2014: Kiosk Vol 76

CEL EBRAT I NG 76 Y EARS O F P U BL I CAT I ON

THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE

2014

VOLUME 76 2014

The highest purpose of art is to inspire.

What else can you do?

What else can you do for anyone but inspire them?

THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE

B ob D ylan

On the Cover CASTLE SECRETS

by Samantha Hansen photography

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VOLUME 76 2014

The highest purpose of art is to inspire.

What else can you do?

What else can you do for anyone but inspire them?

THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE

B ob D ylan

On the Cover CASTLE SECRETS

by Samantha Hansen photography

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LETTERS FROM THE EDITORS

STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF ASSISTANT EDITORS VISUAL EDITOR

Carly Hanson Samantha Hansen, Hannah Hecht, Sarah Munson Cassie Gillette

“We have to be continually jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.”

Kurt Vonnegut

FICTION

NON-FICTION

Associate Editor

Associate Editor

Samantha Hansen

Sarah Munson

Board Members

Board Members

Tasha Lechtenburg Sarah Olson Brian Hughes Elizabeth Sterling

Alex Quinlain Jacob Chauss Ryan Ingalls Marcie Ponder

POETRY

COPY EDITOR

Associate Editor

Jack O’Brien Mariah Wills

Hannah Hecht

Board Members

Cameron Oakley Diane Nguyen

Amber Burg Bailey Baack

Krystal Paul ART

FACULTY ADVISORS

Associate Editors

Steve Coyne John Kolbo Terri McGaffin

Jazmine Dirks Felicia Ely Stacey Stark

ABOUT OUR JUDGES: Christopher Marnach won the 2013 Glimmer Train Short Story Award for New Writers. He is a 2001 Morningside graduate and an MFA candidate at Columbia College in Chicago, where he is also the graduate assistant to the Associate Chair of the Department of Creative Writing. He has worked as a cook, a bartender, an essay scorer, and a graphic designer for a funeral card company. His fiction has appeared in Word Riot and is forthcoming in Glimmer Train. He is currently at work on his first novel..

Gary Ford has a B.A. from Sioux Falls College and an M.S.S. from the University of South Dakota. He taught art in the Sioux City Community Schools for 33 years and served as an Adjunct Instructor at Western Iowa Tech for seven years. Mr. Ford uses a variety of media in his own production. He uses humor and wit in his presentation of visual images.

Valerie Flanagan currently teaches Visual Art at the elementary level. She believes that the artist’s most reliable strength and energy source is revealed by embracing the revolving doors of change rather than hiding behind them. For inspiration she looks to both nature and street; getting lost in its art, music, movement, food, and people adventures.

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Wayne Gretzky once said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”

Morningside is teeming with talent and ambition, more than can be encompassed in one issue of the magazine.

To be honest, I had to look up who this Wayne Gretzky guy was, but now I know, and as it turns out, he was completely right.

Again, thank you to everyone involved, whether your part was large or small. Last, but certainly not least, thank you to the reader. The Kiosk exists for you.

Applying for the position of Kiosk editor-in-chief was a bit daunting. Kiosk is not just any literary magazine. It was won numerous awards, including the College Magazine Silver Crown from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, an honor earned by last year’s 75th anniversary edition.

Though I had little background in the world of editing, hands-on experience proved to be the best teacher I could ask for, and it has helped my editorial wings take some form of flight.

The success that the magazine finds every year could not be possible without the team of associate editors and their boards. This year was no exception. Samantha Hansen, Hannah Hecht, and Sarah Munson proved invaluable, and their hard work and flexibility made the creation of this year’s Kiosk an efficient and enjoyable process.

A staple of the English Department, many thanks must be given to the incredibly dedicated Marcie Ponder. Always there with a helping hand and word of encouragement, Marcie is definitely a major player in the formation of the Kiosk, and I couldn’t be more grateful for her company during my years at Morningside. Dr. Steve Coyne, my adviser both academically and for the Kiosk, was an irreplaceable source of information and aid. His guidance made this experience one of the most important of my college career, and I’m grateful for his patience and understanding throughout the production of the magazine. A special thanks to President John Reynders as well, for his support of this project, which allows its successes to grow annually.

To the artists and writers who submitted to the Kiosk: Thank you for the opportunity to experience some of the most insightful, heartwarming, heartbreaking, funny, and enthralling pieces of literary and visual art that an editor could hope for. It takes phenomenal courage to put your work into someone else’s hands, and considering the number of submissions we received this year,

Carly Hanson

Editor-in-Chief

This is my first time editing for the Kiosk, and it has been an amazing and challenging experience. Working so hard to make something and then to hold it in one’s hands is quite magical.

I was also delighted by the creativity of this year’s submissions; admiring them was occasionally detrimental to editing responsibilities. Each image, story and poem contains a unique world filled with passion and mystery, and discovering each has been the most distinct pleasure of my work as an editor.

Cassie Gillette

Visual Editor

LETTERS FROM THE EDITORS

STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF ASSISTANT EDITORS VISUAL EDITOR

Carly Hanson Samantha Hansen, Hannah Hecht, Sarah Munson Cassie Gillette

“We have to be continually jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.”

Kurt Vonnegut

FICTION

NON-FICTION

Associate Editor

Associate Editor

Samantha Hansen

Sarah Munson

Board Members

Board Members

Tasha Lechtenburg Sarah Olson Brian Hughes Elizabeth Sterling

Alex Quinlain Jacob Chauss Ryan Ingalls Marcie Ponder

POETRY

COPY EDITOR

Associate Editor

Jack O’Brien Mariah Wills

Hannah Hecht

Board Members

Cameron Oakley Diane Nguyen

Amber Burg Bailey Baack

Krystal Paul ART

FACULTY ADVISORS

Associate Editors

Steve Coyne John Kolbo Terri McGaffin

Jazmine Dirks Felicia Ely Stacey Stark

ABOUT OUR JUDGES: Christopher Marnach won the 2013 Glimmer Train Short Story Award for New Writers. He is a 2001 Morningside graduate and an MFA candidate at Columbia College in Chicago, where he is also the graduate assistant to the Associate Chair of the Department of Creative Writing. He has worked as a cook, a bartender, an essay scorer, and a graphic designer for a funeral card company. His fiction has appeared in Word Riot and is forthcoming in Glimmer Train. He is currently at work on his first novel..

Gary Ford has a B.A. from Sioux Falls College and an M.S.S. from the University of South Dakota. He taught art in the Sioux City Community Schools for 33 years and served as an Adjunct Instructor at Western Iowa Tech for seven years. Mr. Ford uses a variety of media in his own production. He uses humor and wit in his presentation of visual images.

Valerie Flanagan currently teaches Visual Art at the elementary level. She believes that the artist’s most reliable strength and energy source is revealed by embracing the revolving doors of change rather than hiding behind them. For inspiration she looks to both nature and street; getting lost in its art, music, movement, food, and people adventures.

4

KIOSK14

Wayne Gretzky once said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”

Morningside is teeming with talent and ambition, more than can be encompassed in one issue of the magazine.

To be honest, I had to look up who this Wayne Gretzky guy was, but now I know, and as it turns out, he was completely right.

Again, thank you to everyone involved, whether your part was large or small. Last, but certainly not least, thank you to the reader. The Kiosk exists for you.

Applying for the position of Kiosk editor-in-chief was a bit daunting. Kiosk is not just any literary magazine. It was won numerous awards, including the College Magazine Silver Crown from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, an honor earned by last year’s 75th anniversary edition.

Though I had little background in the world of editing, hands-on experience proved to be the best teacher I could ask for, and it has helped my editorial wings take some form of flight.

The success that the magazine finds every year could not be possible without the team of associate editors and their boards. This year was no exception. Samantha Hansen, Hannah Hecht, and Sarah Munson proved invaluable, and their hard work and flexibility made the creation of this year’s Kiosk an efficient and enjoyable process.

A staple of the English Department, many thanks must be given to the incredibly dedicated Marcie Ponder. Always there with a helping hand and word of encouragement, Marcie is definitely a major player in the formation of the Kiosk, and I couldn’t be more grateful for her company during my years at Morningside. Dr. Steve Coyne, my adviser both academically and for the Kiosk, was an irreplaceable source of information and aid. His guidance made this experience one of the most important of my college career, and I’m grateful for his patience and understanding throughout the production of the magazine. A special thanks to President John Reynders as well, for his support of this project, which allows its successes to grow annually.

To the artists and writers who submitted to the Kiosk: Thank you for the opportunity to experience some of the most insightful, heartwarming, heartbreaking, funny, and enthralling pieces of literary and visual art that an editor could hope for. It takes phenomenal courage to put your work into someone else’s hands, and considering the number of submissions we received this year,

Carly Hanson

Editor-in-Chief

This is my first time editing for the Kiosk, and it has been an amazing and challenging experience. Working so hard to make something and then to hold it in one’s hands is quite magical.

I was also delighted by the creativity of this year’s submissions; admiring them was occasionally detrimental to editing responsibilities. Each image, story and poem contains a unique world filled with passion and mystery, and discovering each has been the most distinct pleasure of my work as an editor.

Cassie Gillette

Visual Editor

CONTENTS LITERATURE

ART

On Birds and Hamburger Buns

Jacob Chauss

8

Castle Secrets

Samantha H ansen

Cover

Summer Vacation

H annah Hecht

10

Wilting Cold

A lejandro Devalos

9

Paige Turner

Bailey Baack

12

Enchanted Tree

Samantha H ansen

11

Untitled

Amber Burg

13

Burn Out With Me

Victoria Anthony

24

Books

K asi Lee

17

Smoke and Mirrors

Kelci Teut

26

Little Cowboy

Demirae Dunn

23

Kim

Pablo de la Cruz

27

City Street Dreams

Samantha H ansen

25

The Terrible Tale of the “Mad Music…”

Greg Guelcher

28

Another Scene

Charles Bass

Smoking Light

A lejandro Devalos

29

Dancing With Friends

K ay Goldsmith

30

Elephant

K atie Weis

31

The Autumn Path

Doug Collins

32

Yellow Cropped

Claire M ay-Patterson

33

Sunlight

Bailey Baack

34

Sydney Bridge

C aitlin C asey

34

You Gotta Have It

Cameron Oakley

Versus

R andy Chavez

39

35

The Tower

C aitlin C asey

41

Date at a Café

Jacob Chauss

42

Girl

Scott M artinson

43

Guerrilla Warfare

Cameron Oakley

45

Tequila Sunrise

Emilee H ardy

45

How Presidential Elections Should Be…

M atthew Ponder

46

Instructors

Tymmrie R ath

47 53

H annah Hecht

Cicada Flower

K asi Lee

Atypical Love Story

43

Night Series

Jazmine Dirks

55

Christ and Me

Victoria Anthony

48

After Hours

Stages

K atharine Klave

60

Dale Skog

Jess Anderson

56

Sisterly Love

Victoria Anthony

65

Illium

M atthew H adley

57

Fight For Homelessness

Felicia Ely

58

Enough of Your Nothing

Kelci Teut

66

Ate

Felicia Ely

58

The Failure of a Woman

Kelci Teut

68

Reaction

A lexis McK ee

59

Spicy Southwest Vegan Chili

Jacob Chauss

70

Nurture

C assandra Vogt

61

Self Portrait

Tymmrie R ath

64

When

Scott M artinson

65

Ronald

Scott M artinson

67

Ringleader

Felicia Ely

69

End Games Crop Circles

John Bowitz

70

3 C’s

Jazmine Dirks

71

Page from the Past Bruises

Eleanor F. Thorpe

71

All entries are considered objectively by the judges with no artist name or special consideration for any piece.

Editorial staff are eligible for contest placement but not for the prize money.

