Sequel 2016-2017 Faculty Advisor: Kathrin Herr, '13 Editor-in-Chief: Kat McCaffery, '17 SC Publications Editing Team: Virginia Atwell, '17 Sidney Griffith, '17 Hannah Hummel, '19 Kat McCaffery, '17 Shelby Minnmann, '18 Jake VanBaale, '17 Ethan Zierke, '17 Special thanks to the English department as well as the Office of Marketing and Public Relations for their assistance with this publication.
The content in Sequel is not representative of the opinions of Simpson College. Subject matter may be sensitive to some readers.
Contents What up Dawg
Photography
Taylor Gehrls
The Path Not Taken
Photography
Lauren Myers
"I Deserve It!" How I Claim
Nonfiction
Shelby Minnmann
Divide
Photorgaphy
Garrett Abell
Where the Wind Carries You
Photography
Sarah Miller
Salem Court
Photography
Lauren Myers
What the Maples Whispered
Photography
Sarah Miller
Mo'orea
Photography
Sidney Griffith
Dear Mountains
Poetry
Virginia Atwell
Lower Necklace Lake
Visual Art
Jeffrey T. O'Boyle
Bryggerekka
Photography
Lauren Myers
Chickens in the Hallway
Nonfiction
Mark Bates
Change of Perspective
Photography
Grace Shemanski
Looking For a Ladybug
Photography
Dana Quick-Naig
Short Tempered
Photography
Zoei Tonkinson
Take Me to Church
Photography
Lauren Myers
60
Poetry
Shelby Minnmann
Quiet Time
Photography
Karen Collins
Apology
Poetry
Ethan Zierke
Neverland
Photography
Lauren Myers
Morning Rain
Photography
Dana Quick-Naig
Bull River Montana
Visual Art
Jeffrey T. O'Boyle
Golden Hour
Poetry
Sidney Griffith
Dew of the Storm
Photography
Sarah Miller
Leap of Faith
Photography
Sidney Griffith
Canyons
Poetry
Virginia Atwell
Mystical Churchyard
Photography
Karen Collins
Stumbling Through the Fog
Nonfiction
Jake VanBaale
My Education
Contents Cont. Seeking Wind in Duluth
Photography
Karen Collins
I am a Woman
Poetry
Katie Dean
Grey Beach Day
Photography
Grace Shemanski
"Don't Eat That!" Essentially a
Poetry
Shelby Minnmann
Beauty Hidden Beneath
Photography
Tiffany Berkenens
Untitled
Photography
Zoei Tonkinson
For my Brother, Not Just Any
Poetry
Kat McCaffery
Robert E. Portrait
Visual Art
Jeffrey T. O'Boyle
Enjoy the Ride
Photography
Lauren Myers
Close Call
Photography
Grace Shemanski
Perfect Drive
Photography
Grace Shemanski
Trondheim
Photography
Lauren Myers
Do You Paint with Disaster?
Poetry
Sidney Griffith
Color Madness
Visual Art
Garrett Abell
Surviving Vietnam
Fiction
Courtney Neuendorf
Take Flight
Photography
Garrett Abell
Machines
Poetry
Sidney Griffith
I'm Just Chilling in
Photography
Lauren Myers
Haikus
Poetry
Ethan Zierke
Wrapped in Music
Photography
Katie Dean
Home for the Holiday
Photography
Taylor Gehrls
Urban Eye
Photography
Tiffany Berkenens
Tin Man's Lament
Poetry
Shelby Minnmann
Confusion
Photography
Dana Quick-Naig
Mystery
Visual Art
Garrett Abell
The Stranger
Poetry
Ethan Zierke
Heddal
Photography
Lauren Myers
Find Me at Ahquabi
Photography
Taylor Gehrls
Writer's Block
Poetry
Kat McCaffery
Greedy Squirrel
Photography
Garrett Abell
Break-Up
Boy: 10 Things You Need to Know About Being the Little Sister
Cedar Rapids
What up Dawg Taylor Gehrls | Photography
The Path Not Taken Lauren Myers | Photography
"I Deserve It!" How I Claim My Education Shelby Minnmann | Nonfiction
Reading Adrienne Rich’s “Claiming an Education” has become a tradition since I started Simpson. Every fall for a class I have been assigned to read it, and each time I reread this speech, I am always ready to zip up my combat boots and smash the patriarchy! Getting to college was a tremendous challenge for me due to my eyesight, anxiety and depression, and financial situation. As a result of self-advocating, determination, and resources like IDB (Iowa Department for the Blind), I am able to be a semi-sane, blind junior at a liberal arts college without any loans.
The first thing I love about Rich’s speech is that she includes the definition “to claim.” She reiterates how important it is as a woman to assert oneself and take what is yours. As a child with a visual impairment, I learned people could see things I could not. I soon realized that if I didn’t speak up for myself and ask questions, I would remain unheard; therefore, I sought to self-advocate. I have been a self-advocate since I was little. I got into a fight with a substitute teacher in second grade when she wouldn’t let me sit closer to the blackboard. When I declared that I couldn’t see from my usual seat, the sub insisted I return anyway and my incomplete work would be my own fault. As my own self-advocate, I ignored the sub, finished my work sitting close to the blackboard, and went back to my seat with a sassy smirk, refusing to go to the principal because I hadn’t done anything but finish my work.
Another part of Rich’s speech that stands out to me is her stance on responsibility. Responsibility and determination go hand in hand. She writes, “Responsibility to yourself means refusing to let others do your thinking, talking, and naming for you; it means learning to
respect and use your own brains and instincts; hence, grappling with hard work.” Claiming what you want to do is your responsibility, but actually taking responsibility takes drive and determination. As a woman who is constantly asked why she doesn’t have a boyfriend, my answer is, “I’m pursuing an education.” I want to learn and experience and make connections as a person before I make experiences as a girlfriend. I am always pushing myself toward good grades, learning new things, and stepping out of my comfort zone. I want to be the best me, and the best me is a singular being. I am determined to graduate from my dream school (Simpson College) with good grades, no loans, and limitless opportunities because I have pushed myself, worked hard, and fought everyone who told me college was a waste of time.
Lastly, Rich’s speech gives me a sense of belonging. Every word and thought expressed matches a piece of me. Inside my head is a whirlpool of ideas and dreams that always seem to be waiting for validation of existence; reading “Claiming an Education” is a reassurance that I am not a waste of space, I have every right to fight for my education, and I do not owe anyone an explanation for doing so. No matter how many times I read this piece or how many markings I make, I will always have a small eruption of fireworks that repeats, “I deserve it!” My rights, my education, and my life are all pieces of me. I have earned them, I deserve them, and no one can take them from me.
Divide Garrett Abell | Photography
Where the Wind Carries You Sarah Miller | Photography
Salem Court Lauren Myers | Photography
What the Maples Whispered Sarah Miller | Photography
Mo'orea Sidney Griffith | Photography
Dear Mountains Virginia Atwell | Poetry
Dear Mountains, Remember me?
I walked barefoot in your fog, Ran through your timbers, Kissed pebbles from your ponds That left moss on my lips.
I felt your rain on my shoulders, Wind on my spine like sun, A covenant from God; I promised I would always love you.
I’ve drawn endless horizons, Whispered hundreds of hopes, All moving to see, feel, And find home in you.
I left my heart in your caverns, My lungs in your altitude. Every dream I’ve ever had Ends with you.
Dear Mountains, Stay blue.
