Upper Mississippi Harvest - No. 29 by St. Cloud State University

Upper Mississippi

HARVEST No. 29

Upper Mississippi

HARVEST

About Us The English Department of St. Cloud State University has produced a literary and art journal for 58 years. For the last 29 years, the journal has been entitled Upper Mississippi Harvest. Harvest is edited and designed by students and features only student work. Professor Shannon Olson, Creative Writing Program Director, is Harvest's supervisor.

fiction

The Gas Station, The Bone Carvers, and a Call for Murder

Dear Lilly

Teagan Watkins

Judea DeMaris

The Sun Sets at Dawn

Samuel Mick

Five Theories on How America Will End

Casey Fuller

Neon Noir Nikolai Mallett

Dinner

The Work

Chinyin Oleson

Matthew Weldon

Watershed

Lee Menke

poetry The In-Between Lydia Nordstrom

Life is Limited

Horizon Lines

Daniel O'Connell

Jamie Stultz

On Self-Awareness, Desert Highways, and a Trickster

What's Broke

The One Percent

Kimberly Salitros

Kayla Nessmann

Giovanni's Doom Sameen Shakya

Box Under the Bed

Alexander Jensen

The Last Words of Vladimir Nabokov

Picnic Under the Crabapple Tree

Ode to Doves on Shattered Glass

Landen Parkin

redcarpet riverwalk dogged Ulysses Texx

Would You Ever Want to Meet a Grandfather Clock?

Unreal City

Ryan Schoonover

Sameen Shakya

Lee Menke

Man on the Moon

My Viking Friend Alexander Jensen

Landen Parkin

104

nonfiction

Split-Level House

Grizzly

Kayla Zelinsky

Jasper Kenyon

Consider the Tortoise

Gabe Osburnsen

Echoes of Memories

Chinyin Oleson

Keep Their Names

Eight Years Young

Jasper Kenyon

Kate Smith

Out of Touch Robertson Kwia

Jail Bate

106 109

Jamie Stultz

Eric Clapton Unplugged and Antiques Alexander Jensen

114

media Gender Flux Jack Missler

Jeep

2 10 14 25 28

Marguerite Crumley

Blond(de)

Henry Bannerman

Paper Boat

Isabella Drown

Dec. 2012 watercolor of

Johnannes Vermeer's "Girl with a Pearl Earring" Hiep Nguyen

Monster's Skull Shelby Miller

2012 Line Drawing Hiep Nguyen

transmillenial

Ariana Johnson

Organized Chaos

Paramount Raku Rendezvous 2019

Hiep Nguyen

Yellow Diamond

Quality Smut

Jaci Eatherton

Jamie Stultz

Apothecary II

Alexander Jensen

Post-Concussion Paradigm

Alexander Jensen

Leach White Vases

Contrast

Deep

Hiep Nguyen

Ulysses Texx

Untitled

Amanda Rom

Henry Bannerman

The Palms

Ocean's Treasures Shelby Miller

Hiep Nguyen

Te Amo

Marguerite Crumley

In Willmar

Grandma's Painting

Jaci Eatherton

103

Scott Scribner

Untitled Ariana Johnson

105

Upper Mississippi Harvest

Gender Flux Jack Missler

No. 29

Upper Mississippi Harvest

No. 29

Upper Mississippi Harvest

The In-Between Lydia Nordstrom

my life is turning circular always running clockwise i stand hula hooping in my earrings stuck between what ive done and yet to do a never-ending ballet recital super glued in my pointe shoes twirling in my tutu in front of what ive done and behind what I've yet to do

No. 29

Split-Level House Kayla Zelinsky

From the age of five until I was twenty-two, I lived in a split-level house in a neighborhood of split-level houses. They weren't exactly cookie cutter, though they all were very similar. We lived on a corner lot and I remember how my mom would plant flowers and bushes in the rock path that went around the entirety of the house. She mainly focused on the front, but she had plants everywhere. A lush garden bloomed with colorful geraniums and a wide variety of hosta plants. In the back and sides of the property she planted five or six lilac bushes that started off no larger than my foot but are now taller than an average person. Once she ran out of room in the rocks, my mom didn't stop there. Every spring and summer my mom would take out the hanging baskets both filled with colorful geraniums. Over the years, she also accumulated two toddler-sized planters that she would change every season. Of course, during the spring and summer she'd fill them with flowers. For July, she'd make sure that all the flowers were red, white, or blue, making the whole month an Independence Day celebration. When fall came around she'd decorate the planters with gourds and adorn the front step with hay bales and a few scarecrows. After the first snowfall mom would change her planters once again and spruce them up with fake pine, candy canes, and Christmas lights. There was never any question that our house stood out. Because we lived in Minnesota, gardening was mostly a warmseason thing, that is unless someone has an indoor garden, which, of course, she did. My mom has a loveâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;no--an obsession with succulents. I am not exaggerating when I say that she has over a dozen succulents all of different varieties. Right next to the patio, she has a stand where most of her succulents reside, though she also has a few by the windowsill in the kitchen. No matter what we are doing, my mom has a way of noticing succulents everywhere. While watching TV, she points them out on the screen. If we were grocery shopping, she'd find herself amongst an abundance of succulent shelves. She noticed them in picture frames, on towels, and on a slew of other objects. Her unwavering passion for succulents will probably never die, in contrast to my various house plants. My mom's decorating did not stop at gardening. She always had a fascination with painting rooms of the house. She couldn't just stick with one color and be done; she constantly got bored and had to change it. The kitchen went from white to burgundy, and now it's two different shades of green, one more of a tan with green undertones and the other 7

Upper Mississippi Harvest

is a duller mint color. Thinking about it now, those two colors remind me of her hazel eyes. The master bedroom and my brother's old room have each been at least three different colors by now. Entryway, family room, living room, and each of the three bathrooms all have been painted twice. I won't blame her for my sister's old room. My sister decided to take it upon herself to paint the room hot pink while she was in middle school. My mom had no choice but to fix it and paint it a dark bluish grey, but I will blame her for not liking the new color and repainting it a tannish color after I moved out. Oddly enough, the only room my mom didn't paint was my room. The walls in my bedroom were blue with pale periwinkle speckled with a sponge on top. By middle school, I was sick of it and no matter how badly I wanted her to repaint my room, she refused. "It's the best paint job I have ever done," she'd say. Coincidentally, once I moved into my sister's old room when she left for college (after the hot pink and before the tannish color), guess which room got painted? My old room, which was no longer mine, but my dad's new office. Aside from painting and planting my mom also loves craft shows and antique stores. She always managed to find cute wall hangings and more recently she has been interested in metal wall hangings that have a "spring-feel," or unique holiday decorations, and her ever-growing collection of ceramic Christmas trees that light up (she's up to at least a dozen). The Christmas trees started with one she found in an antique store. It resembled one that my paternal grandmother has, and she always wanted one. For whatever reason she found another and another, and each time she "just had to have it." Tall ones, tiny ones, ones with only blue lights, ones with every color, trees that were completely green, completely white, and trees that were green with white to resemble snow. My mom loves remodeling shows and I think that is something I get from her, well, that and her curly hair. Whenever I come home there is a very great possibility that at some point, we will be sitting in the living room watching one together. That love has also affected how we look at old furniture. There are times my mom has gone to one of her regular shops and found an old piece of furniture she wants to fix up. When I decided I wanted to find an old desk and turn it into a vanity, she was the first person I thought to call. As it turns out, finding old furniture at an antique store for a reasonable price is next to impossible. While I wanted to find a sturdy desk, I didn't think it made sense to spend more than a hundred dollars on a neglected piece of furniture just because it has more value now that it is an "antique" or "vintage." I had tried to go shopping on my own to shops around my town and find something, but they were overpriced; nothing looked like the right thing. I finally found the time to go to one of my mom's favorite shops in the small town of Rogers with her. Rogers No. 29 8

has a bunch of different antique and vintage shops in one area. From the moment we stepped into the first shop I could tell this was not like all the other shops I'd been in and I might have better luck this time. This shop was filled with so many different objects. It had everything: old books, vintage toys, knickknacks, collectable baseball cards, pieces of furniture, art, etc. It was like a maze of forgotten objects. Every crevasse was filled with something, leaving just enough space for a person to walk around. If I wasn't careful, I could easily trip with one misstep. My mom directed me to not miss any areas in my search so that I didn't miss anything. Starting from the left of the store we made our way into a room off the main part of the store. It looked like just a bunch of baseball memorabilia until I noticed a decent-sized mirror. The only thing wrong with it was that the back was coming off though it appeared to have been "fixed" before with the strings of dried glue all over the back. They only wanted twelve bucks for it, and I decided that it would be an easy enough fix. My mom said to just remember where we saw it since this was only the first store and there may be better mirrors somewhere in this store. We eventually made our way halfway through the store. Did I mention how giant this place was? On the way, we saw some old vanities, but they were all very 60's. I wasn't sure how I'd refurbish it, but I kept them in mind. We finally reached that desk that had a typewriter on it. It was sturdy and had very spacious drawers. It was a little scratched up and the handles were pretty dated, but it was workable. I checked the price and noticed they were asking about $30 for it. The price tag made me even more excited. I made a mental note and kept moving along through the shop, and came to a garage type area that didn't seem to belong to the rest of the building. There wasn't much to look at in the space because it was organized between booths that all had their own theme. After fully exploring, my mom came upon a cute vintage chair that had a padded seat. It was perfect for a vanity chair and I tested it to make sure that it wasn't too old. All three of the features I needed to create a vanity, and I found them all in one store with the help of my mom. Looking in my room now, I glance at the fully repurposed furniture and I cannot help but smile. Yes, my mom has her quirks, just like most of us. I'm not quite sure I'll ever fully understand her obsession with succulents, her ever-growing ceramic Christmas tree collection, or her constant need to paint and repaint rooms in the house, but I do know that I share some things. Her love of old repurposed furniture and outdoor decorations according to the season and holidays are just a couple of them. There are times I wonder what kind of quirks I have or will develop that my children won't be able to understand. I glance into my redone mirror and focus on the curly hair and hazel eyes that stare back at me. Just like mom. 9 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Jeep

Marguerite Crumley

No. 29 10

Grizzly

Jasper Kenyon A clean, victory-red, four-door pickup truck crunches up the driveway to a modest, well-maintained little house. The siding is cream, the roof a dark green, no more than a ground floor and a basement. The yard has been cut recently, but the trees have been left to grow however they will, unpruned and wild. The driver parks the pickup in the driveway and steps out. He is a tall man, broad through the shoulders, wearing a plaid flannel shirt that is the same red as his truck. His shirt is tucked into a pair of blue jeans that have a crease down the front of each leg, the denim ironed and starched. On his hip, threaded through a brown leather belt, he wears a black handgun holster. His boots are dark brown, obviously worn but not dirty. He, himself, is older, but not yet old. His age is seen more in his beard and mustache, both neatly trimmed down to a half-inch, equal parts black and grey, than in his hair, which is still full and mostly dark. He has sort of a severe look about him, intimidating in almost every light, but his eyes carry laugh lines in their corners. From the backseat of the pickup, the man pulls out a stiff roll of what looks, from afar, to be black fur and green felt. He tucks the roll carefully under his arm, takes care not to bump it against the truck's door when he closes it. The truck locks itself with a chhck, and the man approaches the front of the house. He hesitates, and it becomes clear that he does not live here. He has never been here before. To the left of the closed garage door, there is a small, hand painted sign that reads "SHOP" with a thin black arrow pointing to the left. The man follows the arrow around the side of the house, where he finds a small building. It looks like nothing "looks like the type of building used to store out-of-season sporting equipment or a lawn mower " but there is noise coming from inside. The man knocks on the door. Another man opens it, quick, but not out of surprise. He is shorter than the other man, and younger too. He could optimistically be called a red-head, though he may also be blond. His hair is cropped close to his scalp, and his stubble appears to be intentionally unshaven. He is fit, but not overly so. He wears a black t-shirt and pale jeans that bear a variety of paint stains and frayed cuffs. The first man asks, "Shawn?" 11

Upper Mississippi Harvest

"Yes sir. You must be Mike," Shawn replies. He opens the door wider and extends a hand. They shake in the way that only two grown, working-class men can. Mike has vitiligo over his thumb. Shawn steps back and says, "Come on in." Shawn's workshop is an organized mess of tools, paints, lacquers, hides, and finished mounts. A large, sturdy table stands in the center of the room, and a bench juts out from the left-hand wall- both are covered in all the things a taxidermist might make use of. Overhead, an entire school of lacquered, shining fish gape. They look alive enough to swim through the air. One is silver with a reddish, pink belly. One is green and brown with spiked fins. One is curved in a sharp, dramatic arc, fish hook still in his mouth, line snapped and dragging behind him in the notwater. Absolutely none of them have a button that will make them sing, though some of them are probably bass. "Let's see it," Shawn says, clearing off the table. Mike sets his roll of fur and fabric down, spreading it out on the table. It is, in fact, fur, long and glossy under the warm yellow lighting, pitch black except around the edges, which fade to an orangy brown. Four clawed feet emerge, forming the corners of the hide, and then, finally, the head. The bear was small - the rug only barely hangs over the edges of the table, but his face is well done. His ears are pointed back in general displeasure, and his mouth hangs open in a not-quite-roar. Inside the mouth, the pink, plastic tongue is faded from age and the teeth are dusty. The flare of the nostrils is realistically asymmetrical. The bear's glass eyes have lost their shine, though their color is a warm, endearing brown. Looking straight down the face, the bear is ever so slightly (and adorably) cross-eyed. Under the hide itself is a patchwork of black and green felt, hot-glued together in a quick, sloppy way that does not match the craftsmanship of the bear's face. The felt is pilling and falling apart. Shawn asks, "Remind me where this came from?" "My son found it in an antique store, hanging from the rafters. Came home with it." Shawn nods thoughtfully. He takes hold of the rug, bends and pulls it this way and that, testing the strength of the hide and the quality of the tan. Mike looks around the room. Behind him is a wall full of finished products. Up high, another black bear emerges from the wall through a thicket of fake leaves and sticks. He might be about the same size that Mike's bear was, but it's hard to tell when one is still naturally shaped and the other is spread out flat. Beside the bear, a bobcat lounges on a shelf of driftwood, one tan paw hanging down while he looks lazily about. No. 29 12

Below are a number of European mounts, just clean, white skulls looking about with hollow eye sockets. Two are bucks, and one is some kind of cat with heavy canine teeth-probably a cougar. A fourth skull, a raccoon, is painted to look like oxidizing brass. The right-hand wall holds an entire herd of deer. All are traditional shoulder mounts, but none look exactly the same. Some look left, some look right, some look straight ahead. One, a smaller whitetail buck with a unique drop tine, has his head tilted back in a calling pose. One mule deer looks decidedly unimpressed at his whitetail neighbor, who looks back with bright-eyed pride. In the corner, tucked away behind the handsome stags, a single doe peeks out between the spread of antlers. She is small and elegant. Her eyes carry an almost concerned expression, and her fur is of a darker brown than is usual for a whitetail. "The form for the face is nice, but it's obviously a home-tan," Shawn says, gesturing. Mike leans in to look. "Look hereâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; See how thick it is? It's not a bad job, just not professionally done. You said you wanted the backing replaced?" "If that's something you can do." "Problem is, I don't know if I can get my sewing machine through this, it's so thick. And I don't want to try it if it'll tear it up," he pauses, then, "How much did your son pay for it? If you don't mind me asking. . ." "Two hundred. He said the owners of the place didn't know where it came from. They bought it at an auction with some other stuff." Shawn laughs, relieved. "Well, tell you what, two hundred is about what I'd say this is worth." Behind him, in the back of the shop, another buck protrudes from the wall. He has a rainbow of sewing pins stuck in him, lining his eyes and his mouth, holding the hide in place while it dries. Another shoulder mount is screwed onto a custom stand, away from the wall so that it can be worked on from all angles. The clay form is white, and a wet hide is draped over it, folded over itself. A nose pokes out from the folds, held down by more pins, but no face is distinguishable beyond that. Just wet fur and the pale, hairless underside of the skin. "One time," Shawn continues, "a lady came in with a big grizzly rug. I mean, it was huge. Musta been a damn gorgeous animal. And the same story: found it in an antique store, wanted it fixed up. She brought it to me and I tugged on it, like I did yours, and it justâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;" he splays his hands out in a bewildered sort of shrug, "Damn thing just ripped apart. Acid rot." Mike shakes his head, clucks his tongue, "How much did she pay for that?" "That's why I asked. Six hundred. I felt terrible about it." "Damn. And shame about the animal, too." Shawn nods, "Yeah. Shame about the animal." 13 Upper Mississippi Harvest

In Willmar Hiep Nguyen

No. 29 14

The Gas Station, the Bone Carvers, and a Call for Murder Teagan Watkins There was nothing unique about the gas station on the corner of fifth and main. This was probably because there was nothing unique about Washington, a town of 55. The town, if it could even be called that, lacked a luster that most small towns had. It lacked a quality or two that seemed to pull people like a magnet to a fridge. Perhaps it was too small. Perhaps it was too far away from the city dwellers who wanted "a weekend away". Perhaps no one knew about the town at all. At any rate, it didn't really matter. Washington was unremarkable and so was its gas station. The gas station sat on the corner, sagging, the roof bent near caving in, the gas pumps rusted and the pavement holding it in place cracked. Business was slow, as it was nearly every day, and not a single car was in sight. Most gas stations sat by big highways, waiting happily for a family on a road trip, or an office worker who forgot to gas up at home, or a car full of teens late at night, laughing hysterically and paying with scraped up debit cards. The only gas station in Washington township, though, was a good five minutes off highway 10 and thirteen minutes from highway 3. They didn't get families or angry office workers or teens. It was in an extremely inconvenient part of the world, and one had to wonder how they received enough business to stay open at all. The prices were higher than in the town twenty miles away, and the donuts inside were always a day old. The cigarette flavors were limited and bland, and the chances of buying a winning lottery there were slimmer than picking a red lollipop from a bag of blue ones. Needless to say, the gas station on Fifth and Main was a depressing place to go. Lucky, though, went there every single day. Across the street from the paint chipping, three aisle wide gas station was a tiny house, two stories high with a musty basement. It was crooked on it's base, not just visually but physically. A marble set on the basement floor would roll from the west side wall to the east side wall without being touched. Glasses set on the low coffee table would spill if they were too full. The first floor was a little less crooked than the basement, and the second floor was better than the first floor, but even still one felt off balanced on each floor. 15 Upper Mississippi Harvest