6

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Jess AJess nderson , Weston Burkhardt Anderson

26-27

56

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CONTENTS LITERATURE

ART

On Birds and Hamburger Buns

Jacob Chauss

8

Castle Secrets

Samantha H ansen

Cover

Summer Vacation

H annah Hecht

10

Wilting Cold

A lejandro Devalos

9

Paige Turner

Bailey Baack

12

Enchanted Tree

Samantha H ansen

11

Untitled

Amber Burg

13

Burn Out With Me

Victoria Anthony

24

Books

K asi Lee

17

Smoke and Mirrors

Kelci Teut

26

Little Cowboy

Demirae Dunn

23

Kim

Pablo de la Cruz

27

City Street Dreams

Samantha H ansen

25

The Terrible Tale of the “Mad Music…”

Greg Guelcher

28

Another Scene

Charles Bass

Smoking Light

A lejandro Devalos

29

Dancing With Friends

K ay Goldsmith

30

Elephant

K atie Weis

31

The Autumn Path

Doug Collins

32

Yellow Cropped

Claire M ay-Patterson

33

Sunlight

Bailey Baack

34

Sydney Bridge

C aitlin C asey

34

You Gotta Have It

Cameron Oakley

Versus

R andy Chavez

39

35

The Tower

C aitlin C asey

41

Date at a Café

Jacob Chauss

42

Girl

Scott M artinson

43

Guerrilla Warfare

Cameron Oakley

45

Tequila Sunrise

Emilee H ardy

45

How Presidential Elections Should Be…

M atthew Ponder

46

Instructors

Tymmrie R ath

47 53

H annah Hecht

Cicada Flower

K asi Lee

Atypical Love Story

43

Night Series

Jazmine Dirks

55

Christ and Me

Victoria Anthony

48

After Hours

Stages

K atharine Klave

60

Dale Skog

Jess Anderson

56

Sisterly Love

Victoria Anthony

65

Illium

M atthew H adley

57

Fight For Homelessness

Felicia Ely

58

Enough of Your Nothing

Kelci Teut

66

Ate

Felicia Ely

58

The Failure of a Woman

Kelci Teut

68

Reaction

A lexis McK ee

59

Spicy Southwest Vegan Chili

Jacob Chauss

70

Nurture

C assandra Vogt

61

Self Portrait

Tymmrie R ath

64

When

Scott M artinson

65

Ronald

Scott M artinson

67

Ringleader

Felicia Ely

69

End Games Crop Circles

John Bowitz

70

3 C’s

Jazmine Dirks

71

Page from the Past Bruises

Eleanor F. Thorpe

71

All entries are considered objectively by the judges with no artist name or special consideration for any piece.

Editorial staff are eligible for contest placement but not for the prize money.

6

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Jess AJess nderson , Weston Burkhardt Anderson

26-27

56

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POETRY

ON BIRDS AND HAMBURGER BUNS Jacob Chauss

i found seven pairs of hamburger buns on the side of the road today, they were toasted and had nothing on them. there was a bird trying to eat one of them but it was taking the bird a long time because the bird didn’t prefer his bun to be toasted. but the bird had to eat, and take leftovers home to his children. i wondered what the bird’s home life was like. if he too lay awake at night, worrying about things out of his control. maybe his wife left him too, and hasn’t returned his calls either. poor bird, i said, as i walked over to give him a hug, but he flew away and forgot to take the rest of his hamburger bun.

WILTING COLD

by Alex Davalos photography

8

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POETRY

ON BIRDS AND HAMBURGER BUNS Jacob Chauss

i found seven pairs of hamburger buns on the side of the road today, they were toasted and had nothing on them. there was a bird trying to eat one of them but it was taking the bird a long time because the bird didn’t prefer his bun to be toasted. but the bird had to eat, and take leftovers home to his children. i wondered what the bird’s home life was like. if he too lay awake at night, worrying about things out of his control. maybe his wife left him too, and hasn’t returned his calls either. poor bird, i said, as i walked over to give him a hug, but he flew away and forgot to take the rest of his hamburger bun.

WILTING COLD

by Alex Davalos photography

8

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POETRY

SUMMER VACATION Hannah Hecht

I see them glitter.

The cement walls and cloudy water offer a unique headache of echoing noise and pool chemicals.

Children scream with pleasure or panic or something.

Steam rises off water’s surface.

The acrid stench of chlorine burns my nostrils.

One window provides barely enough light to fill the dungeony darkness of the dingy hotel pool.

Children run, jump, and nearly drown every way I look.

Blonde triplets shove each other under.

A toddler takes off at breakneck speed tottering around the edge unsupervised.

Okay, well, I guess there’s one mom sleeping, miraculously, on a white, plastic lounger and a mustached, potbellied father nursing a beer in the corner.

I sit on the side, one foot in the water, t-shirt hastily pulled over my red one-piece swimsuit with a white cross on the front.

I packed it out of habit, but, in this moment, it feels like an obligation.

I fidget at the front of my shirt, reaching for a whistle that isn’t there, and stop myself from yelling “walk!” which I may have accidentally done at the mall once, to the bewilderment of a sprinting child.

A freckled brother backs up on the cemented ground and crouches, like a runner at the start, obviously trying to jump into the pool and over his sister’s head.

“I can make it,” he says, “I know I can.”

He’s missing a front tooth and his eyelashes are long; small beads of water gather and drip off them.

Each pulse of my arms, a futile attempt to bring back the pulse of his spirit.

“Allie, let’s go!” yells my younger sister.

And I’m shaken back to vacation.

She’s dried off and ready to leave.

The freckled brother clears the top of his sister’s head by an inch.

“I think I’ll stay a little while longer.”

The pool’s only open for two more hours.

“Swim at your own risk, no guard on duty,” it says. Yeah right.

With that detail, a memory crashes over me.

Another boy lies limp and lifeless, water trickling from his smooth, bare skin.

His eyes are closed, the look of panic faded.

My hands are on his chest, and I’m an awkward, lanky, fifteen-year-old kid, barely able to wake myself up in the morning and yet responsible for waking him from a sleep much deeper.

“Begin CPR,” the other guard says, a voice of false composure.

I lock my elbows and thrust down.

My palms give to the distinctive crack of his sternum.

ENCHANTED TREE

by Samantha Hansen photography

10

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POETRY

SUMMER VACATION Hannah Hecht

I see them glitter.

The cement walls and cloudy water offer a unique headache of echoing noise and pool chemicals.

Children scream with pleasure or panic or something.

Steam rises off water’s surface.

The acrid stench of chlorine burns my nostrils.

One window provides barely enough light to fill the dungeony darkness of the dingy hotel pool.

Children run, jump, and nearly drown every way I look.

Blonde triplets shove each other under.

A toddler takes off at breakneck speed tottering around the edge unsupervised.

Okay, well, I guess there’s one mom sleeping, miraculously, on a white, plastic lounger and a mustached, potbellied father nursing a beer in the corner.

I sit on the side, one foot in the water, t-shirt hastily pulled over my red one-piece swimsuit with a white cross on the front.

I packed it out of habit, but, in this moment, it feels like an obligation.

I fidget at the front of my shirt, reaching for a whistle that isn’t there, and stop myself from yelling “walk!” which I may have accidentally done at the mall once, to the bewilderment of a sprinting child.

A freckled brother backs up on the cemented ground and crouches, like a runner at the start, obviously trying to jump into the pool and over his sister’s head.

“I can make it,” he says, “I know I can.”

He’s missing a front tooth and his eyelashes are long; small beads of water gather and drip off them.

Each pulse of my arms, a futile attempt to bring back the pulse of his spirit.

“Allie, let’s go!” yells my younger sister.

And I’m shaken back to vacation.

She’s dried off and ready to leave.

The freckled brother clears the top of his sister’s head by an inch.

“I think I’ll stay a little while longer.”

The pool’s only open for two more hours.

“Swim at your own risk, no guard on duty,” it says. Yeah right.

With that detail, a memory crashes over me.

Another boy lies limp and lifeless, water trickling from his smooth, bare skin.

His eyes are closed, the look of panic faded.

My hands are on his chest, and I’m an awkward, lanky, fifteen-year-old kid, barely able to wake myself up in the morning and yet responsible for waking him from a sleep much deeper.

“Begin CPR,” the other guard says, a voice of false composure.

I lock my elbows and thrust down.

My palms give to the distinctive crack of his sternum.

ENCHANTED TREE

by Samantha Hansen photography

10

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11

FICTION

PAGE TURNER Bailey Baack

T

imothy was surprised by how one force could so greatly affect everything around it. The rumble of the train made the leaves surrounding him swell in waves. He could hear the horn punctuate the rotation of the train’s wheels against the iron tracks. The tracks ran right past Timothy’s forest, and he covered his ears to block out the noise. The forest was the one place he went to escape noise–it was his sanctuary.

Timothy Turnip was twelve years old. Being twelve symbolized something to him; he was born the youngest of twelve children. After their fourth child, Timothy’s parents started number“His books took him outside of his ing their children via suburban town in Iowa and into exotic their middle names, making his full given lands filled with dangerous beauties name Timothy Twelve and captivating perils at every turn.” Turnip. Consequently, he expected his twelfth year to be significant.

Historically speaking, that was unlikely. Timothy spent most of his time reading. He squandered hours sitting under or in the trees in his forest with a book in his hands, reading of dashing heroes who gallivanted on white steeds and nimbly executed swift offensive moves with swords. He solved mysteries using deft powers of deduction and rescued fair damsels in distress. His books took him outside of his suburban town in Iowa and into exotic lands filled with dangerous beauties and captivating perils at every turn.

Outside of the pages of a book, though, Timothy felt less like a hero and more like a petunia. His overall physique gave the definite impression of smallness and his fair skin made him seem weak and fragile.

He had tried lifting his brother Foster’s weights in their basement once, but got distracted and ended up reading the home gym instruction manual for two hours instead. After reading every single warning the manual had to offer, he actually became a little afraid of the weight bench and hadn’t touched it since.

The sun was dipping below the trees, and Timothy swung down from the branch with practiced ease, his feet hitting the grass with a soft thud. He wasn’t supposed to be out after dark. He knew El12

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eanor would worry. His shadow lengthening behind him, he made his way out of the forest and back toward the big white house.

possible, I went downtown and sold my body to hobos for French fries.”

“MOOOOOOOOOOMMM, he’s here,” shouted Tennessee as soon as he pushed open the wide oak door.

“Tattooed hobos,” she said. Her eyes were alive with a wild light. His father grunted.

“What? Who’s here?” his Mom said breathlessly, her narrow eyes sweeping in all directions. She rushed off in the direction of the kitchen. His older sister Eleanor came down the stairs and her eyes lit up when she saw him. She walked toward him and put her hand on his head.

“Is that so?” his father said absentmindedly.

“There you are,” she whispered. She looked down at him with her soft blue eyes and gently ruffled his hair. He followed her into the dining room and sat at his usual place beside her at the table. The dining room was large, decorated in brilliant golds and reds; there were windows on the back wall lined with golden curtains that spread a yellowing filter throughout the room. His dad was already seated at the table, engrossed in the evening paper. He didn’t look up. Foster came next and sat silently across from Timothy, his knees touching the underside of the table and his thick eyebrows furrowed. Foster was followed by Tennessee, whose approaching racket could be heard two houses down; she wiggled her legs under the table and tapped her fingers on the edge of her plate. Her straw-colored hair splayed away from her face in undulating pieces and her bright green eyes darted around the room.

“Hey, Dad,” she said, and without waiting for a response, “Dad.” His father didn’t move.

“Guess what I did today?” Tennessee prompted further. Her voice stabbed the silence in the room.

“Hmm?” his father grunted.

“Well first, I went to the drugstore and...” she trailed off, peeking under her father’s newspaper at the inattentive man behind it. A wide smile slowly spread across her face.

“And I bought the newest issue of Beach Bodies and passed it around to various school children and corrupted their young minds and…” she paused.

His father turned the page.

“And then after I defiled as much innocence as

Foster stifled a laugh.

“With mustaches,” Tennessee said.

Timothy thought almost everything his father said was absentminded. He wondered why Tennessee spent so much time trying to coax him out of his fog. Timothy had all but given up.

“They tickled my face. The mustaches, I mean,” she continued. “Well, and I guess the hobos did too.”

“Tennessee,” Eleanor said.

Nina, who had taken her place beside Ten, rolled her eyes and smoothed her dark waterfall hair. Timothy’s mother came in just then carrying a steaming crock-pot and placed it in the middle of the table.

Eli, Sophia, and Sadie gradually made their way into the dining room and sat down. They all began to eat.

“This is great,” Eli said, his mouth full of roast beef and juice dripping down his chin. His blonde hair stuck up in little tufts. His mother smiled.

“Thank Kendra,” Nina said bluntly.

“I’m playing the trumpet,” Ten said.

“Flute,” Nina added, raising her hand.

“And I,” Eli said with his mouth full, making a sweeping gesture with his fork, “will be reappearing as the great and powerful Extraordinary Eli. Prepare to be amazed!” Eli effused spit and food as he talked. Foster dabbed at his face with an index finger. Sadie chuckled.

Kendra was the woman who came during the day to clean their house. She always cooked dinner and stuck it in the refrigerator to be reheated when Timothy’s mother came home. His mother frowned.

His father folded his paper and put it down, looking around.

“I’ll be singing,” Sophia said softly. Her voice chimed, and she smiled, her long wavy hair framing her cheeks and spilling over her shoulders. She played with a small silver necklace that Timothy noticed had become a fixture around her neck the past few weeks.

“Hi everybody,” he said, blinking like a newborn seeing the first light of day, and began to eat. It was quiet for a moment. Silverware clinked against their plates.

“That sounds lovely,” his mother said. “George?”

She touched his father’s arm.

“The talent show is on Sunday,” Eleanor said.

Her muted voice did not break the silence so much as caress it, and she looked down at her plate and pushed her carrots around with her fork. “I’m going to play the piano.” Their town held a community talent show every summer at their small and rundown local theater/impromptu church/permanent rodent apartment complex. It was always one of the highlights of the summer in Bridgefall, Iowa.

