.

Keeping his arms on the railing he put one foot forward dangling it over the edge. Keeping his eyes closed he began to slowly let go of the bars as his body slid forward towards the edge. He opened his clenched teeth letting out a scream so loud it could shatter glass fueled by his sorrow, and just as he started to let go, he felt a warm sensation on his shoulder.

Surprised by the sudden feeling he opened his eyes and saw just how far down the bottom is. He let out a gasp of fear and scrambled back to the railing as he began to sob, the warm sensation still on his shoulder. In a gentle gravelly voice, he heard from behind him, “There, there, son, I gotcha.”

With a sniffle, Devon looked behind him and saw old Mr. Marsh holding his shoulder with his hand.

Devon looked into his silky aged eyes and asked him, “Mr. Marsh… I don’t und… why?”

With a warm smile Mr. Marsh responded with, “What do you mean why?”

Devon wiped the tears from his raw red eyes.

“You don’t even know me, why would you care? I’m such a bad person.”

Mr. Marsh’s smile drooped a little.

“I doubt that son. Why shouldn’t I care? Now, why don’t you come back behind this railing and give an old man some company.”

Devon looked back at the raging waters and swiftly climbed over 22

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the railing and onto the dam.

“Mr. Marsh I’m so-” Before he could finish Mr. Marsh embraced him, his head resting against Devon’s chest and his stiff arms gently wrapped around his torso. “What’s your name son?”

To which he replied, “Devon” through his own sniffling.

“Well, my name is Gregory, but you can call me Greg. Why don’t you grab a line Devon?”

As they let each other go, Devon noticed two fishing rods and a tackle box. He said, “I’m sorry Mr. Mar–I mean Greg, but I should really get going.”

Greg chuckled and said, “You’re not going anywhere without these,” as he flashed Devon’s car keys at him and shoved it back into his pocket.

“You get these back once we catch something.”

With that Devon sighed and grabbed a fishing pole and cast his line over the side with Greg.

“Now tell me, what’s been hurting you?”

Devon looked down and said, “Things just aren’t what they used to be. Me and my friends are all going to different colleges and we’ve been drifting apart since the end of the school year, it’s like we barely know each other anymore. All of them know what kind of careers they want and I have no clue what I want to do, not to mention that I’ll be in thousands of dollars in debt by the time I finish… I caught my girlfriend hanging out with another guy, I picked up a weekend shift at the restaurant I work at and saw them get a booth together, and when I confronted her about it, she said I wasn’t the same anymore and that she hadn’t been happy with me for a long time. I’m just so sick of everything, everyone who ever cared about me turned their backs on me. My mom told me that high school is the best years of our lives, and if it doesn’t get any better than this…

I don’t really want to live through what’s next.”

Greg’s warm look faded as he looked out over the dam.

“You know, me and you have a lot in common Devon.”

“What do you mean?” Devon said, confused.

“You see these stiff little arms and legs, right?”

“Well yeah, but I thought you got those in Vietnam?”

Greg sighed. “No, that’s just an old story to make it easier to explain. You see, I was in Vietnam. I was around your age when I got drafted and shipped over. I had to watch a lot of men die, Devon, some at my own hands. I didn’t end up like this in Vietnam. The truth is when I got back, I didn’t know what to do either, and I got over that railing right there and jumped.”

He took a deep breath before he continued. “Now let me tell you something Devon. Having to lay in that hospital stretcher with almost every bone in my body broken and explain to my mom and No. 31

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dad what happened was one of the most horrible experiences I’ve ever had to endure.”

He put his warm hand on Devon’s shoulder again and gripped it as tight as his stubby, stiff fingers would allow.

“You may not believe it, but people care about you, even people who’ve never met you before care about you. The man who saw me floating down the river while he was fishing off his dock cared about me. And I care about you, and I’m willing to bet a ton of other people do too.”

Devon and Greg kept talking and fishing until the sun went down, they packed up their gear and walked back to the gravel lot.

Devon helped Greg put the gear away. Greg looked at Devon and said, “Well I suppose you’ll be needing these.”

And he held out his keys as well as one of the fishing rods. Devon took them both and looked back at Greg.

“Now, you come back here tomorrow at the same time you hear?

We got fish to catch and conversations to have.”

Devon turned back to his car and looked at his new fishing rod, and for the first time in what felt like ages he smiled as he looked back and said, “You bet, Greg!”

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It Will Still be Light Out for A While

Shanna Pirness

No. 31

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The Summers Nostalgia Ayan Ahmed I remember summer as if it were so close By just like the sun, approximately 93 million miles away, I can feel the heat looming as if the sun was at a distance approximate to us Oh to carry the winter breeze into the summer Desiring only what has passed Latching onto the moments of the precious memories of the past.

I love the first day after winter when I could feel the cold crisp air brush past me, inviting me back. At that moment, I stop, close My eyes and enjoy the moment knowing soon it will be passed.

Letting it soak into my memories so it doesn’t slip away.

The feeling of drinking a cold lemonade on the first day of summer.

In the stillness of the summer nights, tranquility surrounded us.

The stars dazzling with true radiance above us Sitting around the bonfire in the backyard past The patio. Knowing moments like these were what made summer Beautiful. These were the times I held so close.

With an everso tight grip afraid that if I eased off it’ll slip away and just become a thing that we know had passed.

When in reality they weren’t just a thing that passed They were moments that wrapped us in a warm fuzzy blanket. These moments brush away 26

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The fears of the future because of the lessons that strengthened us in the past.

Which were so far away but the preservation of our memory makes it so close.

Memories that make me miss summer.

Perhaps that was my favorite thing about summer.

The memories that I quickly long for when it had passed.

Not understanding the true beauty up close And remembering from distance the blessing that was endowed onto us The wistful sentimental feelings of the days of the past That inspires optimism for the future that is just moments away.

It was at that moment I knew I could get away With missing summer.

Because although it was in the past These memories will be moments that are passed On to my loved ones so it can live within all of us buried deep in our hearts so summer can always be close

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M

Coney Island 28

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Hailey Thielen No. 31

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P

An Ode to Bubbles Brandi Zinnel Bulging blossoms billow briefly, Floating, floating, floating Off on an adventure unknown.

For a time so trivial, To you or to me, That is the life for bubbles to be.

Summoned from fancy fairy soaps, Frothing, flared lips, Or pure serendipity, Their existence comes from many sources.

It is the magic of bubble creation That softens our human condition.

The softest skin and fragile, For the barest touch will cause Tension; Bursting it open.

Forsake not the spirit within Liberated of gravity in flight, Spreading silent faith in delight.

Twisting and thriving in the wind, Beauteous purples, shimmering yellow, Incandescent orange, gossamer pink, 30

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They can’t decide which to portray.

Neither can I suggest a way of life, Catching a glimpse in a dance so blithe.

Such a short life they have, Enchanting, timid orbs that enrapture.

It is oh, so tempting to touch them To grasp and hold what cannot be held.

Beware! They prefer a courteous touch, More akin to a silken brush.

The strongest avoid our wretched hands, But cannot escape our scanning eyes.

Shooting off in the punches of wind, Without a glance back they dive up, above.

Boosted higher and higher into the sky, We cannot imagine what they touch when they die.

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Flowers

32

Cara Ann Krippner

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A Rainbow Caught in a Storm Samantha Fitzpatrick I choke on you when I speak, Within my voice you reek My smile screams your name, So I stay drenched in shame Why does this make me weak?

You leak from my suffering eyes, That contribute to a life of lies This storm won’t stop pouring down— A soaking wet permanent frown Why do I need this disguise?

Without you I am bare, But to fully clothe I wouldn’t dare, Since my buried wardrobe does sustain, The dusty closet filled with pain I beg for the sun to escape despair How can acceptance be so rare?

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M

Slowly Strolling Sisters The three sisters wandered in the woods chatting all the way.

They got so lost in conversation that they didn’t realize they had come to the void in the woods where a naked Jesus sometimes goes to rest. The women avoided the void, barely escaping the zone of buzzing energy. Looking back, they realize they may have missed an opportunity to ask Jesus why, why had they morphed into a threeheaded version of themselves? Was this God’s plan all along?

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Slowly Strolling Sisters

Olivia Way

No. 31

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M

A Tree in Spring

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C. Oleson

f

A Fairytale Moment for A Fairy Mother A.J. Kleinschmidt “So, you’re looking for your fairytale ending?” The woman said, sitting across from a younger student. Her eyes were watery. The woman could see that the student’s clothes were slightly disheveled, as though she had been roughed up just moments prior to entering the woman’s shop. The woman averted her gaze, focusing her attention on her clipboard. The student was barely 18 with dreams of becoming a fashion designer.

The woman was used to seeing young girls and boys who had a desire to have a Cinderella moment in their lives. What the woman didn’t have the strength to tell them was that a makeover wasn’t going to change their fate. Most of them would eventually find smaller happiness, something that the woman tried to make more beautiful.

Her makeovers weren’t permanent either. Her clients had to figure out how to make themselves happy after that. She was merely the push they needed sometimes.

“Oh! I think you’ve misunderstood me. I want to help people find their happy endings, like you.”

The woman stared in confusion. Few people wanted to be the fairy godmother to the aspiring Cinderellas, and few would come to another person who was trying to achieve the same goal.