The crooked, narrow house had always been crooked and narrow. It had always been painted a gray blue and it had always had carpet that was a dark floral pattern that seemed to scream old lady and tortured artist at the same time. It had always had a front door that had to be slammed shut because it was just a little too big for the allotted door space. Nothing had ever really changed about the house since it had been built. It had the same layout, the same style, the same atmosphere, the same ugly carpet. It had even housed the same family since the day it was built. It housed the Turner family. Granted it was only on its fourth generation there, but all the same. It only housed Turners. Specifically, it housed Lucky Turner. Lucky Turner's name wasn't unique. Her whole family was full of Lucky Turners. Lucky had an Aunt named Lucky, a grandfather, a great uncle, a great-great-grandmother, and a great-great-great-cousin, if those were a thing. It's beside the point to list each Lucky Turner that ever lived. All that mattered was Lucky Turner was not the only Lucky Turner. She was the only Lucky Turner that spent every day at the gas station on the corner of fifth and main, though. Today Lucky entered the gas station in overalls and a sweater, the kind of sweater that was pulled and had holes and did nothing to keep you warm and just scratched your skin instead. She had on two mismatching socks, both knee high, and a hand-me-down pair of army green 901 Airwalks. Nothing on her body matched, and nothing made sense, and that was exactly how Lucky was. Senseless and mismatched. The door's bell rang. Lucky walked in, mocking the bell's tone, a beat-up textbook under her right arm and a piece of still wrapped gum in her left hand. The gas station was empty and quiet as normal, so the sudden noise echoed around like a bullet bouncing off surface after surface. The counter boy looked up from his book. "Aren't you supposed to be at camp for the rest of the summer?" the boy asked Lucky, watching her hold out the piece of gum and slam the textbook on the counter. Her bulky book sat close to the boy's small paperback that had seen better days. They sat close together, but their pages didn't touch. "I am indeed," she confirmed, waving the gum under his nose. The boy snatched it up, unwrapping it in seconds. It tasted like oranges and mint. "And yet here you are," he said around the gum. "Indeed again. I think they call it running away," Lucky said, opening her textbook's cover and leafing through the introduction pages. Her green eyes stayed fixed on the printed words, but they weren't reading a single line. No. 29 16

"Running away? Won't they call the cops?" the boy asked, the gum nearly chewed enough to make a bubble. Without disrupting the "reading" girl, he pulled his book off the counter and dropped it to the ground by his feet, the dust settling into the spine's cracks and folds. Lucky grinned, looking up with just her eyes. Her bright green eyes that reminded the boy of something unnatural, something too intense for this small town. "Oh, but not if you're eighteen like me, young boy." The boy rolled his eyes. He would be seventeen in a few weeks, three days after school started again. Lucky, who had been eighteen since the end of May, loved to mock him for his youth. It was okay, though, because he mocked her for her being an elder. "Weren't you a camp counselor?" he asked, looking out the window to watch a dirt splattered pickup rumble past. Lucky nodded, flipping over another page. "I was. Key word there." "Was. I see," the boy said, sounding not entirely focused. "You know, would it kill you to answer a text now and again? I felt like I was alone up in those woods," Lucky said, carrying on without noticing the boy's sudden interest in the truck. "I think that's the pointâ&#x20AC;Ś" he trailed off, his sun-bleached hair brushing the bottom of the cigarette overhang. "I know, I know, but I don't want to be alone in those mountains. I thought that was the perk of being a counselor. I got to bring my phone so I could text you and everyone else as much as I wanted, but when you--" Lucky stopped now, looking up from her lazy reading. "Are you even--" She stopped again, looking out the window at the house across the street. Well, more accurately, looking at her house. Across the street the pickup truck sat on Lucky's front lawn, its wheels crushing the dead summer crabgrass. It wasn't a regular pickup, or an old pickup, or the kind of pickup that was driven to school by hick boys. It was a pickup that was splattered with dirt and grass, a pickup that had a black bag in the back that reminded Oliver of a bodybag, a pickup that Lucky had seen many times before. "Isn't that--" the boy started, and Lucky gasped, watching her sister stumble out of the passenger side, her clothes torn and caked with dried mud. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, the same color as Lucky's, blonde in a way that seemed like the color had been pulled out of it, sucked away, and tossed onto the side of the road. It wasn't blonde like a normal girl was blonde, which looked like captured summer sun. It was a blonde that made you think of a faded photograph, of something that was better years ago. Though her sister seemed to be near death by exhaustion, Lucky wasn't looking at her sister anymore. She wasn't watching her sister run her hands over her tired face or tuck her sweat crusted hair behind her 17 Upper Mississippi Harvest

tiny ears. Lucky was looking elsewhere. Her eyes had fallen on the other person climbing down from the truck, stepping out of the driver's side. A tiny gasp escaped her open mouth. "That asshole took her out to dig! He took her out a whole year before he took me out!" Lucky slammed the book closed and stormed out of the gas station. Blinking, the boy took a moment to look down, his left hand fiddling with his name tag that read Oliver in thick black sharpie. The textbook was titled The Human Bone Manual. Oliver looked back at the truck, at Lucky and her sister and the driver. He sighed and shook his head, happy his spot behind the counter kept him trapped far from the argument across the street. The Turners were bone carvers. It was an odd profession, especially coming from a farming community and township of 55. It was an odd profession anywhere, honestly, but it was their legitimate family legacy. They had a website, one that ran a little slower for most peoples' liking, which sold pieces they had ready. They were little charms to put on necklaces or earrings or keychains, cute designs that almost made you forget they were made from bone. The most popular link on their site sent viewers to a "create your own" which required buyers to send in a bone and either a picture of what they wanted or a brief, but detailed, description. Most patrons sent in dead animal bones, such as their childhood puppy or a couple's old cat. Few sent in bones from relatives, which Oliver found downright creepy and Lucky found exceptionally exciting. Like any profession, the Turners needed practice, and that meant they needed free bones. Bones that no one wanted. Bones, Oliver thought with a shiver, that no one cared about. This was where the digging took place. Technically illegal, graverobbing was a common part of work for the Turner family, and happened to be one of Lucky's favorite things to do. Oliver knew because she dragged him along once, despite her parents scolding her for doing so. "He could turn us in!" Her mother had exclaimed, and Lucky had just shrugged, eating a banana while sitting on the unpolished dining table. Oliver wasn't the tattling type. He wasn't the type to dig up bones either, though. He thought of that night from time to time, of the cold settling onto his skin as the three of them, Lucky, her father, and himself, stood around a grave out in the country a good two hours north. It was unsettling to be by graves at night in late October, but when Oliver looked over at Lucky she was smiling, her eyes glowing like fireworks in the sky on the fourth of July. Oliver didn't like to think about the actual digging, the ache in No. 29 18

his back after every shovel was emptied to the side, or the burn in his hands from the way his handle kept sliding out of place from the sweat. Digging up a grave was work, and Oliver happily forgot that part. He only thought about the joy Lucky seemed to bleed. She smiled the whole time, whispered a mile a minute, looked at the body in awe. For some reason Lucky Turner loved dead bodies. She loved talking about them, uncovering them, and, most of all, their delicate off-white bones. Oliver sighed, picking his book up from off the ground where he had let it fall. The gas station felt empty without Lucky in it. It always felt empty without her in it. Oliver didn't like to think about how Lucky had graduated, how she wouldn't be in the gas station everyday come August, and she wouldn't be in class when school started in September. Her blonde head wouldn't be visible in the front row of her history class (which was directly across the hall from his history class). She wouldn't be sitting at his lunch table, eating her classic sandwich and banana combo she packed every day. She wouldn't even be in town. Oliver would be living without Lucky Turner, something he had never thought would happen even though he always knew she was older than him. A car rumbled into the parking lot, its back bumper rusted, and its right door scratched. The 2007 Ford Focus pulled up to pump three, and a short man got out, squinting into the light. Oliver watched the owner of the Focus fill up his car, enter the gas station and grab a pop from one of the six back fridges. He paid for his gas and drink with a Capital One card, quickly asking Oliver if he could get to highway 3 from here. Oliver nodded as confirmation. It was the most common part of Oliver's job. Everyone who stopped in that wasn't from Washington township or, even smaller yet, Greenville asked if they could get to highway 3 from highway 10, and vice versa. This way was a pretty common way to cut highways, but mostly by those who knew the area. Outsiders always stopped for directions. As the man in the 2007 Ford Focus left, Oliver turned to look at Lucky's house, the faded blue exterior almost blending in with the dreary sky. It was summer, late June, but the sky spoke of fall weather, overcast and gray. Not dark and gloomy, but just a tad bit colorless. Oliver was sick of being at the gas station. All he wanted to think about was leaving work, the end of his shift. All he wanted to do was drive. Oliver, unfortunately, didn't have a car. He didn't even have easy access to one, so it was a surprise he had his license at all. A boy with a license but no car was like a bolt of lightning with no place to land. It was all pent-up energy and electric need to go somewhere, be somewhere, anywhere at all. Because of this, and because Oliver was like most teenage boys, he decided to buy one. Well, decided he wanted to buy one. He didn't exactly have the funds, hence the gas station job. The only job in 19 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Washington, and thus the only job close enough for him to walk to, was at the gas station. It paid a terrible $8.25, had horrible hours, and included long boring shifts standing up (or Oliver's favorite stance, leaning on the counter, trying and failing to rest his aching feet). It was an all-around negative job, but every other week during his weekly Friday 4pm to midnight shift he got a classic white envelope with a blue check inside. From the moment he had it in his hands until the moment after school on Monday when he cashed it in the area's only bank he felt like his job really wasn't that bad. Those Mondays he would miss the bus after school to cash his check. He always ended up walking home because his mom wouldn't pick him up and his friends had after school sports. Lucky used to walk with him, cashing her checks the same time and place as he did, which made most of the walks fun, and occasionally something he looked forward to. Of course that hadn't been since school ended. And it wouldn't happen again. Oliver sighed and tried leaning against the counter, his feet aching as if he were eighty years old. Lucky had worked at the gas station until the last week in May. That was how Oliver had met her, not in school or by living in the same place. She trained him in eight days before he turned sixteen. Monday through Thursday from 4pm to 7pm he was trained by Lucky. Lucky, seventeen at the time, a senior at Dayton Senior High School, worked after school every day of the week except Fridays and Saturdays. Sundays she worked the morning shift. She was there more than the boss. And, like a boss, she trained in the very rare new person. Oliver thought he was pretty lucky to be trained by Lucky and not the old, short, angry boss man Paul. Oliver let out the tiniest laugh. Lucky to be trained by Lucky. She would punch him if she could read his thoughts. Oliver hated his job, absolutely despised it, except for when he worked with Lucky. Oliver had worked with everyone on staff but no one beat Lucky. Lucky and Oliver worked together like peanut butter and jelly. They also worked fine apart, of course, but some things are just a little better together. Lucky was his favorite to work with, and when she worked Lucky's favorite was Oliver. That was why she visited the gas station every single day. Either she was working or she was talking to Oliver, sitting on the counter, doing her homework behind the desk at his feet. Lucky didn't have a car either so Lucky was home most of the time. Since her home, she claimed, smelt like "bones and metal" she walked across the street to the gas station. "So you can smell gas instead?" Oliver asked her. Lucky, in response, took a deep breath in through her nose, sighed No. 29 20

as she exhaled, and said "Yes, I prefer to get high off gas fumes. Much more pleasant, don't you agree?" Oliver sighed some more and looked outside. Lucky's father's truck still sat in the lawn, but the mud and grass were gone, the white outside clean as new. It was as if it hadn't stolen human bones one night ago. Oliver sighed again, a little heavier, and decided the worst place to be was the gas station on the corner of fifth and main because it was across the street from the Turner's bone carving house of wonder. Oliver's phone dinged, but he ignored it. He was never one for texts. It dinged again. Oliver adjusted the little lighter display on the counter. It dinged a third time. Oliver let his eyes roam over the scratch-offs beneath the counter's glass. It rang. Oliver picked it up. "Hello?" he asked and a bunch of boys could be heard on the other end, laughing, and engine roaring and breaking and starting again. "Yeah, hi, listen, what time are you off?" Oliver took a deep breath, glancing at the clock. 5:04 pm. "A little less than an hour, why?" "We're picking you up then. Because you'll never guess what happened." Oliver waited for a minute, sure the boys on the other end would go on without prompting. After a minute, they did. "There's a shit ton of cops in town." This time Oliver felt like they were waiting for a response, so he blinked twice before smiling a little and said, "Why?" "They say there has been a murder. And that's not all. They say it might be, get this, connected to the bone robberies." The boys in the background laughed so hard that it almost covered the sound of the engine. And Oliver had nothing to say. "Fucking crazy, a town of 55 with a murderer and grave robbers! Anyway, we are so picking you up as soon as you're done." And the phone went dead.

21 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Life is Limited Daniel O'Connell

Dan, Life is Limited The judgement day may not be So do not dawdle with The things that won't matter Relax, Time is quantifiable Like honey dripping slowly From a sweet cone It's okay for a pillow to be a sponge A muffled silencer of woah The pillow is the ear Of a God who will not listen But that pillow will take Those things that won't matter Because this is your battle And you will be on your own This is your battlefield And yours alone

No. 29 22

Horizon Lines Jamie Stultz

I hope that you hear my voice in the wind  Sometimes sneaking in from under your door  A cat that crept up the rotting stairs to your balcony  To look over the trees and see a sunrise that didn't quite meet expectations    The cigarette smoke that clings to me now is not the same  It only sits in my hair after a night of panic  And never touches my lips     I talk about it too much   When the silence feels too heavy on my shoulders   Gravity pulls at my hips  Then my knees when I do not obey  I don't mean to   It just happens.                             Ice my bruises so they will stop talking about themselves.    I count what I can find   My eyes dig so that I can take more in with each glance  I try to find the details I need but they either don't exist or my eyes aren't meant to see them                                                                               You always wanted me to worship you.    I rinse my hair with water so cold, my ears hurt  There's a ringing, monotone, singing off key                                                                 I can't   get   my       breathing right   There is a perfect hour for every moment   This, I believe   Just as some people believe in early church mornings as the snow reflects a sunrise into stained glass windows   23 Upper Mississippi Harvest

8:7

I tried that   But my heart felt uneasy and my soul felt unwelcome  So I snuck out into the garden as the men beside me read Romans

And glanced down my shirt  Many people find their faith in the sunrises   But there is a moment as the sun goes down where the humming birds come out to search for their nectar.   The air is golden and sweet  I could melt into grass, soft and cool, freshly cut.   Welcome the zinnias to break free and sprout in my breast.  The light is bridging into a darkness  The vines grow downward                                               wrapping around my thighs                                                                                       telling my ankles that my body is too heavy  The night trips over the horizon and breathes and chilled air into our lungs   We land in a blanket of stars, distant planets with unknown lies.     I get nervous in shoulder deep water  Because I know there's a drop off                          somewhere around here  Just like I know there's life elsewhere  That God is a security blanket    And I never learned how to knit.     I hope you hear my voice in the night   I hope you feel the darkness around you   I hope you notice the lack of   stars   That city lights have snuffed out

No. 29 24

Te Amo

Henry Bannerman

25 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Dear Lilly Judea DeMaris

I have been thinking of you lately. Specifically, the way your hair moved and how you always lost your hair bands in the crevasses of the sofa. The way you ate ice cream always made me cringe; biting into it and shivering, and you'd smile at my reaction and tease me by taking another bite, your grey eyes boring into me. You would lick your fingers afterwards and with your tongue stained orange you'd ask me to throw your dreamsicle stick away. When I walked away from you, my chest always felt heavy, like I was leaving something behind that I wasn't supposed to. But when I came back, you were always there, toes in the sand your back arched and your bikini top unlaced. Smiling up at me you'd ask me to put sunscreen on your back again. We both knew that you didn't need it; you just wanted to feel my hands over your back. We loved each other that summer; I knew we did because when we snuck into your neighbor's pool and I pretended to fall asleep on their lawn chair while you went to steal beers from their bar. I wanted to scare you when you came back, but when I was about to open my eyes, you kneeled next to me and you put your lips to my ears and your breath tickled as you whispered that you loved me. But I didn't know what to say so I kept my eyes closed and thought of the rings I could buy for you when I became a rock-star. Weeks later the ambulances came to your house as I sat in my car waiting for you down the street; far enough away from your parents to not see me but also far enough away to not notice that the cars speeding past me stopped at your house. The ring I had saved for since the night at the pool stashed in the glove compartment. I figured even though I wasn't a rockstar, I could still buy you that ring you had been cooing over since last year. Small and sapphire. You'd dyed your hair that color, just the tips, a sudden shocking change from your sun dyed blond hair. Your father hated it but you were so happy that you cried and ran down the beach and I jogged after you, nachos from your favorite street vendor clutched in my hand; your wildness creating chaos around you as people dodged to get out of your way. I wasn't allowed to go to your funeral. But your mother snuck me into your room one night and I stole your favorite pair of pajamas and your pillowcase. I made certain to give you the flowers you loved; poisonous Lily of the Valleys in huge wild bunches and I wrote you a No. 29 26

letter that said how much I loved you and how it was a mistake to never tell you when I could've. I left the letter propped up against your gravestone and the next day it was gone. Along with the flowers. A year later I sat in court as your father stood in chains and your mother stared up at the high ceilings and I thought of how everything would have been different if the ferry hadn't been shut down the day we tried to run away, with our bags weighted down with unattainable dreams. Away from the houses that raised us and the people that would eventually shatter us both.