“Oh, George, did you see that dress Carla Randall was wearing the other day?” his mother continued, launching into her usual gossip. The Randalls were their neighbors down the street.

UNTITLED

by Amber Berg photography

“Can’t wait,” his father said, and his smile was genuine.

“I can’t say I really pay that much attention.”

“Oh, it was this red couture thing. I can’t see how they can afford it.”

“Speaking of money,” his father said, turning his attention to Foster.

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FICTION

PAGE TURNER Bailey Baack

T

imothy was surprised by how one force could so greatly affect everything around it. The rumble of the train made the leaves surrounding him swell in waves. He could hear the horn punctuate the rotation of the train’s wheels against the iron tracks. The tracks ran right past Timothy’s forest, and he covered his ears to block out the noise. The forest was the one place he went to escape noise–it was his sanctuary.

Timothy Turnip was twelve years old. Being twelve symbolized something to him; he was born the youngest of twelve children. After their fourth child, Timothy’s parents started number“His books took him outside of his ing their children via suburban town in Iowa and into exotic their middle names, making his full given lands filled with dangerous beauties name Timothy Twelve and captivating perils at every turn.” Turnip. Consequently, he expected his twelfth year to be significant.

Historically speaking, that was unlikely. Timothy spent most of his time reading. He squandered hours sitting under or in the trees in his forest with a book in his hands, reading of dashing heroes who gallivanted on white steeds and nimbly executed swift offensive moves with swords. He solved mysteries using deft powers of deduction and rescued fair damsels in distress. His books took him outside of his suburban town in Iowa and into exotic lands filled with dangerous beauties and captivating perils at every turn.

Outside of the pages of a book, though, Timothy felt less like a hero and more like a petunia. His overall physique gave the definite impression of smallness and his fair skin made him seem weak and fragile.

He had tried lifting his brother Foster’s weights in their basement once, but got distracted and ended up reading the home gym instruction manual for two hours instead. After reading every single warning the manual had to offer, he actually became a little afraid of the weight bench and hadn’t touched it since.

The sun was dipping below the trees, and Timothy swung down from the branch with practiced ease, his feet hitting the grass with a soft thud. He wasn’t supposed to be out after dark. He knew El12

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eanor would worry. His shadow lengthening behind him, he made his way out of the forest and back toward the big white house.

possible, I went downtown and sold my body to hobos for French fries.”

“MOOOOOOOOOOMMM, he’s here,” shouted Tennessee as soon as he pushed open the wide oak door.

“Tattooed hobos,” she said. Her eyes were alive with a wild light. His father grunted.

“What? Who’s here?” his Mom said breathlessly, her narrow eyes sweeping in all directions. She rushed off in the direction of the kitchen. His older sister Eleanor came down the stairs and her eyes lit up when she saw him. She walked toward him and put her hand on his head.

“Is that so?” his father said absentmindedly.

“There you are,” she whispered. She looked down at him with her soft blue eyes and gently ruffled his hair. He followed her into the dining room and sat at his usual place beside her at the table. The dining room was large, decorated in brilliant golds and reds; there were windows on the back wall lined with golden curtains that spread a yellowing filter throughout the room. His dad was already seated at the table, engrossed in the evening paper. He didn’t look up. Foster came next and sat silently across from Timothy, his knees touching the underside of the table and his thick eyebrows furrowed. Foster was followed by Tennessee, whose approaching racket could be heard two houses down; she wiggled her legs under the table and tapped her fingers on the edge of her plate. Her straw-colored hair splayed away from her face in undulating pieces and her bright green eyes darted around the room.

“Hey, Dad,” she said, and without waiting for a response, “Dad.” His father didn’t move.

“Guess what I did today?” Tennessee prompted further. Her voice stabbed the silence in the room.

“Hmm?” his father grunted.

“Well first, I went to the drugstore and...” she trailed off, peeking under her father’s newspaper at the inattentive man behind it. A wide smile slowly spread across her face.

“And I bought the newest issue of Beach Bodies and passed it around to various school children and corrupted their young minds and…” she paused.

His father turned the page.

“And then after I defiled as much innocence as

Foster stifled a laugh.

“With mustaches,” Tennessee said.

Timothy thought almost everything his father said was absentminded. He wondered why Tennessee spent so much time trying to coax him out of his fog. Timothy had all but given up.

“They tickled my face. The mustaches, I mean,” she continued. “Well, and I guess the hobos did too.”

“Tennessee,” Eleanor said.

Nina, who had taken her place beside Ten, rolled her eyes and smoothed her dark waterfall hair. Timothy’s mother came in just then carrying a steaming crock-pot and placed it in the middle of the table.

Eli, Sophia, and Sadie gradually made their way into the dining room and sat down. They all began to eat.

“This is great,” Eli said, his mouth full of roast beef and juice dripping down his chin. His blonde hair stuck up in little tufts. His mother smiled.

“Thank Kendra,” Nina said bluntly.

“I’m playing the trumpet,” Ten said.

“Flute,” Nina added, raising her hand.

“And I,” Eli said with his mouth full, making a sweeping gesture with his fork, “will be reappearing as the great and powerful Extraordinary Eli. Prepare to be amazed!” Eli effused spit and food as he talked. Foster dabbed at his face with an index finger. Sadie chuckled.

Kendra was the woman who came during the day to clean their house. She always cooked dinner and stuck it in the refrigerator to be reheated when Timothy’s mother came home. His mother frowned.

His father folded his paper and put it down, looking around.

“I’ll be singing,” Sophia said softly. Her voice chimed, and she smiled, her long wavy hair framing her cheeks and spilling over her shoulders. She played with a small silver necklace that Timothy noticed had become a fixture around her neck the past few weeks.

“Hi everybody,” he said, blinking like a newborn seeing the first light of day, and began to eat. It was quiet for a moment. Silverware clinked against their plates.

“That sounds lovely,” his mother said. “George?”

She touched his father’s arm.

“The talent show is on Sunday,” Eleanor said.

Her muted voice did not break the silence so much as caress it, and she looked down at her plate and pushed her carrots around with her fork. “I’m going to play the piano.” Their town held a community talent show every summer at their small and rundown local theater/impromptu church/permanent rodent apartment complex. It was always one of the highlights of the summer in Bridgefall, Iowa.

“Oh, George, did you see that dress Carla Randall was wearing the other day?” his mother continued, launching into her usual gossip. The Randalls were their neighbors down the street.

UNTITLED

by Amber Berg photography

“Can’t wait,” his father said, and his smile was genuine.

“I can’t say I really pay that much attention.”

“Oh, it was this red couture thing. I can’t see how they can afford it.”

“Speaking of money,” his father said, turning his attention to Foster.

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13

Foster stiffened. “Who’s speaking of money?”

Foster said, running his fingers through hair the same dark shade as their father’s.

“I want you to come with me next week to the factory,” his father said.

Foster sighed. A choir of crickets gently hummed through the open window.

George and Tina Turnip were the owners and chief managers of Turnip’s Tubas, a company Timothy’s grandfather had started in the forties. It was small and locally run, “He loved Eleanor, but he wondered if but Turnip’s Tubas made the best-quality she realized that all he ever was was a brass instruments in pageturner. Never center stage.” the country. Many of the families in Bridgefall and in surrounding counties lived off of income made at the factory.

“It’s time you learned the family business,” his father said.

“This isn’t The Godfather, for Christ’s sake, Dad. You make tubas.” Foster was growing increasingly agitated and began fiddling with the tablecloth.

“And other assorted brass instruments!” his father objected.

“George,” his mother said.

“Tina,” his father said, his tone irritated. “He’s eighteen years old and–” “I’m quite aware of my age, Dad,” Foster cut in, leaning forward, his face warped into a harsh expression Timothy rarely saw on him, “but I’m surprised that you are.” His blue eyes pierced through the dim light cast by the copper chandelier above them. His father’s elbows were on the table.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Foster said and pushed his chair away from the table. He left the room and Timothy heard his footsteps on the stairs.

As he was lying in bed that night, Timothy thought about Foster and his parents. He thought about his oldest brother, Peter, the firstborn Turnip.

Peter was twenty-five and worked as a co-chair of Turnip’s Tubas and as an international representative for the company. He lived in Maryland and worked 14

KIOSK14

from home or from a plane. Seymour, the second son in the Turnip family, moved to New York and became a graphic designer for a high-paying web publisher.

Timothy didn’t remember much about Seymour and his father arguing about the “family business,” but he knew by overhearing whispers from Sadie that it caused a rift. His mother always said that Seymour marched to the beat of his own drum. The way she said it, she made that sound like a bad thing. He thought of Foster’s footsteps on the stairs and felt sadness and anxiety stirring in the pit of his stomach.

“Knock knock,” Eleanor said, peering into the dark through his cracked door. He could see her silhouette against the brass hallway light. “How’s my little brother?”

“Hi, Ellie,” Timothy said quietly. She sat on the edge of his bed and leaned forward, her long brown hair draping over her shoulders. The moonlight from his window shone on her pale face and illuminated her as she smiled at him, her eyes kind. Eleanor was only sixteen, but she radiated a maturity that Timothy took comfort in. She looked after him.

“I have a very important proposition for you,” she said, sitting up straight and mocking a businesslike tone.

He laughed. “What?”

She leaned in, slowly, until their noses were almost touching. The light from the moon made her eyes glow like a Cheshire cat. She widened them in dramatic sincerity.

“Timothy Twelve,” she said solemnly, “will you do me the incredible honor of being my page-turner in the talent show?” Timothy let out a snort.

“I don’t know,” Timothy said, laughing quietly, “that’s a lot of responsibility.”

“I need to know if you can handle it,” Eleanor said. She took his hand and Timothy sighed, pretending to give in. He loved Eleanor, but he wondered if she realized that all he ever was was a page-turner.

Never center stage. He gave her a small smile.

“Of course.”

“I knew you would.”

Eleanor kissed his forehead.

The next morning, Timothy was awakened like

a king. At least, he woke up to the sound of a trumpet blaring. Ten was weaving her way in and out of the hallway, practicing what sounded like a bad rendition of military taps, taking inspiration from what Timothy could only assume was a mallard getting run-over by a semi. As if on cue, a striped pillow flew from stage left and smacked Tennessee right in the beak, undoubtedly the handiwork of Nina. Timothy decided he was up for the morning.

After a long, hot shower, he opened the bathroom door and was greeted by Eli, who was built like a brick wall even though he was only a year older than Timothy. Eli stuck a deck of cards in his face and said, “Pick a card. Any card.” Timothy picked a card.

“Is it the ace of spades?” Eli asked.

“No,” Timothy said, and put the card back in the deck.

“Aw, C’MON!” he heard Eli exclaim as he turned out of the bathroom and into his room. He put on shorts and a t-shirt and then headed downstairs toward voices arguing and a crash coming from the kitchen. Sadie stormed out into the foyer, furiously grumbling, and Sophia fled in the opposite direction a moment later, the silver necklace swaying against her chest. Timothy’s mother came out of the kitchen looking as frazzled as ever. Breakfast was the only meal she was responsible for and she took it very seriously. Her blonde curls bobbed furiously in time with her frantic strides. She didn’t notice him until she stepped on his foot.

“Oh! Timothy, dear, can you please go down to Green’s and pick up some eggs? Just a dozen,” she asked, her eyes pleading with him. He looked back into the kitchen, the door wide open, revealing a mountain of slaughtered eggs smashed against the white linoleum tile. “Maybe two.”

“Little Timmy Turnip!” Mr. Green bellowed as Timothy stepped into the cool respite of Green’s Grocers. Mr. Green was like a middle-aged Santa Claus, with a round belly and dark brown beard.

“Hi, Mr. Green,” Timothy said.

“What can I do for my favorite Turnip today?” he asked.

“I just need to grab a couple cartons of eggs,” Timothy said, starting for the freezers in the back.

“Our kitchen was invaded by the Battle of Yolktown this morning.”

Mr. Green’s laughter reverberated the walls.

Timothy weaved through the aisles, whistling, until he stepped on something and lost his footing. The aisles tilted.

“Oof!” he grunted as he hit the floor. A small pink hand covered his left eye. He smelled lilacs.

Timothy extricated the hand from his face and sat up, finding himself staring at a porcelain little girl with a mop of honey and auburn wisps. Her pink lips stretched into a smile, revealing small pearly teeth.

“Mellie!” he whispered.

Mr. Green’s daughter sat cross-legged in the aisle amidst a flurry of papers and crayons. Timothy saw the pencil he must have tripped on roll under the tomato display.

Melody smiled at him and put her arms around his neck. Her clear, all-knowing eyes examined him; she giggled, an off-kilter bell chime.

“What are you drawing, hmm, Mellie?” Timothy said softly and, without waiting for an answer, picked up the paper on top of the stack. On it was a drawing of a crooked purple butterfly.