Lower Necklace Lake Jeffrey T. O'Boyle |Â Visual Art
Bryggerekka Lauren Myers | Photography
Chickens in the Hallway Mark Bates | Nonfiction
One of the most rewarding experiences for a Study Abroad Director has always been the one student who makes the often problematic trip to another country worthwhile. Spending months at a time with students can be taxing; you often play the role of father, mother, brother, friend, and sometimes the priest that is about to hear the most horrific of confessions. The job can be a seemingly endless drudgery of problems, conflicts, and tensions, often on a twenty-four hour basis and rarely with a word of gratitude or thanks. I remember once a student called me at 1 a.m. to inform me that he had ants in his bedroom creeping ever so closely to his bed. When I asked if he had alerted his host mother, he retorted, “Well, I didn’t want to wake her!” When a director returns from abroad, the most wellintentioned colleagues ask such questions as, “How was your sabbatical?” It takes considerable self-restraint to smile and say, “I was abroad with students last semester,” and then a superhuman talent not to transform into the incredible Hulk when they respond with, “Well, isn’t that the same thing?” After all, anyone who has taken on the responsibility for the lives and well-being of fifteen or so young, inexperienced, and often naïve college students knows all too well that a semester abroad more closely resembles six months at sea on a Japanese whaling ship than a sabbatical.
However, that one special student can make all the difference; he or she can turn a burden into joy with an unceasing spirit of wonder and curiosity, a boundless sense of humor, a flawless presence of grace, and a gritty determination to maximize the study abroad experience. In all my years serving as a study abroad director, that one exceptional student was Jason Reynolds.
Jason always wore a smile for any occasion; a sheepish little grin would slowly expand across his round, pudgy face. In any situation, no matter how trying, he displayed an ever-positive outlook that he sported like a Medal of Honor. No matter how seemingly impossible the task, Jason believed it could be accomplished, often convincing other naysayers to adopt his point of view. I remember that when I accompanied him to the site of his chosen internship—the tremendously understaffed and underfunded Managua Zoo
—his face beamed with excitement as we walked the 100-meter path from the bus stop along the Carretera a Masaya to the dilapidated entrance to the park, a crumbling set of stone arches that should have been replaced years ago. While I stepped carefully in order to avoid the huge rocks on the uneven surface that seemed more of a path than a road, Jason sprinted exuberantly down the trail like a boy from the Midwest on his first snipe hunt. I called out for him to wait for me several times. Once we entered the zoo, we proceeded to the director’s office to meet with her concerning the procedures associated with Jason’s internship. She informed us of the exact nature of Jason’s assigned task. He would be cleaning the habitats of the rhinos and elephants, those large animals that seemed to be the most poorly adapted to the dry, scorching heat of Managua. In other words, Jason was going to be shoveling crap for the next three months. A radiant beam of happiness flushed across Jason’s chubby cheeks. Only he could be this elated about performing such a dirty job.
Let me clarify an important point: the Managua Zoo is no ordinary zoo. Located near the slopes of the massive Masaya Volcano, whose red, radiant core spews out copious clouds of sulfuric gas, the zoo rests in one of the driest, rockiest, God-forsaken places between the two great lakes of Nicaragua. Although much older, the zoo was given a new chance at life in 1997 when the organization Friends of the Nicaraguan Zoo took charge of the care and management of the facility. The website Vianica.com describes the zoo in these terms: “Its installations are simple and quite rustic due to the little governmental aid that the zoo receives, and there are only few private companies that support the zoo as a form of charity.”
So imagine, if you will, a poorly-funded, rundown zoo placed in the hottest zone at the base of an active volcano. While most of us would run away shrieking at the idea of cleaning elephant feces in a 100-degree pit with little or no resources, Jason believed he had found paradise. Jason would wake at 4 a.m. every weekday morning, donning his beige uniform and entrance badge to catch the 5 a.m. bus bound for Ticuantepe. He never once complained of the horrific working conditions, the lack of supplies or personnel, or the long hours he spent at his internship site. He took on this overwhelming task with a can-do attitude and a never-say-die resolve.
After his long days of work at the zoo and my grammar classes in the afternoon, at night, and on the weekends, Jason would frequent my small apartment, nestled behind the house of one of our host families. He loved practicing his Spanish with me, and anyone else for that matter, trying his best to retain a non-English experience. He rarely had the chance to speak with his co-workers at the zoo, except when a young man named Jairo would be assigned to assist with the feeding and care of the animals. Jason became well versed in the Spanish vocabulary of things associated with the zoo, such as the manguera, the water hose he used to douse the elephants or the pala, the shovel, the most important tool he and Jairo used to clean up the waste and lay down new hay for the elephants.
I became impressed with Jason’s dedication and enjoyed his good nature and warm, open personality. His laughter was infectious; he could find some grain of humor in any situation. His round cheeks would shake from side to side as his tremolous voice would belt out a gregarious roar not unlike that of the lethargic lions, which sat in small cages just down the way from the elephant and rhino habitats. Jason’s portly frame would gyrate to the rhythm of his guffaws. In short, it was a pleasure to be in his company.
So it came as quite a shock when I received the telephone call from Doña Alba, Jason’s host mother, that warm Saturday morning in March when I was still glancing at the sports section of La Prensa and sipping on my freshly-brewed coffee. Her normally calm voice sounded panicked as she recounted the events of the past twelve hours. Jason had returned that Friday afternoon with a fever and a cold sweat. He had refused his dinner that evening, claiming a lack of hunger—something rather unusual for the young man with the normally voracious appetite. During the night she had heard him coughing, even gaging at times, and had noticed that he had gotten up several times in the night. Now this morning when she entered his room, she touched his forehead, hot with fever. His bed was drenched in sweat, and he tossed and turned with alarming frequency.
“Professor,” she gasped, “Jason cannot breathe. Please come quickly.”
I reluctantly deposited my coffee into the sink, folded the paper to finish later, and asked Doña Sonia next door if I could borrow her old Toyota
Corolla with the bad clutch. I headed straight to Jason’s host family’s house, a sort of combination boarding house and convenience store called a pulpería in Nicaragua. The clear downside of such an arrangement was the constant noise and traffic of the clients; the obvious benefit manifested itself in the instant availability of almost anything you could want at three o’clock in the morning. On this sunny Saturday morning, however, what Jason needed couldn’t be found in the pulpería. When I arrived, a nervous Doña Alba escorted me to Jason’s room where two large ventilation fans roared at each side of the bed in an effort to keep the young man as cool as possible. I gently nudged him, and as he turned toward me, I could see his sweat-bathed sheets and the stark redness of his skin. His face, in sharp contrast, was a cream-colored shade of pale, reminiscent of corpses displayed at a funeral viewing.
“How are you feeling, Jason?” I asked in a worried tone. I tried to make it sound as upbeat as possible.
“Oh I just have the flu, I think. I will be fine in a couple of days,” he responded in a raspy voice. It seemed disembodied. I leaned over and touched his forehead; I could tell he was running a very high fever. Despite his insistence that all he needed was a few days’ rest, I made Jason get up, splash some cold water on his face, and throw on a shirt and gym shorts so I could take him to see our program doctor, Dra. Magdalena.
I could easily write an entire short story about Dra. Magdalena. Her short, stout stature made her seem like a character from the Smurfs. Her dark, olive skin revealed her indigenous heritage, typical of the people of her native Masaya. She always seemed to be in a hurry, running off to take care of this or that impending emergency. I remember that I had called her because of a constant pain I felt in my neck. Like a guerrilla fighter, she entered the room, asked a few questions about my pain, reached into her bag for a syringe filled with diclofenac, administered the shot, and before I had time to announce its miraculous effects, she mumbled that she needed to leave immediately and that I owed her a hundred cordobas. Without another word and with the cash in hand, she was gone. Over the years, I came to trust and admire her, although she seemed to live her life on the edge of constant financial disaster. On this Saturday morning, she
happened to be holding office hours in her clinic, located in a strip mall alongside the New Cathedral constructed by the owner of a Domino’s pizza place. With great haste due to the obviously dire circumstance, I loaded up the increasingly frail Jason into the rickety old Toyota Corolla, and we zoomed off to Dra. Magdalena’s clinic.
Luckily the clinic was nearly empty, save for an old man with a bloody bandage on his left foot and an obviously pregnant woman in a heated debate with her husband over his whereabouts for the last two nights. When Dra. Magdalena saw Jason, along with his pallor and increasing redness, she rushed him into the nurse’s station to take his vitals. A nurse in a neat, bright-white uniform took his temperature, now registering a worrisome 103° F. Dra. Magdalena directed the nurse to strategically place ice packs on the pressure points of his body. The nurse also administered a large dose of Tylenol to Jason in hopes of at least controlling his raging fever.