“Interesting. However, what do you want me to do about it?” the woman said, setting the clipboard down on her table and leaning closer to the student. The woman’s boutique was not looking for new employees. The woman was all the place really needed for the time being. However, the prospect of having a second person around piqued the woman’s interest.

“Miss Anastasia, I really want to make clothes that make people feel good about themselves, that increase their confidence. That’s how people get their happy endings, right? They have to be happy with themselves first.”

Anastasia pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose and sat back into her chair. She wasn’t wrong, but she was still confused as to how she could help the young student.

“That still doesn’t answer my question, little one. What do you want me to do with this information?”

“Hire me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Make me an employee. I don’t have to make clothes right now.

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I’ll go to college for that and see where that goes. For the moment, I could help with style advice and–” “That’s enough. Fine, you can join me. Clothes were never my strong suit anyways. What’s your name?”

“It’s Marnie,” the student said, standing up and sticking her hand out, as though she desired Anastasia to shake it. Anastasia complied.

Marnie came in every day after that moment, sketching out concepts for outfits with every person who came in. Marnie was fairly quiet, an obvious shy, artsy type. Even though she tried to conceal it, Anastasia could tell that Marnie’s clothes were damaged by other people on a daily basis. Anastasia kept her mouth shut, however. She trusted that Marnie would tell her when she was ready.

Anastasia’s business gained a little more notoriety and rapport with the added help. She still had no desire to grow the business any further than the two workers, but she started to see an influx of customers looking for a completely new look.

“So, this is where he’s been working,” Anastasia heard one day.

She looked over towards Marnie, who was being cornered by two girls of a similar age to the young Marnie. Anastasia had yet to see the two before, but the aura they gave off told her that they either had too much self-esteem, or they had none at all and were taking it out on someone who seemed to have enough, regardless of how much selfesteem the victim actually had.

“Is there something we can do for you girls?” Anastasia asked, approaching the trio. Marnie’s eyes shifted to the floor, as though she were ashamed that Anastasia had to step in. The two girls briefly shifted her gaze to the storeowner before smiling ingenuously.

“We just wanted to support our friend here with his new job.

That’s right, isn’t it, Marnie?”

Marnie’s eyes met Anastasia’s concerned ones. Anastasia could tell from Marnie’s furrowed eyebrows that she was debating lying about the two girls. Whilst Anastasia desired the scenario where Marnie told the truth and asked the duo of harassers to leave, she knew that Marnie was either going to say nothing or tell Anastasia that all was well, which she knew was a lie.

“Oh, that’s great, but Marnie has some clients I need her to attend to. Unless you plan on scheduling an appointment, I am afraid I’ll have to ask you two to leave for now.” Anastasia clasped her hands together and gave an equally ingenuous smile, telling the two girls that they were no longer welcomed in the shop. The two girls gave each other a look of dismay and exited the shop, leaving Marnie and Anastasia alone in the store.

“You didn’t have to lie. I was going to tell them to leave,” Marnie said, breaking the silence. Anastasia looked back at her young employee, whose eyes were glued to the floor.

“It’s okay. Are they the reason that you come in disheveled most 38

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days?” Anastasia only got a slow nod in response to her question.

“I won’t make you say anything else. I’ll try my best to make sure that they won’t bother you whilst you’re working here. I’m sorry that’s happening to you.”

The duos’ attention was taken by a new client, to which Anastasia had Marnie tend to. Although she couldn’t hear what the two were talking about across the shop, Anastasia watched as Marnie gently flipped through the catalog of available clothes with the client, stopping whenever the customer’s eyes shone with interest in something. Her heart warmed as Marnie pulled out her sketchbook and began making preliminary sketches of an outfit concept for the client, to which the client watched with interest. Anastasia smiled when she showed the client a sketch, took in what looked like a word of affirmation, and went back to cleaning up the concept. Once Marnie was certain that the client was happy with the concept, she took the customer into the back, grabbing the clothes they agreed on as they went.

Anastasia’s elation peaked when the customer came out with a huge smile on their face, looking beautiful in the clothing Marnie had picked for them. Marnie was more of a fairy godmother than Anastasia was, and Anastasia couldn’t be happier. Anastasia got to work, her desire to return the favor to her beloved employee stronger than ever. If she couldn’t do this one thing for Marnie, then Anastasia would have to consider herself a failure, something she wanted more than anything to avoid. She wanted to succeed in making her protégé feel beautiful, just as Marnie had done for plenty of others.

Anastasia started by plotting to design a dress for Marnie. She knew that an upcoming formal dance was the perfect chance to make others see Marnie for who she was on the inside. She made it sound like she wanted to use Marnie as a model for a custom dress for a customer who was roughly the same size.

“Shouldn’t you get the measurements from the customer?”

“Hush. Your height and weight were a perfect match, and the customer can’t come in before the pickup date. I got permission to use you as a reference.”

Marnie stayed silent as Anastasia finished her measurements.

She already knew what style of dress Marnie liked best: ball gowns.

She also knew that Marnie suited a cooler color palette, and that a cool purple was the best combination of what Marnie liked and what would look good on her. All she needed was to convince Marnie to help draft a concept dress that she could then craft for her.

“The customer wasn’t very specific about material. Do you think tulle would look good?” “Maybe try satin?”

“Okay, what about lace? I want to know what you think looks good design-wise.”

“Very lightly as a trim, and maybe make it a darker color since we’re going with purple rather than a lighter color.”

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“What kind of collar do you think it should have?”

“I guess if they have the same body type as me, then I’d go with a jewel neckline, and long sleeves might be a nice touch. I guess I don’t know what the dress is for, though.”

Anastasia took notes, before asking Marnie to draw out what she was thinking about. Once Marnie had finished, Anastasia got to work.

It took a few weeks of tireless stitching, fabric manipulation, and the creation of a prototype dress, but Anastasia created a dress she felt Marnie would be happy with. The piece was minimally lacy, and it wasn’t very bejeweled, and was a sea of purples and blacks, but the dress looked as fairytale-esque as Anastasia could make out of a prom dress. She used Marnie a few times for adjustments, asking her employee for thoughts along the way to ensure she liked the dress.

Once Anastasia was certain Marnie would be satisfied, she hid the dress in her office, and waited for prom to roll around.

Somehow, Marnie never went prom shopping, even though she did plan on going to prom. Anastasia assumed that it was because the young student was planning on wearing whatever she had from home.

On the day of prom, Anastasia was shocked that Marnie came in, a wad of cash in hand, asking for Anastasia’s treatment.

“I’m not going to take your money, Marnie. I actually was hoping that you’d want my help feeling beautiful.”

Anastasia brought out the dress from her office, causing Marnie to smile.

“I figured the dress was secretly for me. There’s no way you would have just used me as a model.”

“I wasn’t too careful, was I?” “No, you weren’t.”

The two got Marnie into her dress before swiftly styling her rough and wild pixie cut into something more cleaned-up, and after a brief, but effective round of makeup, Marnie was looking rather beautiful.

“I don’t deserve this. This should have gone to someone else.”

“Marnie, everyone, including us fairy godparents of the world, deserve at least one fairytale moment in their lives. Now, go out there and enjoy yourself. Don’t be afraid to come back here if you need something tonight, though, and let me know how it goes.”

Anastasia smiled as she sent her dolled-up employee on her way.

She wasn’t sure if the night would go well for Marnie, but she at least made her feel beautiful. Whilst she hoped that nothing would happen, there was nothing stopping the girls that bullied Marnie from preventing that. However, she also hoped that Marnie had a boost in confidence that night and would be able to stand strong against them.

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Nirvana Sphinx

Breanna Rhodes

No. 31

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Nightly Adventures Quentin Mariner The cat ventures out at the dead of night, Back on its familiar nightly twilight amble.

The winds blow, rain pours over his gray fur.

Cars pass, their lights manifest a shadow, Alarmed, he hides, biding his time for now.

Danger and the unknown circle this daredevil.

But for this curious feline, it is, Just a small price to pay for peace and quiet.

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Never-ending ice

Shanna Pirness

No. 31

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NF

King of the Forest Daniel Kuechle My shotgun nearly slipped out of my hands when we saw him.

The hum of my father’s Tahoe, the chilling autumn wind, the distant cries of songbirds, all the sounds of the forest drowned into silence when I gazed upon that moose off the trail. It had to have been at least 6 feet tall at the shoulder. I am unsure how such a massive creature could remain so elusive. We didn’t even hear it. One moment we were looking at an open clearing, we turned our heads to look down the trail, and when we looked back, he was standing there. The morning dew on his hide glistened in the morning light as if it held the stars in its fur, each one depicting a constellation that told the tales of the forest. Its massive antlers seemed to reach out to the morning sun like outstretched hands, decorated with vines and branches, cradling the light between them like a blinding halo of heavenly fire. I could see him breathing in the cold morning air, each exhale letting out a pillar of steam like a boiling geyser, rising into the air to form the clouds overhead. If you were to tell us that this was some ancient Norse god of the forest, I would’ve believed it and by the slack jawed awe in my father’s face I’m sure he would’ve too.