“What’s this?” he asked, waving the paper in front of her. She grabbed it, letting out a lopsided coo like the ones Timothy had been hearing for the four years since she was born. Melody didn’t speak. The doctors said she was capable of language, but Timothy figured it would be hard to know what to say when you’ve never heard a word before. She climbed off of his lap and began working on a new masterpiece, her green crayon moving fast across the paper.

They sat there for a while, quiet in the middle of aisle six, until she stopped drawing and looked up at him with questioning eyes. Her new drawing was a picture of a boy with a large disproportionate head; his eyes took up half of his face and a straight line carved his mouth.

“Is this supposed to be me?” he asked Melody.

Suddenly he remembered the eggs and stood to go; the movement caught her attention and she looked KIOSK14

15

Foster stiffened. “Who’s speaking of money?”

Foster said, running his fingers through hair the same dark shade as their father’s.

“I want you to come with me next week to the factory,” his father said.

Foster sighed. A choir of crickets gently hummed through the open window.

George and Tina Turnip were the owners and chief managers of Turnip’s Tubas, a company Timothy’s grandfather had started in the forties. It was small and locally run, “He loved Eleanor, but he wondered if but Turnip’s Tubas made the best-quality she realized that all he ever was was a brass instruments in pageturner. Never center stage.” the country. Many of the families in Bridgefall and in surrounding counties lived off of income made at the factory.

“It’s time you learned the family business,” his father said.

“This isn’t The Godfather, for Christ’s sake, Dad. You make tubas.” Foster was growing increasingly agitated and began fiddling with the tablecloth.

“And other assorted brass instruments!” his father objected.

“George,” his mother said.

“Tina,” his father said, his tone irritated. “He’s eighteen years old and–” “I’m quite aware of my age, Dad,” Foster cut in, leaning forward, his face warped into a harsh expression Timothy rarely saw on him, “but I’m surprised that you are.” His blue eyes pierced through the dim light cast by the copper chandelier above them. His father’s elbows were on the table.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Foster said and pushed his chair away from the table. He left the room and Timothy heard his footsteps on the stairs.

As he was lying in bed that night, Timothy thought about Foster and his parents. He thought about his oldest brother, Peter, the firstborn Turnip.

Peter was twenty-five and worked as a co-chair of Turnip’s Tubas and as an international representative for the company. He lived in Maryland and worked 14

KIOSK14

from home or from a plane. Seymour, the second son in the Turnip family, moved to New York and became a graphic designer for a high-paying web publisher.

Timothy didn’t remember much about Seymour and his father arguing about the “family business,” but he knew by overhearing whispers from Sadie that it caused a rift. His mother always said that Seymour marched to the beat of his own drum. The way she said it, she made that sound like a bad thing. He thought of Foster’s footsteps on the stairs and felt sadness and anxiety stirring in the pit of his stomach.

“Knock knock,” Eleanor said, peering into the dark through his cracked door. He could see her silhouette against the brass hallway light. “How’s my little brother?”

“Hi, Ellie,” Timothy said quietly. She sat on the edge of his bed and leaned forward, her long brown hair draping over her shoulders. The moonlight from his window shone on her pale face and illuminated her as she smiled at him, her eyes kind. Eleanor was only sixteen, but she radiated a maturity that Timothy took comfort in. She looked after him.

“I have a very important proposition for you,” she said, sitting up straight and mocking a businesslike tone.

He laughed. “What?”

She leaned in, slowly, until their noses were almost touching. The light from the moon made her eyes glow like a Cheshire cat. She widened them in dramatic sincerity.

“Timothy Twelve,” she said solemnly, “will you do me the incredible honor of being my page-turner in the talent show?” Timothy let out a snort.

“I don’t know,” Timothy said, laughing quietly, “that’s a lot of responsibility.”

“I need to know if you can handle it,” Eleanor said. She took his hand and Timothy sighed, pretending to give in. He loved Eleanor, but he wondered if she realized that all he ever was was a page-turner.

Never center stage. He gave her a small smile.

“Of course.”

“I knew you would.”

Eleanor kissed his forehead.

The next morning, Timothy was awakened like

a king. At least, he woke up to the sound of a trumpet blaring. Ten was weaving her way in and out of the hallway, practicing what sounded like a bad rendition of military taps, taking inspiration from what Timothy could only assume was a mallard getting run-over by a semi. As if on cue, a striped pillow flew from stage left and smacked Tennessee right in the beak, undoubtedly the handiwork of Nina. Timothy decided he was up for the morning.

After a long, hot shower, he opened the bathroom door and was greeted by Eli, who was built like a brick wall even though he was only a year older than Timothy. Eli stuck a deck of cards in his face and said, “Pick a card. Any card.” Timothy picked a card.

“Is it the ace of spades?” Eli asked.

“No,” Timothy said, and put the card back in the deck.

“Aw, C’MON!” he heard Eli exclaim as he turned out of the bathroom and into his room. He put on shorts and a t-shirt and then headed downstairs toward voices arguing and a crash coming from the kitchen. Sadie stormed out into the foyer, furiously grumbling, and Sophia fled in the opposite direction a moment later, the silver necklace swaying against her chest. Timothy’s mother came out of the kitchen looking as frazzled as ever. Breakfast was the only meal she was responsible for and she took it very seriously. Her blonde curls bobbed furiously in time with her frantic strides. She didn’t notice him until she stepped on his foot.

“Oh! Timothy, dear, can you please go down to Green’s and pick up some eggs? Just a dozen,” she asked, her eyes pleading with him. He looked back into the kitchen, the door wide open, revealing a mountain of slaughtered eggs smashed against the white linoleum tile. “Maybe two.”

“Little Timmy Turnip!” Mr. Green bellowed as Timothy stepped into the cool respite of Green’s Grocers. Mr. Green was like a middle-aged Santa Claus, with a round belly and dark brown beard.

“Hi, Mr. Green,” Timothy said.

“What can I do for my favorite Turnip today?” he asked.

“I just need to grab a couple cartons of eggs,” Timothy said, starting for the freezers in the back.

“Our kitchen was invaded by the Battle of Yolktown this morning.”

Mr. Green’s laughter reverberated the walls.

Timothy weaved through the aisles, whistling, until he stepped on something and lost his footing. The aisles tilted.

“Oof!” he grunted as he hit the floor. A small pink hand covered his left eye. He smelled lilacs.

Timothy extricated the hand from his face and sat up, finding himself staring at a porcelain little girl with a mop of honey and auburn wisps. Her pink lips stretched into a smile, revealing small pearly teeth.

“Mellie!” he whispered.

Mr. Green’s daughter sat cross-legged in the aisle amidst a flurry of papers and crayons. Timothy saw the pencil he must have tripped on roll under the tomato display.

Melody smiled at him and put her arms around his neck. Her clear, all-knowing eyes examined him; she giggled, an off-kilter bell chime.

“What are you drawing, hmm, Mellie?” Timothy said softly and, without waiting for an answer, picked up the paper on top of the stack. On it was a drawing of a crooked purple butterfly.

“What’s this?” he asked, waving the paper in front of her. She grabbed it, letting out a lopsided coo like the ones Timothy had been hearing for the four years since she was born. Melody didn’t speak. The doctors said she was capable of language, but Timothy figured it would be hard to know what to say when you’ve never heard a word before. She climbed off of his lap and began working on a new masterpiece, her green crayon moving fast across the paper.

They sat there for a while, quiet in the middle of aisle six, until she stopped drawing and looked up at him with questioning eyes. Her new drawing was a picture of a boy with a large disproportionate head; his eyes took up half of his face and a straight line carved his mouth.

“Is this supposed to be me?” he asked Melody.

Suddenly he remembered the eggs and stood to go; the movement caught her attention and she looked KIOSK14

15

at him, frowning slightly.

“Thank you, Mellie,” he said, and put the paper in his pocket.

She smiled.

Timothy grabbed the eggs from the back of the store, bought them, and left, waving goodbye to Mr. Green.

When he got home, he was greeted with a crash and the distorted honk of a trumpet. Someone yelled, followed by another bang. He placed the eggs on the kitchen counter and immediately turned around and bounded out the back door, heading for the forest that surrounded his backyard. He spent the rest of the day reading among the trees.

It was already dark when Timothy decided to head for home. He had wandered so far through the forest that when he emerged, he realized he was almost downtown again. The night was cool, the summer air wrapping around Her eyes were always dancing; him like a silk sheet. In between they waltzed and tangoed and the glow of the streetlights, Timothy could see the stars bright performed a ballet. and proud in the navy sky. Soon he was in his own neighborhood; he bathed in the familiarity of it. A dog barked a few houses down, sprinklers chattered to one another, and lightning bugs blinked hello.

He came upon the Randall’s house. It was dark except for a light around the side; he could see it illuminating the grass below it. He heard a shout coming from inside the house and felt compelled to walk toward it. The grass left dew on his sneakers as Timothy stood in the light and looked up at the window. Red curtains surrounded the frame. He heard another shout, closer this time, and Timothy ducked down below the pane. The window slammed closed above him and the curtains were drawn. He stood up and saw that a sliver of light still peeked through the red curtains. He knew he should just go home, but he couldn’t seem to will his body to move.

He could see the Randall’s small kitchen and white walls lit by an overhead fixture. There was a candle on the stove. Mr. and Mrs. Randall stood by the table, their faces both taut with anger. They were 16

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younger than Timothy’s parents and had only one child, a young son whom Timothy didn’t see much.

Mrs. Randall was a pretty brunette, and Timothy guessed that when she was younger she looked like the typical Midwestern girl-next-door, but through the window he could see dark circles under her tired eyes and lines around her lips. Mr. Randall was yelling, his whole body jerking with anger, his hands gesticulating wildly. Mrs. Randall’s eyes were fixed on the floor. Timothy could hear the muffled nuances of their voices but couldn’t make out any words.

Mr. Randall moved toward her, yelling, and flung his hand across the table, scattering a pile of unopened envelopes. This seemed to snap her awake, and her body jolted, her eyes harsh in the kitchen light. She leaned into Mr. Randall and argued; Timothy could see the force behind her words. They were both yelling now; her lips sputtered and his forehead creased into deep canyons. Timothy watched as Mr. Randall drew his hand back and hit her square across the cheek. Timothy stepped back abruptly out of the light that seeped through the curtains. He could only see Mrs. Randall’s face, her eyes stunned. Quickly, he turned away from the window and ran the rest of the way home.

The sheets stuck to his bare legs. Timothy turned over and pressed his cheek against the cool side of his pillow. He heard a crunch. Shuffling in the dim morning glow, he found a small crumpled piece of lined notebook paper. He unfolded it and smoothed it against his knee: Hey, sleepyhead. Meet me in the barn when you wake up. Bring your fingers. –E They didn’t live on a farm, but ever since Timothy could remember, there had always been an old blue barn on their property. This was Iowa; a barn popped up almost as often as corn, and that was all the explanation they needed. The indigo paint on the barn was peeling, exposing old wooden panels and rusty nails. Timothy knocked on the door. It slid open a crack. One blue eye gazed at him, catching the light. It narrowed.

“What’s the password?” she whispered mysteriously.

“Umm…how about…please-let-me-into-thisstupid-obsolete-barn?” Timothy deadpanned. The

eye crinkled around the corner and the door slid all the way open, revealing Eleanor in her uniform jean shorts and t-shirt. She and Timothy dressed the same, despite their differences in age and gender.

“The password was actually Eli’s ace of spades,” she said, holding up a card with two fingers and flinging it at him. “But I gave you points for creativity.” Timothy laughed and followed her inside.

The Turnip’s used the barn basically as a storage unit for anything that didn’t have a place in their house; cracks and holes dotted the walls and ceiling like bright big nebulas in a wooden sky. It held bicycles, old dressers, plastic tubs filled with hand-medowns, bookshelves, forgotten toys, discarded tubas, and, in the left-hand corner, a baby grand piano. He was told that his dad used to play beautifully, but he stopped after Timothy’s grandfather died and his father became the new head of Turnip’s Tubas. The piano was shoved in the barn to make room for new baby stuff for Timothy and no one had really touched it since; no one except Eleanor. She went to the piano and sat. Looking at him, she patted the seat next to her on the bench.

“Come here, Timothy Twelve,” she said.

“Whatever you say, Eleanor Eight,” he replied and walked to her. He saw laughter and kindness dancing in her eyes. Her eyes were always dancing; they waltzed and tangoed and performed a ballet.

He wondered how someone got eyes like that. He sat down next to her and she began to play. She held her head high and proud, her fingers floating over the keys. She looked graceful. He watched her and listened to the notes permeate the air in the barn and she nodded her head when it was time to turn the page. They sat like that for the rest of the morning, Eleanor practicing and Timothy turning, until Eleanor said her fingers hurt and Timothy knew all of the cues. She smiled and hugged him.

“I do believe you are the best page-turner I have ever had,” she said. Timothy noticed that even her hug couldn’t stifle the ache in his chest.