“Is all of this really necessary?” Jason asked. Dra. Magdalena nodded affirmatively and ushered him into a small room where she ordered him to take off his clothes and put on a surgical gown that barely covered his bright red skin. She had her suspicions of the cause of Jason’s malady, and she had ordered an ultrasound imaging to confirm the suspicions. The clinic boasted such a machine on premises since the majority of Dra. Magdalena’s patients were women like the one in the waiting room still arguing with her husband, who by now was threatening to leave her at the clinic if she didn’t stop nagging him about his drinking. Jason rested on a long gurney while Dra. Magdalena passed the probe of the ultrasound over Jason’s lower tract. Her suspicions were confirmed: acute appendicitis—so acute that an operation was needed immediately. Jason’s dismissals had turned into a bewildering series of gestures followed by a series of grunts and finally the exclamation, “Cool, I am going to get an operation!” The final thing that Dra. Magdalena needed was a second opinion by a recognized expert. So with lightning-bolt speed, she sent the old man with the bloody foot to the hospital, told the couple to take their fight elsewhere, and instructed the nurse to close the clinic as we set off in the old Toyota Corolla to find the surgeon who would confirm her diagnosis.
Dra. Magdalena barked out the order, “To the Hotel Intercontinental, and
make it fast.” I was confused, but I put the car’s one remaining gear in motion, and we headed south toward the Rotunda Rubén Darío. Little did we know that a half-hour earlier, Dra. Magdalena had called her good friend Dr. Garza, a specialist in appendicitis as well as an accomplished surgeon. When she called his office, she was unable to reach him. If we had been in the U.S., that would have been the end of the story, but we were in Nicaragua where a solution to any problem can be found, usually in one of its outdoor markets. If you need a shoe repaired, no problem! Take it to the market. If you need a dent in your car fixed for twenty bucks, no problem! There is a guy in the market who will do it. However, Dra. Magdalena solved our dilemma with a call to Dr. Garza’s wife, who informed her that Dr. Garza was at a medical conference at the Hotel Intercontinental. Again in the U.S., that would have been “all she wrote.” But when we arrived at the lobby of the hotel, an even paler Jason and I took a seat in the large, overstuffed sofas in the air conditioning while Dra. Magdalena sprinted into the midmorning session entitled, “When Good Livers Go Bad.” She grabbed Dr. Garza and brought him to the lobby of the hotel. After having greeted us with a most cheery “Buenos días,” he examined the ultrasound images, nodded his head in unison with Dra. Magdalena, and finally reached for his cell phone. In a matter of moments, it was all arranged. I was instructed to take Jason to the state-of-the-art Hospital Militar at 6 p.m. where around nine o’clock Dr. Garza would work his magic and remove the offending appendix. If all went well, Jason would be out of recovery by midnight, and I could take him home. Both he and Dra. Magdalena nodded in unison again; even Jason joined the duo, despite wincing in pain from time to time.
Dr. Garza stated emphatically, “This must be done tonight or never.”
Now I was confronted with the moment that every study abroad director dreads: the odious phone call back to the United States to the unsuspecting parents announcing some horrific news or life-threatening emergency. I fumbled in my wallet for the list of phone numbers I kept in the slot beneath my credit cards, a list I hoped I would never have to use. I found the number for Jason’s parents and reached into my pocket for my phone, praying that I still had enough available time on my pre-paid phone card to make an international call back to the United States.
As I slowly pushed each number on the small cell phone I had purchased for such emergencies, like the time I had to rescue a group of students who had been detained by the police for not carrying their passports, I realized that given this nightmarish situation, I was quite fortunate. Jason was unquestionably the lowest-maintenance student on the program. After all, who else would have exclaimed, “Cool, I am going to get an operation!” I imagined what would happen if I were calling the mother of one of the young women in the group, now profusely shedding tears and shrieking in pain every thirty seconds. I envisioned the parent delivering some melodramatic diatribe and threatening lawsuits if anything should happen to her baby. I took a deep breath as I heard each buzz of the annoying international ringtone, rehearsing the words I would say when Mr. or Mrs. Reynolds would finally answer the call. Perhaps I should start off apologetically, “Hello, Mrs. Reynolds? I am sorry to bother you like this, but your son’s life hangs in the…” No, no, I thought. I should get right to the point: “Mrs. Reynolds? Mark Bates here. Jason has been diagnosed with acute appendicitis and if he doesn’t have surgery tonight he will….” No, I can’t do it that way either. I needed a subtler approach.
But now I was out of time. Mrs. Reynolds answered the phone with an optimistic “Hello!” typical of a Midwesterner, as if she had just finished baking ten pies to be auctioned off at the church bazaar next Sunday. Realizing I should have practiced my opening line with greater attention to detail, I searched in vain for the right words to begin our necessary conversation.
“Umm-uh…Mrs. Reynolds…umm I…” I mumbled like a sixth grader that didn’t know the answer to a question his overbearing teacher had just asked him.
Mrs. Reynolds stopped my babbling by getting right to the point, “It’s Jason, isn’t it? You can be straight with me. What’s wrong?”
Having been rescued from my predicament by a mother’s intuition, I sighed in relief and blurted out the sentence I should have thought of in the first place. “Yes, Mrs. Reynolds. Jason has been diagnosed with acute appendicitis, both by our program physician and an expert surgeon in the field of internal medicine.” I heard silence on the other end, which I took as
a good sign. I continued, “It isn’t a matter of alternatives. According to Dr. Garza, Jason’s appendix is acutely inflamed and must be removed tonight. Mrs. Reynolds, I am not asking for your approval, but I must have your permission to operate in order to proceed.” Boy, I thought, that sounded good!
For a moment, I heard silence. I knew that she would have some questions, but I never anticipated the question she asked with all sincerity. “Professor Bates,” she whispered as if she wanted no one to overhear her, “I just have one question.”
“Of course,” I responded directly, trying to reassure her that I was in complete control of the situation and that I had Jason’s best interests at heart, “ask any question and I will be happy to answer it to the best of my ability.”
“Professor Bates,” she continued in a barely-audible voice, “are there chickens running in the hallways of the hospital?”
I was stunned. I hoped that Mrs. Reynolds hadn’t heard the sound of my jaw dropping on the floor and shattering into a million pieces. Not that “the chicken question” (as I referred to it years later) qualifies as a stupid question—not at all. Instead, those of us who teach language and culture should be surprised we don’t hear “chicken questions” more often. Why, you ask? Well, let me tell you. Without exception, the U.S. remains one of the most ethnocentric and culturally unaware nations in the world. When I was organizing the first Nicaraguan program for Simpson College in 2000, some parents would inquire, “Nicaragua...aren’t they still fighting down there?” or “Nicaragua—just where in Africa is that?” But alas, we have only ourselves to blame. We raise our children with the belief that the U.S. is the greatest country ever conceived by humankind, that our Constitution fell out of heaven on the day of Pentecost, and that the terrorists hate us because they envy our freedom. We devour lies like Columbus “discovered” America. We are the only country arrogant enough to think that we own the name of the continent where our country is located and that the name “America” refers exclusively to us. We preach American Exceptionalism, an idea little more than 19th Century Manifest Destiny repackaged for the 21st century. So I say, bring on the “chicken questions.”
Our duty as cultural guardians requires us to set the record straight without judgment or prejudice.
After I had taken a brief series of short breaths and one long one, a slight pause, which I imagine Mrs. Reynolds interpreted as the time necessary for me to ask one of the doctors, “Excuse me, Dr. Garza, are there chickens running in the hallways of the hospital?” “Why no Dr. Bates, the chickens take the weekends off at the Hospital Militar.” I answered her “chicken question” in the most sincere, professional, and straightforward manner I could muster.