27 Upper Mississippi Harvest

The Palms Marguerite Crumley

No. 29 28

Consider the Tortoise Gabe Osburnsen

Deep in the beige nothingness of the Mojave Desert, a battleready regiment of Marines face their biggest obstacle in their illustrious history. Carrying a full payload of city leveling munitions, escorted by large caliber firepower able to lay waste to almost any threat manned by the exhausted and hungover. A convoy, more than a dozen vehicles strong, sits stalled and exposed in a neat column of coyote tan and olive green. Frantic communications race the airwaves for support and further instruction, only to be met with the mutually frustrating command of "stand down" issued from the top brass. Officers and enlisted alike survey the surrounding area, looking for some form of outlet to get them out of this precarious position, but none presents itself. The regiment is losing precious time beneath the scalding Mojave sun, but there they wait in an eternal standoff, vigilant for any sign of movement. In front of this column of democracy's wrath, the desert tortoise of 29 Palms refuses to yield an inch, and stands stoically in the middle of the road, facing down an entire convoy loaded for war. Two Marines in the lead vehicle wait in the stagnating metal box, slowly cooking in the desert heat, its defunct air conditioner long out of commission. The passenger opens the door and steps out, placing his rifle upright against his seat on the floor. He removes a pack of Marlboros and a small green lighter from the grenade pouch on the front of his chest plate. "Lead-vic this is Spartan-two, anything to report yet? Over." The lieutenant's voice crackles over the radio handset, his frustration and anxiety apparent even through the static interference of the radio. "Spartan-two, Lead-vic, nothing new to report at this time. The turtle is still there. Over," the driver replies, the usual radio operator of the vehicle now taking his first drag of a bent cigarette just outside the vehicle, a disbelieving and amused expression hidden behind black Oakley sunglasses. "Lead-vic, Spartan-two, be advised the obstruction is a tortoise not a turtle. Over." The driver sighs deeply before keying in the handset. "Spartan-two actual, the tortoise has yet to move, will update on developments of the tortoise. Over." "Solid copy Lead-vic. Spartan-two, out." The driver sighs again, 29 Upper Mississippi Harvest

laughing lightly to himself. He slides himself lower into his seat and tucks his hands beneath his plate vest, getting comfortable for the ensuing stand-off. The passenger, a newly promoted Corporal, ashes his cigarette and places it back into his mouth. "Why can't we just pick the thing up and fuckin' move it?" He asks, leaning against the open door. "Apparently desert tortoises piss themselves if they get too stressed, lose all their hydration, and die from shockâ&#x20AC;Ś Apparently." They both chuckle, the Corporal remarks that some animals just aren't meant to survive. Behind them, the heavy armored door of another Humvee swings open. A large man, encumbered in a helmet and plate armor awkwardly shimmies out of the door and rests his hand on the pistol strapped to his front. "Hey Devil!" he shouts, the tell-tale introduction of an ensuing asschewing. "Where's your fuckin' weapon?!" The Corporal reaches into the vehicle and grabs the weapon with one hand, hoisting it up to display it. "Here, Staff Sergeant!" he yells, cigarette still between his lips. "So I guess we just leave our weapon behind when we get out of the vic' right?! Good to go!" The last sentence a typical bookend to an ass-chewing, usually indicating that there's more berating to come after the crisis has been resolved. "And you wanna keep that cigarette in your mouth when you address a Staff NCO?! Good to go!" Hostile sarcasm is the love language of the Marine Corps. The large Staff-Sergeant returns to his vehicle, slamming the heavy door as a final exclamation point. The Corporal turns back around, having successfully taken another grilling from a superior, he's becoming a pro at this. "Gonna need this in case it decides to charge," he says to the driver, taking the terminal few drags left on his smoke. "Yeah right, the Corps would let a thousand Marines die to protect one fucking tortoise." They both laugh and continue their vigil. In the vehicle with the Staff-Sergeant, a nervous younger Marine white knuckles the hard plastic steering wheel. It's his first training exercise and he's been awarded the honor of driving the angriest, most hostile and most divorced Staff Non-Commissioned-Officer in the regiment. He knows nothing of this proud heritage he's joined but cleaning the shop, running up and down mountains before the sun rises, cleaning his room, getting yelled at, and taking out the officer's trash. It's his first chance to apply all he learned of his new role in the service in a live fire setting, and he is very terrified. A few weeks prior he'd received a "Dear John" letter from his high school sweetheart, the inevitable splitting up of youthful relationships that didn't become immediate (and almost always unsuccessful) marriages after boot camp. No. 29 30

He took it better than most do, not one threat of suicide and all tears were shed in private. Like a real God-damned warrior. The Staff-Sergeant asks him if he dips, the young man replies with a tentative yes, it's the first time he's been spoken to by a superior that wasn't an order. He "asks" if he can steal a pinch, a clear violation of the professional relationship standards superiors and subordinates are supposed to observe, but the craving always beats the order. The young Marine pulls a tin from his cargo pocket and hands it to him. The StaffSergeant criticizes his choice of chewing tobacco and takes a large pinch between his massive fingers, tossing it into his mouth like a stick of gum and hands it back to him without acknowledgment. Even in doing a favor, the young Marine, helmet too large and acne still on his forehead, can't do anything right. Back at the front, the Corporal has re-entered the Humvee and slaps the stock of his rifle sarcastically to confirm that he does in fact have his weapon on him, loaded with a full magazine of blank rounds, ready for the next great war. They keep their phones in their pocket to preserve battery and spend the next hour and a half talking about anything and everything that enters their mind. They talk about crazy nights in Oceanside and downtown San Diego, about their exploits with the beautiful local women (who after years of a military base presence, have learned to be wary of young Marines). They argue about the stupidest things their brains can imagine: whether the charger or the challenger is the dumber car, if Gary Busey was actually the cop in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and if Wade Boggs truly drank 104 beers on his cross country flight to California and hit every pitch thrown to him. They talk about getting out and what they're going to do. One's going to college, but he doesn't know what for yet. The other is going back to Missouri to work at his dad's engine shop which he'll probably take over some day. They talk about how much they miss marijuana, both vowing to as high as physically possible the moment the camp gates are behind them. They spend almost every single day together, either working back in their shop or splitting a case of beer in the barracks on any given night of the week. They complain about physical training and running up mountains, and how they're miraculously able to do it with two hourssleep and a gut full of alcohol. Through their time in the service they will become closer friends to one another than they ever will anyone else. No one in their future civilian careers will ever truly understand their humor the way they do, or be able to engage in fierce and heated arguments to the point of hating each other just to have it be another day at the office. No one will understand that "fuck you" actually means "I love you man." The driver surveys the tan nothingness in front of him, back 31 Upper Mississippi Harvest

dropped by jutting brown mountains against the cloudless blue sky. Around him is impossibly empty, he grew up in trees and snow and has never seen such vacancy of features. Uninviting leafless bushes are all that surround him, not a sliver of shade for miles. The sun is directly overhead and turns the truck into an oven, the dark green and black paint job absorbing the angry stars- full fury. As he stares deftly off, a subtle nudge of movement directly ahead of him perks his interest. The tortoise's head is now protruding from its shell and it's beginning to shuffle, its stumpy legs plodding heavily into the loose sand as it inches forward. "Oh shit, looks like the breaks over." He grabs the handset from the radio and places his thumb on the key button, ready to press. The tortoise plods forward, steady and determined. "Spartan-two, this is Lead-vic, over." The other end of the radio replies immediately, slight anticipation in its voice. "Go for Spartan-two." His excitement has caused him to forget the subsequent "over" to indicate he's finished with his transmission. The driver gets ready to update the lieutenant about the development, and soon they'd have an all clear to proceed with the mission. Before he can, almost as if sensing their convoys anticipation, the tortoise halts in its tracks. The occupants of the lead vehicle watch it, eyes wide in a mix of disbelief and amusement. Slowly, almost mockingly, the tortoise slowly recedes back into its shell, no more than four feet from where it had been before, still occupying the center of the road. The two look at each other and laugh incredulously. The driver takes a moment to compose himself and keys back into the radio. "Nothing new to report at this time. Overâ&#x20AC;Ś" The radio feed is silent on their end but they feel the explosion of the lieutenant's frustration behind them, a sensation of profanity and hissy-fitting in the air. They laugh again, harder, extrapolating on how the lieutenant and command must be handling this dead-locked situation. In the command tent a few miles back, a Colonel is probably tossing a radio handset to the ground in disgust, a First Sergeant proclaims that he's going to shove a grenade up the obstacles ass, a terrified private stares blankly at a computer screen to avoid the upper echelons wrath. The lead vehicles laughter subsides and the Corporal opens the door again, stepping out for his fourth cigarette and making a show of taking his rifle with him. He stands in the doorway with the cigarette in his mouth, hands cupped over his mouth ready to light the smoke he muses to the driver. "They always tell us about the great victories of the Marine Corps, democracy's tip of the spear, undefeated in battle; but consider the tortoise of 29 Palms, who single-handedly held off an entire battle-ready detachment of Marines armed only with the ability to piss itself to death."

No. 29 32

On Self-Awareness, Desert Highways, & Tricksters Alexander Jensen

My struggle knows me all too well, Surely, I know my pain. Failure is my familiar hell. The desert sun, it rose and fell, My plans may seem insane. My struggle knows me all too well. I buy what ACME has to sell, To their financial gain. Failure is my familiar hell With TNT rigged to a bell, That bird my ball and chain. My struggle knows me all too well. Wile E. my only name to tell, Feather lust in my brain. Failure is my familiar hell. BEEP-BEEP and quick my war will quell, Alas, it's all in vain. My struggle knows me all too well Failure is my familiar hell.

33 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Blond(de) Henry Bannerman

No. 29 34

The Sun Sets at Dawn Samuel Mick

It was a simple phrase, gitme and as I quickly moved through the streets, following the short man, the hookah smoke rose, and I thought about it more intimately. When I left Belgium six months ago, I packed all that I would need. Papers of identification (falsely forged. My identity became malleable), a notepad with scribbled literature of stoics like Seneca and Socrates, a portrait of my family stuffed deep within my briefcase. My hand wrapped with a watch; it felt very heavy and I understood that most people wouldn't leave their home unprepared. Most people aren't prepared for the Great War. The roads and bridges had yet to be destroyed. Trains still mobilized troops, although one transit left southeast quickly and filled with pools of the wealthy as well as old men, women, and children. A fearful merchant, I had played quite nicely, the role of Alvinâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;a trader of eastern tobacco, gone in a rush to return a favor in Turkey. By train, ferry, and horse I had made it to Constantinople, leaving close to one-thousand franc to a smuggler near the border. But when I left six months ago, the crown was preparing to make an authoritative stand in fortified bunkers of concrete and dirt and young men's piss. An ant standing on hind legs in protest of a shoe. Machine guns and rifles alike, soon raped by Germany's soldiers; a monstrous fog moving westward. Forged by insanity, lead, and forgetful of the past. The German Kaisers would make a much more authoritative stand, no doubt. They'd make an example of them soon. War had been industrialized since our last meeting; the world had not felt the pain of death's whip quit like they would this time around. The French would retaliate regardless, its northern front contested, and cries would be heard in London; its righteousness grown ten-fold in the changing world. I could nearly smell the powdered wigs being placed on their scabbing heads and mouths talking madly of discourse while bits of caramel ham and calamari slipped through their teeth. Cigars would be lit, and gin would pour like the Rhine while the leaders of the island sat idly on plump armchairs, speak of strategy as if they were here, and reminisce on the year 1839, when our neutrality was guaranteed in the 35 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Treaty of London. Some would write contracts in lieu of draft papers. Others would write letters with words like glory and love of country. Only the dead loved their country more than the politicians. Gods of Sun were gone. Our crops were stung through the fog of artillery. The salting of the fields and the powder of young men's bones would soon replace soil. It seemed like the first time the new world would greet the old in an awesome (in the traditional sense of the word) display. It seemed like, for the first time, machine guns and artillery would come face to face with bayonets and Calvary. Horses running head on into machine gun fire as the vibrant coats and feathers of officers leaked; the German's wore camouflage. Napoleon was long dead, but not in the souls of the youth in my mountain village, who seemed to take reprised comfort in the idea of the romantic charge and lead balls cutting through waving flags and songs sung loudly at campfires. Lines had been drawn nonetheless, neutrality spat on. What a world we're living in. How the ignorant few, self-conscious and prickly, could create the new world around pieces of paper, which we would enter and almost certainly never get back to the familiar. They don't know how thin the veneer over the wood grain was; how close civilization is to nature. Gitme. Don't go. The D sticking to the roof of my mouth in a most uncomfortable way. I would not be a patriot. I would not be among the dead. We had met just hours ago. A tiny Turk in Terrycloth robes had come howling through the hotel yelling "Mr. Albert!", and I'd heard him through my door, fumbling through staff, shouting in Turkish, "Sakin! Calm Down!" Until Mr. Bata broke through to my room and waved his palms in circles and pointed through the balcony to the sea. "Gitmemiz gerek! We must go!" And I shoved some crackers and grape jelly into my mouth, rescued my bag from the bedroom, and raced down the stairs through the lobby and out onto the street. "It's Alvin," I said politely. There are many ways to become a fool in a foreign country. Travelers mined clichĂŠs like rare metal. I quit smoking years ago; an ultimatum made by Mary's mother. I thought the hookahs an exception to that contract and so sat there inhaling like a blonde fool at the start of the day before the weathered sages of stone in fez. I must have been funny to them. They may have taken me for a German. A foreigner. A fool. An infidel? What unknown act of novelty was I committing now as I followed behind Mr. Bata, who had no problem maneuvering through the crowd. His language would guide him. A ghost through a wall. I had trouble keeping up. Oh, the heads turned as we ambushed the morning street. No. 29 36

We took to shoving. Only by Mr. Bata's lead. I found it rude. How could anyone function in a place so conditioned to weaving like knotted string. Widen your streets, people. Establish your lefts and rights. Establish an agreed upon flow of traffic before entering a war. Cool air being swept from the sea crept through the chinks of people hollering sale and greeting. Every so often, a merchant would grab my shirt sleeve. Not so hard as to re-direct, but enough to turn my attention to the wall of extra flamboyant clothes and incense. Enough to create the illusion of desire. Much different than the ad-man. I'd imagine the craft was an old one. Father to son. Father to son or daughter. Son to son and more for thousands of years back. Constantinople was a treasure. It was no wonder why they were going to war. They were so alive. It was a modest ship. The harbor built atop sunken heroes and waste from the city which I imagined made the fish more aggressive. If they were anything like the people in the streets there would be no refuge for lesser chordates. I imagined wasted tin and varnished wood made up their diet. Hardy. How ironic it was the waste we create makes it to the fish we eat, whom we eat in return. Perhaps I found the source of those merchantsâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; aggressions. And the Sultan's perhaps, who declared genocide on the Armenian's, ate a platter of fish that day and felt extra war-like. A game of chess would've cleared his mind of all aggressive illusions. And from this I'd suppose the course of the war might change. Perhaps a game of chess was all it would take to spare a soldier's life. Perhaps a game of chess was all that I needed before escaping to faraway places. Ropes cascaded and whipped madly from civilian hands until landing on the docks. Young men paraded crates of tea and barrels of whiskey; old men shouted orders at them. Some had seen more foreign shores while others could only afford small boats used for shellfish. Women were a rare sight, unless accompanied by a man. But now and then a calloused woman with a smoke would step outside. Some smoked pipes and sat with their feet hanging of the wood staring at stacks of steam coming from behemoth freighters in the distance. It was a monument to us all. Not only Turkish or Arabic, but Greek and Roman spirits, alike, flew madly through the streets and over the water. They were the breeze in the sails. The morning winds. The boat was so small that it rocked when I set my foot on the deck. And with one small bag and a slender frame, I prepared for the worst. Ropes with dried weeds like parchment were tangled on the floor. Chunks of wood where the nails had been turned up and pounded back 37 Upper Mississippi Harvest

many times were stained with blood from a catch. Some metal was rusted, and the sides nearly came up to your hip, so a large enough swell would surely throw an average man overboardâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;and most certainly a man of my buildâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;many feet. Had I not demanded a safer vessel? I was concerned with his button nose. My father had the same. It would swell extra large after drinking. Like a vestige's organ. Like a yellow ladybug whose color you thought to be red; a nose you thought to be yellow. It was strange up there on his face but not after I saw the halfemptied bottle there in his right grip. He sipped it often and by the time we had gone far away, and the shouts of the merchants had seized, and the seagulls had grown to be few, he was well on his way to his second. The isle of Cyprus was often considered an island and whether those terms be interchangeable, I could care little. In my mind, an island was small in nature, an imposing stereotype of republics past and, nonetheless, an isle of great measure is wicked in its statement: I am here, cutting the shores of the sea. A landmass for all to see. No shores of Cyprus could be seen thus far, nor could the beaches of Mersin Province from where we'd began. An isle would surely be seen some days ago, for an isle is large and unweaving; solid, unlike an island. Mr. Albert, he'd call me. Though many times I had mouthed my name in Turkish and mimed with it the letters in which It was comprised: A-L-V-I-N. No, not A-L-B-E-R-T. But the captain would nod his head and smile, "Okay, Mister Albert." And, "Close," he would say in a painted tongue. Even without words I would assume the captain knew very little in course evaluation, trigonometry, or general courtesies. He seemed to be the type taken by festivities rather than logic; a mystic hopeful of religion. Optimists are fools, I thought. A literary form embedded within the drunken captain's speech, protesting the formal speech articulated under his breath, whispering something foreign. Something drunken and full of sorrow. Why had I put my faith in this man and who would he become because of it? If any court had favored the plea of an ignorant, innocent man, over the courteous, properly educated, guilty man, our borders may be drawn inaccurately and our present not so recognizable. And yet, the smacking lips of the innocent stood idle as weary eyes called loudly their message, altogether apart of the same bloated body that grasped the splintered wheel of the ship; no less harmonious than the rapping of the waves aside the boat that got worse throughout the evening. I sat there on the side of the boat scribbling on my pad, trying to shield my letter from the spoons of water that splashed over the side. No. 29 38

A letter to my dear Mary. I started with pleasures and stories; a queer substitute for what, in my mind, was the rare adventure story I needed to explain. Pleasant words that may make my abandonment justifiable. I ultimately began spewing the words that made the most sense, Dear Mary, I never felt it right to leave without saying goodbye. I am a coward for that. But I am always a dreamer first, and this war is not mine to fightâ&#x20AC;Ś I am afraid. Know that I won't run for much longer, for there is nowhere to go on an island. ~Alvin The illusion of my actions became more wildly evil. Soldiers prepared for battle. Young men, Belgians, had the illusion of glory and in their minds, war had been long replaced by neutrality; that incredible piece of paper that replaced patriotic maniacs had to forebode the end. That piece of paper had authority. The feminine ruler which liberal thinkers gave praise was now exactly what it was: a piece of paper, and nothing more. When declared a neutral state, we forgot how sheep are only safe if they have a shepherd. And even then, some will perish. I had never believed it to come to this. I had never thought the German army so capable. In the time of their mobilization, which would easily take months to do, I believed Belgium to offer their lands and pubs to shaking hands and salutes. I was delusional to think my leaving an adventure when now it so seemed the very worst sin, and the worst your brain could do was make delusion out of hope. To believe something to have one meaning, a good meaning, and believe in it wholly, and watch as something inside you can change the meaning of your reality quite quickly, and for the worse; to make it evil. I stood up fast, nearly collapsing onto my face before catching myself on the ledge of the boat. A wave then brushed the side and muted my yelling, "We must return quickly, captain! I have changed my mind!" and my letter to Mary was taken by the wind. But not before I lunged half of my body over the ledge to retrieve it. I saw the captain pull hard on his wheel to square on a wave. His hand moved left, and his body leaned over to take the weight of what his other hand could do (were it not for his grip on the bottle) and slide helplessly to the floor of the cab and rotating the wheel madly while hitting his head heavily on the wood. This sent me flying over the rail with my letter in between my knuckles of the forefinger and middle, my thumb embraced it tightly. I imagined the maneuver of the captain a drunken attempt at piracy legend 39 Upper Mississippi Harvest

while I thrashed in the water. It filled my mouth with a bitter taste and shook my spine with an intensely sour face and grip which was utterly hopeless to combat. Of all the chill and breathe taken from me, I hated my feet the most; dangling there like bait on a hook above miles of hydraulic jungle. I was halfway to hell and a fool of my own until the fool himself retrieved me with his rugged, parchment-like, drunken rope. That night we ate potatoes. I had cooked them the way I liked. For reasons I cannot explain, the captain would always boil them lightly with the skin intact. That way they would soften without the fear of their insides falling out, and the water left over would be used to drink once it had cooled. Another pirate trick, perhaps. But now I plunged my fork into diced potatoes. the kind I preferred. I shoveled as many as fourteen at a time. I waved my forearm from fixed points at my elbow that rested on the table, my fork spinning and spinning like an aristocrat entertaining his guests and I howled loudly like mad dogs in orchestrated cheer. I tried to form words but found myself spitting potatoes across the table. Frantic hisses that damn near choked me until I began to weep, and the potatoes fell from my mouth to my plate, the swinging of the lantern hiding the transition of moods. I imagine my animated bout looks something like a slideshow; nothing to connect the moments in-between. Fools had never bargained with me. Fools had never enjoyed my company, nor had I enjoyed theirs. The captain hadn't spoken much after his fall. Near his eyebrow was a hole the size of a wishbone. But he peered at me, somehow through closed eyes he peered. With the speed of a trigger he shot madly his scolding (while unwarranted) hatred. Not so much of a word ran out of his mouth nor did his chest rise and fall. His tongue had been silenced by a ship that he owned. Most likely his home. "What were you like before this, captain?" His nose was still red. But he never spoke again that night, and I believed him to be dead as the rope he had thrown me. I continued to cry. He must have collapsed shortly after my rescue. When you understand some science, and you're familiar with the workings of the invisible world, it appears you see with x-ray vision. Trees are no longer trees. No, they are not fingers reaching for the heavens with solid wrappings of wood anymore. they begin to show their interior. Veins carrying glucose and water up and down. Its biotic nature exposed. The sun is no longer a deity but rather an inferno that agitates the crops and makes you feel warm. It burns you. It is abiotic. I had seen the captain with unscientific eyes. I only saw his repugnant bloat and clumsy mechanics. I believed the worst in him, yet he had saved my life. It No. 29 40