“TIIIMMMMMOOOOOTTTHHY Y Y Y Y Y, phone’s for you,” Tennessee bellowed inside the kitchen.

“I’m. Right. Here,” Timothy said behind her, putting a finger to his ear.

“Oh,” Ten said, turning around and handing him the phone. He brought it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“I’ll be over in ten minutes.”

“Wait, what? Who is this?”

“Who do you think it is, dillweed?”

“Oh. Hi, Robby.”

“I’ve only been your best friend since we were two, Tim. You’d think you’d recognize my voice by now.”

BOOKS

by Kasi Lee photography

“Um.” “Right. So ten minutes.”

“See, I’m actually kind of busy and-” “Don’t give me that crap, Tim. It’s Saturday.”

“So?” “So? So Saturday is half-priced milkshake day at The Diner. And where there are half-priced milkshakes, there are girls eager to consume said halfpriced milkshakes. Girls that are eternally grateful to any cheapskates like us who buy them. C’mon, Tim!” “I don’t–” “Ten minutes,” Robby said finally before he hung up. Timothy sighed and placed the phone back in its cradle. Robby was thirteen, a year older than him, but they had been in the same class for as long as Timothy could remember. He had been held back, not because he was dumb, but because he simply KIOSK14

17

at him, frowning slightly.

“Thank you, Mellie,” he said, and put the paper in his pocket.

She smiled.

Timothy grabbed the eggs from the back of the store, bought them, and left, waving goodbye to Mr. Green.

When he got home, he was greeted with a crash and the distorted honk of a trumpet. Someone yelled, followed by another bang. He placed the eggs on the kitchen counter and immediately turned around and bounded out the back door, heading for the forest that surrounded his backyard. He spent the rest of the day reading among the trees.

It was already dark when Timothy decided to head for home. He had wandered so far through the forest that when he emerged, he realized he was almost downtown again. The night was cool, the summer air wrapping around Her eyes were always dancing; him like a silk sheet. In between they waltzed and tangoed and the glow of the streetlights, Timothy could see the stars bright performed a ballet. and proud in the navy sky. Soon he was in his own neighborhood; he bathed in the familiarity of it. A dog barked a few houses down, sprinklers chattered to one another, and lightning bugs blinked hello.

He came upon the Randall’s house. It was dark except for a light around the side; he could see it illuminating the grass below it. He heard a shout coming from inside the house and felt compelled to walk toward it. The grass left dew on his sneakers as Timothy stood in the light and looked up at the window. Red curtains surrounded the frame. He heard another shout, closer this time, and Timothy ducked down below the pane. The window slammed closed above him and the curtains were drawn. He stood up and saw that a sliver of light still peeked through the red curtains. He knew he should just go home, but he couldn’t seem to will his body to move.

He could see the Randall’s small kitchen and white walls lit by an overhead fixture. There was a candle on the stove. Mr. and Mrs. Randall stood by the table, their faces both taut with anger. They were 16

KIOSK14

younger than Timothy’s parents and had only one child, a young son whom Timothy didn’t see much.

Mrs. Randall was a pretty brunette, and Timothy guessed that when she was younger she looked like the typical Midwestern girl-next-door, but through the window he could see dark circles under her tired eyes and lines around her lips. Mr. Randall was yelling, his whole body jerking with anger, his hands gesticulating wildly. Mrs. Randall’s eyes were fixed on the floor. Timothy could hear the muffled nuances of their voices but couldn’t make out any words.

Mr. Randall moved toward her, yelling, and flung his hand across the table, scattering a pile of unopened envelopes. This seemed to snap her awake, and her body jolted, her eyes harsh in the kitchen light. She leaned into Mr. Randall and argued; Timothy could see the force behind her words. They were both yelling now; her lips sputtered and his forehead creased into deep canyons. Timothy watched as Mr. Randall drew his hand back and hit her square across the cheek. Timothy stepped back abruptly out of the light that seeped through the curtains. He could only see Mrs. Randall’s face, her eyes stunned. Quickly, he turned away from the window and ran the rest of the way home.

The sheets stuck to his bare legs. Timothy turned over and pressed his cheek against the cool side of his pillow. He heard a crunch. Shuffling in the dim morning glow, he found a small crumpled piece of lined notebook paper. He unfolded it and smoothed it against his knee: Hey, sleepyhead. Meet me in the barn when you wake up. Bring your fingers. –E They didn’t live on a farm, but ever since Timothy could remember, there had always been an old blue barn on their property. This was Iowa; a barn popped up almost as often as corn, and that was all the explanation they needed. The indigo paint on the barn was peeling, exposing old wooden panels and rusty nails. Timothy knocked on the door. It slid open a crack. One blue eye gazed at him, catching the light. It narrowed.

“What’s the password?” she whispered mysteriously.

“Umm…how about…please-let-me-into-thisstupid-obsolete-barn?” Timothy deadpanned. The

eye crinkled around the corner and the door slid all the way open, revealing Eleanor in her uniform jean shorts and t-shirt. She and Timothy dressed the same, despite their differences in age and gender.

“The password was actually Eli’s ace of spades,” she said, holding up a card with two fingers and flinging it at him. “But I gave you points for creativity.” Timothy laughed and followed her inside.

The Turnip’s used the barn basically as a storage unit for anything that didn’t have a place in their house; cracks and holes dotted the walls and ceiling like bright big nebulas in a wooden sky. It held bicycles, old dressers, plastic tubs filled with hand-medowns, bookshelves, forgotten toys, discarded tubas, and, in the left-hand corner, a baby grand piano. He was told that his dad used to play beautifully, but he stopped after Timothy’s grandfather died and his father became the new head of Turnip’s Tubas. The piano was shoved in the barn to make room for new baby stuff for Timothy and no one had really touched it since; no one except Eleanor. She went to the piano and sat. Looking at him, she patted the seat next to her on the bench.

“Come here, Timothy Twelve,” she said.

“Whatever you say, Eleanor Eight,” he replied and walked to her. He saw laughter and kindness dancing in her eyes. Her eyes were always dancing; they waltzed and tangoed and performed a ballet.

He wondered how someone got eyes like that. He sat down next to her and she began to play. She held her head high and proud, her fingers floating over the keys. She looked graceful. He watched her and listened to the notes permeate the air in the barn and she nodded her head when it was time to turn the page. They sat like that for the rest of the morning, Eleanor practicing and Timothy turning, until Eleanor said her fingers hurt and Timothy knew all of the cues. She smiled and hugged him.

“I do believe you are the best page-turner I have ever had,” she said. Timothy noticed that even her hug couldn’t stifle the ache in his chest.

“TIIIMMMMMOOOOOTTTHHY Y Y Y Y Y, phone’s for you,” Tennessee bellowed inside the kitchen.

“I’m. Right. Here,” Timothy said behind her, putting a finger to his ear.

“Oh,” Ten said, turning around and handing him the phone. He brought it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“I’ll be over in ten minutes.”

“Wait, what? Who is this?”

“Who do you think it is, dillweed?”

“Oh. Hi, Robby.”

“I’ve only been your best friend since we were two, Tim. You’d think you’d recognize my voice by now.”

BOOKS

by Kasi Lee photography

“Um.” “Right. So ten minutes.”

“See, I’m actually kind of busy and-” “Don’t give me that crap, Tim. It’s Saturday.”

“So?” “So? So Saturday is half-priced milkshake day at The Diner. And where there are half-priced milkshakes, there are girls eager to consume said halfpriced milkshakes. Girls that are eternally grateful to any cheapskates like us who buy them. C’mon, Tim!” “I don’t–” “Ten minutes,” Robby said finally before he hung up. Timothy sighed and placed the phone back in its cradle. Robby was thirteen, a year older than him, but they had been in the same class for as long as Timothy could remember. He had been held back, not because he was dumb, but because he simply KIOSK14

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didn’t care about schoolwork. Robby’s parents and Timothy’s parents were good friends back in the day, so when Robby got moved down to his class, he stuck to Timothy automatically. And it had been that way ever since. He had what teachers described on report cards as a “larger than life” personality, which was the nice way of saying he was a pain in the butt. He had always taken charge in their friendship–well, actually, in everything. But he was charismatic and funny and the only friend Timothy had that didn’t forget about him eventually, so Timothy went along with it. Besides, Robby was like the heroes in Timothy’s books–bold and adventurous– and he liked that.

Ten minutes later, he heard a bang on the door.

He didn’t get up from his seat in the kitchen. As expected, Robby came stalking in through the doorway a moment later. He was at least a head taller than Timothy when they were both standing. He pushed a lock of long dirty blonde hair out of his eyes.

“Let’s go, Tim, time’s a wastin’ and milk’s a spoilin’!” he said, his grin wide and his eyes a little wild.

He always looked like he had just returned from a thrilling expedition. Timothy followed Robby as they walked out into the summer heat and headed for The Diner. The diner was an old restaurant with white siding and blue shingles. It had a name, but the sign in front of the building was so old and faded that no one could read what it said and everyone just called it “The Diner” anyway. It was a hotspot for activity in Bridgefall. The inside was more promising than the outside, but not by much; it had been redone and tackily decorated with fifties decor, complete with a jukebox in the corner. As Robby and Timothy escaped the grasp of the midday humidity and stepped into The Diner, a burst of laughter called their attention to a table at the far end of the restaurant. Timothy saw his sister, Sadie, with two other girls and at least five boys all crammed into a booth. He tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t look at him; she was busy talking to a tall brunette boy with a strong jaw.

Timothy thought he recognized him as one of the players for the football team. She tossed her shiny golden hair over one shoulder.

“C’mon, Tim, over here,” Robby said, grabbing 18

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him by the shoulder and leading him in the opposite direction to a booth directly across from two girls in their class. One of the girls saw them and giggled to her friend. Robby winked. They sat down and Robby looked at him, his forehead sweaty from either the humidity or the testosterone. Probably both.

“Woo-wee, Rebecca Summers,” he said, cocking his head to indicate the girl to his right. “Now that’s the oldest thirteen-year-old I ever did see.” Timothy rolled his eyes. He knew Robby was harmless, but he found his alpha-male routine tiring.

“Can we get a couple of milkshakes for those two cuties in the corner booth?” Robby added. He looked over at the girls and waved, twiddling his fingers.

They giggled.

“Sure thing, Casanova,” the waitress said, rolling her eyes and disappearing through a door marked Employees Only. Robby grinned.

“Oh, dude, be cool. They’re coming over here,” he said as the two girls got up from their booth and walked over. “Why hello, ladies.”

“Hey Robby,” they said in unison.

“Hey Timothy,” the shorter one said to him, but he wasn’t listening. He was looking over his shoulder at Sadie’s table, trying to be nonchalant. Everyone sitting at her booth was getting up to leave, and Timothy saw Sadie standing among them. She was still chatting with the strong-jawed boy when he stood up and grabbed her. Timothy could see her face laughing over the boy’s shoulder as she playfully tried to push him away. He pulled Sadie closer and his hand snaked down her thigh. She slapped at it and broke away from him. She was laughing, but Timothy thought he saw something in her eye as she walked toward the door. The boy followed her and Timothy’s eyes trailed them both, watching her sunshine hair swaying behind her as she left.

“Your milkshake,” the beehived waitress said, sliding a glass dripping with perspiration in front of him.

“Oh,” he said, his gaze broken. “Thank you.”

“Tim, scooch over,” Robby said, snapping his fingers in front of Timothy’s face to get his attention.

The girls sat beside them as they ate. Robby chattered

to them but Timothy sat in silence. He drank half of his milkshake, and then stopped; he wasn’t very hungry anymore. There was a knot deep in the pit of his stomach.

“Oooooh... Tim, could you get this one? I forgot my wallet,” Robby said when the waitress brought the bill, patting his pockets and shrugging his shoulders sheepishly. “Thanks buddy, you’re a pal.”

Timothy paid and they left with the girls in tow.

He spent the rest of the day following Robby and the girls around, watching them flirt and not saying much of anything. He felt like a shell and wondered what someone would find if they cracked him open.

He wondered if he would be hollow. He thought about this until the sun began to descend and he said goodbye to Robby and the girls and walked home.

He was standing on the porch and looking at the moon, a bright beam in the cloudless sky, when he heard a noise wafting from behind the house. He hadn’t felt like going inside yet. He didn’t want to be left alone in his dark room, feeling like an old Christmas ornament packed away in the attic. He heard the noise again and went around the house to investigate.

It was pitch dark and Timothy groped the side of the house to keep his balance. As he rounded the corner, he saw a silhouette sitting on the bench in the garden.

All he could see was the outline of long wavy hair highlighted by the moon. The figure was crying, her head in her hands and her shoulders shaking up and down; he could tell she was trying to be quiet, but muffled sobs escaped her lips and slipped through the cracks in her fingers. Quietly he padded through the grass and approached her.

“Sophia?”