Even with my shotgun in hand I felt so small, so insignificant in his presence. He didn’t even acknowledge us; they say moose have poor eyesight, but I am unsure if he didn’t see us or if we simply weren’t worthy of his divine attention. Besides we couldn’t do anything even if we wanted to, our guns were loaded with birdshot and that would bounce off the skin of a regular moose let alone him. At this point the silence was almost deafening, it was as if the entire forest decided to stay quiet out of respect for the king. Even my dog in the back of the truck who would normally bark at anything that moved was completely silent. All I could hear was the snorts of his breath and the stomps of his hooves as he walked through the clearing.

Each breath added another cloud to the sky, and each step shook the earth beneath him molding the rocky terrain of the Iron Range lakes. As he walked, he simply turned away and drifted back into the thicket as if to allow the forest to resume its noises once again. The birds sang again, the truck's engine hummed, and me and my dad were finally able to speak freely.

“That was crazy!” my father said in a tone that could rival a boy on Christmas morning. I laughed and he pulled out his old Samsung and excitedly showed me a picture he had taken of it. I must have 44

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been too captured by its presence to notice that he had somehow fought through the paralysis and snapped a picture. “Oh, cool you should send that to mom,” I said with false enthusiasm. I was happy that he was able to get a photo, but it didn’t come close to doing the moose justice, he looked like an ordinary one in the picture. Maybe that’s what he wanted so more people could see him for themselves.

We unloaded our shells and put our shotguns back in their cases before driving down the road in the search of more grouse to fill our limits. I couldn’t get him out of my head, and I still can’t after all these years, so I find myself asking the question over and over again.

Could that have been God?

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Time’s Up Anna Lashinski “Look, Mom!” My daughter Molly shrieks from the swing set. I grin at her as she pumps her feet going higher and higher. She thinks she’s flying but in all reality she’s only a few feet off the ground.

“Wow, Molly!” I say waving at her. I spin around and my son Reese and my husband Will are at one of the chess tables. Will waves me over.

“Should we be heading out soon?” he asks and I nod. We’ve been here for a few hours already. The kids love coming here after school, and who am I to tell them they can’t go to the park and play?

Plus I’m sure they are starting to get hungry too, for I am. It takes a little while to get our food at the restaurant anyway, and I don’t want the kids to get cranky.

“I’ll get Molly,” I say. I head back over to the swing set. “Okay, Molly, it’s time to go.” Molly slowly stops the swing, dragging her time at the park out as long as she can. I remember loving the park too when I was a kid. Molly loved the swings when she was little too, she would start crying when I pulled her out of the baby swing.

“I know exactly what I want to eat,” Molly says as she skips over to me. This kid of mine is always in such a good mood, sometimes when I’m the one in a bad mood she is the one who will cheer me up.

“I bet you do honey,” I say. As the four of us walk to our car we pass the jungle gym and sitting on a bench near it is a man. He is wearing a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head. He looks up and locks eyes with me. Then he looks down at his hands where he is holding a pocket watch straight out of the century. Chills run through my body. For some reason I get the feeling that I’ve seen him somewhere before.

As Will starts the car and backs it out of the parking spot my hands go for the glove box. Where did it go? The CD case is always in the glove box.

“Did you move the CD case?” I ask Will.

“Honey,” he says. “We have a CD changer in the back, remember?

We got this car three years ago, haven’t kept CDs in the glove box since.”

“Oh, right,” I say, shaking my head. I must’ve forgotten we had gotten the new car. Some days, right? For some reason it felt like just yesterday that we had that other car. I remember putting in that Disney CD for the kids only last week. I shake my head. I must just be overly tired 46

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or something.

“Hey!” Reese screams. I turn around to see Reese pull off to the side while Molly reaches for the ipad.

“Share, you guys, you know this,” I say. Reese sighs and moves so Molly can see the game he is playing. Most days they remember how to share.

We start slowing down and then stop at the stop sign. It’s an intersection that is very well known for being a dangerous one. As Will looks both ways a car speeds through the intersection going the opposite way that we are. As I see it fly in front of us my eyes close.

It’s very real to the nightmare I had last night. The nightmare had jerked me awake as soon as I heard all the breaking glass.

Will puts his hand on my shoulder. “Grace? You okay?” I open my eyes and look up. I see in the mirror on the sun visor that all the color has drained from my face.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. I look out the window and half expect cracks to appear in the window while it shatters.

When we get to Perkins, I get out of the car and open the door for Molly. As soon as I open it she bounds outside. Why did I think she needed to be unbuckled from her car seat? I shake my head again.

Molly slides her hand into mine as we head into the restaurant. As usual, Reese is the first one to the door and holds it open for us all.

He always tries to help with everything, even when his “helping” actually causes more work for the rest of us. You can’t get mad at a kid for trying to help though.

We wait by the podium for the waitress to bring us our menus.

I always love the atmosphere of Perkins. Smells great, the staff is always really nice, and it’s just a peaceful place to sit with your family. In fact we usually come here twice a month as a family. The kids love the coloring sheets they get here.

“Reese,” I say pointing to the dessert display. “They have the banana nut muffins you like. I think we can get one to take home tonight.” It makes his day when we can get a muffin to take home.

“Mom?” Reese asks, giving me a puzzled look. “I have a nut allergy. I can’t get anything from the bakery.”

“Four today?”asks the waitress, grabbing menus and pulling us away from the conversation we were just having.

“Yes,” Will says. We follow the waitress to a booth. She passes out the menus and the coloring sheets for the kids.

“Can I get you anything to drink right away?” she asks, pulling out her notepad.

“Coffee,” Will says.

“And for you little miss?” the waitress asks, looking at Molly.

This makes me grin because I know exactly what Molly is going to say: chocolate milk. That girl only drinks chocolate milk, in fact if we don’t have any in the house she throws a tantrum.

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“Orange soda,” Molly replies. She has never ordered soda that I can ever remember. I didn’t even know she liked soda. I was always trying to keep healthy food in our house, I never gave either of the kids any soda. I wanted them to grow up healthy. Will must’ve given them soda at one point when I wasn’t around. I make a mental note to let him hear about this one later. This is not okay with me.

After the waitress walks back to the kitchen with our drink orders I notice a man standing with his back against the wall. When he looks up at us I realize that it’s the same man from the park. The chills run through my body again and I shiver.

“I’ll be right back,” I say as I stand up. I walk towards the restroom, when I look at the man in the dark sweatshirt I see that he’s looking at me. I silently wonder if I should bring him up to the staff, or ask him what he’s doing. As he and I lock eyes I suddenly remember where I’ve seen him before.

I look down at my hands when everything around me gets dark, like it's night time. Someone is holding my hand trying to pull me away from where I’m standing, but my feet feel stiff like I am not able to move them for some reason. I turn around and see a car that is smashed up so badly I can’t even see what color it is. There’s also another car that’s flipped upside down.

There are people surrounding both of the cars, some of them are talking, some are taking pictures or filming the whole thing. The police officers are asking them to put their phones away. And yet, some of the others are screaming, but over all of that the sirens are the loudest. I can tell that the people are talking, but I can’t make out the words. The flashing red and blue lights are starting to give me a headache. My body hurts but it’s different, almost as if I’m separated from the pain somehow. My legs ache but the pain is distant and I’m still able to walk. There is something though that is pulling me back to the accident. I don’t want to follow this man. I have no idea who he is.

For some odd reason though, when he holds my hand, and talks to me in the soothing voice that he has, I somehow feel calm.

My head feels like it is splitting in two. I can feel the pain, slightly, but for some reason I think that the pain should be worse. I have no idea why I think it should hurt worse. Two paramedics run past the man and I, they push the people around the accident who are observing out of their way.

They rush to the figure of a person who is lying on the pavement. The street light makes the blood surrounding the person shine white. The person’s legs are twisted all wrong, the way someone’s legs should never be turned. One of the cars is lying partially on top of the person. One of the paramedics pushes a cloth into the person’s stomach and the other immediately begins CPR. “Who is that?” I ask the man. “Are they going to be okay?”

“Grace, look at me,” he says. My eyes rise to meet his. “You need to come with me now. Your time is up.”

“You okay, miss?” a woman in the restaurant asks. I blink again and I’m back at Perkins, only now I’m lying on the floor. I don’t even remember falling to the ground. I don’t remember getting light48

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headed or anything. Just one second I was here and the next I was in that nightmare again. The woman has worry written all over her face.

I run my hand over my forehead and wipe off the cold sweat.

When was I in a car accident? That felt so real. I shake my head and stand up.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I quickly mumble. My legs are still trembling and my forehead still throbs. I feel very light headed and grab onto a booth to steady myself. I blink a few times and feel a hand on my shoulder. I look up and see the man in the dark sweatshirt standing right next to me.

“Your time’s up,” he says. His hand still rests on my shoulder and that shoulder burns from being so cold. I shrug away from him and rush back to the table where my family is still sitting.

They are all eating their food, but nothing is in my place. It almost looks like their food has been there for awhile, but I was only gone for a few minutes. My whole family looks so happy, it almost seems like they don’t even notice that I’m not there.

“Are they coming back with my food?” I ask as I sit back down.

Will, Reese, and Molly all stop eating and stare at me.

“Who are you?” Will asks.

“Your wife,” I say. “What’s up with you?”