was now I saw through his shell and began to see his veins, organs, brain, and heart. It terrified me. I wrapped him in a cotton sheet and hauled his body from the cabin of the boat to the deck and said a quick prayer. The only one I could remember. It was night now and the stars were behind where the clouds rushed. Cyprus had been a dream of mine. However small, the dotted land mass was home to Phoenicians and the Greek; what I had considered to be fanciful warriors. Craftsmen and poets. Inventors and destroyers. I must see it for myself, before this earth would be destroyed by the Great war. By time. The first thing my father taught me was how to read a clock. The arms seemed to race on like two candle flames bowing to each other. It was the only thing I couldn't control at sea. I remember the days when the flowers grew slowly, and the weeds seemed to surpass the perennials like a race to death. I look at my watch: 11:45. Upon closer glance I notice the long arm just past the 45 and the second racing on. 11:46 with 13-14 seconds to the next dash. Even out here, in the middle of nowhere, the passing of time is out of my control. My only connection to reality deceived me. And it was attached to my body. At 11:46 with 4 seconds to 47, I passed the captain's body overboard and watched as the waves took him further. Only the stars were constant. I paced the deck as the night air whispered in my ear, Mary, and beneath my feet the wood beckoned for shore or calmer seas. I gripped my hair with both hands and tuffs fell between my fingers. My eyes were like beasts; not the romantic type. More like the reality of beasts, whose eyes are black and emotionless, whether they're walking aimlessly or tearing at the throat of a bear cub. My ears rang. I thought about jumping from the ship's mast with a rope tied snug around my neck. I thought about going overboard but the memory of the chilling water made me uncomfortable. I thought about all the ways this ship could hurt me less than the pounding waves, which took to sharper, more chaotic shapes and the clouds covered the stars grey. I was thrown to the deck and rolled heavily to the bow until I caught the rail and shuffled to the wheel of the ship. I pulled hard to the right until I ordered the boat to meet perpendicular with the waves. More water had formed on the deck and great swells in the distance danced wildly. I waded through it when I thought the ship straight and squared to the next wave before letting go of the wheel to run to the cabin and grab something that would float. It was as if the trouble of dyeing activated my sanity. I truly am a coward, I thought. Below deck was a scene. Water was gushing through the chinks in the sidewalls and the illuminating flames 41 Upper Mississippi Harvest

were out. Water from the deck washed in through the opening and down the stairs before cascading over my shoulders. I saw the only thing that seemed to have value: a barrel floating in the water, smashing against a wall deposited of its cargo. I seized it from both ends and raised it over my head and continued to shuffle through the water. There was a loud crash and the boat welched and cried. Another wave shuffled it off course and I fell from the steps leading out of the cab. There was a time when I enjoyed baths. I would shuffle left, right, left, right. My tiny body creating swells in the tub. When I stopped, it was chaos. I had created a current. It was difficult to wade to the steps again because of this effect and saltwater leaked into my leg. I must have been cut in my fall. I rose to the deck once more, like the birth of an infant, I pierced the thin surface unto the deck. The ropes were no longer dried but soaking wet and I grabbed one as it rushed past my feet. I tied one end around my wrist and one around a hook on the barrel. If I was thrown from the boat, the barrel might grant me a raft. I rushed to the wheel once more. The boat was lifted atop a wave, I could see their stature in the distance and panicked as I was dropped and choked on the saltwater. It's forces nearly washing me away from the wheel. One great swell, the largest yet came from the front and I seized the wheel with whited palms, the chill of the sea returning to my bones, and braced as it lifted me over her tip and sent the entire ship raging over her backside. As I was thrown to the sea, A bloated man, the captain, held tight to the ship and carried her far off until I could see the broken vessel no more. Poseidon had taken another, and the waves ravished my body. The old captain's ghost had lived on. The barrel shattered on impact. My mind has left me. It sat inside me like the insides of a potato. My skin had kept it close; wearing a suspect as a disguise. It left me not with fearful words but with receding strength. It left me weightless, floating like a seed to pollinate. It went up as I went down, floating into the darkness, although I was no longer in it. It just sank down, and I watched as a large fish attacked it thoroughlyâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;like garbage in the bay. There had gone my body, I thought. Taken by the fish. Would I have gone to Hell if I believed? I suppose not and thought about it as my spirit floated. I thought hard about the love of Mary, and the possessions I had. Not one had meant more. Only my life was precious, and for that I had lost it while Mary would live. Even the captain, so tortured by life, was with his love; a ship that holds no passengers. Forever they would be untied while I had no connections. Waves flashed above, and the ocean was calm between No. 29 42

the flare of the rising sun above and the darkness below. Woken I would be no more and strong I had not to be as a seed rose up, a great flash shone as it broke the surface, and my life was no more. Sense of self: Delusion. This by large a component of man. An implication of humanity. As spiders weave a webâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;a homeâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;it attracts its prey, food, but is more likely to be killed when something large brushes up against it. "It's the shells they promised! Jesus! They couldn't even hit our Calvary!" that was the last thing our captain had said before a .50 round cruised through his skull and deposited a chunk of brain just above his left ear, the size of a wishbone. You could fit a crumpled up piece of paper in the hole of his skull. It took him thirty minutes to die. Thirty-two by my watch. And it wasn't like the stories. He made a pulsating noise like a croak. His lungs continued to move in and out and formed little bubbles in the blood in his mouth that leaked out like a Great Dane's drool. His nose was swollen and red. His eyes never closed, and his head laid on my lap until he went, and I rolled his body into the mud. He joined the rest of the men to lay face down in pools. His rank meant nothing. Three young soldiers came rushing through the trench. They had their heads down low and used the dead bodies as a bridge. One man carried a barrel in his hands and reached over to grab the rope next to my feet. "Medic!" he yelled. "Tie this around your leg or you'll bleed out!" The first man told him to hurry but was cut short as he was killed and the small swath of forest that separated our home from the enemy was black and riddled with holes where men had sunken up to their chests in the mud and screamed for someone to help. They drowned in that mud. The trees had turned to pikes, charred from the blasts. I looked like hell in all its forms. Mary. My dear Mary, I thought.

43 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Paper Boat Isabella Drown

No. 29 44

Dec. 2012 Watercolor of Johannes Vermeer's "Girl with the Pearl Earring" Hiep Nguyen

45 Upper Mississippi Harvest

The Last Words of Vladimir Nabokov Landen Parkin

"A certain butterfly is already on its way." Wingflits kiss the darkened sky and soul leaves burdened body The cloudy haze of ebony beckons, calling her new son home And the infinite takes form, soft stretches of nebula warming the velvet dark The spectral luster announcing it's presence from the blueblack void And looking backwards we see nothing but a tiny crack in the vacuum For time is but a pinprick of technicolor light, a breadcrumb on the lip of eternity And the butterfly flies on, floating to the vibrant everything

No. 29 46

Monsterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Skull Shelby Miller

47 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Five Theories on How America Will End Casey Fuller

theory 1: we will adopt a policy of nothing to embrace our invisible hands Nothing will prepare us for an attack that's not coming. Nothing, then, is what will be inside each gun. That's what the Joint Chiefs will advise the president about in the Oval Office, nothing. That's the reason soldiers will be sent also, nothing. Nothing, like a small reverberation, is what the soldiers will think about their deployment. And out there, in the field, it's what will separate a friendly from an enemy, a life from the non-living. See how like a little whisper it will slide in so well without even being said: how it can ripple through strafing the jungles, or explode out in shrapnel above the desert air. Martin, Malcolm, Medgar, Bobbyâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;see how it can so easily boy-band the names that saw it into oblivion. And how back behind the official statements (so smart, so dumb) it will be the only thing left to believe in. And how like an old friend looking across from us with great tranquility, it will smile back, believing in us also, happy we've made the journey, reaching out to embrace our now invisible hands. theory 2: we will all move to portland to feel less pain Even the assholes will be revealed as beautiful. They will ride around on BMX bikes from Target with bad faux-hawks smoking cigarettes with style. Efficient yet elegant moms will push past them with their strollers that have inflatable tires with spoked mags, jogging. Their kids will wear something handmade from a boutique, and fedoras. The shop where they received their felt wool hats will only have parking for bikes and will never forget their names. Also, The City will provide a bigger bin for compost than for garbage. And the library you go to will be the most used in the country. Close to the library, on 41st, four houses will have poetry poles in a row. Their neighbor one block over will be the winner of a Pulitzer. There will also be an organized kickball league in the park you live across from. When kickball isn't going on, there will be small concerts or movies they project on an elementary school wall. The people will be nice, fit, No. 29 48

polite. Cashiers at the food co-op will give you five dollars off because you had to wait in line so long. You will go to yard sales with a sign that advertises REALLY GOOD CRAP, and really good crap will be there. Yes, every restaurant will have a water dish for your dog and gluten-free options for you. But no one will ever mention how it's 80 right now; how it's hot but not too hot; how a slight breeze will peel off azure skies forever. Even at the cafĂŠ where you will eventually write this, you will be sitting between two women organizing a union and the drummer for Sleater-Kinney. And here, of course, you will find the legend is true: when someone feels a pain, we all suffer, we all take a slight sting to lessen the blow. theory 3: you will indeed be revealed as the champion of the world Only later will you find their hands were always wrapped with rock-hard plaster. Only after a deathbed confession will it be understood their gloves were covered with an illegal ointment blinding your eyes. Only after a court order will the lab results show the water bottle labeled with the red X was the cause of their astounding rejuvenation in the late rounds. Only after the testimony was deemed permissible will expert phlebotomists show their blood was transfused with the purest oxygen in the world. Only after embarrassing realtime inquiries streaming on C-SPAN will they confess to the constant and continual group therapy they needed to keep it going. Only then will they acknowledge their broken lives were pieced back and held together with a special bio-synthetic glue designed for the purpose. Only after verifying the chronologies in their copious notes will they admit the entirety of the lives were arranged to defeat you, using "all necessary resources and treasure to accomplish this objective." Only then will they confess to being exhausted, spiritually and physically; that the previous judges had been bribed; that Congress had been in on it; that the highest level of the administration were involved. Only then will they be ready to sign the affidavit, the proclamation that you in your heart of hearts knew all along and kept inside and thought you'd meet your maker with: that you are indeed the champion of the world. theory 4: an invisible crud will come in to obscure everything we love Unchecked, it will build into a film. Unscrubbed, its crumbs will clog every road. Unseen, it will crust over the eyes and suddenly someone you know will seek paradise by repeating one word over and 49 Upper Mississippi Harvest

over and over. For a while, a few will buy sharp squares of bamboo from Japan and try to scrape it away after saying a prayer. And for a few contentious years, some will say it can flake off into scabs of gold as soon as you step into the baptismal snot-brown flow of the Mississippi. Self-proclaimed extremists will of course say it is fine, totally fine, and you should pile it on and build the crust so high a carapace of armor develops and no one will be able to hurt you with guns. The small problem, of course, is only specialists will be able to see it clearly when it comes. The large problem: working with it closely will encourage its spread. Indiscriminate, friendly to fraternity, wholly committed to equality, it will operate under the auspices of good intention and brotherly care. But in close quarters it will cake everything. Before you even read this, some cities will be altered forever. And those places will develop a thick viscous membrane discernible even from satellites in space. Only a few will escape after the membrane appears. Fugitive accounts will be very rare but they all say the same thing: everything begins to buzz, and you feel like you're covered with bees--then the sky opens into gold brilliancy no one can take--then horsemen who will rescue you appear in the clearest, clearest air. theory 5: we will all leave our body and stop dreaming at the same time Never mind the nature of your dislocation. Never mind the burly American poets warning you will go down, guiltless, on fire. Never mind your interior landscape, the intuitive lowlands, the mountainous chorus singing let me take you higher. Never mind the shroud of doves surrounding the last of your innocence, the sound of broken bones in your ears from those lost forever. Never mind the warm bellowing from the senators, the orange president, your young but energetic mayor. Never mind the wild energies waving through you day to day, uncontrollably. Never mind the frivolities of spectacle, the carnivals, the ranges for shooting, the mall. Never mind the parade of life twisted into gesture, the light irony, those diaphanous shadows. Never mind euphemism rendering experience so falsely it's no longer communicable. Never mind the places that reinforce the field, that sense of envelopment. Never mind your febrile imaginings, those early tinges and tingles that could have been so much more. Never mind shoes so bright yellow they hurt your eyes, your heart, your head. Everybody here has left their body. And nobody dreams. So never mind. No. 29 50

2012 Line Drawing Hiep Nguyen

51 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Neon Noir Nikolai Mallett

The whole room's slick & cold. Black hole yin-void throws white dwarf yang-glow in stark contrast; the underlit tile shines as the main light of the room. An interstellar-black bed lurks while the white cube on the wall gleams its highlights and reflections across the spotless floor. Your room, the mausoleum. No doors here for slamming, only sliding partitions with magnet stops to stop noise and chipped corners. No mental privacy either; twinkling lights wink your watch's missed messages, paired with a microphone-camera for dictation anywhere in the studio. The insurance pamphlet posing on the bed lays out in the latest legalese how the camera's only to be used in the extremely unlikely event of any unfortunate circumstances, such as unauthorised entry or use of this luxury suite. A modern all-seeing eye. But it doesn't matter; "noAlgo"'s the latest trend - life with those weird mathematical equations and computers made invisible. You take the elevator; all movement is smoother than silk to throw your gut off track and no external reference points exist. A chime, you step outside, and a wall of cold wet air slaps you on your face as a reprimand. Next in line: the wind; it caresses you sweetly while it takes a riding crop to your face. The smell steps to the curb and stings your nostrils with its soft venom of ozone and perfume, a sweet electricity with its burning aftershock. Out here ain't all polished stone but it's just as grim, slick, and cold as inside. A thin layer of sleet slides down every wall and every sidewalk pane runs a film of water. Grasping for the railing comes up empty - it too shines with wintry precipitation. Transit stations are everywhere but the five block radius around the hotel, and the five block radius around the final destination. No personal vehicles here â&#x20AC;&#x201C; either walk or take an elevator that looks like a sideways monorail. The former is pricey, but you soon see you'll never find your way on foot. You phone your friend and they laugh as they tell you to go two blocks and hang a right. "If you see the black tower, you've gone too far," they giggle. Black towers loom everywhere, save the shining lunarbeacon intensity of the hotel. Many of these lie empty and abandoned except the hulking black planetary mainframes inside and the mutated exotics from the radiation belts to the south. The power stations were once at their very limits, but after the Population Recession from years of interstellar warfare, whole cities sat without the inhabitants to keep up with their power provision capabilities. Only the virtual intelligence No. 29 52

companies saved power providers from bankruptcy via surplus; thus the result: cities filled with aluminium coffins for silicon brains, catered to by meatsack janitors. "We've got fantastic crime rates," hawks a street vendor. "9.9cR/ mo. Oh, you mean those crime rates? Yeah, those are good too, 0.013%. Don't forget your revolver 'fore you catch the elevator home, limited time only, 450cR tax-free!" Every alley is full of them; like bacteria in a Petri dish they've smeared amidst the towers and elevator pillars. You've never smelled food so good, but noodles shouldn't twitch under fry batter and industrial grade oil. Drink choices are hot water topped with an Exxon Valdez in miniature, deeply slimy hot coffee, or some weird V-brandbottled gin had hot or cold. Any of these back alleys sell anything – data cards, forged credentials, an elevator shaped like an old starship, a lightlyused drone companion. Arms vendors are more plentiful than food vendors and their wares rival most military arsenals. Depleted uranium .38 Specials on-sale half-off, anti-station backpack missiles in bulk – don't like what you see? Ask to see what's "in back". Any of these back alleys fix anything – you don't know how but everything's in a superposition of "broken" and "working perfectly" states. Schrodinger had a shattered tablet screen that typed perfectly. Everything's a door as you walk down the street. Kick the curb thrice and a sidewalk pane lifts up to the dingiest speakeasy you've yet seen. Rap your knuckles on the black ice of an elevator sign and you can stroll down the elevator tracks. You step on the wrong crack and a door opens up in front of you; you fall down the stairs and knock someone into their drink - a round of gin for the mini-bar to compensate. This is tastier than the supply upstairs, the oil-water too – you don't know how but you take the bartender's word for it that it's all from the same source just like everything else. Half the city's plumbing is just slime-coffee. Walking out of the bar and into another accidental portal you plunge into a world of blinking light patterns along grid-lines and fractals, threatening to infect your mind with a set of new ideas and imageries sprung fully-formed from Zeus' head. Everything around you's a light if you're not looking. The corners of your eyes are perpetually lit up, adverts beamed straight to your optic nerve targeting fancy tourists from the outside, nagging on the chance you get bored or weak-willed. Elevators now are like stepping into heaven, so well lit that you can see all the graff and grime from years of use – but still almost blinding in simplicity. Tears sting your face from the sun-like walls, floors, and ceilings. You tell yourself you're crying because it's so beautiful, not because your ocular receptors are in pain without constant distraction. Out the window, gargantuan holographic avatars stomp along the rail – careful, lest you get stepped on, driving you to temporary madness 53 Upper Mississippi Harvest

by way of psychic pain and base reaction. These things achieved virtual intelligence in space station labs and entered servitude with the corpos to stave off mental starvation when computing power became more expensive. Now they roam the streets as walking Goliath-ads, paying for the privilege of a clear thought. Off the elevator and onto the sidewalk once more. Beggars and panhandlers huddle near the warmer elevator rails and shafts; you push through a crowd as you head south. They're any species you can imagine and some you can't. Some have dramatic stares, others dramatic arms, all have horrifying patches of scarred over skin. Fires are impossible due to the rain and polar wind; no one is willing to expose their body enough to convincingly sell it but they try none the less - "Hey baby, I put the "sensual" in "nonconsensual", wanna fuck?". Gin is the drink of choice here – it's cheaper than oil-water, fairly sterile, and makes you feel warmer than slime-coffee. You'd never thought you'd see an automated robotbeggar, so you go compliment the person running the tool. They give you a stare and the robot chews you out. It's a virtual intelligence, and you're an idiot. You see the ghosts of people you've known crouching around the rail vents and shafts; in a moment of lucidity you see yourself. You call your friend again and they say that you're in the right place from your location. Nothing really looks different from the last time you called. The entrance to the apartment block looms before you, so you tap it twice. The bay swings open, hey! someone's taking a shower! You dodge a string of insults and a hail of bullets as the hatch swings shut. Suds run down the sidewalk and into the drain. Another door opens, and your friend's head swings out. You really should've turned up the location accuracy on your watch but you follow them in. A quarter of the apartment is stairs - from the door to the loft above. Beneath these, a rack for jackets and shoes, and another for the personal terminal. Every wall is drawers and cupboards. Up in the loft are a slim bed-like couch, a fold-out combo cooking/cleaning/dining panel, and a one-way window showing the street outside. Everything's so close and compact that the walls are closing in and the longer you stand the more you feel that the ceiling is sinking down towards you. A glass of ever-present gin is offered to you – this time you stomach the taste, preferring it to the slime-coffee but not the oil-water. Your host suggests "something nicer" and the window becomes a view of a nebula. If that isn't your fancy there's a beach, a fireplace, an ad for upper-city elevator passes, and a sunset. Anything more is 500cR/mo; you settle for the sunset. A flip of a switch turns the apartment's lighting to match and the apartment suddenly seems less cramped. Numbers float past – forty thousand in this tower alone, a hundred thousand in this block. Too many beings to comprehend in a space No. 29 54