She started, and looked up at him with watery violet eyes. Tears streaked across her cheeks like the silver strokes of a paintbrush and her lips trembled as she gasped.

“Oh! Timothy, you scared me,” she said, her voice wavering.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting beside her on the bench, but she only shook her head and let it drop back into her hands. Sophia Six had always been the softest of the Turnip children, much unlike the other

two in their set of three, Foster and Sadie. The triplets were eighteen now and Timothy often wondered if the house would feel empty next year when they were gone. He had never been very close to Sophia; it was hard to get to know her. She closed herself off, a silent and beautiful flower. At least, that was the way everyone thought of her.

Her sobs got louder and Timothy took her hand in his. She wouldn’t speak, but he sat there with her until she had quieted enough to look at him. Her face was grateful, her wet eyelashes sticking together and her skin blotchy from crying. He wished he could help her somehow. He took her elbow and guided her off the bench. She let him lead her into the house and as they were crossing the garden, Timothy thought he saw a glint of gleaming silver buried in the dirt.

Lying in bed that night, Timothy felt the walls swallowing him. All the birds and the trees and the air and the streets and the grass and the lights outside whirled around him, creating a tornado of world, and flung him about like an old rag doll. He was powerless against the struggle and crushed by its weight. He saw Foster working for the tuba factory for the rest of his life, a permanent frown etched into his worn and weary face, and his life mimicking the conveyer belts that produced his living. He saw Mr. Randall hitting Mrs. Randall over and over again, her cheek as red as the curtains and no matter how much time passed, the marks would not go away. Timothy saw Mr. Green loving his daughter who would never hear his voice. He saw Melody, trapped inside a soundless existence, a slave to the fate bestowed upon her over which she had no control. He saw the nameless boy’s hand upon Sadie’s thigh, and saw her life filled with only nameless boys and only unidentified hands laid upon her. Timothy saw Sophia crying over a love that left, unable to fill the absence of that which she held dear but had no power to keep. He wondered if any of them had the power to keep. And Timothy saw himself. Tears ran down his cheek and hit his pillow as the chains of what he could not change caught his wrists and his ankles and bound him until he struggled to breathe.

His chest rose through soundless sobs as he focused on his lungs, breathing in and out, in and out. He KIOSK14

19

didn’t care about schoolwork. Robby’s parents and Timothy’s parents were good friends back in the day, so when Robby got moved down to his class, he stuck to Timothy automatically. And it had been that way ever since. He had what teachers described on report cards as a “larger than life” personality, which was the nice way of saying he was a pain in the butt. He had always taken charge in their friendship–well, actually, in everything. But he was charismatic and funny and the only friend Timothy had that didn’t forget about him eventually, so Timothy went along with it. Besides, Robby was like the heroes in Timothy’s books–bold and adventurous– and he liked that.

Ten minutes later, he heard a bang on the door.

He didn’t get up from his seat in the kitchen. As expected, Robby came stalking in through the doorway a moment later. He was at least a head taller than Timothy when they were both standing. He pushed a lock of long dirty blonde hair out of his eyes.

“Let’s go, Tim, time’s a wastin’ and milk’s a spoilin’!” he said, his grin wide and his eyes a little wild.

He always looked like he had just returned from a thrilling expedition. Timothy followed Robby as they walked out into the summer heat and headed for The Diner. The diner was an old restaurant with white siding and blue shingles. It had a name, but the sign in front of the building was so old and faded that no one could read what it said and everyone just called it “The Diner” anyway. It was a hotspot for activity in Bridgefall. The inside was more promising than the outside, but not by much; it had been redone and tackily decorated with fifties decor, complete with a jukebox in the corner. As Robby and Timothy escaped the grasp of the midday humidity and stepped into The Diner, a burst of laughter called their attention to a table at the far end of the restaurant. Timothy saw his sister, Sadie, with two other girls and at least five boys all crammed into a booth. He tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t look at him; she was busy talking to a tall brunette boy with a strong jaw.

Timothy thought he recognized him as one of the players for the football team. She tossed her shiny golden hair over one shoulder.

“C’mon, Tim, over here,” Robby said, grabbing 18

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him by the shoulder and leading him in the opposite direction to a booth directly across from two girls in their class. One of the girls saw them and giggled to her friend. Robby winked. They sat down and Robby looked at him, his forehead sweaty from either the humidity or the testosterone. Probably both.

“Woo-wee, Rebecca Summers,” he said, cocking his head to indicate the girl to his right. “Now that’s the oldest thirteen-year-old I ever did see.” Timothy rolled his eyes. He knew Robby was harmless, but he found his alpha-male routine tiring.

“Can we get a couple of milkshakes for those two cuties in the corner booth?” Robby added. He looked over at the girls and waved, twiddling his fingers.

They giggled.

“Sure thing, Casanova,” the waitress said, rolling her eyes and disappearing through a door marked Employees Only. Robby grinned.

“Oh, dude, be cool. They’re coming over here,” he said as the two girls got up from their booth and walked over. “Why hello, ladies.”

“Hey Robby,” they said in unison.

“Hey Timothy,” the shorter one said to him, but he wasn’t listening. He was looking over his shoulder at Sadie’s table, trying to be nonchalant. Everyone sitting at her booth was getting up to leave, and Timothy saw Sadie standing among them. She was still chatting with the strong-jawed boy when he stood up and grabbed her. Timothy could see her face laughing over the boy’s shoulder as she playfully tried to push him away. He pulled Sadie closer and his hand snaked down her thigh. She slapped at it and broke away from him. She was laughing, but Timothy thought he saw something in her eye as she walked toward the door. The boy followed her and Timothy’s eyes trailed them both, watching her sunshine hair swaying behind her as she left.

“Your milkshake,” the beehived waitress said, sliding a glass dripping with perspiration in front of him.

“Oh,” he said, his gaze broken. “Thank you.”

“Tim, scooch over,” Robby said, snapping his fingers in front of Timothy’s face to get his attention.

The girls sat beside them as they ate. Robby chattered

to them but Timothy sat in silence. He drank half of his milkshake, and then stopped; he wasn’t very hungry anymore. There was a knot deep in the pit of his stomach.

“Oooooh... Tim, could you get this one? I forgot my wallet,” Robby said when the waitress brought the bill, patting his pockets and shrugging his shoulders sheepishly. “Thanks buddy, you’re a pal.”

Timothy paid and they left with the girls in tow.

He spent the rest of the day following Robby and the girls around, watching them flirt and not saying much of anything. He felt like a shell and wondered what someone would find if they cracked him open.

He wondered if he would be hollow. He thought about this until the sun began to descend and he said goodbye to Robby and the girls and walked home.

He was standing on the porch and looking at the moon, a bright beam in the cloudless sky, when he heard a noise wafting from behind the house. He hadn’t felt like going inside yet. He didn’t want to be left alone in his dark room, feeling like an old Christmas ornament packed away in the attic. He heard the noise again and went around the house to investigate.

It was pitch dark and Timothy groped the side of the house to keep his balance. As he rounded the corner, he saw a silhouette sitting on the bench in the garden.

All he could see was the outline of long wavy hair highlighted by the moon. The figure was crying, her head in her hands and her shoulders shaking up and down; he could tell she was trying to be quiet, but muffled sobs escaped her lips and slipped through the cracks in her fingers. Quietly he padded through the grass and approached her.

“Sophia?”

She started, and looked up at him with watery violet eyes. Tears streaked across her cheeks like the silver strokes of a paintbrush and her lips trembled as she gasped.

“Oh! Timothy, you scared me,” she said, her voice wavering.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting beside her on the bench, but she only shook her head and let it drop back into her hands. Sophia Six had always been the softest of the Turnip children, much unlike the other

two in their set of three, Foster and Sadie. The triplets were eighteen now and Timothy often wondered if the house would feel empty next year when they were gone. He had never been very close to Sophia; it was hard to get to know her. She closed herself off, a silent and beautiful flower. At least, that was the way everyone thought of her.

Her sobs got louder and Timothy took her hand in his. She wouldn’t speak, but he sat there with her until she had quieted enough to look at him. Her face was grateful, her wet eyelashes sticking together and her skin blotchy from crying. He wished he could help her somehow. He took her elbow and guided her off the bench. She let him lead her into the house and as they were crossing the garden, Timothy thought he saw a glint of gleaming silver buried in the dirt.

Lying in bed that night, Timothy felt the walls swallowing him. All the birds and the trees and the air and the streets and the grass and the lights outside whirled around him, creating a tornado of world, and flung him about like an old rag doll. He was powerless against the struggle and crushed by its weight. He saw Foster working for the tuba factory for the rest of his life, a permanent frown etched into his worn and weary face, and his life mimicking the conveyer belts that produced his living. He saw Mr. Randall hitting Mrs. Randall over and over again, her cheek as red as the curtains and no matter how much time passed, the marks would not go away. Timothy saw Mr. Green loving his daughter who would never hear his voice. He saw Melody, trapped inside a soundless existence, a slave to the fate bestowed upon her over which she had no control. He saw the nameless boy’s hand upon Sadie’s thigh, and saw her life filled with only nameless boys and only unidentified hands laid upon her. Timothy saw Sophia crying over a love that left, unable to fill the absence of that which she held dear but had no power to keep. He wondered if any of them had the power to keep. And Timothy saw himself. Tears ran down his cheek and hit his pillow as the chains of what he could not change caught his wrists and his ankles and bound him until he struggled to breathe.

His chest rose through soundless sobs as he focused on his lungs, breathing in and out, in and out. He KIOSK14

19

lay there for an hour, filling with air and then letting it go, until he slowly slipped into unawareness as the tears dried on his face.

and citizens of all ages bustled around, making lastminute adjustments and generally freaking out. Sally Aronson was practicing her baton twirling.

When the light crept through his window the next morning, Timothy woke utterly spent. His face felt dry and salty and his chest heaved with each breath; he blinked slowly, his eyes puffy and swollen. It was Sunday. A cloud of noise rose through the floorboards: a trumpet blaring, a female voice yelling, Eli asking, “Was that your He was a powerless ant that Fate card?” It was humid; the air was burning under a magnifying clung to his skin and stuck to his throat. He rose from bed glass, laughing maliciously as he and shuffled across the woodsmoked and burned to ash. en floor, his footprints leaving behind a moist impression on the floorboards. He showered, letting the hot water soak into his muscles until he felt itchy and restless.

“Do you think I should set the batons on fire?” she asked in a quick panicky voice, running up to Eleanor. “Would that be impressive?” Eleanor merely patted her on the shoulder. Timothy stood in the corner by the curtains and watched the pandemonium. Soon enough, the lights dimmed and the audience quieted.

When he was clean and dressed, he went outside to the old barn. Pushing aside the heavy blue door, he stepped into the dimly lit barn. Eleanor was there at the piano. He had expected to see her there. She was staring at the keys, her hands limp and her music spread out around her. She didn’t seem to know he was there. He walked up slowly and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Think we’ve got a chance to beat Sarah Aronson this year?” he asked and her dancing eyes looked at him and smiled. Sarah was a girl two years older than Eleanor who had won the talent show three years in a row with her beautiful dance solos.

“Maybe if Sally kills her first,” Eleanor said with a snort, referring to Sarah’s jealous younger sister who was in Eleanor’s class. Eleanor nodded toward the music and set it up on the stand. Timothy walked around and sat beside her. She played, the notes cascading into each other, and Timothy listened.

She glanced at him, those fox-trotting eyes, and he turned the page.

The show was set to start at 7:00 that night, and by 6:40 the theater was full. Nearly all of Bridgefall came to watch. The room filled with the chatter of the audience, but Timothy could barely hear it, for backstage it looked as if all hell had broken loose. Kids 20

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Some official person that Timothy didn’t pay attention to emceed the show. Ten played her trumpet and actually managed to not sound like a duck in labor. She smiled broadly and took a bow. Nina played her flute and then later, after some local kids performed a breakdancing routine, Eli took the stage. He chose their father as the volunteer from the audience.

“Is THIS your card?” Eli shouted, his voice sweeping in grandeur, showing the card to the audience.

“Why... yes. Yes it is!” his father said, his mouth an “O” of surprise.

“FINALLY!” Eli yelled and the audience laughed and applauded. As his father turned to leave the stage, Timothy saw him look at his mother and wink. A few more acts went on to polite applause; Sophia sang, Robby rapped, and then it was their turn. Eleanor turned to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Ready?” she asked, her eyes bright. He felt a tight nervousness rise in his chest, but he only shrugged and followed her onto the stage. The stage lights blinded him and the faces of the audience were masked in darkness. A shush rippled through the crowd as they sat at the piano and Eleanor poised her fingers delicately above the ivory keys. The room was expectantly quiet. She compressed the first note and soon the theater was filled with her melodies, each note swelling like a hot air balloon into a sailing harmony. Timothy turned the pages dutifully and sat in awe of his beautiful sister. He was basking in the music when he noticed Sally Aronson in the wings fiddling with her batons. She was dressed in a glittering leotard and ankle-high boots. She twirled the batons a few times, her eyes shifting nervously, and then she

took out a lighter from her rhinestoned bag and lit one edge of the baton. The first end ablaze, she tipped the baton slightly to light the other one. Her knees trembled and she fumbled with the lighter. Suddenly the baton tipped too far and slipped out of her control, colliding with the curtain. The curtain ignited, slowly at first and then at an increasing speed. The flames licked at the red velvet, which withered at its touch. Timothy missed one of his cues and Eleanor stumbled and stopped playing. At that moment, the entire curtain went up in a ferocious blaze and a collective gasp of shock rose from the audience.