“Ma’am, I think you’re at the wrong table,” he says.

“We come here twice a month,” I say.

“My wife died five years ago,” Will says. I feel a cold hand on my shoulder again and I look up. It’s the man in the dark sweatshirt again. Just like the dream, I feel suddenly calm when he touches me.

I don’t want to feel calm though, I want to figure out what is going on! I shrug my shoulder to get him to move his hand.

“Grace, it’s time,” the man says.

“What are you talking about? Who are you?” I ask, my voice getting louder and louder.

“Who is she talking to?” Molly asks Will. They look at where the man is, and give me confused looks. Molly cowers into Will, trying to get as far away from me as she can. Reese is also moving his chair closer to Will. My kids love me, why are they suddenly afraid of me? My face is starting to feel really hot and my hands start forming into fists.

“You knew you couldn’t stay, Grace. Your time is up,” the man says. Will, Reese, and Molly get up and leave the table. I slam my fists into the table and don’t at all care about the dishes that fall to the floor. I sit at the table after they leave, crying. The man sits down on the seat across the table from me and lets me finish crying.

“Who are you?” I ask sniffling and rubbing my eyes.

“You know who I am,” he says.

“Why don’t they know who I am?” I ask.

“You look different to them. The five years are up, you have to come with me now.”

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Well Wishes Prologue

Leanne Loy The wishing well was part of her inheritance, much like the house she lived in and the two acres of land it sat on. But unlike the pristine landscaping, flower gardens, and modern brick mansion, the wishing well was decaying. The old bricks around the base of the well were crumbling and some pieces had fallen out completely.

Green, lush vines spun their way around the entire surface of the well rotting the shingles that lay on top of the slanted roof. The dirt that lay in between the cracks of the bricks seemed to be slowly consuming the outer structure. It was never a working well, just for show, but it held memories that Mae couldn’t part with.

Her husband despised the well and had been after Mae for years to get rid of it. He found it ugly and creepy, but Mae knew it was really because it was old and didn’t match the otherwise serene atmosphere of their backyard. It served no other purpose than being her younger son’s favorite hiding place when he and his siblings played a game of hide and seek, but it was the only thing she owned that wasn’t perfect, so she refused to get rid of it.

Setting down her rusty floral sheers on the rim of the well, Mae stood tall to stretch her back turning her head to the sky and letting the sun warm her face. She reached into the back pocket of her torn jeans and grabbed her phone to check the time. 3:00, her children would be home soon. Placing her phone back in her pocket she reached down to gather her gardening tools when a memory fuzzied the images in front of her, and all she could see was her younger self sitting beside the well.

Growing up, Mae spent countless hours leaning against the wishing well’s solid formation and practicing her breathing like her psychiatrist taught her. This was always the place she felt most grounded. It was there that Mae first met Kit, her imaginary friend.

Kit was a playful, blue haired, sprite that would lay on the rim of the well with her hands behind her head, telling Mae stories until she felt calm enough to stand back up and move forward on her own.

Thinking back on it now, she wonders if this imaginary friend of hers counseled her better than the psychiatrist. The memory put a small smile on her face and gave her an absurd idea. Looking around her to make sure no one was watching, Mae carefully put one foot inside the well and then the other. Too tall to stand up straight, Mae slowly lowered herself to a sitting position bringing her knees to her 50

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chest. The soft, damp, plush feeling of the moss beneath her feet was a sharp contrast to the hard, solid security of the stones behind her back. A small spider hurried up the side of the well as though Mae’s presence had ruined its slumber. She laid her head back against the rim of the well and closed her eyes.

Her mind was instantly flooded with thoughts of regret. The diploma on her bedroom nightstand that displayed her Ph.D. from medical school, her long days at home pruning hedges and doing laundry, and canceling plans with friends because someone needed to be there for the kids. She was wasting her life. She had so much potential, so much going for her and now here she was reduced to nothing but a homemaker, a stay-at-home mom. Just a useless woman aimlessly floating through a useless life.

Wait a minute, she thought, that’s not how I feel…

Mae didn’t believe a word of what just went through her mind.

Those are the words that have been spewed from her husband’s lips for the last 12 years. She had been listening to him talk this way for so long that she was starting to believe them. A shiver went through her as this realization sat in.

In reality, not once did she feel useless as she prepared three lunches in the morning for her kids, making sure they each had all five of the food groups before sending them off to school. When her oldest son Elijah came to her needing help with his pitching, she didn’t regret one second that being home instead of in an office allowed her to throw each and every one of those balls back to him. She certainly didn’t feel useless when Elenore, her six-year-old daughter, grabbed her face between her tiny, little hands so she could, “look right into her eyes.” And when intelligent and empathetic Edgar came to her in tears with a dead caterpillar in his hands, she didn’t feel useless drying his eyes and comforting his soul as they performed the perfect burial for the poor caterpillar. No, this job might not bring wealth or fame, but it most definitely was not useless.

It came as quite a shock to Mae when she realized how easily those poisonous thoughts crept into her mind as though they were her own. She was tied to her husband in so many ways but none of them healthy. She may have inherited the land and the house, but it was her husband who paid all the bills. She hadn’t practiced medicine for years, unless you count diagnosing her own children with the flu or a cold. Her husband provided for them and even though there was no love in their marriage, she couldn’t afford to lose him, or so she believed.

These thoughts would not get her far and there was still pruning to be done. Knowing her kids would be getting off the bus shortly, Mae lifted her head from the back of the well and attempted to stand up. In doing so she felt a tug at her feet and bottom as though she was stuck to the grass. She put her hands to the ground to push herself No. 31

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up, but they became stuck as well. Mae started to panic, moving violently back and forth as she tried to shake herself free from the ground, but her hands and feet wouldn’t budge. It was then that she realized she wasn’t stuck at all; she was in fact sinking down into the well.

Slowly, almost like quicksand, the ground inside the well became soft and pulpy. It was oddly comforting and tragic all at once. With her hands and arms pinned tightly to her side and her feet completely hidden beneath the surface, Mae stopped struggling. She started to recall the breathing techniques from therapy years earlier and closed her eyes to calm herself. Counting backward from one hundred, she tried to center her mind, grounding herself away from the impossible thing she thought was happening to her. She felt it working just like she knew it would, the ground inside this well couldn’t possibly be swallowing her. When Mae reached one, she felt confident that when she opened her eyes, she would see the inside of the wishing well; she would be able to stand up and go greet her children at the door like she does every day. But when she opened her eyes, all she saw was darkness, all she felt was a cold, damp, hard surface beneath her; and all she could hear was the echo of her own panicked breathing.

On the surface, inside the wishing well, there was only soft, plush moss, and a small spider, happily settling himself on the corner of his web.

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Mushroom and Friends

C. Oleson

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Memories of Snowfall

P

Anna Lashinski You race outside, coat still half unzipped The heavy, sticky snow soaks through your pink gloves You fall on your back and wonder why you can never make a perfect snow angel But you laugh anyway, even when he can Fit more marshmallows in his mouth than you.

That blissful, childhood joy still encircles you You don’t yet realize that you were the second thought.

You realized though, three months after His candle cake read sixteen.

“It shouldn’t have been him,” your mother sobbed.

At first, you wondered who it should’ve been Until you remember him unbuckling his seatbelt, Folding his body around yours, As the car swerved toward the tree The tires failing to get any traction on the slick pavement.

You remember how everyone would say His smile was lopsided like yours.

Almost all of your clothes were his hand-me-downs, But none ever fit quite right. And you Became two notches quieter every time someone asked “Why aren’t you more like him?”

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Whenever the first snowflakes fall You visit his moss covered headstone.

You repeat the same childhood stories.

He took his last breath while it snowed, And in that moment, you were finally Now cowering in his shadow.

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Untitled

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Hailey Thielen

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Patriotism Melissa Okumura You can keep your patriotism.

Just make sure it’s not racism.

Cause we all come from the same place.

All part of one human race.

You can stay there on the fence.

Pray the lord will save your soul.

I can’t ignore your indifference.

Watch you slide that dollar in the bowl.

An old native veteran in the park, I smiled, sparked his eyes so dark.

He came around asking for a cent, “I'm trying to find a room to rent.”

Walking down the street in Beijing, A little Uyghur girl was looking at me.

Then I realized it wasn't me, instead She was staring at my chocolate bread.

Black lives dying without cause.

Tell me, what's the purpose of your laws?

A young man died on a cross of wood, So can't we love our neighbors?

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You can keep your patriotism.

Just make sure it’s not racism.

Cause we all come from the same place.

All part of one human race.

You can stay there on the fence.

Pray the lord will save your soul.

I can’t ignore your indifference.

Watch you slide that dollar in the bowl.

How can we be so out of touch?

As fires burning ash to dust?

Billionaires richer as the perils pile, A poor million lives gone all the while.

I wait as the next tragedy comes near, But it's the coldness in your heart I fear.

Please let go of that anxious pride, Cause we have so little time...

Sometimes I feel all hope is lost, Gotta do what we can, no matter the cost Hold our children's future in our hands.

Pray me, are you willing to take a stand?

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Fear of Death Jacob Kruger Death is a hunter that comes for us all, We can fight but eventually we will all fall.