that size; why think about it? Rent is a number too, a number looking suspiciously pear-shaped, or kidney-shaped. Jobs here are plentiful though, so plentiful that you can don a VR set and work from home, donate your dream-time to a job, sell your extra fluids for the minerals they contain â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a good thing the jobs are so plentiful! Such opportunity in the gleaming gem of The City! Millions come from the Outer Reaches, risking the horrors of lightspeed & glassed wastes to have privileges you were born into! And this isn't "the city" or whatever incidental name offworlders or any other outsiders call it. It's The City. Always The City. Outsiders are singled out easily for not keeping track of this. People from other megacities will never set aside their pride, and so everyone's from The City, and their City is the best. The City is the best. The door swings open: some drunken fool stumbling down the street. Despite being out there yourself a moment ago, you feel nothing but disgust for this unwelcome intruder. Your host feels the same, conveying the mood with a handgun. This highly cinematic ninemillimeter automatic comes with its own encrypted biometrics; only the federally registered owner can use it to commit homicides in the name of self-defence and liberty. A mere nine rounds of ammunition may be owned legally by any resident at any time in the name of halting gang violence and slowing the spread of horrendous shootings â&#x20AC;&#x201C; an effort ultimately futile in the face of vendors' vast connections. Conversation turns to the personal terminal slung under the stairs, meant for accessing a rented portion of a planetary mainframe somewhere in one of the area's towers. A whole mainframe for one's virtually sentient assistant is prohibitively expensive; much of the computing is split between the home terminal and the rented mainframe partition. Calendar, data library, and personal society network node all in one, relayed to personal services through layers of sigils that behave suspiciously like encryption. noAlgo life seems impossible here. A few more glasses of oil-water, and another shot of gin, then - "Will you stay the night?" Of course you will. The loneliness in their voice is evident and the feeling is mutual. No one starts a family here; the normal cope of some exotic pet won't work due to feeding costs and a total lack of space. The City's towering obelisks force one to feel ever so small, with eldritch horrors no one understands crawling scarred and bleeding from its icy depths. Why do anything but scream in terror and shut yourself alone in your cramped loft? The suicide rate for long-term residents is near-exponential based off not years in the City but weeks; the otaku and hikikomori had it far too good. But for the two of you, warmth fleetingly comes in those short hours â&#x20AC;&#x201C; you will not remember them later, only the faint memory of a belonging. You take your leave of your friend and the eternally setting sun. 55 Upper Mississippi Harvest

You're still soaked to the bone and the skies are still a night-storm. Shrug your gear on and stroll back out into the – oh no, it's sleet. By some miracle the streets are clear of people and of ice. You look down to see your shoes burning in acid – that's the miracle, hydrochloric acid. Many of the injuries among the homeless make more sense. Gunshots ring out behind you, and your jacket's underKevlar gleams in the streetlight; turning, you see the drunk from earlier keeled over a bench where there was very much not one before. Your sidewalk receives a cab a few moments after you tap your watch – these yellow elevator-prisms are inexplicably not called elevators under any circumstances, as you learned in the apartment with the barrel of a revolver waved towards your face. You probably shouldn't touch gin again. Inside the cab an oily grunge soaks everything. A disembodied vocoder screams a query for destination at you. Your hotel keys in and off you go. Near-death experiences are apparently common in these things and this ride's far from the exception. Airspace laws require you to jut straight up then plummet nearly to your death instead of the relatively simple route near the sidewalk. It's almost as if the real transit solution is some mechanical hopping-frog, none of this "as the crow flies" nonsense. The trip takes a handful of minutes; you step directly out of the cab and onto your room's slim patio. Spent cigs are flattened beneath your boots, your tab goes up, and the vehicle wails off satisfied. Showering is a puff of air for debris, a puff of water for anything more stubborn, and a puff of air for drying. The cost for this is more than a fortnight's stay at the hotel but you're relatively clean and certainly a bit more dry. You crawl into the squid-ink of your bed and drift into dreamless sleep.

No. 29 56

transmillenial Ulysses Texx

57 Upper Mississippi Harvest

redcarpet riverwalk dogged Ulysses Texx current like amber bile a dark dive hell in char panels & plastered in wood cedar the stream sears strangled breaths like midnight autumns here howlin between birches & busch's it's just a WALK down to that river nose wet from bridge to bottleneck trespasser on old miss with concrete & branches that scrape through flannel & jeans bob & cotton weave c'mon underdog what'm i fightin the grain the glass bred in blood or my way back to styx

No. 29 58

My Viking Friend Alexander Jensen

How nice to know that Viking raiders danced And cared for more than just the shield and sword. That heavy men with reddish beards would prance On stones and roots along a mossy fjord. We'd braid our hair as battle plans were made, Sharing flowers to mark the passing year. Then call you friend while to the ship we'd wade, This day we feel both filled with love and fear. The past is wrong for heathen you are not, All birds you love not merely Odin's crow. Worth more than hoards your fealty can't be bought, Beyond the gold and gifts from ships you row. Our final raid I'll look you in the eye, My friend, my friend, today's the day we die.

59 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Untitled Ariana Johnson

No. 29 60

Would You Ever Want to Meet a Grandfather Clock Ryan Schoonover

Would you ever want to meet a grandfather clock? It would be impossible to shake his hand because they're both always moving. He has something to bicker about every hour and his heartbeat steals the silence of the room he's in. But the outfit he wears every day is timeless. You can always count on him to tell the truth. If he sings, it's a beautiful little tune, but, he only sings the same song. His health is remarkable, rarely needing checkups. It's surprising since he never leaves his seat and his face always looks pale. His children are bright and do all sorts of things. They can use a radio and take calls from around the world. Perhaps grandfather clocks are afraid they've been left behind and make so much noise to fool others into thinking they're working just as hard so he ticks and tocks until his time stops.

61 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Grandmaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Painting Marguerite Crumley

No. 29 62

Echoes of Memories Chinyin Oleson

When I was five, my paternal grandmother wore the same shoe size as I did. When I turned fifteen, she still wore the same shoe size as I did when I was five. As a child, I used to be fascinated by how small my grandma's feet were compared to my parents', even though she was many years older than them. I remember taking walks with her as I grew up. She always moved in short, mincing steps, as if it pained her to do so. I would hold her rough, wrinkly hand in my small, soft ones, which did not know much of a day's work, and accompany her down the driveway on our after-dinner walks. As I walked close to her, I could smell a comforting blend of eucalyptus oil and something else herbal that I felt was unique to her. I didn't understand what my peers meant when they talked about "old people smell." Whenever I think of the times I have spent with my grandma, if I close my eyes and dig deep into the dungeons of my mind, I can still hear the annoying hum of mosquitoes and the Bzzt! Thunk! of a flying insect in the electric bug zapper hanging on a pole next to where we strolled. As the damp heat softened in the night air, the crickets would whistle up an accompaniment to the orchestrated mating rituals of the frogs in nearby ponds and puddles scattered about the jungle floor across the road. Sometimes my grandma would swing her arms like a child. When she did that, the two bangles on her armâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;one of milky green jade, the other of goldâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;would jangle as they bumped into each other, adding an echo of percussion to the ongoing music of the night. My grandma loved to tell stories. When my parents were at work during school holidays, I wish I had spent most of my days sitting on the red and gold rug at my grandma's feet listening to her voice lull me into imagining the story of "The Cowherd and Weaver Girl," "The Moon Goddess and the White Rabbit," "Nian the New Year Monster," and more of which I can no longer remember. Instead, I had my nose stuck in English novels like Nada the Lily by H. Rider Haggard and Homer's Odyssey, which I raided from my dad's study. One of my ears were slightly opened to her voice, yet not giving her my full attention. Nowadays, those same ears yearn for her sandy old lady voice, reaching for a familiar sound mostly sunken in the quicksands of time. My grandmother was born into an upper-class family in the Fujian Province of Southeastern China. Because of her family's rank in society, her feet had to be bound to ensure high marriageability. As a little girl, at 63 Upper Mississippi Harvest

the height of childish energy, she was probably forced to sit for hours a day for years with purposely broken bones and tight bindings that turned her normal feet into abnormally dainty five-inch feet that the people then thought showed the refined delicateness and upbringing of young Chinese women. She was not allowed to run and play like I did when I was her age. I am not sure if she was even allowed to read, as scholarly rituals only belonged to the men folk then too. My grandma understood, more than anyone, the saying, "Beauty is pain." My grandmother's marriage to my grandfather was matchmade. My grandpa's mother was very strict when it came to raising her son. If my grandpa fidgeted while sitting, she yelled at him to sit still. If he slouched at all, she admonished him to sit straight. Maybe out of frustration, he started chain-smoking because it was something he could do sitting still and straight. Being a male descendent, he was not allowed to do anything in the household. His mother did everything for him and expected his wife to cater to his every need. While my grandma sweated up and down narrow mountain paths carrying cassava root that she dug out with her bare hands, my grandpa sat in the house and smoked. When my grandma balanced calf-deep in the squishy mud of a rice paddy field, planting and harvesting rice from sunrise to sunset in the unmerciful heat of West Malaysia, my grandpa stayed at home and probably smoked the day away. When she fed the chickens and turkeys until they were ready for the butcher's block, he sat out the evenings puffing continuously, cigarette after cigarette, pausing only for meals, cleansing rituals, and sleep. Even though it was an arranged marriage, even though my grandma did all the work, my grandma took care of my grandpa as if he was her greatest love. Lung failure took away my grandpa. Within the couple of days or weeks between when he was first diagnosed and admitted, my grandma consulted many Chinese doctors for a cure. When one said almond milk will help him, she went to the market and bought a big bag of almonds, which she then took to pounding into a paste with her granite mortar and pestle, her jade and gold bangles chiming in time to her laborious movements. Without taking a break, she then added water, squeezing, and straining the crushed almonds for the elixir that she hoped would prolong her beloved's life. I could almost say that my grandpa smoked until the day he died. I remember the day he was taken out on a stretcher to the ambulance outside. It had been a good day for him and I could tell he was happy. In the living room of my Fourth Uncle, as smoke from my grandpa's last cigarette hung sleepily in the air like a bad omen, he talked and laughed more than usual because all his six sons were sitting all around him. It was after a special occasion. It might have been Chinese New Year, or when a grandchild had turned a month old. I was sleepy from the long No. 29 64

trip and a scrumptious dinner of fish paste stuffed in eggplant, green pepper, chilies, bitter gourd, and tofu puffs my Fourth Aunt had made. The mouth-watering smell still lingered about me as I half-sat and halflaid on my father's lap, drifting in and out of consciousness when I was suddenly picked up and placed on a chair next to my mother. There was a lot of shouting and moving around. When I opened my eyes from my stupor, I saw my grandfather being lifted into a stretcher by four of my uncles and rushed out. I think that was the last time I saw him alive. After my grandpa's death, my grandmother became a devout Buddhist. She stopped telling me stories and we seldom took walks together. Many more years passed, and before I left for college, she would always sit in one of the stuffy, dark swampy green velvet chairs in my parents' living room, chanting mantras as she carefully fingered each of the malas (Buddhist prayer beads). Besides the click of each bead, her bracelets would clink in time, harmonizing a melancholy music in my parents' quiet house, settling in my heart like a brightening lantern in the darkness while her own lantern lost its own light.

65 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Oceanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Treasures Shelby Miller

No. 29 66

Organized Chaos Amanda Rom

67 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Unreal City Sameen Shakya

This is a city that could be any one. Under the narrow sky, the people walk With a conviction that's echoed in their steps By what sound it makes when it hits the earth. The ones who work making their way to jobs They're late to- their hurried steps quake And shake the puddles. Then there's laborers, With slow, heavy steps, that leave grave indents On the mud where they work. The middle class women With their light gossips have much lighter steps As they shuffle the ground. And the teenagers Jump from here to there with no consequence. But the lightest steps are those of children; And in the towering crowd where all looks the same I made sure to learn to differentiate So I wouldn't get lost like I did that day, While walking through the crowd with my father, Whose hand I thought I held, I looked up to see Another man staring down at me, Who let go, disappearing into the crowd, Where all at once the faces seemed a blur. I called out but my voice drowned in the mess That each second grew much more sinister, As I was shuffled round by each passing figure, Whose half caught words got strewn to a spell of doom, And the narrow sky grew narrower as now, Dread, like a fog, gripped at my pumping chest, The harder I breathed the less air I could get; The more I tried to see I just could not, Till a hand grabbed me up out of the crowd And cupped my mouth, when I screamed, though luckily It was my father who'd finally found me. I count each step now everywhere I go, To know if I am right, and most of the time I am. Though I fear the day I'm not, because Dread is a feeling that never, ever leaves, And it's omnipresent in the city. No. 29 68

What’s Broke Kimberly Salitros

I can't fix what I don't know is broke my daddy told me when I wasn't riding my bike. That seemed to make sense to me, even at eight when all that I wanted was whatever was next. My daddy told me when I wasn't riding my bike I feel sorry for you and your mismatched ways when all that I wanted was whatever was next and all that I got was what I already had. I feel sorry for you and your mismatched ways I'd tell my daughter – had I had one. And all that I got was what I already had. There's no room for my heart. Everything is broken. I'd tell my daughter – had I had one I want to love you, but I don't know how. There's no room for my heart. Everything is broken. I'll just glue up my pieces, so they are strong. I want to love me, but I don't know how. Let's fix this. I'm ready to start. I'll try out my pieces. They are strong. I can't fix what I don't know is broke.

69 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Paramount Raku Rendezvous 2019 Hiep Nguyen

No. 29 70

The One Percent Kayla Nessmann

"The sky cries chemical-soaked bullets and the icebergs are fluoridated." "Just in time for our new president." "Shall a new King reign." Crystal glasses are clinked, bubbles collapse over the sides. A new era shall commence. I hide in piles of anaerobic trash and gnaw on a banana peel to stop my teeth from shattering the nightly slaughter. Gunshots pierce the air and ting the sides of the dumpster. "A new era shall commence." I know, I gnaw, Iblood drips down the metal walls that surround me, reminding me"Shall a new King reign." Or so I'm told. All Kings make the same promisesI feel their ghosts holding my hands "Keep voting, go to work, and keep the news on- a static background to keep you drowning in fluoridated mainstream." "You are safe." At once, the ghosts flee leaving a cold tomb in their place. I adjust my tie and wipe pearls of liquid from my trousers I smile. Gunpowder sways in my nostrils, reminding me of the brave who have been solicited to aim their weapons at the weak. "Shall a new King rein." Just in time for my presidential speech. Blood drips from 71 Upper Mississippi Harvest

my teeth into the porcelain sink. I can taste it. "Tonight, I address the nation, on behalf of the befallenâ&#x20AC;Ś" The sheep have "elected" a lion. Let me hold your children and sing songs of Christ while I Dig graves and pollute the air. "Only my fellow royals shall live to see the riches of the Sun." Weapons aimed at the 99%, I cower. I already smell the rotten flesh of the slain. They ascend into the choked clouds above and watch their family members get shackled to the wet pavement. My heart has ascended into my throat and will soon have its final beats on the cement if I am found. "Too late." The 1% let out a roar and shake my tomb. As my skin runs cold and blood turns curdled, do I hearthe static voice of the lion. A tinny reminder that "I am safe."

No. 29 72

Dinner

Chinyin Oleson He watches as his favorite kickball, the one he got for his ninth birthday, rolls into the thickets through the hole in the chain-link fence. It disappeared in mere seconds, drawn in, then swallowed by leaves and branches that often took bunnies and squirrels the same way. If dad had fixed the fence like he said he would, this wouldn't have happened. He looks back toward the house. The automatic light on the porch is blinking on in anticipation of dusk. Turning back, the sun is still primping one last time, showing off her magical gown of purple, red, orange, and gold. There's still some light left. He'll go get the ball. It can't have gone far. It's probably right inside the shrubs. Kneeling on the cool grass tinted dark from growing shadows, he looks back once, not seeing anyone, he crawls through the hole. On the other side, it is strangely silent. He can usually hear crickets chirping and frogs calling to each other by this time. Only a light wind rode the air, teasing the ends of his dark curls and rustling the leaves. Behind it tags along a sweet, musty smell which he ignores. He stands for a while, looking around. The thickets stretch as far as he can see on both sides. Tall trees loom over the bushes like ancient protectors. He has never been out here before. It feels new and exhilarating. A sudden joy overtakes him and without another thought, he runs into the bushes, not caring when branches whip and scratch at his face and arms. Forgetting all about the ball, he runs and runs, whooping and laughing. He misses the ancient wooden fence post sticking out of the ground. The sign, crooked and worn, words long faded, lies mostly buried by age and mossâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;all that was left of the warning put up by the villagers decades ago. He bursts out into a clearing of twinkling lights and eerie music. A host of toothpick-sized light blue-skinned creatures with slanted black pupilless eyes; shiny tuffs of glistening navy-blue hair; and tiny, round mouths of red stare back at him from tables of pink and white toadstools covered with teeny cups and saucers. Trying to catch his breath, he sits down slowly. Their eyes follow his movements as one. It unsettles and fascinates him at the same time. One of the creatures detaches itself from the group and approaches in flight, its tiny iridescent wings fluttering almost too fast for him to perceive. It holds out a miniature cup to him. Up close, he sees that it has a human form, naked and sexless. Its skin looks almost transparent, he 73 Upper Mississippi Harvest

thinks he can see its heart beating. It reminds him of the frog he had once caught in the palm of his hands and felt its heart thumping through its cool, damp skin. Hypnotized by the deep, black pools of eyes, he takes the cup between his forefinger and thumb. He squeezes it. It feels like smooth stones one would find in a river. The liquid in it glows magenta like a neon light on a store window. He brings it to his nose, and smells something familiar, sweet like strawberries and musty like the inside of an old barn. Is it safe? It was such a tiny cup; how much can it hold? What harm can it do? He upends the cup onto his tongue. All at once, he feels light, as if he's floating. Perhaps it was a magical potion to give him an ability to fly? He'd like that very much. He glances over at the creature which has somehow grown larger, its features becoming more prominent. He notices that what he earlier assumed was hair on its head now looks like millions of tiny needles. He feels his insides contract. The cup falls to the grass as a burning, itching sensation creeps under his skin. "Argh!" he yells, trying to get up and run, but he falls with the feeling of ants biting at him as they crawl up and down his body. He rolls onto his side and sees blue figures surging towards him; their cold, black eyes bobbing like glossy, black bugs. He widens his eyes, then shuts them tight, wishing, willing himself to wake up from this terrible nightmare. There was no such reprieve. Within the time of a hummingbird's heartbeat, what felt like the stinging of a gazillion bees wracked his entire body immobile. In a beat of that hummingbird's wings, he is reduced to nothing more than a human-shaped husk, his shrunken face frozen in despondent horror. As night walks in on velvet shadows, the breeze comes back, lifts whitish flakes from the now dark clearing, scatters it across the forest as one would the ashes of a loved one.