“Mrs. Reynolds, let me assure you that the Military Hospital is the most modern hospital in the country, possessing some of the most advanced equipment and current procedures in Central America." I laid it on a little thick, just for good measure. "Additionally, the surgeon, Dr. Garza, is a renowned expert in performing appendectomies. The procedure will be minimally invasive and performed using laser technology. Jason will be able to come back to my apartment tonight, assuming there are no complications.” Realizing I should not have mentioned the word “complications,” I eagerly awaited her response.
“Well, in that case,” (I took that to mean the absence of chickens in the hallway), “please proceed with the operation. And please call me the moment he comes out of the operating room.”
“Of course,” I remarked with the tone a funeral director uses when consoling a bereaved family. “Know that I will be with him every step of the way, from admittance to an overnight stay in an air-conditioned room in my apartment.”
Mrs. Reynolds chimed in, “Thank you, Dr. Bates. That is most reassuring.” And with exchange, we said our goodbyes.
Now I made the preparations to take Jason to the hospital. I was amazed that Mrs. Reynolds never asked to speak to Jason. Perhaps she pictured Jason in a catatonic, coma-like state. Nothing could be further from the truth. When I disconnected the phone, Jason thanked me for not putting him on the phone with his mother. “She can be such a drama queen,” he blurted out between
bouts of pain. The best place to wait the hour before the time to take Jason to the hospital was exactly where we were: the lobby of the Hotel Intercontinental. I thanked Dra. Magdalena and requested she stop by on Monday with a bill for her services. She seemed dismayed at this prospect, but when I accompanied her to the front entrance and paid for her cab ride home in advance, she acclimated to the idea. Jason nodded in and out of consciousness on one of the overstuffed sofas while I called Doña Sonia and assured her I was going to return her car as soon as possible. The countdown was on. T-minus one hour and counting. Jason’s pain and excitement appeared to increase simultaneously, like twin sisters competing for a first date with the same boy.
The hour came. I loaded Jason into the old Toyota Corolla and made the short drive up the hill to the Laguna de Tiscapa toward the well-guarded entrance to the Hospital Militar. The guard at the gate didn’t even question us; it seemed apparent that a car with two gringos—one writhing in pain and the other with a panicked look on his face—would be heading for the admittance area. He instructed me to park behind the third building on the left. When I turned the corner, there stood a crowd of staff, several nurses, and an orderly with a wheelchair ready to transport Jason to the surgery preparation area. Although in obvious pain, Jason remained calm and confident, complying with the staff’s directions to the letter. I could see Jason processing the new Spanish vocabulary in the experience provided: silla de ruedas, wheelchair, levántese con cuidado, get up carefully. A short, dark-skinned nurse told me to turn to the right and have a seat in the waiting room. The hallways of the hospital glistened with the gleam of a fresh coat of floor wax. I waited in the small room alone for several hours, nervous and tense, of course, but finally Dr. Garza appeared in his white, yet slightly bloodstained smock and announced that the operation had been a complete success.
He told me to wait another hour or so for Jason to rest in recovery. Dr. Garza also requested that I stop by his office in the small building just to the east side of the hospital to remit payment for his services. He indicated that I could take Jason back to my apartment as soon as he had spent the required time in recovery. In my state of euphoria and elation, I nearly forgot to call Mrs. Reynolds with the happy news. When I called, I only reached her answering machine; it was late in Iowa. So I stepped out into the hallway to
deliver my message after the beep, and for good measure, I glanced to my right and left as well as up and down to verify that, indeed, there were no chickens in the hallway of the hospital. To my astonishment, not a single feather, beak, or claw could be found.
“Colorín, colorado. Este cuento se ha acabado” can be loosely translated as the Spanish equivalent to “All’s well that ends well.” Despite his insistence that he was well and could go back to his cramped, hot room at Doña Alba’s next to the crates of Toña beer, Jason relented and groggily climbed into the car and then up the steps to the spare bedroom I kept for visitors. He recovered well and went back to his room the next afternoon. I forbade him to return to his internship with Jairo and the elephants; the last thing I needed was someone who just had his appendix removed collapsing in the searing heat of the Managua Zoo. That Monday Dra. Magdalena came and collected her $40 for her services. In the afternoon, I took the university’s credit card and a worried disposition to Dr. Garza’s office. I was relieved to find that the total bill came to just under $1,500, including the hospital charges and the doctor’s fee. Ironically, back in the U.S., the Reynolds’ health care insurance carrier refused to pay for a procedure done “in a third world country.” Upon our return to Iowa, I was greeted by the Reynolds family as a hero since I, in the words of Mrs. Reynolds, “saved her little Jason’s life.” At the party thrown in my honor, I was asked repeatedly about the specifics of the episode. When asked one final time about the chickens in the hallway, I remained silent as Jason chided his parents about ever having conceived of such a stupid idea in the first place. Jason remarked, “No, there were no chickens in the hallway,” and after a dramatic pause, he continued, “but there was a pig or two.” Jason erupted into his boisterous laugh, which caused a wide grin to appear across my face, a sweet reminder of the time we spent together as friends in Nicaragua.
Change of Perspective Grace Shemanski | Photography
Looking For a Ladybug Dana Quick-Naig | Photography
Short Tempered Zoei Tonkinson | Photography
Take Me to Church Lauren Myers | Photography
60 Shelby Minnmann | Poetry
It takes 60 seconds to change a life 59- He is a very nice boyfriend 58- I’ve known him since high school 57- He says he loves me 56- I say it back 55- Our first argument is over who pays for dinner 54- A few people stare 53- He apologizes, I say I love him 52- We go to bed happy 51- We are engaged! 50- Cute dates 49- Wedding plans 48- He says he loves me, I say it back 47- We move into our first apartment 46- Finally, we are married 45- We say I love you every night 44- He makes dinner 43- I say I love him 42- I go out with a friend 41- He calls me every half hour 40- We have a fight when I come home 39- I yell 38- He breaks a few plates 37- I apologize 36- He says he loves me, I say it back 35- We move out-of-state for his job 34- We get a house, we say we love each other 33- We are one year happily married 32- He gets home late but still says he loves me 31- I get home late from a new job 30- He yells are you cheating? Where have you been? Why didn’t you call? 29- This is the first time he hits me 28- He apologizes immediately and I apologize for aggravating him
27- He says he loves me, I say it back 26- Thanksgiving is at our house 25- My mom says I look thin and should call her more often 24- I tell her I’m pregnant, she’s so happy 23- I tell him I’m pregnant, he says he doesn’t want me working 22- I haven’t worked in 2 months 21- He works, I am to stay inside, cook dinner by 5 so it is ready when he arrives at 6 20- He didn’t pay last month’s rent, I must’ve forgot 19- 6 months pregnant 18- I fell asleep, no dinner, he’s angry 17- He throws a punch this time 16- 7 months pregnant, I can’t sleep when he’s near me 15- He left for work, I pack a bag 14- I leave for the neighbors 13- He apologizes, he really loves me, I say it back 12- I go home with him, giving him another chance 11- The baby’s born 10- It’s a still birth, it was my fault 9- He beats me until I black out 8- He’s cleaning my wounds when I come to; he tells me he loves me 7- He’s says he’ll change just one more chance 6- I know, it rarely stops 5- I know if I stay he will kill me 4- I can’t leave, though, he still loves me 3- Without him I am nothing, I have no one 2- I’m pregnant again 1- We’ll be a happy family because he loves me?
Quiet Time Karen Collins | Photography
Apology Ethan Zierke | Poetry Words fall short Action is worth 1,000 And I can’t come up with 1
There will be 1,000 more until I get it right I can’t help but believe You leave At 999
I’ve hurt you The worst thing that I do My aching heart sticks To the sole of my shoe A $0.25 gum ball that lost its flavor So savor it. With every step it picks up more dirt from the street. It’s only right that I hurt For hurting you
Time fools the mind But a sticky heart remembers every step: “It’s only a matter of time, it’s only a matter of time”
Neverland Lauren Myers | Photography
Morning Rain Dana Quick-Naig | Photography
Bull River Montana Jeffrey T. O'Boyle |Â Visual Art
Golden Hour Sidney Griffith | Poetry The grass is yellow-green I levitate through Fields of wildflowers, reaching out Arms like sunbeams to feel The Earth’s heartbeat
Dew of the Storm Sarah Miller | Photography
Leap of Faith Sidney Griffith | Photography
Canyons Virginia Atwell | Poetry
I must shake the dust from the canyons you carved through my heart, from the redwood forest you ripped up along my ribs, and the splintering slopes of shale you swept across my stomach.