For nobody in the end has ever beaten death, Everyone will eventually take their last breath.

Death stalks the halls of the castle at night, It takes us all even when we fight.

The loss of a loved one is hard to bear, For our hearts will always care.

But in these hard times you are never alone, We have all faced it, the pain cuts to the bone.

But one day it will fade into pain like a bruise, The pain for someone who you loved and will lose.

Anchor will always hold our heart, His loss will pull until it's broken apart.

But loving another makes us partially whole, Until they leave us too and it shatters a new hole.

Our hearts are like wood, it's hard to break, But love is fire it can make the oldest wood quake.

Until even the strongest heart will fall, This pain has reached us one and all.

The pain of loss is always here, Death stalks the halls and makes you fear.

Until waking up is such a chore, The fear of loss that cuts to the core.

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Prague

Hailey Thielen

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NF

How to Make Korean Army Stew Isaac Holmes The Korean War began in 1950, and concluded in 1953, or never, depending on one’s perspective. It is often referred to as the “Forgotten War” for the lack of education on the subject in American schools, mine included. In high school, I always wondered why we skipped from World War II directly to Vietnam. They missed one, right? My Grandpa Steve mentioned something about his proximity to the Korean War. I’d also heard that the term “zipperhead,” a racist slur for East Asians, originated during that same conflict. Allegedly, American troops would execute North Korean prisoners by running over their skulls with Jeeps, the tire tracks creating a zipper-like pattern of blood across the pavement. Perhaps the United States was guilty of other horrific crimes they would not want taught in schools? Gruesome and unspeakable as it may have been, I would later discover one positive byproduct of the Korean War. On the battlefield, food was scarce. American and South Korean soldiers occupying the leftover bases scrounged for scraps. There, they concocted Budae Jjigae, or Korean Army Stew.

To call myself a master chef would be a gross misattribution. I was simply a humble, poor college student. I had just moved back in with my parents after COVID-19 lockdowns had cut my work hours, so I could no longer pay rent. Granted, it forced me out of a filthy, rotting apartment, so perhaps it was a hidden blessing. My year in that hovel taught me the value of cooking quick and easy meals. Having had the responsibility of feeding myself suddenly thrust upon me, I came to revere my stock pot. It was simplicity itself to throw a bunch of ingredients into it and set it atop the stove to boil. Spaghetti, pork and vegetable stew, and chow mein casserole were the few dishes which kept me alive. Thinking myself fancy, I would occasionally boil crab legs, ironically serving them with instant mashed potatoes and microwaved vegetables. As I did not have a dedicated tool for cracking the shell of the boiled crustacean, I would smash the legs and claws open with the handle of my kitchen knife as if it were the pommel of a mighty longsword. Now, I was back with my folks, with a well-equipped kitchen manned by a talented cook in the form of my stepmother, Mary. I was now eating home cooked meals and, more importantly, no longer paying for them. However, a part of me still missed cooking, and yearned to return to the kitchen.

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My friend Matthew, a staunch Republican, was concerned about the economic future of America following the election of Joe Biden. Even as someone who considers myself a centrist fencesitter, I acknowledged that economic prosperity was not something I expected of the new leader’s Administration. Matthew sent me a video detailing a recipe for Korean Army Stew, under the pretense that it was comprised of cheap ingredients and created many servings. He claimed that it would be a prime dish for the inevitable economic crash that awaited us.

There were several price inconsistencies in the video. He claimed that the recipe would cost $2.18 per serving, and create six servings.

Anyone would have understandable reservations against believing that claim. “What fantasy land do you live in where smoked sausage is .99 cents a pound?” I sarcastically asked the unresponsive screen of my smartphone. The chef was probably just in a State with a lower cost of living, but we may as well have been worlds apart. Still, the economy had not collapsed yet, and since my return home I had saved money because I no longer paid rent. For now, the price was only a minor concern.

As the video continued, I became intrigued by the history of the dish. A stew desperately thrown together by Korean and American soldiers scrounging for what they could find or afford in the midst of war. In addition, the recipe itself intrigued me. It was a perfect addition to my list of easy meals, just a bunch of flavorful stuff chucked together in a pot! That was my specialty. Suddenly, a prominent and invasive set of thoughts entered my mind. Is it cultural appropriation for me to make a dish born of foreign desperation to feed my middleclass white family? Is it insulting to the struggle of the soldiers who invented it to compare my reason for making this, economic difficulty in America, to throwing together morsels to survive a war?

I chose to bury these thoughts, rather than address them directly.

After all, there were more important matters to attend to. Mary was depending on my promise to make dinner that night so she could continue working. My father and step-brothers were ravenous eaters, already hungry and unwilling to wait any longer. My own stomach groaned, snapping me away from my ethical considerations. It was settled then; I would make Korean Army Stew. I made a shopping list, altering some ingredients to better suit my family’s tastes, and set off for the supermarket.

Ingredients: · 2 tbsp Gochujang. My small-town Minnesota supermarket did not carry it, and I felt uncomfortable going to an Asian Market.

Luckily, Coborn’s had Thai Chili Paste. · Shirodashi. This is optional, which created another excuse for me not to interact with people whose culture I didn’t fully understand. · ¾ cup kimchi. I searched for half an hour without asking an No. 31

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employee for help. Even in my native territory, interacting with strangers was decidedly unfavorable. Perhaps I felt foreign even in my own majority space. The kimchi was next to the mushrooms. · 2 packages choice of ramen noodles. The shelves which normally held Maruchan ramen were completely barren! Perhaps many shoppers shared my motivations to make cheap food in anticipation of an economic crisis. Luckily, an off-brand box of Udon noodles was left untouched. · 2 ½ tsp chili flakes. The recipe recommended Korean Chili Flakes if you’re going for full authenticity, but I was not. · 1 can of Spam. I’d never tried it before. All I’d heard was that it was a repulsive, pale, slimy, processed meat made with wasted byproducts of my preferred cuts of All-American pork. I considered that I’d never had to struggle to be fed, having been raised in a middle-class American home for my entire life. · ½ lb smoked sausage, nowhere near the supposed .99 cents the recipe author promised. · 2 slices Kraft American Cheese. Another surprisingly low-brow ingredient, usually only reserved for those who cannot afford better.

It is authentic, though. · 1 tbsp white distilled vinegar · 4 cloves peeled garlic · 1 tbsp soy sauce · 1 tbsp granulated sugar · 2 oz shiitake mushrooms · 2 bunches green onions · ½ lb button mushrooms · 3 cups chicken stock · A dash of self-awareness, as I was about to create a soup that is both authentic and not authentic, composed of both cheap and expensive ingredients. The contrast adds flavor.

I mixed the Thai Chili Paste, white distilled vinegar, soy sauce, finely chopped garlic, sugar, and chili flakes. This created a savory, salty, and spicy base for the soup. Unfortunately, my father does not like spicy food, a regrettably true stereotype about white people.

Similarly stereotypical of my race; knowing nothing of other cultures.

When I was in second grade at St. Francis Xavier Elementary school in Sartell, Minnesota. I met an Asian classmate, Brandon. He was short, even for children that age, and had slim eyes and slick black hair loosely dangling with no form or style from his head. I thought it appropriate to ask him if he was black or white, unaware that other races existed. He responded simply, “I don’t know.” The stupidity of my question would later be added to a stockpile of invasive embarrassing memories.

Next, I created my mushroom stock, taking two ounces of shiitake mushrooms and adding them to a large bowl. I brought to a 64

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boil 1 ½ cups of filtered water before pouring it over the mushrooms.

I allowed those mushrooms to rehydrate for 12 minutes before removing the mushrooms from the liquid, wringing their remaining juices into the bowl, thinly slicing them and setting them aside.

It was time to sear the protein, beginning with the can of tinned peasant meat. I sliced the Spam into ½ inch slices, discovering that the average can will yield seven or eight slices. It was slimy, but not to the extent I’d heard. I used a deep sauté pan, perfectly shallow enough to reliably get a spatula into, while also being just deep enough to contain the remaining ingredients. The recipe dictates that you not oil the pan, as the Spam will render out its own fat. I heated the little pink patties for three minutes before flipping and doing the same on their undersides. It reminded me of a Family Guy gag. In a parody of Breaking Bad and Homeland, Peter calls an airstrike on a group of gangsters. As they catch fire and melt away, the camera fades to Peter at a later point grilling hamburgers. Suddenly, my mind drew a parallel. I thought a morbid thought about the searing flesh of North Korean civilians, sizzling and crackling in putrid pink piles. Never in a million years would they have expected my nation to drop their bombs so indiscriminately. That may be why they hate the United States so virulently now.

I remembered Jonah, a Korean coworker of mine from when I was still a petty wage slave at Subway. He initially came across as a troublemaker, donning sleeve tattoos and speaking in slang more urban than I’d been accustomed to after such a sheltered life.

However, he and I got along swimmingly. We were remarkably open to conversation about delicate topics. Unfortunately, he often did not engage his filter even if we shared a room with customers. I had been ranting one night about the welfare system in America. I lamented that so many people abused it, raking in taxpayer dollars without any intent to contribute to society. “Let them use it for two years,” I said, thinking myself generous, “but if they don’t get a job by then, damn them.”