“FIRE!” someone yelled, and that was the magic word. People got up and sprinted from the theater, screaming and pushing. Timothy stared, stunned at the spreading flames as Eleanor grabbed his hand and pulled him fiercely.

“Come on!” she shouted, pulling him off the stage and down the stairs toward the back exit. The theater was a riotous flurry of arms and legs, a jumbled mass of movement. Timothy had never felt so small. It paralyzed him, and Eleanor glared back at him as she felt his arm stiffen. Her hair swung wildly behind her.

“Timothy! We must move!” she said, and it was only by her force that he got out of the building.

The theater emptied quickly and the entire town of Bridgefall stood outside of the small rundown building in panic and confusion. It seemed that everyone had gotten out safely and was accounted for. Slowly, a sigh of relief weaved its way through the crowd. Timothy caught the eye of Mr. Green who was clutching Melody. Melody wiggled, and he gently set her down next to him. Timothy scanned the parking lot. The rest of his family was gathered in a cluster and Timothy and Eleanor joined the circle of Turnips. The sun radiated its own flames throughout the sky, refulgent watercolors of orange, pink, and red. Sirens wailed in the distance and people chattered excitedly in the gravel parking lot under the fiery sky. The sirens were drowned out by the howl of an approaching train. The wheels on the iron tracks rumbled and shook the ground as they got closer. Timothy was pushing gravel around with his shoe when he heard

a bloodcurdling scream rise from behind him.

“MELODY!” Mrs. Green shouted, her arm outstretched, her face contorted in terror. Timothy’s eyes fell upon a scene he could only conceive in a nightmare. Melody was teetering on the tracks, her hands above her head, stretching toward a white and lavender butterfly flittering above her. Her soft curls swayed in the breeze and she tottered farther as the rumble of the train perforated the earth like the galloping hooves of a pack of wild stallions. The train bellowed, but Melody’s eyes were focused on the butterfly as she took another step. Timothy was stripped of any illusion of control he ever thought he had. He was a powerless ant that Fate was burning under a magnifying glass, laughing maliciously as he smoked and burned to ash. Mr. Randall’s hand flashed into his mind. He saw the glint of silver in the dirt and tasted the tears on his pillow. Suddenly, rage consumed him. It filled his bones and spread like a disease through to his core; it sunk down to his toes and fingertips. Without thinking, he began to sprint toward the tracks.

“TIMOTHY, NO!” he heard his mother shout, but her cry seemed too far away to reach him. His entire body pulsed as he ran harder than he had ever run in his life. He could only hear the wind rushing past his ears and the wail of the train growing louder and louder. His body blurred until he was only motion. The train roared and Timothy thought, I can’t beat it. I can’t win against this monster. His feet pounded into the ground and he pushed himself forward. He could feel her hand on his cheek and her curls through his fingers. I have to. Timothy collided into Melody, scooping her into his arms and flying across the tracks just as the train tore its way through the sky set ablaze. They tumbled and landed in the dirt, Timothy’s arms formed a grid around Melody.

He lay there, holding her, hyperventilating as dust flew around them, until the train had completely passed and its screams could no longer be heard.

Melody cooed, thinking it a game, and put her hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes and kissed the top of her curls.

Gripping her tightly to him, Timothy stood up in time to see a firetruck pull into the gravel parking lot KIOSK14

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lay there for an hour, filling with air and then letting it go, until he slowly slipped into unawareness as the tears dried on his face.

and citizens of all ages bustled around, making lastminute adjustments and generally freaking out. Sally Aronson was practicing her baton twirling.

When the light crept through his window the next morning, Timothy woke utterly spent. His face felt dry and salty and his chest heaved with each breath; he blinked slowly, his eyes puffy and swollen. It was Sunday. A cloud of noise rose through the floorboards: a trumpet blaring, a female voice yelling, Eli asking, “Was that your He was a powerless ant that Fate card?” It was humid; the air was burning under a magnifying clung to his skin and stuck to his throat. He rose from bed glass, laughing maliciously as he and shuffled across the woodsmoked and burned to ash. en floor, his footprints leaving behind a moist impression on the floorboards. He showered, letting the hot water soak into his muscles until he felt itchy and restless.

“Do you think I should set the batons on fire?” she asked in a quick panicky voice, running up to Eleanor. “Would that be impressive?” Eleanor merely patted her on the shoulder. Timothy stood in the corner by the curtains and watched the pandemonium. Soon enough, the lights dimmed and the audience quieted.

When he was clean and dressed, he went outside to the old barn. Pushing aside the heavy blue door, he stepped into the dimly lit barn. Eleanor was there at the piano. He had expected to see her there. She was staring at the keys, her hands limp and her music spread out around her. She didn’t seem to know he was there. He walked up slowly and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Think we’ve got a chance to beat Sarah Aronson this year?” he asked and her dancing eyes looked at him and smiled. Sarah was a girl two years older than Eleanor who had won the talent show three years in a row with her beautiful dance solos.

“Maybe if Sally kills her first,” Eleanor said with a snort, referring to Sarah’s jealous younger sister who was in Eleanor’s class. Eleanor nodded toward the music and set it up on the stand. Timothy walked around and sat beside her. She played, the notes cascading into each other, and Timothy listened.

She glanced at him, those fox-trotting eyes, and he turned the page.

The show was set to start at 7:00 that night, and by 6:40 the theater was full. Nearly all of Bridgefall came to watch. The room filled with the chatter of the audience, but Timothy could barely hear it, for backstage it looked as if all hell had broken loose. Kids 20

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Some official person that Timothy didn’t pay attention to emceed the show. Ten played her trumpet and actually managed to not sound like a duck in labor. She smiled broadly and took a bow. Nina played her flute and then later, after some local kids performed a breakdancing routine, Eli took the stage. He chose their father as the volunteer from the audience.

“Is THIS your card?” Eli shouted, his voice sweeping in grandeur, showing the card to the audience.

“Why... yes. Yes it is!” his father said, his mouth an “O” of surprise.

“FINALLY!” Eli yelled and the audience laughed and applauded. As his father turned to leave the stage, Timothy saw him look at his mother and wink. A few more acts went on to polite applause; Sophia sang, Robby rapped, and then it was their turn. Eleanor turned to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Ready?” she asked, her eyes bright. He felt a tight nervousness rise in his chest, but he only shrugged and followed her onto the stage. The stage lights blinded him and the faces of the audience were masked in darkness. A shush rippled through the crowd as they sat at the piano and Eleanor poised her fingers delicately above the ivory keys. The room was expectantly quiet. She compressed the first note and soon the theater was filled with her melodies, each note swelling like a hot air balloon into a sailing harmony. Timothy turned the pages dutifully and sat in awe of his beautiful sister. He was basking in the music when he noticed Sally Aronson in the wings fiddling with her batons. She was dressed in a glittering leotard and ankle-high boots. She twirled the batons a few times, her eyes shifting nervously, and then she

took out a lighter from her rhinestoned bag and lit one edge of the baton. The first end ablaze, she tipped the baton slightly to light the other one. Her knees trembled and she fumbled with the lighter. Suddenly the baton tipped too far and slipped out of her control, colliding with the curtain. The curtain ignited, slowly at first and then at an increasing speed. The flames licked at the red velvet, which withered at its touch. Timothy missed one of his cues and Eleanor stumbled and stopped playing. At that moment, the entire curtain went up in a ferocious blaze and a collective gasp of shock rose from the audience.

“FIRE!” someone yelled, and that was the magic word. People got up and sprinted from the theater, screaming and pushing. Timothy stared, stunned at the spreading flames as Eleanor grabbed his hand and pulled him fiercely.

“Come on!” she shouted, pulling him off the stage and down the stairs toward the back exit. The theater was a riotous flurry of arms and legs, a jumbled mass of movement. Timothy had never felt so small. It paralyzed him, and Eleanor glared back at him as she felt his arm stiffen. Her hair swung wildly behind her.

“Timothy! We must move!” she said, and it was only by her force that he got out of the building.

The theater emptied quickly and the entire town of Bridgefall stood outside of the small rundown building in panic and confusion. It seemed that everyone had gotten out safely and was accounted for. Slowly, a sigh of relief weaved its way through the crowd. Timothy caught the eye of Mr. Green who was clutching Melody. Melody wiggled, and he gently set her down next to him. Timothy scanned the parking lot. The rest of his family was gathered in a cluster and Timothy and Eleanor joined the circle of Turnips. The sun radiated its own flames throughout the sky, refulgent watercolors of orange, pink, and red. Sirens wailed in the distance and people chattered excitedly in the gravel parking lot under the fiery sky. The sirens were drowned out by the howl of an approaching train. The wheels on the iron tracks rumbled and shook the ground as they got closer. Timothy was pushing gravel around with his shoe when he heard

a bloodcurdling scream rise from behind him.

“MELODY!” Mrs. Green shouted, her arm outstretched, her face contorted in terror. Timothy’s eyes fell upon a scene he could only conceive in a nightmare. Melody was teetering on the tracks, her hands above her head, stretching toward a white and lavender butterfly flittering above her. Her soft curls swayed in the breeze and she tottered farther as the rumble of the train perforated the earth like the galloping hooves of a pack of wild stallions. The train bellowed, but Melody’s eyes were focused on the butterfly as she took another step. Timothy was stripped of any illusion of control he ever thought he had. He was a powerless ant that Fate was burning under a magnifying glass, laughing maliciously as he smoked and burned to ash. Mr. Randall’s hand flashed into his mind. He saw the glint of silver in the dirt and tasted the tears on his pillow. Suddenly, rage consumed him. It filled his bones and spread like a disease through to his core; it sunk down to his toes and fingertips. Without thinking, he began to sprint toward the tracks.

“TIMOTHY, NO!” he heard his mother shout, but her cry seemed too far away to reach him. His entire body pulsed as he ran harder than he had ever run in his life. He could only hear the wind rushing past his ears and the wail of the train growing louder and louder. His body blurred until he was only motion. The train roared and Timothy thought, I can’t beat it. I can’t win against this monster. His feet pounded into the ground and he pushed himself forward. He could feel her hand on his cheek and her curls through his fingers. I have to. Timothy collided into Melody, scooping her into his arms and flying across the tracks just as the train tore its way through the sky set ablaze. They tumbled and landed in the dirt, Timothy’s arms formed a grid around Melody.

He lay there, holding her, hyperventilating as dust flew around them, until the train had completely passed and its screams could no longer be heard.

Melody cooed, thinking it a game, and put her hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes and kissed the top of her curls.

Gripping her tightly to him, Timothy stood up in time to see a firetruck pull into the gravel parking lot KIOSK14

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and the door of the theater be broken down. Everyone’s eyes were on him, faces agape. Timothy slowly stepped over the tracks and delivered Melody into Mr. Green’s arms. Clutching Melody to him, he dropped to his knees and grasped Timothy, burying his face in Timothy’s shoulder, his body racked with sobs. All at once, they were surrounded in a flurry of activity as hands patted his back and stroked Mr. Green’s head and touched Melody’s curls. Eleanor broke through the crowd and pulled Timothy to his feet, crushing him in an embrace. And then she wasn’t alone and Timothy was being embraced on all sides. It was dark now and the stars came to watch the scene. After what seemed like hours, the embrace slowly broke apart and Timothy spotted the town sheriff standing by his car, a hand stroking his mustache. Timothy walked over to him. The sheriff raised his eyebrows.

“Sheriff Bartleson, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Later that night, Timothy stood in the street and watched as the sheriff and another officer knocked on the Randall’s front door. The door opened and the officers entered and closed it behind them. Then he turned around and walked with his hands in his pockets all the way home.

“What’ll ya have?” asked an older waitress in a blue hoop skirt, her hair fixed into an enormous beehive.

“I’ll have a burger and fries. Tim?” Robby said, distracted by the girls in the corner booth.

“Um. Just a milkshake, please,” he said to the waitress. He saw a packet of cigarettes sticking out of her waistband. “Thank you.”

“Will that be all?”

Robby called at 11:00 the next morning.

“Bro!” “Hi Robby.”

“So listen, listen. I’ve got a bunch of girls down here at The Diner and they are all totally in love with the new hero in town! That’s you, bro! Come on, let’s celebrate!”

“Not today, Robby.”

got to take advantage of this hero status while it lasts!”