No. 29 74

Yellow Diamond Jaci Eatherton

75 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Giovanniâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Doom Sameen Shakya

The best part of my day is split, Once at dawn & once at dusk. What's in between is just a mix Of bit lips and unspoken words, Poems written instead of notes, And hours spent looking out windows. The bit lips and unspoken words Speak loud in poems no one will read. I write them from my little perch, In class, alone, eyes wide, searching, For whom to love behind closed eyes. If I spoke my love I'd surely die. So, I don't speak. And I am strange. That's what they think though they don't know To what extent. I feel their rage With each cold glance, and then the old Punching and toss in bathroom stalls. Then I spit my blood and write it all. If they just knewâ&#x20AC;Ś The worst of it -The worst part of my day is that Those that I love with my eyes closed Are those so moved to hurt me back. I spit my blood and on piss lie. If I spoke my love I'd surely die.

The best part of my day -- I guess, I've let some slip so I'll tell you, Is riding the public bus, Packed like sardines, on the way to school. There I feel free, and I'll explain This urban menagerie's sway. No. 29 76

Packed like sardines zigzagging through This jagged city, we are moved To bump and grind into each other (And no one thinks it's much a bother) It's such an opportunity I touch you but you barely feel -I touch you in places that thrill My heart and get my blood pumping In dark places that you so rub Unknowingly, you give it up. The rough rubbing of ragged clothes, Breath blown directly to my nose, And if I'm bold enough, a kiss. These bus rides are my only bliss. Packed like sardines zigzagging through This jagged city, I am moved To think that all intimacy I'll ever know is just a dream Dreamt up in packed public buses, No daffodils and red roses, But gropes returned and addresses Hushed in the ear and then when met The deed done so quickly that all Pleasure is tinged with a sense of loss, And I honestly don't know what's worse? So, I bite my lips and write these words.

77 Upper Mississippi Harvest

The Work Matthew Weldon

In the air above there is the bleak colorless sky. On my roof I hear faint drips as evidence that the rain is washing the blues away. pat pat pat. I look at my watch and add the ticking to the dissonant rhythm. The steady beat tries to keep the rain in order, failing like a sheep herding a pack of dogs. I lean back in the same rocking chair I've used for twenty years; it probably has more of me than I have of myself at this point. I pull out a book of matches I got from my daughter's wedding and strike a match to smoke. Four cigarettes left. I'll stop when they are gone or when I'm gone, whichever comes first. The fields that my family farmed for two generations lay bare. The grain wilted, corn rotted, no seeds left to plant. No meat left to salt, store, or sell. I look out from the porch at what my family has accomplished. All I have left is the house, the barn, and the rust strewn car. I am selling everything except for the car. The deep green car is near death. Choking on rust and bleeding out oils. I will catch up with it if I keep this vice. There is a flash in the motionless clouds and then the rain comes down stronger. I turn away from the rain and head inside. My hand blocks the cigarette from the wind. If it goes out, then I'm one step closer to the end. I don't want to give up, but I have been a man of my word and always trying my best. Even when it's not enough. When I said, "I do," I meant for it to be until death do us part. I wish it was my death instead. I take another drag of the smoke and know that this will not be a "just one" kind of day. I take off my coat and shoes and take one last walk through the place that was our home. We used to have a joke, more of a quote: keep what you can and use it until the work is done. Clothes, tools, time, money, Deb and myself. The walls are stable enough, the floor creaks when I go through the entry points of a room. What's left could be worth a fair price to tear down and rebuild over. More than enough cash to get out of here and maybe get a pack on the way to the next. No, I promised to stop. I grab a new match to light the next thin roll of lung death. What comes next for me? The storm picks up in the air, it's above me now. I discard the former cigarette in the ashtray and set the next one between my teeth. Next to an open window, I light up again and the wind stops the flame from starting. I left them open to air out the place, the scent of age and No. 29 78

smoke needs to leave with me. For the sake of the new. When the new day comes, I will hand my keys to the realtor, and then the work will be done. I just need to last the night with two left in the pack and a promise to keep. The second is lit after I go through the room and close the windows. I hear upstairs the sound of more rain coming in with a familiar pat pat pat. The storm's song carries on for most of the hour as the gray clouds turn black with the night. I lay in half of a bed. Cut in half and stitched over like the grief I couldn't afford to keep. I could not bear to turn to her side and look at the empty side that smelled like her perfume that masked the scent of illness. Deb had left in the night; she didn't want to go to a hospital after the age of sixty. "It costs more to die a year later from something else than to just accept it now." Her work was done in her eyes and she was ready to rest. But all that was left for me to work on after she died was the pain. Grief that lit inside me like a flame, hellbent on burning me into ash. One night here, two smokes left to burn. And then the work is done. At times I can still hear her soft footsteps on hard wood. Her sweet voice in the halls. The smell of lavender on the sweaters she wore in the winter. "Why are you still here?" Deb asks. I keep my eyes shut. If she's there, then I don't know what I'd do. It fans the embers in the chambers of my heart. "The work is almost done; I just need to rest first." I whisper to myself. Loud enough for the room to hear my plead for rest. "And then? Will you join me?" "I don't know where you are." Deb can't be here, not as a ghost here to haunt me. She deserves the heaven we hear about in church and see illustrations of in museums. The one I believe in only for her sake. This must be an echo or something else. I wonder if I'm just going crazy or getting sick. "You will find me if you know the path." "Miranda got married, our daughter is all grown up now," I declare while staring at the window. If she is here, she could walk over to face me. But I won't look turn to find an empty hallway. "There's not much left to teach her, but maybe I should be there more." There's a sudden crash on the roof and rise in panic. Deb is gone, she was never there to begin with. But if her words were true, then I might find her. I light the second to last cigarette and lay back. I debate with myself about where to go next. The retirement community paperwork is finalized but I could still back out at any time. I begin to drift off and set 79 Upper Mississippi Harvest

the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. If something happens and I wake up on fire, so be it. The sun is shining through the window when I get up. The last cigarette in the pack saw its friend fall to the floor and drown. A pool of rain kept me safe through the night as the eventual fall happened. Spared by something from beyond. I pull out the last one, I quit smoking when this is nothing but a nub of toxic orange filter in my hand. I look out the window and see the sleek black car of the realtor on their way down the road. I take the last cigarette and tuck it away.

No. 29 80

Quality Smut Jamie Stultz

81 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Box Under the Bed Alexander Jensen

The box under the bed holds a life misplaced, amber-tinted snapshots of outdated fashions. Hairstyles and furniture cast aside like the feelings they evoke. Memories held hostage by dust. Longing and regret dance dangerous duets, performers long hidden by bed skirt curtains. Called to stage by summer cicadas and passing traffic. Captured crescendos of the days we were happy, the days before the pictures stopped.

No. 29 82

Watershed Lee Menke

And so, the poor defeated Dan, all alone, looked straight down at the black pavement underfoot. He saw two points of light approaching his right peripheral. It was then he decided. He took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, feeling the rush of wind, hearing it change pitch as the blur sped past him. He sat back down on the curb, hard calloused fingers wrapped in thin black greasy hair. A drop of water hit the ground under him, wetting the corner of his eye as it left. "Excuse me, sir?" a voice wobbled behind him. Dan looked back to see a hunched and balding man. Laugh lines and wrinkles mixed together and tugged at his skin like a mask as a smile formed. A bony hand held a wooden door to the storefront Dan previously thought abandoned, as another shakily gestured inside. "Would you like some coffee? It's a dangerous cold out tonight." Dan froze for a moment, having been suddenly pushed out of his own head. He looked back to the street as another car passed him by, blasting him with cold air. He shivered, clutching his coat tighter against his skin. His fingers ached as they clenched the itchy material. Turning back, he blinked heavily and stammered, "Ye - yeah. That would be nice, actually." He stood up from the concrete curb, icy pebbles jamming into the palm of his hand as he pushed himself to his feet. Briskly walking toward the entrance, Dan skimmed the old weathered letters painted above the door. "Watershed Heirlooms." He didn't notice the light on when he sat at the curb an hour ago. His red cheeks deepend with the thought that the man might have been watching him there the whole time. He pursed his lips into a half smile and gave an awkward nod to the old man, following him into the entrance. The first thing that caught Dan's attention was the grainy air, which felt somewhere between inhaling smoke and breathing water. Books lay under brass lion heads, which leaned against chipped and dirty jars, the surrounding shelves framing them like cluttered paintings. He exhaled harshly, coughing a bit. "Do you take sugar?" the aged voice rang out three bookshelves ahead and to the right. The books seemed to dampen the sound, like fresh fallen snow. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, that sounds great, thanks," Dan replied, wondering how the man got so far ahead of him. 83 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Dan rounded the corner where he had heard the voice. There was a small parlor, a faded wood countertop sat before a half closed victorian style door on the far wall. The green flowered wallpaper peeled at the edges of the ceiling. Various paper receipts, stacked books, an old brass bell, and several wells of ink were scattered on the counter. A small area of the surface had been cleared off in the center, where a green leather bound book lay open, a feathered quill resting beside it. Approaching the counter, Dan heard whistling coming from behind the door. "Almost ready!" the shaky voice rang out between the whistling. Dan rested his arms on the countertop, trying to read the green leather book that lay facing away from him on the counter. He eyed the fresh ink, picking a paragraph in the middle of the page. It wasn't often he walked the path, but it seemed the time for it. He split from the concrete path and veered away from his home. A small line of dirt outlined the same path he and his beloved used to roam. He missed the way she would whistle in the crisp spring air, the way she skipped a bit in front of him, the way she lit up when she looked back to see him holding a fresh bouquet just for her. He still picked flowers on the path, but they seemed heavier than he remembered, and decided to leave them. He finally approached the cliff overlooking the ocean. He sat for a while, thinking of her, hoping he was making her proud. The door creaked open and Dan quickly looked away from the book toward the stack of receipts on his left. "Here we are! Here's your cup," The man lifted the cup in his right hand, and with effort lifted it toward the countertop, spilling hot liquid over the edge that clung to the cup before falling toward the floor. "Thank you, uh..." Dan let the last word raise into a question. "Henry. Henry King," The man rounded the counter, sitting in a small white wooden chair that seemed better suited for a dining table than a parlor. "Ah. Thank you Henry. My name's Daniel Wright," Dan paused for a second. "I'm notâ&#x20AC;Ś I'm not homeless. By the way." The man breathily laughed. "It's alright, Mr. Wright, I'm not going to judge you for sitting out there for so long. If you need to think, better to do it where it's warm. Besides, I could use the company." Dan tensed as if he was going to add something, but just looked away, pretending to cough a bit. "How long has this place been open? I don't think I've ever noticed it before," Dan said, eager to change the subject. "It doesn't open often. It takes the right kind of buyer to be interested in what is sold here, so hours are limited to when requests are made," Henry sipped his coffee loudly. "Is this some sort of book shop?" Dan asked. "Of sorts. Do you read often?" Henry set the coffee on a small end table next to him. No. 29 84

"I used to. I am," Dan squinted his eyes for a second "was an author. I've had some troubles recently." He looked to his hands on the counter and started fidgeting with a memory on his ring finger. "I'm familiar with troubles. Easily found, but not so easily lost," Henry leaned forward in his chair. He lurched forward, and right as Dan thought he was going to fall off the chair Henry heaved his hands forward, standing himself up. He slowly walked toward the counter Dan was leaning against. "Pardon," He said, pointing to the green leather book. Dan moved aside, letting the old man pass. Henry picked up the book, turning to about the middle. He put it back on the counter, facing Dan. "Here. Read the paragraph where the ink changes," Henry started walking back to his chair. Dan took a drink from his cup, feeling the coffee warm his throat and stomach as he suspiciously watched the old man climb back into his seat. Setting the mug on the counter, Dan picked up the book carefully, scanning the page. His eyes settled on a paragraph where the mostly faded ink turned into a more vibrant black. This is where Henry found himself now. Wind rushed against his face as the once happy horizon met the water with stormy grey intent. He looked over the edge at the rocky beach below. He felt the wind nudge him forward, tempting his movements. He closed his eyes. He could see her face. He decided to carry on. This was not what she would have wanted. He turned his back to the cliff, and stepped back toward the path. Dan looked back toward Henry, who looked back at him with intent. Dan cocked his head, and Henry answered the forming question. "I'm something of a writer myself. Been doing it for most of my life. Sometimes tough times inspire beautiful things. Sometimes the most difficult choices make us better." Henry reached behind him, taking out a faded brown leather book. "But often, the smartest thing to do in a storm," He reached out, indicating for Dan to take the book. "is to grab a jacket." Dan approached warrily, unsure of what was happening. He took the book, the gold letters "Daniel Wright," stamped onto the faded brown leather cover. Thumbing through the leaves of paper, he reached the opposite cover, ink seemingly bleeding through the last page to create a new sentence at the end of the most recent paragraph. "And the poor defeated Dan, all alone, looked straight down at the black pavement underfoot. He saw two points of light approaching his right peripheral . It was then he decided. He took a deep breath; he would--" The sentence was left hanging on the middle of the page as no more ink appeared through the parchment. A cold, pale hand grabbed onto Mr. Wright's shoulder. He turned, face to face with Henry. Dan held up the book, pointing to the last segment. "What is this, how did you know what--" The air 85 Upper Mississippi Harvest

seemed to dampen the words as they came out. Henry let his sentence fall next to the cooling drops of coffee on the worn wood floor. Henry gave a tired smile and pulled his hand back, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a parchment wrapped bundle, extending it with shaky hands toward Dan. Mr. Wright looked at Henry's outstretched hand as if it might turn into a snake at any given moment. Setting the book down on the counter next to him, he took the bundle hesitantly and unwrapped it. In the bundle was an old brass key and a beautiful fountain pen. "Wha--" Dan muttered to himself, then raised his head toward Henry, speaking barely louder than a whisper. "What does this mean?" "It means," Henry walked over to a coat rack leaning against a dusty bookshelf, pausing as he put on a moth-eaten jacket and faded trilby hat. "That you have a decision to make. I have given you an opportunity, as one was given to me. The only price requested is that you pay back the favor. When someone is at their watershed, to help them see another path." Dan looked down at the key again, his head spinning. After a few moments, he started a question that was replied only by Henry's absence. Dan took the brown leather book and jogged to the front door. Squinting through the new night rain, Dan only saw the reflection of headlights of passing cars against the slick sidewalk, and the creaking sign "Watershed Heirlooms" overhead. He walked further to the edge of the road, scanning for the old man. And so, the poor defeated Dan, all alone, looked straight down at the black pavement underfoot. He saw two points of light approaching his right peripheral. It was then he decided. He took a deep breath; fountain pen in hand, he wrote a single word into his book. "live."

No. 29 86

Picnic Under the Crabapple Tree Landen Parkin

The blossoms took wind and sailed to a new day Far from this sweet stasis where I found rest I sat there, in that moment of silence between breaths Heavy eyes warmed // Bright soul still Sandwich crumbs on sticky hands and youthful daydreams The clockwork pulsing of time decanted Fragrant and dreamlike and sweet I sat transfixed // moment to moment Blessed and reveling in the slow murmur of life

87 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Apothecary II Alexander Jensen

No. 29 88

Post-Concussion Paradigm Alexander Jensen

89 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Keep their Names Jasper Kenyon

The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum is a beautiful building surrounded by other beautiful buildings. The Washington Memorial looms over it, a pointed, pale beacon to the north-west, and the Bureau of Engraving and Printing sidles up against it to the south. Everything is white marble and red brick, elegant columns and pretty windows. The inside does not match the outside. Or maybe it does. Because, while every aspect of the Holocaust is unspeakably, disgustingly ugly, the care and respect with which the museum tells its story is something to be marveled at. It's only twelve years of history, not even leaving the European continent, really, but it is also a rupture within our shared global timeline. The numbers are absurd, the killings are horrific. People call it unthinkable, and yet it was thought of. This ruptureâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;it is a burst vein in the eye of humanity. Ugly, distracting, something to be stared down but never truly recovered from. But people forget. First floor: 1933 - 1939, the Nazi assault. The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and the opposing wall reads THE HOLOCAUST in glossy, dark letters. Stepping out, the first section of the museum is crowded to an almost absurd degree. Photo murals stretch from floor to ceiling in stark blacks and whites, coupled with panels of information just as tall â&#x20AC;&#x201C; it takes a considerable amount of excuse me's and sorry's to be able to read them. The walls themselves are dark, charcoal grey, and the lights are low. This whole floor feels ominous, somehow, or maybe foreboding, though people don't hesitate to chat amongst themselves. The sound bounces, amplifies, and gives the space a clamoring sort of life. The visitors consist of all age groups: children, teens, adults, the elderly. The older people are those who seem to stop more often, read more carefully. A group of Naval officers listen intently to a tour guide, dressed to the nines in their pressed blue and white uniforms, shoes so shiny you could count your freckles in them. Some small children cling to their parents, others run unattended. The crowd thickens before a photo taken in 1933, on a cobbled street in Berlin. A normal German policeman walks next to a member No. 29 90

of the Schutzstaffel, or SS. Between them, a muzzled German Shepherd glares wildly at whoever was holding the camera, leash loose in the gloved grip of the SS officer. Both men wear tall leather boots. Both men wear expressions of assured self-confidence. Both men are Nazis. The crowd comments mostly on the dog, using the words cute and crazy in tandem. A male tour guide leans towards his group and says, "It's always all about that damn dog. I don't know why." A short, informational film plays in a small, sectioned off theater â&#x20AC;&#x201C; The Nazi Rise to Power. It loops every fourteen minutes. The crowd, hearing the low thrumming of the audio, pushes forward, waiting impatiently for their chance to get in. A young boy, probably around twelve or thirteen, fidgets and plays with the zipper on his purple hoodie. A digital countdown above the door reads, "Minutes until next showing: 9." He tugs on his mother's purse and asks, "If this gets super boring, can we leave?" One exhibit features "The 'Science' of Race." A photo captures a sharp, straight-nosed woman in profile. An anonymous hand holds a tool to her scalp: some kind of rod with locks of hair hanging from it like keychains, each a different color, from whiteblonde to black. The woman's thick, tightly-wound hair is on the darker end. In front of the photo, protected by glass, a similar tool is displayed, looking ageless and innocent. Below, another photo shows a young boy, a child, sitting on an examination table while a doctor shines a light into his eyes. The corresponding artifact is a long off-white board with glass irises organized by color, scratched and slightly cloudy. From sky blue to dark brown. It's impossible to tell the boy's eye color in the black-and-white photo, but his hair is light and the doctor is smiling. A third photo shows an older man staring studiously ahead while a different doctor measures the length of his nose. A fourth shows a boy with a caliper pinching the width of his skull. Beside the photos are two large posters with what look to be a variety of portraits' or maybe mugshots. The posters are titled Rassen der Erde. Races of the Earth. It is a systematic categorization of "races," listed from "superior" to "inferior." "Aryan" or "alien." It is something that would have hung in public for the people of Nazi Germany to compare themselves to. Those of "Nordic" descent would have found themselves sitting at the top of the list. Those of Slavic, Romani, or African would've been shoved to the bottom. Jews probably wouldn't have even bothered to look. A woman breaks away from the crowd, shaken, and finds her male companion, hand gripping his arm as she says, "God, John look. The 91 Upper Mississippi Harvest