Jonah allowed me to finish my point before dropping his bombshell. His grandparents had escaped from South Korea during the Korean War. Both his grandparents and his parents struggled to find reliable work. During times of unemployment, Jonah’s parents relied on welfare to survive and feed him and his siblings. Even then, they often suffered. They went without electricity and heat regularly.

During the infamously brutal Minnesota winters, Jonah’s father often had to break up putrid, frozen toilet water with a screwdriver, lest his family wanted to excrete outside like animals. Life on welfare was not as easy as I had thought. Still, I remained firm on my initial stance, but my perception had been shaken by his story.

The Spam was nearly completely browned, so I removed it from the pan. I was struck by its surprisingly savory aroma, as well as No. 31

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the pieces’ crispy edges and saturated pink centers. I then ironically juxtaposed the poor man’s canned meat by searing the expensive smoked sausage. I cut the sausage into ½ inch slices, choosing to do so diagonally for the sake of extra pageantry. Using the rendered fat from the Spam as a makeshift oil, I seared each piece for 3 minutes, on both sides. After inhaling the sweet aroma of smoked sausage, I became disappointed. I expect smoked sausage to be a top-of-the-line delicacy, but Spam was the underdog here. From humble beginnings, it had achieved for me the same level of excitement to indulge in its flavor.

I began making the soup. Reducing the heat to medium, leaving the rendered fat popping at the bottom, it began flinging miniscule droplets of liquid fat specifically towards me and nowhere else.

Considering how many the recipe called for, buying pre-sliced button mushrooms rather than chopping them myself was a lifesaver. A half pound of mushrooms is a lot more than one may think. I then added one bunch of thinly sliced green onions and half the container of kimchi before stirring and sautéing for one minute. Then, I added the Thai Chili Paste sauce base I made earlier before sautéing again for two minutes, stirring occasionally. In went 3 cups of chicken stock. The chicken stock reminded me of bone broth, something I’d previously toyed with drinking by itself after hearing that it was good for your joints. I received no noticeable results, other than puzzled looks from my parents.

In went the mushroom stock I made earlier, which was now a rich, translucent brown color, resembling maple syrup only far less viscous. I stirred the ingredients with a spoon, making sure to scrape up any residual pieces of mushroom or fat clinging to the bottom of the pan. Finally, I brought the mixture to a boil, then immediately reduced to low and covered with a thick tempered glass lid, simmering for two minutes. This part was thoroughly enjoyable, as it was the culmination of all the previous work reintroduced in one step. Finally, the product of several separate processes came together as one into something resembling the integrated final product. I thought of it like solving a math problem or completing a jigsaw puzzle. Although, neither of those would reward me with a savory meal, save for sufficient intoxication.

I then submerged the two bricks of udon noodles under the bright red-orange broth bubbling beneath me. The flavor packets were to be used later for popcorn. I covered the concoction and simmered for four more minutes. Once the noodles were cooked, I reintroduced my seared meats, sliced shiitake mushrooms, and gingerly draped two slices of Kraft American cheese over the affair. Finally, the soup was left to simmer for a final two minutes.

At this point, the stew was essentially done. I gave thought to what my family would think of it. Would my father be willing to 66

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endure the spice for my sake? Would the ever-hungry maws of my step-brothers reject this dish? If so, what would that say of the worth of my time, money, and effort? If it were a smash hit in my house, could I make it for my immediate family during some gathering?

What would Aunt Angie think? What would Grandma Holmes think? What would Grandpa Steve think? What would Grandpa Steve think?

I’d helped my step-grandfather Steve to remodel his backyard in Wyoming, Minnesota the summer prior. During lunch breaks, he would tell me stories of his time living in Guam as a child. He often spoke too softly for me to hear the true essence of his stories, so I’d nod along as if his lungs and vocal cords were as spry as ever. Still, he was able to convey some details to my halfway listening ears. His father was an electrical engineer, and was called upon by the United States government to help rebuild Guam’s infrastructure immediately after the Pacific War against the Japanese had ended. He brought along his wife and Steve. Steve would often peruse the beaches in boredom, kicking aside spent shell casings and shrapnel. His family once adopted a cast of coconut crabs as pets, a revelation that made my skin crawl, as those are quite possibly the most frightening animals on the planet.

The Korean War began three years after they’d arrived in Guam, and only five years after the last war the United States had with an East Asian nation. Guam now served as a crucial military asset, with seaports and airports once again shipping men and munitions from their homeland to the battlefield. Steve and his parents would watch US Naval convoys deliver equipment and personnel to the island.

When the Korean War was over, my step-great grandfather returned his family to the continental United States. As he aged, Steve watched as those around him were drafted into the Vietnam War, while he stayed home working as an electrician like his father before him. I could never quite recall who he said went to ‘Nam. Friends?

Brothers? Cousins? Nephews? Whoever they were, he spoke of them with no inflection in his voice, nor noticeable expression on his face.

He would face his patio door as he spoke, leaning back and looking at me when his stories were over.

His face conveyed a hardened apathy. Maybe those who were sent away to Vietnam came back? Maybe he was not so close with those who did not return? Maybe he really was just a stoic badass?

However, I knew for a fact that many people Grandpa Steve knew and loved had been dying of old age in recent years. Perhaps some of them survived the battlefield, only to fall victim to time when they returned home. I felt ashamed that I had not paid closer attention to his stories. Whoever these people were, whether they went to war or not, they were important to him, and he was important to me. I imagined that behind his eyes was a swirl of memories of friends and No. 31

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family lost, to battle or time, constantly bubbling and risking boiling over if his calloused heart developed even a miniscule crack.

I uncovered the soup, calling for my father and step-brothers to come give it a taste. Luckily, it was a smash hit. The stew was a savory blend of spicy, greasy, fatty flavors which came together in a different way every forkful. My father, usually intolerant of spices, came to enjoy this oddity that I’d graced our kitchen with. Logan ravenously devoured two bowls before retreating once again to his basement den. Jonathan, who planned to join the Army after his graduation, chose to fill one large bowl rather than come back for a second. I went back to the original video which inspired me to cook the stew. “$2.18 per serving, 6 large servings,” he claimed. I’d spent forty dollars to feed four people. If the economy really did collapse, we would have to find another go-to struggle meal. Despite the price, dinner was an overwhelming success, but still a bittersweet one. Korean Army Stew was born of strife in a nation littered with the bodies of Koreans and Americans alike. Their sacrifices, just or unjust, brought our family together that night. For that, I am grateful.

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Where They Can Go Kailey Goins I am made with empathy and compassion.

I accept everyone here, but my life is full of fear.

I live on Kalenda Avenue, about five houses in, The one with the tall blue recycling bin.

I come from a family of seven, Only 5 live here,

One is in North Dakota and one up in heaven.

My teachers have been amazing,

They’ve helped me through hell,

They always put my mental health first, Calmed me when I was about to burst.

They even helped me when those I loved, had been put in a hearse.

They are who I aspire to be.

My students will be my priority.

They will be safe with me.

They will be welcomed, Loved,

Cared about, Put first,

And allowed to be themselves.

In my classroom,

My students will learn many things.

Most importantly, they’ll dig from down below, And learn not only where they've come from, But where they can go.

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Central Park

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Hailey Thielen

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Ode to an Introvert Samantha Fitzpatrick No quieter than the loud Your silence speaks Substance to the crowd Observant eyes Take mental pictures Of society’s lies Tranquil spills From your seclusion The thoughts refill A sharper mind Reads our chapters Socially blind Perceptive hearts Seek privacy With mindful smarts Not a vulnerable voice But a self-aware ear Is the sense of choice Imaginative dreams Bring happiness To reality’s schemes No lonelier than the loud Your company of solitude Grants a populous crowd No. 31

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Observing in the Chair at the Cabin in Hackensack, MN Madeline Christensen Out in the distance, the cool air starts to settle.

The lake like a mirror, So still it could show a reflection.

Loons float off into the distance, calling out to each other.

The sun, laying its violet, orange rays to rest Welcoming the moon home.

Swinging from side to side, I lean back The bright flames coming to life As the sky becomes black, and everything is quiet.

I feel so alone.

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Alone II Tony Craidon Alone I sit in a room barren of sentiment. There’s no love left in this house that was once a home. It’s every corner whispers of memories far lovelier than the present. What we had, what brought us all together, has been picked apart, one cosmically microscopic piece at a time. This home we built, and with our passion, adoration, and affection serving as the mortar to our foundation, was once a sanctuary from the chaos all around us. Now, it’s just another cookie cutter shell with windows and shingles. I wonder, will the next tenants feel the vacuum of despair, destruction, and destitution? If so, I hope they have more love than I was capable of protecting. This house needs a new remodel. Something with more endurance for the storms that are known to roll through here from time to time. Some new paint for certain.

Promises were made, futures were planned, love was made like cupcakes from scratch. It should then follow that promises were bent and broken, futures burned to ash and scattered to the wind, and the memory of making love cannot be guaranteed accurate.

I never thought I’d be one to believe it couldn’t happen to me.