Beautiful, baptize my breasts and bones with your breath; Part your lips over the sculpture of my spine, the lakes of my thighs.
With patience in your palms, pick up the shards of stone, lay them in my canyons like glass laid into holy monuments; Press the timber of my bones to my heart, close my chest like a rusted locket.
Let my eyes be your atlas, my hands your compass, facing north toward your heart; The rise and fall of lungs like dawn and sunset—all the days I give to you and the quiet beating of my blood—the cloudless nights.
Lover, carve your canyons through my soul.
Mystical Churchyard Karen Collins | Photography
Stumbling Through the Fog Jake VanBaale | Nonfiction
It’s odd how looking for memories in your head feels like looking for a dropped trinket in the fog. In the moment on a normal day, everything around you seems important; the present is always the key moment of your life. Losing the details of childhood to time is inevitable for everyone, but knowing which ones will be important is the tricky part. I only have a patchy image of seemingly important days, such as meeting now-old friends for the first time, but remember clear details of inane conversations had while sitting on swings and basketball courts months afterward with those same people. Time takes away the details that seemed important and leaves only a few moments intact.
That’s a nice and poetic way of saying that I don’t remember what happened on a summer day in middle school before I knocked some kid I had just met off his bike. Looking back, I have absolutely no clue what argument we had or even if we argued at all. I remember the moment of taking off after him making perfect sense and not feeling irrational in any way. Most of all I just remember how horrified I was watching him hit the pavement so suddenly that the collision of skin and bone and metal and cement and his scream made a cacophony of hell.
If I’m solving the mystery of a crime I committed, I have to step back and examine the scene of the crime. My neighborhood was a quintessential small town; I lived just off the one main road in town where the restaurants and gas stations stood. Once you were off that road, there were just streets of two story houses with backyards—all in mismatched stages of being mowed, complete with matching swing sets and cheap pools, unused and covered by tarps. A block from my house, which also falls into my cynical description of suburbia, is a small park—the last remnant of an elementary school torn down some time ago. In my neighborhood, that was where the school bus let off and us kids would meet, consistently but almost never scheduled. This was the summer though, so our consistency was out and kids from all over town could show up to our park.
I never can place this kid’s name; he may have been a Mike, but he also
might have been a Nate, or a maybe a Jake? Surely I’d remember that bit though. I know he biked down the street, jumped the curb and let his bike fall down next to the sign for the old school. I don’t actually remember him doing this on that day, but I’d seen so many kids do the same countless times. He had to have done it that way. And from there is the blank spot. I don’t know what he said or what I or the other kids said. Nevertheless, before the setting sun had disappeared I was chasing him on foot down the alley across the street.
Between the park and my house is a small sidewalk between two wooden fences that goes down two blocks. The fences are out of something like The Sandlot: tall, ominous, and with a dog on each side that barks at anyone going by and is only seen in glimpses through the cracks in the posts. That summer night, it had become chilly enough I ran home and grabbed my jacket at some point as the sun started to set. This is where my fog comparison comes from too; it was a May night that belonged in October, with leaves blowing and dripping rain and the fog ahead in the distance broken by headlights of the neighbors getting home late.
We might have been racing. Perhaps that makes more sense. The sun was going down and my parents would have worried and maybe his would too. It’d be easy to take this idea out of the fog and put it with the rest of the story and call it “remembered,” but I’d still feel unsatisfied. That would mean I didn’t take my bike—surely impossible, since it was the prized possession of mine and the only kind of transportation we kids had.
There’s the scene. Then there’s only grabbing handlebars and the instant and terrible cacophony. I reached for his hand to help him up, an instant reaction like I hadn’t been the one to cause his fall. This is where the fog clears and my memory is clear and sharp like the sting of a needle. The kid on the bike stops crying and says, “Get the hell away from me.” His nasty look and unrestrained hatred are enough to make me step back and let another kid from the park, who caught up to us by now, to help him out and walk him out of the alley to his own house. The chill of the air seeped through my jacket and made what would be a beautiful, cool night—the kind that promised summer was coming into a menacing cold that threatened the harshness of winter.
The rest of the kids who watched this happen left the alley and went their separate ways. Alone in the dark, I set the bike upright against one of the fences. The dogs on either side of the fence barked, adding to the claustrophobic feeling of isolation the alley permeated. I heard the backdoor swing on the other side of one fence, and I ran before the dog’s owner could see me. I was sure he knew what I had done, and surely he would send his dog after me. He’d finally get me after years waiting to get through the fence. Righteous punishment. The fences closed in on me as I ran out of the alley and into the fog; I didn’t look back until I made it past the three houses between where the fence ended and my own yard began.
I didn’t go back to the park for a while. Next time I saw the usual kids, they said the boy I pushed was fine, and no one ever brought it up again. I never saw him again. I’m still good friends with one of them, but I haven’t asked him if he remembers the incident after all these years. Sometimes I wonder if I made it up. I know I wouldn’t hurt somebody for no reason.
But I remember the skin and bone and metal and cement and the scream and the hate in his eyes.
Seeking Wind in Duluth Karen Collins | Photography
I am a Woman Katie Dean |Â Poetry I am short and fat. I am tall and thin. I have curves and fat rolls. I am flat chested and angled. I am a woman. My lips pucker and my eyes glow. My cheeks are pale and my face has pimples. I am a woman. I weigh over 200 pounds and wear a large. I am 100 pounds and wear a size zero. I am a woman. I dream of prince charming. I dream that prince charming will rescue me. Rescue me from the dark alleyways. Rescue me from the tears. Rescue me from the pain. Rescue me from the hatred. I am a woman. My smile is painted on, literally. My heels hurt. My jeans are too tight. My shirt is too low-cut. My shorts are too short. My hair is too curly, or too straight. My butt is too big, or too small. My chest sticks out too much, or not enough. I am a woman. I run. I scream. I yell. I punch. I scratch. I claw. IÂ am a woman.
I bleed. I cry. I break. I feel. I am a woman. I am a person. I have rights. I have a body, and it’s my body. Not yours. Not his. Mine. And I get to choose. I am a woman.