way they measured race. . . It's horrendous." She says the word like she's never said it before, stresses it a little too hard, pronounces the first "o" too clearly. A moment later, a teenage girl, standing at the back of the crowd, turns to her friends and says, "Looks like I'm superior, huh?" She laughs. Second floor: 1940 - 1945, ghettos, killing fields, and gas chambers. The second floor's major centerpiece is one of the railcars used to deport Jews to German-occupied Poland, stolen away from their homes and packed in like livestock with no food, no water, for days or weeks. Their destination: concentration camps like Auschwitz-Birkenau, Mauthausen, Theresienstadt, Bergen-Belsen. The interior space measures 26.2 feet by 8.8 feet. Up to and sometimes over one hundred people would have been forced inside. Preserved with care, the car sits alone in a depressed section of the floor. The path to continue cuts through the center of it. It has a metal roof and just one tiny, tiny, tiny window. There are no lights within, casting the walkway in black shadows. In the summers, with the sun beating down, the car would have been swelteringly hot. In the winters, cutting through the snow and the ice, it would have been bitterly cold. It's a given that younger people pay more attention when there are artifacts to look at, physical things that they can imagine themselves holding. After breezing by the photo murals of the ghettos, walled in with brick and barbed wire, the mass graves, piled full of dead and almost-dead Jews, and the labor camps, framed by starving, emaciated bodies, a group of teenage boys stop before a collection of denture fragments found in the ruins of the Chelmno killing center. One of the boys immediately turns pale, says, "Gross, teeth -- Guys, I can't," and walks off. The other two boys ignore him and read the attached description. The path then leads underneath a casting of the notorious ARBEIT MACHT FREI gate. Multiple camps used this phrase in their entryways, but this one is from Auschwitz. The B is upside down, a small act of resistance from the prisoners who were forced to weld it. Over one million Jews were forced to walk under this sign; if they understood German, they would have read the words "work will make you free" as it passed over their heads. Some knew it for the lie it was. Some didn't. The next room opens up to a reconstruction of a wooden bunker. Within are six restored bunks, prefaced by a sign that says please do not touch. People touch. One very patient grandmother leads her two grandchildren through the exhibit, each of her hands held tightly. She's no older than fifty, the kids probably six or seven. She tries to answer their questions as No. 29 92

best she can, lots of why's and how's. The girl asks her, "Why did they want to kill all these people?" The grandmother sighs; it's clear she doesn't understand it herself. She replies, "Sometimes people think evil things, and do evil things, and their evil spreads in them. And all we can do is stop their evil and try to save the good that the evil wants to hurt. All these people were good." The girl nods to herself, lips pursed in thought. Third floor: 1945, liberation. Things are significantly more mellow on the final floor. No big crowds, just those scant few who take care to read all of the signs, watch all of the films and slideshows. The most graphic videos and pictures are shown on screens that sit down low in concrete, well-like structures. They're surrounded by walls that come up to about the waist, ensuring that anyone who doesn't want to see them, can't. They all have small signs that say viewer discretion is advised. Four armies stormed through Nazi Germany's occupied Europe: the British, the Russians, the Canadians, and the Americans. None of them were prepared for what they found in the camps. All of them documented it. A young father approaches one of the videosâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;taken by Brits when they liberated Bergen-Belsen. He is carrying his daughter on his hip. He realizes she can see the screen right as the first naked, skeletonized body appears. It is a woman, miraculously still alive, but all she does is stare, unblinking, at nothing. The man puts his daughter down and holds her hand. She's too small to see the video, but she stands patiently, watching other people mill around her. On the screen, a bulldozer pushes a pile of dead people into a huge, mass grave. With typhus running rampant, the dead were buried as quickly as possible, before the disease could spread through the freshly horrified British troops. As another pile is pushed forward into the pit, one body twists and folds in on itself, slowly rolling back into the depths of stiff limbs and shaved heads. The man, having watched the film until it looped, picks his daughter back up and turns away. There are tears in his eyes. Further down, children's art lines one wall. Crayon and marker and pencil. Some have color, some don't. Goofy animals, poorly proportioned faces, and stick people. All are labelled with the little artist's name and birthdate. All but one or two include the words "killed in Auschwitz." Visitors are given "identification cards" upon entrance, little booklets with the name of someone who lived during the Holocaust, along with their picture and a brief synopsis of their story. The back page tells whether or not they survived. 93 Upper Mississippi Harvest

On the first floor, having just stepped off the elevator, a girl asks her friend, "Did your person die?" He replies, "Yeahâ&#x20AC;Ś Did yours?" "Nope," she pops the P like bubblegum, "Guess that just makes me better than you, doesn't it." They laugh, shrug, and go on their way. At the same time, two floors away, right before the exhibit ends and the lobby begins, a mother is reading one of the cards to her tiny, tiny son. She tells him, "This was a real person, and he was killed for no reason. Wouldn't it be nice to keep his name in your brain? So that he's remembered?" The boy nods and makes grabby hands at the card. When she gives it to him, he touches the picture inside with his finger.

No. 29 94

Leach White Vases Hiep Nguyen

95 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Ode to Doves on Shattered Glass Lee Menke

A dove poked out his head today, oh what could he have seen? His nest is made of bricks and bones, his front door hanging neatly cut, his button popping off his shirt, while Nyx brought moon and stars and light to give the dove a hint, a clue. But light hangs, melted wax on trees and grass, and seeps like rain above the moor, till all the peat sits neat, compact. He first saw air, the solid specks of dust, and reached to them, before they hit the wax. But as his wings spread out, the specks lost trust and danced away from feathered wing to glass. They struck the glass, a crack against the pane. The dove aghast to see he was to blame.

No. 29 96

Contrast Jaci Eatherton

97 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Eight Years Young Kate Smith

"SHIPS ACROSS THE OCEAN, SHIPS ACROSS THE SEA, CAPTAIN, CAPTAIN, YOU CAN'T CATCH ME!" I screamed as loud as my little lungs let me. The captain and his crew called a color that they'd like to catchâ&#x20AC;Ś Sadly I happened to have been wearing that color. I looked around to see where my best chance of escaping his capture was. If I run straight through him and his crew, they'll sweep me up, but if I run to the side I might be able to get away while they're distracted by the others running. The smell of the old school gym filled my nostrils as I ran, dodging their scurvy hands as I laughed at their failed attempts to catch me. I could see my final destination, it's getting closer. I can almost taste it. Right as I reached out to touch the blue carpeted wall, I felt a hand graze against my arm as a little girl screamed, "GOT YOU!" I slowly saw my victory float away as I hung my head in sorrow as I could've sworn I had escaped the captain's capture. As I began to walk to the center of the gym with the rest of the new crew, I realized I was parched. I ran my way over to the side of the gym where the water fountain resides. I pushed the button to dispense the refreshing iron tasting water, as the water finally reached my dry crackling throat. I heard one of the staff members walk over. He cleared his throat. "You almost got away that time!" he said, as he got closer to me. "I know, I'll escape next time though!" I giggled as I tried to down more water. He seemed to have made his way behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders, then began to squeeze a little. I lifted my head up from the water fountain and tensed up a little. "I bet you will," he said, softly squeezing my shoulders once more. I didn't exactly like that he was touching me, but I never once thought it was inappropriate. So I just shrugged my shoulders and agreed with him, and slid away from his grasp. As I walked away I saw that he didn't even grab a drink, and that's when I thought it was even more weird. Maybe he just wanted to talk, you weirdo, I thought to myself. As I continued my summer at Fun'N'Friends, a place for kids to go to after school or even during the summer when their parents are at No. 29 98

work, I had more strange encounters with that particular staff member. No matter where I decided to go, no matter where I decided to play, he was there. He always found a way to find me. The staff member's name was Brian, his stature was tall, well, I mean, taller than me. He had brown hair and beady eyes. I never tried to make eye contact with him. I heard that the eyes are the window to the soul, and I didn't want to see into his. I feared I might have seen dark things. He was about 18 at the time, still in highschool. The weird thing about that was he went to school and lived about 45 minutes away from Fun'N'Friends, where he would spend his summer volunteering, a.k.a working for free, with kids. My next major encounter with Brian was when we went to the Billiard room, if I remember that right, at least that's what I called it. It was filled with games, a pool table, a place to play house, it was just a room filled with fun. It was a few doors down from the doll room, obviously a room filled with dolls. The Billiard room was in the basement, it was a little freaky down there but it was a fun place to be. Anyway, I was playing with my friends, running around like heathens. I'd come from the doll room but since the clock was getting closer to closing time, my friends had started leaving, therefore they had to close the doll room. That didn't stop me from having fun though, so I made my way over to the Billiard room, where Brian happened to be. As I was playing, Brian watched and stared at me. Sometimes I caught him looking at me and he'd just smile. I did think in the back of my head that it was a little weird he enjoyed watching me play. I never wanted to think anything was wrong, he was a staff member and I was a kid. He is someone who was supposed to take care of me until my parents could come pick me up. He was supposed to be someone that was safe, someone that I could trust. Why would I think that he would have ill intentions? All the other staff members were nice and fun, maybe he was just bad at making friends. As the rest of my friends left one by one, we were radioed to start cleaning up the room. There were very few of us left and a whole lot of mess. Brian started helping me clean up the section I was in and kept trying to make small talk. One of the other kids got called up because his parents had come to get him. Brian told the other kid he could head up if he wanted, because we only had two other things to put away. So of course, the kid ran his way up the stairs, leaving me alone with Brian. I began to make my way towards the doorway, when I heard Brian ask me to wait for him. I stood there and paused for a second as he slowly made his way towards me. I could feel my stomach starting to turn, so I decided to continue walking. As I got about half way up the stairs, I felt his hand grab mine. 99 Upper Mississippi Harvest

"Kate?" Brain said quietly, "Can I do something really quick?" I was so confused, I just stared at him wondering what was so important that he needed me to stay for. I rested my back against the wall and pulled my hand back. "Sure." Right as I turned my face towards him to answer, I felt his lips press against mine. I was shocked, I wasn't sure what to think. I turned around to continue to walk up the stairs when he blurts out, "I just wanted to know if I was a good kisser!" I silently nodded my head and scurried back up the stairs running my way to the main room. I pulled out a chair, plopped down and took a deep breath. That hadn't been my first kiss, so this wasn't the first time a boy has kissed me. I pecked Caleb Anderson in 3rd grade and ran away giggling once, but this kiss felt different. It was longer, and he wasn't my age, he wasn't just a boy, he was a man, an adult. Is this normal? I thought, Do people just go around kissing strangers? I didn't like Brian, but I liked Caleb when I kissed him. Does Brian like me? Do adults like kids? How do I tell him I don't like him back. "Kate?" I jumped a little, I turned around to see my mother standing there, and just like that, all the questions left my head, I was so excited she had finally come to get me. I ran up to her and said I was ready to go. All I wanted was to go home where I felt safe. A few days pass, Brian was still following me like a puppy, and I was just trying to play with my friends. That day was movie day, and I was super excited. We got to watch the movie Hoot, it's about rescuing an owl. I asked David and Jesse if they'd like to come in and watch the movie with me in the theater but they rapidly shook their heads. They would rather play outside. David and Jesse were kind of like brothers to me, I was more of a tom boy who was in Taekwondo and played a little rough. They always included me and would play things I'd enjoy as well. David and I went to Elementary school together, and we met Jesse at Fun'N'Friends. Three peas in a pod. I waved goodbye as I headed inside for the movie. I made my way to the theater where the lights were turned down and the entire auditorium was quiet. I saw the red velveted seats and began to map out the best location to sit. I needed the most optimum view, not too far to the side, and not too close to the front. After some time, I finally found the perfect spot, now all I needed was for the movie to start. The theater was quiet and there were not many kids there watching, which meant no interruptions. As the movie started playing I was filled with elation. I loved animals and I could imagine myself going on a wondrous adventure trying to save an owl. During the movie, I heard No. 29 100

the door open, but I never saw anyone get up to leave. As I peeked over towards the door, I saw Brian and he was scanning the room. He happened to lock eyes with me so I quickly looked away. I knew after that, I was screwed. "How's the movie?" he asked as he moved into the seat right next to me. "Good," I replied short and abruptly. He edged in closer towards me, but I pretended not to notice and stared blankly at the screen. There was a moment of silence that passed by that felt completely blissful. I was worried he was going to try and kiss me again, but he didn't. Instead, just when I was beginning to feel comfortable, he began to start moving again and placed his hand on my lap. I could feel the heat of his hand radiating through my pants... I froze. "You like boys don't you?" he whispered in my ear. I slowly tried to wiggle my body farther back into my chair, hoping his hand would slide off. It didn't. "I think you're really cute," he whispered again. I remained frozen, not sure what to do. He began to move his hand slowly up my thigh between my legs. I felt like I was going to vomit. I thought I was only allowed to have my hands in my "square." Isn't that why it's called your private parts? He began to stimulate me and I began to feel a weird tingling sensation between my thighs. I finally unglued myself from the chair in a panic. I wasn't okay with what he was doing. "I have to pee." I ran to the bathroom where I was completely alone, and more importantly, away from him. Thoughts were racing through my head. I couldn't make them stop. What was that? Why did he do that? He's not supposed to do that. Who can I tell? I'm only a kid. My dad will be so upset with me. I know self defense, why didn't I fight? I mean, he didn't "hurt" me so would it really be self defense? Why did I freeze? I ran back outside without telling the staff where I was going. I saw Jesse and David were playing on the playground. I ran over to them and told them that Brian all summer had been annoying me and trying to do things that I didn't like. David said he wouldn't let Brian near me anymore and Jesse agreed. Some time passed while we were playing outside before Brian came out to find me. He called for me to come down off the play gym but David and Jesse were yelling at him to leave me alone. At that moment right there, they felt like real super heros to me. I couldn't thank them enough. After a while Brian gave up because I never allowed myself to be alone. I always had a buddy around me, or another staff member. All I wanted was for him to go away., 101 Upper Mississippi Harvest

This is one of the many traumatic things that has happened to me, I can't say it doesn't define me and who I am. If it didn't, I wouldn't have been shaped and grown up to be the strong woman I am today, one who speaks out and dedicates her time helping others. What I can say is, it's not ALL that defines me and who I am. With this story comes another story of strength and independence, where a young woman finally said enough was enough. It doesn't matter that it took me 13 years to put him behind bars. What matters is that I gained my closure in knowing I won't let him hurt another girl again.

No. 29 102

Deep

Scott Scribner

103 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Man on the Moon Landen Parkin

On the shore of the Sea of Tranquility he sat; inhaling nicotine and scenery Hungry for the sweet fruit of meaning; desperate for ANY "esthesia" but Silence crept in writhing and squirming on his cold spine Dust on his breath, grit in his eyes, he looked again Scrounging for that scorched paper crane from his Mother Her love folded into that delicate bird which now lay smoldering at the bottom of that hollow lunar cavity in his chest.

No. 29 104

Untitled Ariana Johnson

105 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Out of Touch Robertson Kwia

I was born in Africa, in a small country called Liberia. Like much of West Africa, Liberia is a country of dark, heavy skies emerging from bloody civil war. I was born and raised in a little village with a population of less than five hundred people. When I was young, I used to build sandcastles on the shore and I felt like a king. Even after waves destroyed my creation, I still felt like a king. I would build castles until the sun set, and my hands went numb from pain. When I got home, my mom would treat my wounds and tell me stories about her and my dad. She would talk about how they met and the feeling of falling in love. I used to question what love meant. I would wonder why love had to be such a battle. Something so precious being so harmful. Mom used to always say, "love can heal anything." I said love destroys everything. Growing up I was a canvas, primed with the way people saw me and touched with a brush dipped in only what I wanted them to know, steadied on a stained easel built by hurt. I would make a simple stroke then wipe the rest on my shirt. It wasn't the real me but who they wanted me to be. The sketchy thoughts I erased and replaced with something a little more pleasing to the eye. It hides behind layers of "I try" and "I'm fine." Pain in my eyes when I smiled, I covered it up with a mask made of pride. I remember those lonely rainy nights in Liberia, laying in the dark room while the rumbling sound of thunder filled the house. Mom waited for those types of nights before she got her cries in. She'd sit on the bed and silently cry herself to sleep. The type of cry when everyone is asleep, she held her breath while clutching her stomach to keep quiet. The one where she wanted to scream but was afraid of waking everybody up. Some nights I would lay there and listen to her cry through the night. I assumed maybe she was too weak to carry the weight my father placed on her back after he left. I was too young to work, so I considered crime. I figured if I could provide, then she wouldn't have to do everything alone. And every time she heard anything unpleasant about a man she could only find attraction in, her heart shattered. For years I was conflicted with the reality of whether it was my fault or it was God who decided a man's absence was what was best for us. There was no pain worse No. 29 106

growing up and hearing my mom cry through the night. The agony of her wails, the tearful release of her inner struggles, the mortal remembrance of her state; it all plays a role of what my father meant to her. It's a pain not everyone will know, it's a pain that I wish no one would ever have to go through. I watched mom play dad everyday while he was looking after another woman's kids. I used to wonder what we did to tick him off. Mom was always out working on her farm to provide, and sometimes she went over the top when going about discipline, but then I'd sit and think: she has to play the roles of both parents without the help of a man. She hated the sadness, and she hated the pain. I observed her and learned how to keep all my emotions inside. When I got in trouble she would beat me, but I knew it was all love. I knew she was hurting more than I was hurting. She was hurting, because he left. And that didn't mean she was heartless; it was her heart that was hurting. After, I got my beating she'd say, "I refuse to raise you to be somebody else's war." On the darkest days, when the sun didn't shine and the stars didn't align, when I felt inadequate like I wasn't good enough, my mom would give me the mother-and-son motivational speech. Sometimes I wish my father was there when we needed him the most. I needed him like a drought needs the rain, like a winter storm needs the warmth of summer rays. I'm glad he wasn't there, if I'm being honest. He left the scars in my life that reminded me what love wasn't. Life wasn't all sunshine and rainbows for me â&#x20AC;&#x201C; not a lot of good happened. I mean, good times here and there, happy seemed to disappear when dad came up. My father was nowhere to be found so I stuck it out through the pain. My spine was formed with elasticity, so I managed to handle both the downs and the ups. So, when people told me I resemble my father, I told them, "I am everything that's not him." I was nothing like him. I used to sit and think, I wanna be a father, but not like him. Grow up to be a man, but not like him. I saw him constantly make my mom upset just to one day disappeared and left me to deal with it. I used to wonder if I was the result of a woman praying for a man to change. I wish I could have hired him when I was a kid. So I could have spent more time with him, and could do the same things that fathers and sons did. I always looked up to him, but he was always out of reach. I saw him as a hero, but you know some heroes remain unseen. The smallest step in the right direction ended up being the biggest step of my life. A few years after we fled the civil war and migrated to the United States, my mom made me talk with my father once on the phone. "I didn't mean to leave you. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed me mostâ&#x20AC;Ś" He went on talking about why he left and how he failed as a father. I absorbed his words like I was regaining my fragmented 107 Upper Mississippi Harvest

soul. His words radiated through my skin, bones, and muscles. My lungs felt like a cool autumn day, like the oxygen was being wrenched out of my lungs. Some things you forget, this I couldn't. His words couldn't fix what his action broke. The phone call that day was the only real talk I ever had with my father. The night after the call, I went outside for some air. Gazing at Luna on that starry night, I watched the moon, it glowed so bright. Disappearing behind a shroud of clouds. I sat there locking eyes with the moon. Tears flew downstream, they swelled my face. Mom told me to forgive him, not cause he deserved it, but I needed it to move forward. At an early age I learned that people make mistakes, and I had to decide if their mistake was bigger than my love for them. She always managed to find light in the darkness, and that inspires me. She'd say, "Just because someone stumbles and loses their path, that doesn't mean they're lost forever." I started to find myself while picking up the pieces to my unfinished puzzle. I know, I asked God a million times to fill the spaces where truth didn't or comfort hasn't. I realized I was living in a generation where people didn't appreciate having both parents in their lives. Where people were taken their parents for granted. Sometimes, I wish my father was still alive. I never had a lot of memories, but I cherish what I remembered. All those relatives said I look just like him, and sometimes I needed guidance so I'd ask myself what he would do. I never got the chance to know him how I wanted to know him. I had a hundred questions that I wished to ask, but I kept to myself like a fatherless child. Mom raised me well; I admire the man I've become. One breath at a time, I am becoming a better version of myself. I've done a lot from Liberia, to the US, to graduating high school, and attending college. Mom says he would be proud.