My cynicism had been tempered before my eyes, and I remained blind. Hindsight 20-20, I should have remembered, too much of a good thing will always rot from the inside like a spoiled watermelon promising sweet delight. Cut it open and taste disappointment. In the end, it was a symptom of the pandemic – my desire to capture time itself. So how am I so surprised when burning the candle at both ends would bring swift doom and divorce? I ponder while the ghosts of a future murdered whisper to me from the empty halls I once considered my castle.

Before I vacate, I’ll leave a note: “The windows, once steamy and offering a warm, safe hovel to anyone looking in from the yard, now cry when it gets cold. Their tears have warped their frames and the glass has sunken to a shallow and fragile state. Consider replacing at once.”

I could just tear it down. Start anew. But these old bones don’t have enough life in them to start again. Better to shove some spackle in the holes of the walls. Holes created in heated passion, negligence, and anger. Just the bare minimum. Just enough to destroy the ghosts.

Cash out and spend the rest of my days a vagabond, exploring roads that don’t exist, destined to cry alone, reflect alone, grow alone, and someday in the not-too-distant future, die alone.

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Of Cellars and Stars Brandi Zinnel A hand reaches out to dust.

Hoping within the dusty flask is a hint of star.

In the dim light little is left, The rest is barren in this cellar Which long ago was a reliquary for the legendary And now doesn’t even hold ale.

Many a man got lost in ale, ‘til naught was in their pouch but dust And they had lost hope of becoming legendary; A part of a tale, the leading star!

Instead, just as forgotten as the grit in this cellar, Where now only spiders and the flask are left.

Now the man in shadows turns left, Not caring as he hits the bottles that held ale.

It is time to leave this cursed cellar Alone in the embrace of dark and dust.

No light shines here from any night star Except for the captive one pulsing and legendary.

What could make a star legendary?

It was the components that were left.

Tales said the light, the lifeblood, of this star Did not dwindle even in the darkest of ale.

It would never fade from dust to dust.

That is why it was kept in the forbidden cellar.

A wealthy family had secured this cellar.

Their hoarding of wealth and treasures was legendary.

Only the family would come down into the dust 74

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Until one day not one of the family was left.

None of them had drowned in vice or ale, But had lost their faith in the power of the star.

Now a procurer is taking their star Light, and leaving this dismal cellar.

It is placed in another flask reeking of ale Making sure to hide those glowing legendary Particles. He steps up a creaking ladder, turns left And the man is relieved – for he is not dust.

In his hands the star thrums with its light so legendary And he continues from that cellar until only a door is left.

His comrades will pour him ale and celebrate his light until he is dust.

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Greece

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Dakota Johnson

Upper Mississippi Harvest

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In the Cloud Sarah Richardson

The whole world fell still The break of dawn struck All I possess is this moment The moment when the orange sun paints the clouds Taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air, filling the spaces my breath wouldn’t travel shallowly This time of the year the water is more shallow The green algae stands still I look to the Sky, it looks as if a match was struck My eyes were shielded by the clouds I take a picture, trying to hold on to this moment This way of looking back feels shallow Our memories being stored in the cloud When our lives pass us by, and we can look back still Will it bring back a spark Can I relive the Late nights with the Strangers that I once knew. Nowadays I wonder if they saved that same moment?

If they tucked it away for another day to strike A distant place, when our minds were far from shallow Thinking about a future, we couldn’t stand still Now life passes like a train of clouds Blissful and quick to go when the clouds Clear. And the days with rain and snow I feel the most alone and still I carry on momentarily Stopping to empty shallow Thoughts. Noticing when I get stuck Minutes had turned into hours, I was starstruck My day was lost in the clouds Assuring myself all I have is now. however shallow I find the reason, the link that connects my best moments The reason I’m fighting still No. 31

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Snake Bath Snake Bath-Every evening, I slither into the bath and worry that she will come home and find me naked. Shedding scales and hissing in the tub full of tears and soft water. What a sight to behold.

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Snake Bath

Olivia Way

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Feminine Mystique

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marguerite crumley

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Almost Had You Anna Lashinski Your hands grip that hot and sticky leather steering wheel. You can feel the sweat running down your back and forehead. After that last turn you balance the steering wheel with your left knee as you yank your light brown hair back into a messy ponytail. Once you pull your hair back you know that Theo, who is sitting in the back seat, can see the base of your neck where your new bikini is tied. You spent three hours figuring out exactly which swimsuit and dress you would wear today. And you had every intention of being noticed.

Your best friend Gemma makes eye contact with you the next time you peer into the rearview mirror. She cocks her head slightly to the right in Theo’s direction. He’s snapchatting that girl he met in college again. Gemma and you made up that signal last night when you were freaking out to her about trying to get Theo to like you.

“Take a left here,” Ty says from the passenger seat. He was always the one put in charge of directions when you and your group drove somewhere. The four of you have been friends since junior year in high school even though you have known some of them longer. And today is the first time you have hung out all summer.

Ty’s ten year old brother Evan went with too. Ty was on babysitting duty this week, and didn’t have a choice but to let Evan tag along.

You pull into a parking spot when you reach the beach. Everyone climbs out of the car right away except for Theo who was finishing up typing something on his phone.

“Sorry,” he says when he finally climbs out of the car. He flashes a smile at you, and your heart melts. It brings you back to when you were twelve and the new kid at Lincoln Middle School.

You stepped in the main doors and walked a few hallways where you froze. Your palms hurt due to gripping your backpack straps so tight that your nails dug into your skin. You take a few steps back to allow yourself to get out of the other students’ way. Then, all of a sudden, someone was by your side. His wavy blonde hair almost completely covered his brown eyes, which were looking at you. Not like he just noticed you, but as if he could read every thought in your mind.

He grabs something from the locker on your left and slams it closed.

“Oh no. I think your shirt got caught.” You turn and see your No. 31

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shirt twisted right where the latch of the locker was. You immediately twist and hear the ripping sound as you see your shirt tear halfway up your side. You shut your eyes and hope that he didn’t see the flash of pink of your bra. The tear was up to the point where your bra was.

You can feel the tears building up in your eyes. Worst first day ever.

“Here,” he says as he opens his locker again and reaches in. He pulls out a black sweatshirt advertising the football team. The name ‘Hanson’ was written across the back in white block letters. You later learn that is his last name.

You set your backpack down and pull the sweatshirt over your head. It’s too big, but better than showing your entire new school what color your bra is.

That sweatshirt is stuffed on the top of your closet and when your college roommate isn't around you pull it down and hug it close. And ever since then he smiles whenever he sees you.

“Let’s get the food out,” Gemma calls out and places her hand on your shoulder. You turn and smile at her. The two of you go to the trunk of your car and pull out the two cooler bags. Gemma swings the plaid blanket over her shoulder and heads down to the beach.

You lug the other bag up and take a few steps to follow her.

You can feel the hot sand work its way between your feet and your flip flops. You turn to see if the guys are following you, but Theo’s thumbs are flying across the keyboard again. He flips his head to the side and his hair bounces from his eyes.

“You coming?” You holler over your shoulder as you take a few more steps after Gemma.

“Yep!” Theo calls back after a few seconds. He goes into a jog and catches up to you quickly. “Here.” He takes the cooler bag from your shoulder.

“I can carry that,” you say.

“I’ve got you,” he says. You raise your eyebrows but are secretly appreciative of the gesture. That bag was pretty heavy.

When you catch up to Gemma she already has the blanket spread over the sand. She begins pulling Tupperware containers out of the bag. Theo sets the other bag down on the blanket. He pulls out a bottle of Bud Light and twists the top off. He tips it back and drinks half of it in one swing.

“I’m glad we decided to do this today,” Ty says as he leads Evan over. Evan is a mini version of Ty, both with the same face. One was just eleven years older.

“So am I!” Gemma pitches in. When you don’t say anything back Gemma locks her eyes on yours. You know that she’s going to say something to you later about this. Ty piles his plate with food and helps Evan do the same. You fill your plate next with potato salad courtesy of Gemma, some rolls with turkey slices, and carrot sticks.

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You sit down and look over at Theo again, but this time you see him slip his phone into his pocket. He flashes you a smile and takes off his shirt.

“I’m going swimming, anyone care to join me?” he asks. He bends down and pulls off his shoes and socks, and slips his phone into his shoe then looks to everyone for their answer.

“I will!” Evan replies, he races Theo down the sand and the two of them enter the water. Ty laughs, shakes his head, then scoots closer to Gemma and you.

“You two okay? You haven’t said much,” Ty says.

“I’m great,” Gemma says, then turns her attention to you.

“I’m okay,” you say. “Just still feeling like school is still going on and I should be studying instead of being here with you guys.” You know you shouldn’t lie to your friends, but it was only a partial lie.

You really do feel like you should still be studying or working on homework, but mainly you are worried about Theo.

Just then Theo’s phone goes off and without thinking about it you turn around. You see the notification for a text from “Emily.”

There are several emojis next to her name; one of them being a red heart. The text preview read, “What are your plans for Sunday? I was thinking…” Suddenly, that pit in your stomach doesn’t feel like a pit anymore, it’s more like a black hole consuming everything in its path.

“Help!” Theo screams from the water. All three of you stand up. You use your left hand to block the sun from your eyes. When you scan the beach the only person you see is Theo, not seeing Evan anywhere.