Grey Beach Day Grace Shemanski | Photography
"Don't Eat That!" Essentially a Break-Up Shelby Minnmann | Poetry
I was dating a girl freshman year Her name was Mia and she was everything I wanted Late nights where she held me so tight I couldn’t breathe Whispering sweet words, “Skinny will look so much better on you” “I can make you perfect! I can make you beautiful,” She promised “But you have to be committed to me and only me” For a while I did; I gave up everything to be with her Diet fads/body love/body shame/counting calories/no fat/ 0 sugars/big portions/lots of salt/curled fingers/vomit/no dessert/skinny jeans/not hungry/already ate/claustrophobic/An apple a day keeps the fat at bay I began to feel lonely so I betrayed her and I cheated The day I cheated, Mia found me in the kitchen with my new lover Little Debbie I had her spread apart licking the icing from my fingers “You bitch!” Mia shouted, “How could you cheat on me with red velvet?” “Well you don’t come with frosting!” We can fix this, you can be SKINNY Desirable Lovable Workable Beautiful Fuckable “Just restrict/trust me/I wouldn’t lie to you/ I wouldn’t betray you/ I-" SHUT UP! Silence filled the space between us Mia walked away her face stretching into gruesome smile with decaying teeth Brittle fingernails tap each layer of bunched skin Each hip and thigh; each slab of pollution on my body! This wretched body that I’m trapped inside of Staring at Mia’s reflection in my mirror I remember… I am alone No more counting calories or bathroom sessions I have destroyed my body I have contorted my waistline and compromised my safety I studied these friends in high school: Anorexia Bulimia Purging Starvation Rotten teeth Broken nails Slim Trim, each rib, each lie, I trusted the wrong people
I took advice from a demon who had abandoned me in the end Abandoned me on the bathroom tiles, flicking vomit from my fingernails I have shattered and I am not repairable
But that was 2 years ago Now I will eat what I want because I finally love me Looking into a mirror no longer makes me shudder I am 175 pounds of FUCK YOU, BULIMIA; I am strong! I love this body decorated with battle scars I love this heart that has powered through heartbreak and depression and starvation I love that I am here and that I am me and that I can say I am Beautiful
Beauty Hidden Beneath Tiffany Berkenens | Photography
Untitled Zoei Tonkinson | Photography
For my Brother, Not Just Any Boy: 10 Things You Need to Know About Being the Little Sister Kat McCaffery | Poetry
1. I’m sorry. Because I’m your sister, you know why. 2. I love you. I only hope you still believe me when I say it. 3. Although I’ve never actually heard them say it, I know Mom and Dad told you to look out for me. I haven’t died yet, so I guess you’ve done a pretty good job so far. You did miss a few boys that broke my heart, but I’ll give you another chance. 4. Out of the ridiculous number of relatives we have, you’d think someone would feel the same ludicrously liberal things as us. We figured out that that kind of stuff doesn’t fly with the hardcore oldschoolers we’re supposed to call our family, but we did it together, so it’s all ok. I guess we’ll just keep our conversations of tattoos and god to ourselves. I like it better that way. 5. You’ve always been good to me—dragging me with when you’d go off to play with the other neighborhood boys. I was the annoying little sister that you let stick around anyways. You showed me tough love then, yelling at me for crying during football because "this is a boy’s sport and if you want to play, you have to act like one." You always knew what I needed then. 6. Ever since we were kids, we’ve always been opposites. I was born in the morning in spring and you at night in the fall, operating on different clocks. You shared your G.I. Joe’s so I could marry off my Barbies, and I repaid you by bashing you on the head with Tonka trucks. I will never understand why you stay up till three playing Assassin's Creed, and you will never see how I can smile before 9 A.M. You always knew what you wanted to be your whole life, but somehow I was the one who managed to turn Mom into a wreck with her “empty” nest when I was the first to leave for college. I was born right handed and you left; only now do I realize that maybe it was on purpose so that one day when I reach for your hand, it will be right there waiting, perfectly. 7. We’re still kids. And still backwards. We’re not normal siblings, but we agreed a long time ago that being normal sucks, and who’d want to
live a boring life anyway? 8. I never realized how much I needed you. Growing up, I took you for granted far too often; wondered what it would be like if you weren’t there and I wasn’t the baby sister. And then I thought of all the times you made me laugh and taught me what to look for in boys, how each day was a lesson and every memory worth more than however far I could stretch my arms, how easy it was to write this and how hard it was too, how painful every goodbye is, and I wouldn’t trade you for all the Beanie Babies in the world. 9. I know deep down you feel the same. I’m your sister after all. Ever since I was three months old and Mom and Dad told you I was staying after you asked when they were going to give me back, you knew you couldn’t get rid of me. From the beginning I’ve been your baby sister, and we’ve loved each other ever since. 10. I never said it growing up; you knew it was there, hidden in my silence. So I’ll say it now for what it’s worth. I know it won’t make up for the silence in the past, but I know you’ll love me for trying. Thank you.
Robert E. Portrait Jeffrey T. O'Boyle | Visual Art
Enjoy the Ride Lauren Myers | Photography
Close Call Grace Shemanski |Â Photography
Perfect Drive Grace Shemanski |Â Photography
Trondheim Lauren Myers | Photography
Do You Paint with Disaster? Sidney Griffith |Â Poetry
Do you lie to emotion, or does it lie to you? Do you paint with disaster, or does it paint you? Why sob when you can feel the warmth, the dominance of igniting, encompassed in the flames and dying in their embrace Eulogy of laughter, reincarnated in an identical frame Disaster is you in rapid attack, stripes and spots on fists and legs, acid corroding organs with ease When it’s done, and the heat leaves your skin, the amber fades from your eyes Nothing hangs in the air but a thread of smoke and the smell of seared flesh
Color Madness Garrett Abell | Visual Art
Surviving Vietnam Courtney Neuendorf | Fiction
I wake up and immediately begin to feel woozy. The light above me is blinding and gives me a headache. I know I’ve been laying here for a while now, but I seem to be drifting in and out. One moment I think I’m awake, and the next moment I’m opening my eyes again, staring into a terrible bright light. I can hear the hum of something. It sounds like an engine, but not an automobile engine, and definitely not the sound of a running helicopter. I’m used to those two sounds. Those are the sounds I’ve heard for the past eight months—the usual noise of my transportation. I begin to feel a vibration, and I’m slightly bouncing around in my bed. That’s when I feel a sharp pain somewhere in my upper arm region. I try to turn my head and move just a little bit because I want to see what’s causing the pain in my arm. For some reason I can’t seem to remember how to work my muscles. The bouncing continues and I endure the pain and wait for whatever vehicle I’m being transported in to stop.
I keep bouncing in bed, or at least I think it’s a bed. It’s something soft, and my head seems to be on a pillow. My eyelids open all the way as I hear the painful sound of someone screaming. My mind tells me that I need to get up. It tells me that I have to see what the screaming is about. I start to panic because I need to help whoever’s in trouble. I try lifting my arms again, but they seem to only move about an inch before something stops them. They’re using something to restrain me. It appears to be a strap that binds me to the bed. I keep listening as the screams start to subside, feeling completely helpless.
My mind flows through different scenarios as I try to remember why I’m not back at base camp. Slowly I begin to remember, but it’s still a blurry image because I’m having trouble keeping myself from screaming out like the other guy. My arm is getting more painful by the minute, but I’m unable to let anyone know. It’s as if my voice doesn’t work anymore. No matter how hard I try to get words out I’m not able to produce a sound. I close my eyes and keep thinking, trying to remember how I got here. I know why I’m here, but I don’t want to
think about it. I know now that I’m on an airplane, and there’s only one explanation. I must have been shot. I know I was shot. I remember it. I can hear footsteps next to me, and someone is fidgeting with something up by my head. I try to turn to see who it is, but still can’t manage to move. My eyes close again.
I wake up again in the middle of this long room with multiple beds all in a straight row. I seem to be thinking more clearly than I before. I can see better; my eyes aren’t as blurry. I can turn my head now, and it looks like the straps are gone. I sit myself up in bed and look down to find a huge bandage wrapped around my upper arm, just above the elbow. That must be where I got shot. I look up and down the row of beds on both sides of me. I see lots of men lying in their own beds with bandages just like mine. Some of them are bandaged more than others, and as I look at all these wounded men, I begin to see how lucky I am. The young man in the bed next me has his entire upper body exposed. They have him lying on his stomach and it looks as if someone took a knife and slashed the skin away from his body. The skin is torn away from his shoulder and goes all the way down his back; some of the skin is even torn away from the back of his upper arm. There is a big flap of skin hanging, and I can see the muscle hanging out of him. Now that I look at him closer, it looks like the injuries from a grenade instead of a knife. My eyes roam over this poor man’s body; that’s when I notice his face.
His face is looking right up at me, and with a jolt I recognize who he is. It’s Bobby, he’s in my unit. Good God why did this have to happen to him. Why did this have to happen to any of us. I lean down a little bit and whisper, “Bobby, are you okay? Bobby it’s me.” He doesn’t answer. “Bobby,” I said louder, but he still doesn’t answer. I want to reach out to him, but I don’t want to jostle my arm or touch his injured body. His eyes are looking at me but they seem to be glazed over. I jump as he suddenly lets out a blood curling scream. This was worse than the guy on the plane. Bobby starts thrashing around and I try to lean over my bed to help him, but I don’t know what to do. A bunch of nurses in white uniforms run over to him, trying to keep him contained. I swallow hard and turn to look in the other direction – someone has just spoken my name.