No. 29 108

Jail Bate Jamie Stultz

After high school, I took a gap year. All my friends were away at college, meeting new people, no longer forced into friendships simply due to the proximity of a small-town life. I spent most of my year with people over the age of twenty-five. My boyfriend was thirty-three; his roommate's ages ranged from twenty-six to thirty something. He was taller than me, but I can't remember how much more. He was fat and had a head of thick dark hair. He always used coconut oil on it. The mild coconut smell mingled with his sweat and the cigarette smoke that lingered in his wiry, sparse beard. He usually wore black jeans and a graphic t-shirt. A plain black outline of "Dickbutt" was tattooed on one of his shoulders. When we met, he thought it important to point out he shared a name with an actor who was famous for playing a psycho. I don't feel right telling you his name. If you know him, you know him. If you are him, I'm glad that this has circulated enough for you to get your hands on it. I don't remember what the night we met felt like. I know it was August 2015, I was still planning on going to Southwest Minnesota State University, a plan that I pulled out of two days before I was supposed to move in. I had never drank before, I had planned to wait until I was twenty-one. Another plan that fell through. I only had one that night, mostly Sprite, little to no vodka. I know that everyone else smoked weed upstairs when we first got there. I just sat on the leather couch in the living room and listened to the Salt-N-Pepa song that was playing. I think it was "None of Your Business." I don't remember what it felt like to be eighteen and celebrating my first Pride with people I hardly knew, most of them I didn't know at all that night. I don't remember exactly who all was with us. We started at the house that he shared with what I thought was two roommates. Later I would find out there was another roommate in a room that was attached to the living room that I originally suspected to only be used for storage. Given that he was an alcoholic and hardly ever home, it still could have been considered that. But I didn't know about him until two thirds of the way through the relationship and I don't remember his name. Eric joined us that night being as he knew one of the girls I had come with and he was what we could call the most 109 Upper Mississippi Harvest

outgoing of the group. He played guitar in a sub-par rock band whose shows I could never go to because I was under twenty-one. Part of me feels like the last roommates name starts with a D but I cannot say that that is true. I never really saw him. My most vivid memory of him was seeing him walk down the stairs into a Halloween party that was being thrown at the house wearing an alien mask. He just stood off to the side for a while, not really talking to anyone from what I could tell. The black angled eyes of the crumpled green alien staring out into the room. I had been drinking so details are limited. I know roommate "D" lived in the room at the top of the stairs. He spent some time with the group before we left the house to go to the gay bar during Pride, but I'm pretty sure he didn't go with. This could be wrong too. I know I panicked when I got separated from them on the dance floor and that I felt a bit of relief when a girl started dancing with me, but panic slowly kicked in as I realized I didn't know what I was doing, I had never danced with a girl before. I don't remember exactly how it felt to be there on a presumably warm and sweaty dance floor. The Gay 90s was packed because gay marriage had been legalized that year. This wasn't dancing like I danced with my friends. This was the kind of dancing that television told me leads to getting someone's number. This girl was pretty. With my limited experience with the queer community, my brain told me she must have been some kind of gay because she had her armpit hair grown out. Another girl joined us and I was sandwiched, surrounded on both sides by feminine creatures that I had no idea what to do with. They probably pitied me. I feel like I blacked out in panic because I don't even remember how I got back to the group of people I had come with. I hope those girls didn't think they did something wrong. I followed my party to the smoking deck and stood there and I told them I was having a great time. I don't remember if that was the truth or not. I don't remember going back to the house we were staying at, or what time it was. I remember Ivy, a girl I had come with, falling asleep on the black leather couch while we talked on the tan one that was riddled with stains that sat next to it. I know that people slowly filtered out of the living room. I remember that he and I kept talking, but I don't remember what about or how it led to him smoking a cigarette on the porch at 5 A.M., with me sitting on one of their many porch chairs for the first time. Something that would continue to occur nearly every other week for the next few months. Until it snowed and the seats weren't worth sitting on. I don't remember how that led to a kiss, or to his bedroom, or me feeling safe around him. I certainly don't remember what that safety felt like. I don't remember much from the parade the next day, the ride home, or what I told my parents. But it wasn't the truth. It was probably a short outline of the last twenty-four hours, omitting a lot of details such No. 29 110

as the gay stuff and the fact I had stayed up all night with a man fourteen years my senior. Even after he and I were official, I lied about his age so that he would be closer to my age than theirs. Sometimes he would visit Brainerd and we would hang out with Linda, his roommate Eric's mom who also acted as his mother figure. He lost his mom during high school to an overdose, I think to meth, but he never told me. He said that meth was the only drug he'd never do. At one point he told me that if Eric's girlfriend at the time hadn't shown up to the Pride celebration, he would have tried to "jump my bones." I'm not sure why he told me that though. All through high school I had avoided drinking, Linda was an alcoholic, as were a number of people within the group. Some of them were recovering and smoked weed instead. Some drank and smoked weed, almost all of them smoked cigarettes. I consistently felt as though I had to prove myself. I had to be mature enough to hang out with them, to be dating a thirty-three year old. I would drink, but not enough to be stupid, and I would smoke weed, but just end up silently overthinking in a corner. Mostly I stayed quiet. It was better to be quiet than embarrassing. Even as Linda told me to loosen up and mixed me a drink while she yelled at people who didn't put enough ice in their drinks, her head slowly tilting backwards to see out of her glasses that had moved from the top of her head to the tip of her nose as the night went on. This was how I saw adulthood, these people were filmmakers and they were who, to an extent, I aspired to be. As far as I could tell, they had all fought to get where they were, none of them appeared to have it easy in any way. Though I can't say I knew any of them very well, not even my boyfriend. It always felt like I had so much more to know about him. I thought I had so much I could learn from them. All of them had their on-set jobs. I met people who aspired to be writers, directors, and cinematographers. One of his friends was a gaffer that I would see a few years later working on a film set I had found out about through school. They were all working in some variety or another, struggling to make it and do what they loved. I had wanted to go into film since middle school and being around these strangers showed me that it was possible to follow this dream. One time I went with him while he filmed a project for one of the classes he was taking. I wanted to help, but all he ended up having me do was watch the gear. Our break-up isn't something I'm proud of. I had gotten to a point where I was tired of the relationship, but afraid to let go of it. I didn't know what to do. I was afraid of him and I cheated on him. It's no excuse, to be afraid. It's something I think about constantly. I never told him I cheated. I only told him that I put my head on the guy's shoulder. My boyfriend freaked out and told me he could never trust me ever again. 111 Upper Mississippi Harvest

He threatened to hurt himself and made it sound like I had ended the world as he knew it. Though the guilt of the truth weighed on my chest, along with the heartbreak of the end of this relationship I had thrown myself into, a weight felt lifted from my shoulders. A few weeks later, he would try to guilt me back into dating him by telling me he had done heroin because nothing was stopping him now, and it made him feel like we were back together. He didn't like who I had become. The reality was he didn't like the person I had been suppressing. I was nineteen, I was supposed to be immature. I was trying so hard to fit into his box, being cool, being calm, drinking, smoking. I was fine with his cigarettes even though the smell stuck in my hair and my clothes and made my skin feel like it had a thin layer of grime on it. I dressed the way he wanted me to. I would wear dresses he picked out, skirts with white cotton tights and a form fitting v-neck tucked into a high waist. I wore makeup every day, but especially when I was visiting him. There was one time I had lent him twenty dollars to help pay for a camera lens. Instead of paying me pack with cash, he bought me dress. I assume that it was off of Amazon. It was like a short-sleeved version of Wednesday Addam's dress. I don't have it anymore. I avoided telling him about my high school experiences because it made him uncomfortable to think about how long-ago high school had been for him. He hated my youth but tried to relive his through me by telling me how to make the best choices for my future. He thought he knew better because he had already lived and failed. His words, not mine. Months after we broke up, he hand-wrote me an eight-page letter that I didn't read, I held onto it for a few months and then burned it. At one point he sent me a text that said the neighbor girl had dyed her hair blue and he kept seeing her and thinking it was me. I tried to visit him once, but I had a panic attack. My whole body was tense, and I felt incapable of even trying to achieve any variety of closure that either of us may have wanted. A tornado touched down in St. Cloud while I was driving to his house. My mom and my roommate had texted me, but I didn't look at my phone for hours because I was embarrassed of the fact I had given him even a moment more of my time. When I finally saw the messages, my mom was in a panic and upset with me for not even mentioning that I had been going anywhere. The good news was I hadn't been thrown into a ditch by a tornado. This wasn't the output he had had in mind. He made sure I knew when he started having sex with a new woman who was his age. He told me that after he told her about me, she said I reminded her of herself at my age. I'm not sure what that meant, or what he told her exactly. It's hard to remember everything that happened in the eight months we were official and the two or three months that followed the No. 29 112

break-up. I remember feeling anxious constantly. Even now I sometimes smell something similar to coconut oil and cigarettes and my body goes stiff, my heart rate rises, and I have to look over my shoulder to make sure he's not there. Sometimes I lay in bed, kept up by flashes of the blue tile in the shower, the view from his balcony, the X- Files poster above his TV, the blue and red lights he had hung up above his bed. It's clichĂŠ but I learned a lot from that relationship. I wouldn't take it back, but I'm glad that my memories aren't that clear.

113 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Eric Clapton Unplugged and Antiques Alexander Jensen

"Lately I've been running on faithâ&#x20AC;Ś" I never understood why bugs hit the windshield. I mean, if a person actually considered the physics of the whole situation, one would naturally conclude that tiny little bugs should simply swoosh over vehicles instead of exploding into them. The opaque cashmere splatters across the glass of my parents' Grand Am, however, served as a taunting reminder that my physics assessment was incorrect. I can remember trying to process the final moments of a dragonfly. Perhaps it had a morning routine; a particular route that it enjoyed traveling. Could it be plausible that upon contacting the glass he or she was in fact midsentence, conversing with a dear friend during their morning commute to the field across the road? Dragonflies, I concluded, must be multitaskers, effortlessly articulating four wings independently in the same manner a bank teller can apply her makeup while steering with her knee. Surely, they bear witness to their own version of rush hour, for the same sun that reflects from their chromatic green shells must also shimmer on the hoods of silver Kia's stuck in traffic. They see the same world, only from a different perspective. The car was two-toned. A dark gray body trimmed by a lighter gray molding along the bottom, with both shades being interrupted by scattered rust spots along body lines and trim panels. I always felt as if the rust were somehow alive, boiling as lesions that had struggled to surface. Perhaps they were in fact awkward, obscure life forms, fighting to reach some unknown goal. Symbiotic cultures of red and brown barnacles gasping for air as if attached to the breaching hull of an old ship. Trying to catch a brief reprieve from the mundane, repetitive nature of daily life. Looking back, I wonder if my parents' weekend antique adventures were their own gasps for air. A whole-hearted attempt at a breath of Saturday freedom. At the time I didn't see it that way. I saw it from my perspective, which was one of a child being dragged along on another weekend road trip. We were looking at the same world, just from a different perspective. Splat. "What else can a poor boy doâ&#x20AC;Ś" No. 29 114

Money never really made sense to me. How tiny green pieces of paper with strange cross-hatched faces could cause such turmoil and angst was beyond me. I never really knew where it came from, or for that matter where it went. It just always seemed to cause stress, especially between parents. Especially at night. Whatever it was, money did seem to make things easier. It bought "Coming Home Jennie-O" turkey roasts and Western dressing, Levi's Husky Jeans and Jansport backpacks. Most of all, it bought antiques. Lots of antiques. It seemed as if every weekend I was stuffed in the back of the Pontiac, my face stuck to the window as faded barns and mildew-covered mobile homes whizzed past in a blur. It became my calling to analyze the cassette tapes kept in the case behind the driver's seat. The black plastic container resembled a shoebox, with a handle on one end and a hinge on the other. The purple clasp could be lifted and along with it the lid would rise. Who were these strange men with long hair and shaggy beards? If there was Fire on the Mountain, then why was the other one running Against the Wind? I never did figure out what was so special about Layla, but apparently Katmandu is an interesting place to visit. All I knew was that if I was given a dollar for every time I listened to the Pretty Woman soundtrack, I would have been worth more than Richard Gere's character ever was. Without fail, at the very moment I felt my life would expire, we would arrive at some variety or another of farm place. Some were well kept, others were unkempt, and either way it seemed like the adults just kept talking. The spoils of these trips were as much a mystery to me as the appeal of antiques. A few oddities could be fit in the trunk, but usually arrangements were made to haul ghastly pieces of pastel painted furniture to our doorstep. Honestly, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really know how they showed up in the driveway, all I know is that they did. Packed along the walls of the garage, a wide variety of chests, dressers, and cabinets became temporary guests of the drafty old building. The nuances that made one piece of furniture better than another was beyond me. After all, wood was wood, or so I thought. Yet apparently some were better, much better, and apparently worth money if the paint was removed. "But my world will be rightâ&#x20AC;Ś" I didn't really pay attention to much of anything in my childhood. It seemed as if every time I looked out the window, my dad would be working on antique furniture in the driveway. The sun always fought its way through the black walnut trees, framing the moment as if a spotlight was shining on a distant stage. An orchestra of cicadas would crescendo and fade in the still summer heat, echoing off the flaking paint of the tan 115 Upper Mississippi Harvest

garage below them. Tubular clear plastic bags of steel wool were usually scattered across the work-table next to the garage, the white lettering of the logo starkly juxtaposed against its wrinkled black background. Next to these were assortments of canned furniture stripper, rectangular in shape and strictly prohibited from being touched. A corded Black and Decker heat gun would run for hours on end, working in tandem with the putty knife that trailed behind it. A product of the 80s, the spoked silver-tipped nozzle made quick work of countless layers of gaudy paint, casting ribbons of blue and pink and green onto the gravel below. I never understood why, but it seemed that in these moments, he was happy. "When love comes over youâ&#x20AC;Ś" I think the accuracy of childhood impressions are often undervalued. Indeed, seeing something for the first time is perhaps the most accurate way to see it at all. Simplistic and accurate, these initial views on the world find success in their innocence. Maybe existence itself is nothing more than awkward obscurity, a struggle to reach a distant surface for unknown reasons. Each life gasping for air between waves of complication caused by cartoon faces on notes of imagined worth. Satisfaction found in securing the wherewithal to uncover the potential in situations that others have overlooked, removing layers of varnish to expose a vulnerable surface. Most importantly, if we are lucky, it may give us an orchestra and stage with which to be happy.

No. 29 116

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 in the subject line of your email. If you are submitting to multiple genres, please send separate emails with your submissions for each one, i.e. 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 Submission, and so on. Remove your name from the individual documents, so that only the title is present on each submission. 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. http://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 piece 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: 1-3 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 in order to qualify. 117 Upper Mississippi Harvest

Acknowledgements For her tireless, dedicated, and beautiful work, the first person we'd like to recognize is Marguerite Crumley who is primarily responsible for the aesthetically pleasing journal you hold in your hands. We'd also like to thank those who submitted work and the authors whose work appears in this year's Harvest. We very much appreciate the support and participation you've given us. Thank you all. A huge thanks to our editing teams who conducted their work with passion, efficiency, precision, and good will. It's been a pleasure and an honor working with this year's team. We'd like to thank Dr. Judith Dorn, Co-Chairperson of the English Department for her everlasting support of the arts and of all those who endeavor to keep creativity an essential part of life. A final thanks to our lovely, thoughtful faculty advisor, Professor Shannon Olson. Without her grace, care, and guidance, Harvest would not have the heart that it does. We love you dearly, Shannon.

The Upper Mississippi Harvest Head Editors, Mykell Jeannette Stavem & Chyann Erickson

No. 29 118

"As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons." Lorrie Moore, Who Will Run the Frog Hospital? (Shannon)

"Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them -- if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's poetry." J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (Mykell)

"But it seems reasonable to believe – and I do believe – that the more clearly we can focus our attention on the wonders and realities of the universe about us the less taste we shall have for the destruction of our race. Wonder and humility are wholesome emotions, and they do not exist side by side with a lust for destruction." Rachel Carson (Chyann)

"I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I must have changed several times since then." Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (Chinyin)

"I think I made you up inside my head." Sylvia Plath (Casey)

119 Upper Mississippi Harvest

"When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful." Malala Yousafzai (Kayla)

"Perhaps the great error is believing we're alone," Tracy K Smith, My God it's Full of Stars. (Michelle)

"It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting." Paulo Cohelo, The Alchemist (Quinton)

"If I fall, I'll fall five feet four inches forward in the fight for freedom." Fannie Lou Hamer (Araya)

"I write so I can breathe These thoughts need air And so do I." Meg Junky (Vendela)

"As terrifying and painful as reality can be, it's also the only place where you can find true happiness." Earnest Cline (Alyssa)

No. 29 120

"Songs can be incredibly prophetic, like subconscious warnings or messages to myself, but I often don't know what I'm trying to say till years later. Or a prediction comes true and I couldn't do anything to stop it, so it seems like a kind of useless magic." Florence Welch, Useless Magic (Abigail)

"Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light." J.K.Rowling, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Kseniia)

"Drive away and try to keep smiling. Get a little rock and roll on the radio and go toward all the life there is with all the courage you can find and all the belief you can muster. Be true, be brave, stand. All the rest is darkness." Stephen King, IT (Marguerite)

121 Upper Mississippi Harvest

TPS 201153

123 Upper Mississippi Harvest

SCSU Literary & Art Magazine fiction

poetry

nonfiction

media