“Where’s Evan?” Ty screams as he races to the water. You follow him, you don’t even feel the sand on your feet as you run across the beach. You are so focused on the moment you don’t even know if Gemma has followed you.

“I don’t know!” Theo replies. “He was right here.” As your eyes scan the water you see something further in the water out where the buoys are. Then you see a hand reach up and try to grab one, but the hand falls back into the water again. You race into the water and start swimming as fast as you can. You were the second fastest girl on your high school swim team. Within a few minutes you reach the buoy that Evan was near only a little while ago, but you don’t see a trace of him.

“Do you see him?” Ty screams, you can barely hear him from where you are. But he had to have screamed in order for the sound to reach you.

“No!” you shout back. As soon as the word leaves your mouth you feel something brush against your left foot. It wasn’t seaweed though. You grew up swimming in lakes, and you know seaweed when you feel it. You gulp in air and fill your lungs, squint your No. 31

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eyes and go into the water. You move your hands around as you try to go deeper. Opening your eyes would be useless right now, you wouldn’t be able to see anything in the murky lake water. Just when you are about to head back to the surface to breathe you feel something. It’s hard and when you feel a little more you realize what you have touched was an arm. You grab the arm with both of your hands and pull. It doesn’t move. You kick your feet as hard as you can and pull so hard you think you are going to pull this person’s arm off but they move. The person grips your wrist as you push them up ahead of you. As the person begins moving they kick, and the foot nails you right in the nose. Your head moves back in surprise and you breathe in water, only some of it tastes metallic. You try kicking your feet and you move closer to the surface but then you stop. You feel something catch. It’s the ties from your dress that are around your waist. In your haste to get into the water to save Evan you didn’t pull the dress off. Your hands try to pull hard on the ties, but your lungs are burning with the water in them. You try not to, but breathe in again, and again. Then everything goes dark.

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Strung

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Sarah Richardson Plucking the strings fills the room with vibrations.

Timeless emotions are felt all at once.

Emotions that make time endless for once.

Captivated body, my soul lingers.

Empty the places my mind won't linger.

Through my fingers, the energy departs.

Fingers sore as they press the wires to depart Progressing down the fret a melody forms.

Hum along with the melody, inner peace forms Treat my guitar like a lover spending my nights Larger than life I write down my days and nights Flashing before my eyes I keep an open mind I might miss a few notes, but I don’t mind Rehearsing the combination of vibrations

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Little Falls Melissa Okumura It's no longer home, but my love runs deep for the little town that raised me.

On this little town there's lots of scrapes and scars, but Andy and I'd play for hours and hours.

He'd create the plot and I'd say all the lines, pretend we didn't hear the crows and their cries.

I rode to school in a yellow bus, the kids in the back would tease and cuss.

Mrs. Morse was kind, and I was a chub.

Someday you'll stretch out, for now there's more to love.

First day of sixth grade, I made a brilliant friend.

She's always been right there, through thick and thin.

We've both forgotten why, but once I made her mad.

Sent my love for months, ‘til she finally laughed.

I'd shoot ‘til dark, with country radio.

Buy a one-way ticket, to the rodeo.

The bounce of the ball beneath a fading sky, lost in time to come inside.

A bronze-skinned boy with a farmer's tan, he stole my heart in a minivan.

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We didn't go too far, for the good lord said, we'd just talk nonstop, lying in his bed.

I walk down the street, the old shops are gone, rich man with a rocket for the price of 'um.

Well, ain't that the way it's always been?

Chief Hole-in-the-Day stolen way back when.

Suns rise and fall, and life goes on.

Count my stars, embrace the dawn.

See that little girl, sink then float then swim.

Go on and let it out, then bring her in.

The wind blows slow, and it's gone like that.

Make it up as I go, trust my path.

Those first eighteen years, by a little falls where I grew up, tough and tall.

It's no longer home, but my love runs deep for the little town that raised me.

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A Single Piece of Paper

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Mallory Morris Our entire lives Based on test scores From when we were 7, 10, 13, 16, 18…

Children.

Our entire life trajectory Determined by second grade.

Because Annie skipped breakfast, Jacob’s uncle died yesterday, Noah’s parents finalized their divorce, Olivia and her family are getting evicted.

A singular day Changed the trajectory of “success”, Self-worth, Perception of themselves as students, As a learner…

Damaged and shattered.

Curriculum rooted in test scores, A number on a piece of paper Deciding between Doctor or Unemployment.

Doors that should have been open Remain locked and boarded up, An unreachable dream For so many bright and determined children.

Their dreams are taken from them By a single piece of paper.

By a bad day in eighth grade, 88

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By self doubts Because school told them they were not good enough.

Education should be liberating, Thrilling, Life-changing, A dream come true, But yet, it is the bane of many students.

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Call For Submissions To be eligible for submissions students should be enrolled in at least one credit during any of the following semesters: the previous spring or summer, or the current fall term.

All submissions should be emailed to: uppermissharvest@stcloudstate.edu Include your name and title(s) of your work in the body of the email while putting the genre you are submitting to with the subject line of your email. If you are submitting to multiple genres, please send separate emails with your submissions for each one, for example, all poetry pieces should be sent with an email subject heading of Poetry Submissions. If you are submitting fiction as well, send a separate email with the fiction pieces and the subject heading, Fiction Submissions, and so on. Please remove your name and other identifying information from the individual documents, so that only the title is present on each submission. All written pieces should be submitted as a Word file. We do not accept .pdf documents.

Failure to meet any of the guidelines may result in disqualification.

We reserve the right to reject submissions. Faculty members enrolled in classes are not eligible for publication. https://www.stcloudstate.edu/english/student/publications.aspx *** Our submission deadline for each year is October 31st.

Eligible submissions include: Poetry: 1 - 5 pieces per person, typed.

Short Fiction or Nonfiction: 1 - 3 pieces per person. Maximum 4,500 words per piece, typed and double-spaced.

Drama (monologues, short script excerpts): 1 - 3 pieces per person.

Maximum ten pages per piece. Formatted appropriately.

Photography, Art, or Comics: 1 - 5 pieces per person. Black and white and full-color submissions accepted. Please ensure your submissions are 2400 x 3000 pixels or higher.

Your submitted work must be original and previously unpublished in order to qualify. We do not accept simultaneous submissions.

All submissions must be sent from a St. Cloud State email address to be accepted for submission.

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A Letter From Your Head Editors First and foremost, we would like to thank all of the hard work and dedication of Harvest’s contributors. Every year is a little different and it’s always exciting for us editors to see the talent that comes from SCSU’s students. We continue to be impressed with your work and the dedication that goes into your craft. Without it, Harvest would not exist. Thank you.

We would also like to thank our fellow editors for their hard work and dedication. Our editors are responsible for a lot more than just editing, they find opportunities for us to raise funds and then attend those fundraising events outside of our usual meetings. These events are not always the easiest of tasks to complete either. Editors, you know what I’m referring to and we would like to take a minute to thank you sincerely for all you have done this year.

To our talented and devoted designer, Marguerite Crumley, who has created the journal you hold in your hands. From working with tight deadlines to sharing her expertise and training another designer, we never have to worry about the quality of our journal. Her talent is endless and we are so fortunate to be able to have her in our corner. Thank you, Marg.

A very sincere and grateful thank you to our faculty member Dr. Sarah Green. It is true that if she hadn’t stepped up and taken on the role this year the Upper Mississippi Harvest would not have been. Dr. Green’s talent as a poet and her experience with working on literary journals in the past was instrumental in guiding us throughout the year. We really could not have done this without you. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you!

To our ever reliable, kind, and hard working Molly Mitzel. We pestered you quite a bit each year with our printing needs and all things administrative.

We sincerely appreciate everything you have done for us no matter how busy you were. Thank you for always greeting us with a smile and enthusiasm to help us out, it means more than you know.

To Dr. Judith Dorn, Co-Chair to St. Cloud State’s English department.

Thank you for continuing to support the arts and allowing Harvest to have a home and a community within our university where we can grow and evolve from year to year.

It has been a challenging year emerging from this pandemic and trying to find a bit of normalcy in our lives. We are so grateful for all our sponsors, especially professor emeritus Robert Inkster whose generous donation in support of the arts and the talented students of SCSU has been instrumental in keeping our journal going.

We sincerely thank you all and hope you enjoy the 31st edition of the Upper Mississippi Harvest.

–Chinyin Oleson and Leanne Loy No. 31

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Upper Mississippi Harvest Team Faculty Advisor Sarah Green Head Editors Leanne Loy Chinyin Oleson

Designer

Marguerite Crumley

Assistant Designer Hailey Thielen

Editors

Mahnoor Abbasi Marguerite Crumley Lynn Dobmeier Ryan Hoyer Hailey Thielen Angela Vorarath Brian Welch Brandi Zinnel

St Cloud State University is an affirmative action/equal opportunity educator and employer. This material can be made available in an alternative format. Contact the sponsoring department. St Cloud State University values diversity of all kinds, including but not limited to race, religion, and ethnicity. Member of Minnesota State. Upper Mississippi Harvest is published annually by St. Cloud State University.

It is distributed free to SCSU students and staff. All pieces were chosen through blind submission. Names of all authors and artists were hidden until after the final selections were made. Contributors retain all rights to their works.

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