I look up into the face of a young American male doctor. He opens his mouth to speak and says, “I’m sure you have a lot of questions for us sir, but I’m going to tell you only what I know for sure. You were shot on the backside of your upper arm. It is between your elbow and shoulder, and the broken bone is your humerus. I’m sure you could tell this from where the bandages are placed. We are going to have to start surgery immediately, or else risk the chance of you losing your arm all together. You are in Toshi Kaikaku, Japan right now. The army has been flying most of the American soldiers here so that they can heal faster after being injured. They are trying to get all the wounded out of Vietnam as fast as possible. The jungle environment is no place for a wounded soldier to be. We need to take you now and prep you for surgery.”
I sit there for a moment trying to take it all in. I point at Bobby lying next to me, the nurses are still surrounding him trying to keep him under control. He’s still screaming but not nearly as loud. The first thing that comes out of my mouth is, “Take care of him, not me. I’ll be fine, he’s a lot worse off than I am.”
The young doctor looks at me curiously and gives me a slight smile but says, “He will be helped out shortly, right now we need to get you taken care of.”
A couple nurses walk up next to me and maneuver my bed away from the wall. They roll my bed out of its spot and push me down the hallway. I try to turn around and look back at Bobby, but the nurses tell me not to move. They don’t want me to make my arm any worse than it already is. They roll me to the very end of the hallway where there are two giant doors. A couple more nurses come to open the doors and they push me into a gigantic room. I can see other doctors working on more men. They have it set up like office cubicles, except instead of cubicles its surgery stations. This is just one giant room where multiple soldiers are having surgery. Both nurses continue to roll me into the very last station. As soon as the bed is still and the wheels are locked the medical staff puts medicine into my IV. They don’t mess around here, I think. I guess it’s because they have so many to help. After what felt like only a few seconds, the drugs knock me out again.
I’m drifting in and out for what feels like the third time today. Every time I wake up I hope that it will be the time I can finally keep my eyes open without them closing right away again. After what seems like the twentieth time, my eyes manage to stay open. I’m back in the row of beds lined up against the wall. There are different guys around me this time, and I notice that I’m in a different spot than before. I look down at my arm and it hurts, but not like it did before. I expect that’s because of the pain killers they have me on. It’s wrapped in a different bandage, and it feels a lot different. It feels sturdier. I want to try to move it, but I know that would be a bad idea. I continue to look around, glancing at each bed to see if I can find Bobby. I don’t see him. He must be in surgery, or they have moved him somewhere else. I know what happened to him. I can see it vividly in my head. Almost as if I’m experiencing it all over again. I shudder a little bit as I remember. We were in Hobo Woods. It’s this incredibly thick forest of trees. The trees are so close together that a guy could stick both of his hands out and be able to touch two trees at a time, even without his arms fully extended. We were sent there on a mission because there was a call back at base camp. Apparently there was a sighting of the Viet Kong in that area. That day had already been an interesting one. During the afternoon we had already killed about twelve of those bastards. They were all hiding in a shallow canal. Their plan was to ambush us, but we were too smart for them. They were using wreaths to breathe through, trying to catch us off guard. However, one of the Viet Kong had surfaced above the water. He didn’t think we noticed him, but we don’t miss much. We figured there had to be more of them in there, so we all spread out around the canal. Half of us were on one side and half of us were on the other. We each had two hand grenades and on the count of three we threw one in and then the other. After the explosion, we saw them. Twelve of them, floating to the surface. All I remember is thinking, well I guess we took care of them. There is no remorse in war, there can’t be, or else none of us would be able to survive.
After we left the canal, we continued on our way to Hobo Woods. It was getting late and the sky was pretty dark when we finally reached it. We were on the outside edge of all the trees; nobody wanted to say anything but, I knew we were all thinking the same thing. If we got shot in there, it was going to be hell to get back out. There was no way around it. We had to go in there. I just gritted my teeth, took a deep breath, and followed the rest of
my unit into the woods.
We walked for quite a while before I started hearing the gun shots. They were shooting at us from up in the trees, and we all ran for cover. We walked right into a pack of them. When I was taking cover behind a tree, I aimed my gun at the nearest one I could find. He was too busy aiming at someone else to notice me. I pulled the trigger of my M16 rifle and watched him fall out of the tree. I was on the move then. I crept from tree to tree, aiming and shooting trying to get as many as I could.
Pretty soon two of our gunships came in. Every American soldier carries two smoke grenades that we are supposed to throw. It’s a signal so that our gunships could see the smoke and know not to shoot in that area. The problem was that the trees were too thick and they couldn’t see the smoke. The bullets were reigning down on us and I got down on the ground. I put my arm over my head, to protect it.
That’s when I was shot. On the back part of my upper arm, the one that was protecting my head. It was terribly painful, worse than I can describe. I could feel the blood dripping down, and I knew there was no way I was going to be able to keep fighting. That’s when I stood up and started to walk back in the direction I had come. Keeping my good arm over my head, I kept low to the ground and tried to make it back to the entrance of the woods as fast as I could without getting hit again. I knew I made it when I reached a large pile of men. They were all laying down next to each other, some were hurt worse than others. Some of them were probably dead. I knew all of them, and one of them was Bobby.
He seemed to be hurt the worst out of all the ones who were still moving. The blood was soaking his entire back side. This was when I started to feel dizzy. It was because I was losing so much blood. All I remember from this part is laying down on the ground next to Bobby, and watching a soldier carry another wounded over his shoulder. He sat the guy next to me and then took off back into the woods. Our instructions were to keep all the injured together. This was so that the Red Cross helicopter could come in and get us. It would be easier for them if they only had to stop once instead of multiple times, and in different spots. I could still hear the fighting in the distance, but I was also starting to hear the sound of a helicopter. I was
shaking when I sat up and looked towards the sky. We were all grouped together at the entrance to the woods so that we would be closer to where the helicopter would land.
Once the helicopter landed at least five men and a couple nurses jumped out the door and came running over to us. They had stretchers, one for each of us. There were two men that grabbed me and maneuvered me onto one of the stretchers. They each got on one side of the stretcher and lifted me up. We headed towards the helicopter. Once they had me loaded on the helicopter, I saw a few other injured men lying on stretchers. They were stacked on top of each other. Kind of like bunk beds. The two men carrying me hooked my stretcher into the wall. Once it was secured they left to help the rest of the guys. I sat up a little bit and then leaned over my stretcher to look beneath me. The guy below me was dead; it was John. It was the worst feeling in the world, to see one of your best friends like that. He was only eighteen years old, and he was supposed to get married when he got home.
This made me think of my wife. We were only nineteen and had a baby boy on the way. Well, I guess he is here now. About three months ago, the Red Cross called the base camp and told me that my wife had given birth. My wife had named him after me. Once I found out, we all celebrated by smoking cigars. When I was laying in that helicopter and waiting for them to load everybody else up I was thinking about the kind of father I wanted to be. I knew one thing was for certain. I never wanted him to end up in the army. I remember at times I wished for a girl, she would never have to go to war. When I found out it was a boy, I thought about all the things I wanted to do with my son. I waited for a long time as they loaded up all the others. I watched them load another dead guy above me, that one was Billy. I had just drank a beer with him the night before. After a while the helicopter finally took off. One of the nurses I had seen earlier came by and gave me medicine to take. I don’t know what she gave me, but I don’t remember anything else until I woke up on the plane heading to Japan.
This all reminds me again of how lucky I am. I don’t even know who else died or who else is wounded. I decided to look around and see if I could spot anymore of the guys from my unit. As I was looking around I noticed there was a man who was smiling at me from a few beds down.
He was a small Japanese man and dressed in something that resembled a gown. Almost like robes. He was carrying a small case and what looked like a giant pad of paper. He was standing next to another soldier’s bed, talking to that soldier. After a while, he notices that I keep staring at him. He looks as if he is going to come over and talk to me, so I quickly glance away. But now he is walking towards me.
Once he reaches my bed he gives me another smile. He opens his mouth to speak, and begins to tell me that he’s an artist that volunteers for the USO. His voice is high pitched and hard to understand, but I could comprehend most of what he was saying. His job is to walk around the hospital and talk to all the soldiers. He is basically here to brighten our days and make us feel like we’re in a place that is somewhat sane again. Even if we are surrounded by screaming men with bloody bandages. He seems to be an extremely cheerful guy. I guess you would have to be, to volunteer for this. He begins to ask me a bunch of questions about where I’m from and my family. At first I thought this was going to be an annoying question answer session that forces me to talk. Maybe this guy is a psychiatrist. That would make sense because God knows all of our minds are pretty screwed up. However, once I start talking, I can’t stop. It is such a relief to talk to someone that doesn’t already have a bunch of their own worries. I tell him all about my wife and how I’m anxious to see my son. I’m so intrigued in what I’m saying that I’m shocked when I look up and notice that the man is drawing something on his gigantic pad of paper. I stop talking and watch him draw.
After a while he finishes and hands me the paper. I smile, and it’s the most genuine smile I’ve had in a while. It’s a picture of me, but not just me. I’m holding a small baby boy in my hands. I keep staring down at the picture before I remember that I should probably thank the man. I look up again to thank him, but he is already a few beds down from me talking to another guy. I keep staring down at my picture, which is why I jump again when I hear someone say my name.
“Alright lieutenant, the surgery went well.” I just nod my head. It was the doctor talking to me again. He sees the picture I’m holding and points at it.
“Is that your son?” I nod again and he continues with, “You’re a lucky man. I’m sure your little boy will be happy to see you again when you get home.”
I look up at him and say, “I haven’t met him yet.” The doctor frowns as the realization sets in. Finally, he says, “Well I’m sure he’ll be pretty excited to meet you. His father’s a hero.”
I just keep looking down at the picture. “Hey lieutenant,” I notice he is about to leave again. He is already a few beds down from me when he speaks. “Do you think you can carry a gun?”
My stomach clenches and I cringe when he says it, but I respond with, “I guess, if I have to.”
He turns away from me and keeps walking. I watch him retreat when suddenly he turns around and points at me with one hand. He smiles as he says, “You’re going home.”
Take Flight Garrett Abell | Photography
Machines Sidney Griffith | Poetry
Suck it in, all the shit talk, expanding like gas It’s no wonder you can’t let out a peep when you can’t breathe You’d die slowly in this room, sinking to the tile floor as They circulate nonsense so thick you might think those mouths made of machinery might never let up The gears spin at astonishing speeds, and you’re swimming in word vomit, sending out signals with your eyes, in hopes that some passerby will save you from distress Your face pressed up against the wall as the volume of the room decreases You’re praying for the end to come, stuck here until it all ceases
I'm Just Chilling in Cedar Rapids Lauren Myers | Photography
Haikus Ethan Zierke | Poetry
Poets toss rotting books from knotted shelves to fro-thing populations
Everything is there and nothing at all; let the taboo fruit tree fall
The quiet surrounds: swallowing sounds, each louder than my heart expounds
Impossible, yes, the silence cannot listen: what is there to say?
The beads of sweat roll like pearls across mirrored plates: severed heads of fear
The fruitless dreamscape buries the rediscovered paths, past and future
I am not mindless: I left my mind at home for you to sustain
Love and passion are concealed by confused hunger: a futile attempt
My pipe organ pumps toxins through my veins rousing today's dissonance
I dip my toes in a pool of palatable broken promises
Ballpoint pen-saber Truth flees oppressive pages For art, wage new wars
Striking at a chance my feet take up this rhythm kicking up new dust
Memory is grace a glimmer in my mind's eye reflecting your life
Take me home to that Pavlovian iPhone drone my heart beats the tone
A phosphorescent glow throws shadows to corner familiar warmth
Trumped-up twitter feeds the brain empty calories: ugly mind twinkies
Autumn leaves trees nude A cool breeze, a dry dead rain I, alive, fall too
Refrigerator: Lusting after leftovers Who drank all my beer?
Tear the answer from the back of the book you’ve bound in your sleepless nights
“Why don’t you ever write about me?” she asked him His response: “But how?”
Your essence is a part of everything I know but I know nothing
Tomorrow will be... another twenty-four hours That is all I know
Let’s exist outside of this fluorescent nonsense We’ll share the fresh air
The morning sunlight illuminates a crucial time of day, Today.
A new snow dusting above old fixtures rusting Long live frozen towns
Her viewfinder eyes, shutter-finger takes a pulse Enslaved by the light
Write ambiguous melodies. I will listen and sing harmony.Â
Wrapped in Music Katie Dean | Photography
Home for the Holiday Taylor Gehrls | Photography
Urban Eye Tiffany Berkenens | Photography
Tin Man's Lament Shelby Minnmann | Poetry All I have ever wanted was a heart He was a wizard after all I mean, his title, “The Great and Powerful Wizard of Oz” He had to be nothing short of a miracle! With the smoke cleared and the curtains torn apart, this Man of Magic became nothing but a mirror! He showed Scarecrow and Lion they always had brains and courage He gave them the satisfaction of what was already there But made of tin? A hollow echo hums from my chest The ringing emptiness is nothing like a heartbeat I remember that day; The Wizard understood our anger He had been so sympathetic to Dorothy’s cries “Oh no my dear!” He pleaded, “I am a very good man just a very bad wizard” A very bad wizard indeed I clung to the hope for a heart This glorious, apologetic wizard embraced me Warning me, “Hearts will never be made practical until they can be made unbreakable” But I still wanted one Every inch of my tin ached for a reason not to be empty What he presented to me was a heart that ticked It didn’t beat… It didn’t fit inside my chest… It wasn’t made for me It was a plastic toy, covered with red paint A ticking clock in the shape of a heart Made my mouth say, “Thank you” through clenched teeth Made any hope I had left shatter I had been thankful for The Wizard’s generosity But back at the Tinsmith’s The shed had succumbed to nothing more than shambles I was reminded that I am only tin! Hollow and empty My closest relationship is and will always be with a can of oil With the Tinsmith being long dead
There is nothing for me here A home with family and children are perks for the human fool I knew a heart wouldn’t make me human, but it’d make me whole A heart would have allowed me to finally love To be in love with someone, so my existence on this Earth has meaning I once heard that love was a match A match that is struck and grows into flames I heard love makes being burned alive bearable Without a heart, nothing is bearable! Life would be better if I only had a… But I don’t.
Confusion Dana Quick-Naig |Â Photography
Mystery Garrett Abell | Visual Art
The Stranger Ethan Zierke | Poetry I remember the last night we were together I’d come home from school and so had the weather I could taste the sweet wine on your breath as we kissed I didn’t know then how soon it’d be missed
you wanted love but you got the stranger
old friend and a stranger stopped by later on old friend said the stranger would party till dawn old friend was the best friend that I’d ever had accepting his offer, we split for the lav
you wanted love but you got the stranger
the friends were poised over the glass for a tear when your footsteps could be heard outside on the stairs two men at the sink is a suspicious pair “I’d forgiven you, dammit, I swear it, I swear”
you wanted love but you got the stranger
I stared back at you and it changed in a beat the lines of your face and the veins in your feet my brain and my heart joined in as one voice “go now, you have to, make this your choice”
you wanted love but you got the stranger
So I left that night, broken and frail the taste in my mouth was bitter and stale I hated this night, of that I was certain so I sealed up our past and fastened the curtain
you wanted love but I was a stranger
Heddal Lauren Myers |Â Photography
Find Me at Ahquabi Taylor Gehrls | Photography
Writer's Block Kat McCaffery | Poetry
Fuck it.
Greedy Squirrel Garrett Abell | Photography
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