“No.” “But dude…”

“Not today,” Timothy said, and then for the first time, he was the one to hang up. The doorbell rang at 11:30 and Timothy opened the door to reveal Mr. and Mrs. Green smiling at him. Melody stood in front of them holding a piece of paper. Timothy let them in.

“There is no way we can ever repay you,” Mrs. Green said, “but we intend to try.” They led Timothy out to their van parked on the side of the street and opened the sliding door. Inside were several grocery bags filled with enough food to feed his family for a week.

“Thank you,” he said, and Mr. Green walked up to him. He took Timothy’s shoulders in his hands and stared him straight in the eyes.

“You are very brave, son.”

Melody tugged on the hem of his shirt. He lifted her up and she pushed the piece of paper at him. On it was a drawing almost identical to the first one she had given him, but this time the boy wore a smile on his oversized and lopsided face. Yellow lines jutted out from him as if he were shining like a new light bulb.

Timothy kissed Mellie’s cheek.

The Greens talked to his family for a while and then left. Timothy wanted to collapse; he had never been so physically and mentally exhausted in his life.

Instead, he went out to the blue barn. He sat at the piano bench by himself and stroked the keys. He thought about the feeling of powerlessness. He thought about how small he was. It used to scare him to think that he had no control overwhat happened to him and the ones he loved. It still did. But, he thought, maybe he didn’t need control over life. He could control who he was.

Maybe that was enough. And maybe he wasn’t as small as he thought.

Eleanor sat down next to him and nudged him in the shoulder. Her eyes waltzed in the shafts of light. She raised her head, her chin tilted upward, and began to play. After awhile, she winked at him. Timothy turned the page.

LITTLE COWBOY

by Demirae Dunn photograph

“What are you talking about? Girls, dude! You’ve 22

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23

and the door of the theater be broken down. Everyone’s eyes were on him, faces agape. Timothy slowly stepped over the tracks and delivered Melody into Mr. Green’s arms. Clutching Melody to him, he dropped to his knees and grasped Timothy, burying his face in Timothy’s shoulder, his body racked with sobs. All at once, they were surrounded in a flurry of activity as hands patted his back and stroked Mr. Green’s head and touched Melody’s curls. Eleanor broke through the crowd and pulled Timothy to his feet, crushing him in an embrace. And then she wasn’t alone and Timothy was being embraced on all sides. It was dark now and the stars came to watch the scene. After what seemed like hours, the embrace slowly broke apart and Timothy spotted the town sheriff standing by his car, a hand stroking his mustache. Timothy walked over to him. The sheriff raised his eyebrows.

“Sheriff Bartleson, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Later that night, Timothy stood in the street and watched as the sheriff and another officer knocked on the Randall’s front door. The door opened and the officers entered and closed it behind them. Then he turned around and walked with his hands in his pockets all the way home.

“What’ll ya have?” asked an older waitress in a blue hoop skirt, her hair fixed into an enormous beehive.

“I’ll have a burger and fries. Tim?” Robby said, distracted by the girls in the corner booth.

“Um. Just a milkshake, please,” he said to the waitress. He saw a packet of cigarettes sticking out of her waistband. “Thank you.”

“Will that be all?”

Robby called at 11:00 the next morning.

“Bro!” “Hi Robby.”

“So listen, listen. I’ve got a bunch of girls down here at The Diner and they are all totally in love with the new hero in town! That’s you, bro! Come on, let’s celebrate!”

“Not today, Robby.”

got to take advantage of this hero status while it lasts!”

“No.” “But dude…”

“Not today,” Timothy said, and then for the first time, he was the one to hang up. The doorbell rang at 11:30 and Timothy opened the door to reveal Mr. and Mrs. Green smiling at him. Melody stood in front of them holding a piece of paper. Timothy let them in.

“There is no way we can ever repay you,” Mrs. Green said, “but we intend to try.” They led Timothy out to their van parked on the side of the street and opened the sliding door. Inside were several grocery bags filled with enough food to feed his family for a week.

“Thank you,” he said, and Mr. Green walked up to him. He took Timothy’s shoulders in his hands and stared him straight in the eyes.

“You are very brave, son.”

Melody tugged on the hem of his shirt. He lifted her up and she pushed the piece of paper at him. On it was a drawing almost identical to the first one she had given him, but this time the boy wore a smile on his oversized and lopsided face. Yellow lines jutted out from him as if he were shining like a new light bulb.

Timothy kissed Mellie’s cheek.

The Greens talked to his family for a while and then left. Timothy wanted to collapse; he had never been so physically and mentally exhausted in his life.

Instead, he went out to the blue barn. He sat at the piano bench by himself and stroked the keys. He thought about the feeling of powerlessness. He thought about how small he was. It used to scare him to think that he had no control overwhat happened to him and the ones he loved. It still did. But, he thought, maybe he didn’t need control over life. He could control who he was.

Maybe that was enough. And maybe he wasn’t as small as he thought.

Eleanor sat down next to him and nudged him in the shoulder. Her eyes waltzed in the shafts of light. She raised her head, her chin tilted upward, and began to play. After awhile, she winked at him. Timothy turned the page.

LITTLE COWBOY

by Demirae Dunn photograph

“What are you talking about? Girls, dude! You’ve 22

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POETRY

BURN OUT WITH ME Victoria Anthony

If the stars burning the brightest die out the fastest I think I’ll live forever on the edge, right at the precipice Where the sense of success is too sharp to be sweet.

Moving my feet in place with no imagined progress Picturing eternity here, with you and me entwined.

Forever at the brink of climax, still and staring in the street While lives like asymptotes and moves like glaciers meet.

Denying myself the satisfaction, the decadence Of falling. Falling and flying, crying to know I’m alive, Realizing exactly how much there is to do before the end.

Like stagnant waters running deep and hot Slow down with me and feel this bright tension Feel that intense stillness right before you get caught.

I’m melting your moves to molasses, Become a statuesque beauty with me wrapped around you Like ruins of old cities and the ragged edge of a canyon We’ll be perfect and timeless in our immobile state Never changing, perpetually frozen and preserved, Never reaching the point where any motion brings the end.

We can stay at the top and never fall down if we don’t even breathe.

CITY STREET DREAMS

by Samantha Hansen photography

24

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POETRY

BURN OUT WITH ME Victoria Anthony

If the stars burning the brightest die out the fastest I think I’ll live forever on the edge, right at the precipice Where the sense of success is too sharp to be sweet.

Moving my feet in place with no imagined progress Picturing eternity here, with you and me entwined.

Forever at the brink of climax, still and staring in the street While lives like asymptotes and moves like glaciers meet.

Denying myself the satisfaction, the decadence Of falling. Falling and flying, crying to know I’m alive, Realizing exactly how much there is to do before the end.

Like stagnant waters running deep and hot Slow down with me and feel this bright tension Feel that intense stillness right before you get caught.

I’m melting your moves to molasses, Become a statuesque beauty with me wrapped around you Like ruins of old cities and the ragged edge of a canyon We’ll be perfect and timeless in our immobile state Never changing, perpetually frozen and preserved, Never reaching the point where any motion brings the end.

We can stay at the top and never fall down if we don’t even breathe.

CITY STREET DREAMS

by Samantha Hansen photography

24

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POETRY

POETRY

SMOKE AND MIRRORS

K IM

Kelci Teut

I still wonder what color his eyes are.

I spent nights peering into them as we talked for hours and walked miles through the streetlamps and dripping trees.

His eyes changed colors.

Maybe based on his mood but more than likely his sobriety.

I remember them being clear the nights we had the most fun.

Everything was jiving then and we didn’t worry about the time we wasted, simply staring at each other or how the bills were getting paid on Monday or what food would fill our plates if we wanted to eat that day or if we’d both remember what we spent the night doing come morning.

I was never hungry anymore.

Pablo de la Cruz

I gave him a second chance because I had to know.

But second became third and fourth and fifth because he took each chance like a daily newspaper knowing another one would be waiting for him when he woke up, whether in his bed or in someone else’s.

That was his mistake.

As we spent more time on each other’s nerves than on each other’s minds, he spent more time sucking out the bottom of whatever bottle he could find and going home with whomever would take him.

It was never me.

Maybe, if I would have taken him home one night, let him into my bed like I had let him into my life.

No, that would be my mistake.

I still wonder, though, what color his eyes are.

That time when I was six and you were three, when I pushed you into the coffee table so hard that your little head bounced off of it like a tiny rubber ball and blood poured out of your mouth as you shrieked in pain because three of your teeth broke off from the collision.

Or when you were seven and you struggled in school because of your learning disabilities and I said it was because you were worthless and how you were the idiot of the family.

It was just a game.

The big brother is an asshole game.

I’m sorry you lost.

It was just a game.

The big brother is an asshole game.

I’m sorry you lost.

I remember his eyes being smoky the nights I couldn’t stand him and wanted to walk away.

I remember seeing them and thinking that he can’t even see me now through the fog that he veils himself in so he doesn’t have to see the world.

That fog that eighty proof clear fog that burns to the touch, scorching down the back of the throat.

ANOTHER SCENE

by Charles Bass oil on canvas

26

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POETRY

POETRY

SMOKE AND MIRRORS

K IM

Kelci Teut

I still wonder what color his eyes are.

I spent nights peering into them as we talked for hours and walked miles through the streetlamps and dripping trees.

His eyes changed colors.

Maybe based on his mood but more than likely his sobriety.

I remember them being clear the nights we had the most fun.

Everything was jiving then and we didn’t worry about the time we wasted, simply staring at each other or how the bills were getting paid on Monday or what food would fill our plates if we wanted to eat that day or if we’d both remember what we spent the night doing come morning.

I was never hungry anymore.

Pablo de la Cruz

I gave him a second chance because I had to know.

But second became third and fourth and fifth because he took each chance like a daily newspaper knowing another one would be waiting for him when he woke up, whether in his bed or in someone else’s.

That was his mistake.

As we spent more time on each other’s nerves than on each other’s minds, he spent more time sucking out the bottom of whatever bottle he could find and going home with whomever would take him.

It was never me.

Maybe, if I would have taken him home one night, let him into my bed like I had let him into my life.

No, that would be my mistake.

I still wonder, though, what color his eyes are.

That time when I was six and you were three, when I pushed you into the coffee table so hard that your little head bounced off of it like a tiny rubber ball and blood poured out of your mouth as you shrieked in pain because three of your teeth broke off from the collision.

Or when you were seven and you struggled in school because of your learning disabilities and I said it was because you were worthless and how you were the idiot of the family.

It was just a game.

The big brother is an asshole game.

I’m sorry you lost.

It was just a game.

The big brother is an asshole game.

I’m sorry you lost.

I remember his eyes being smoky the nights I couldn’t stand him and wanted to walk away.

I remember seeing them and thinking that he can’t even see me now through the fog that he veils himself in so he doesn’t have to see the world.

That fog that eighty proof clear fog that burns to the touch, scorching down the back of the throat.

ANOTHER SCENE

by Charles Bass oil on canvas

26

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FICTION

THE TERRIBLE TALE OF THE MAD MUSIC M AJOR OF CHARLES CITY Greg Guelcher

G

od, how I hate having an office on the third floor of Charles City Hall!

And no, it’s not because of all the steps and the lack of an elevator. Frankly, I welcome the exercise.

I feel only pity for those sad football players I find collapsed outside my door on a Monday morning, wheezing, gasping, with neck veins throbbing, clutching their overdue papers in sweaty, shaky hands. For them, three flights of stairs are an instrument of torture!

But for me, it’s that damn ghost I hate! In case you weren’t aware, the topmost floor of Charles City Hall was once also home to Phi Mu Alpha, the music fraternity. Apparently they There’s no reasoning with an blocked off that floor in the angry spirit, especially in the late 1980s during renovations, and over the years Midwest where they tend to be so most people forgot a fourth darn passive aggressive. floor even existed. But believe me, it’s still there. And so are traces of the music fraternity: a garish 1960sera orange couch, some random sheet music strewn haphazardly across the floor, even a full-scale painting of the fraternity emblem covering one entire wall.

Plus, there’s a beat-up old piano and piano stool.

And therein lies my dilemma.

But first, let me ask you this question: what rational person seals up an old piano and piano stool behind fake ceiling tile and mountains of fiberglass insulation? It can’t have been a sane person, in my opinion. It smacks too closely of Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado,” if you know what I mean. Yes, I believe the workmen knew what they were doing back then. They knew they were just trying to appease the ghost of the Mad Music Major (granted, all music majors are a bit mad, but trust me on this one!).

What’s that? You’ve not heard of the ghost of theMad Music Major? Of course you haven’t. Do you, like me, have an office on the third floor of Charles City Hall? Do you also work late into the night every Halloween Eve, trying to seek shelter from the horde of greedy, candy-obsessed urchins who roam at will like a rampaging horde outside the hallowed, ivy-covered walls of Morningside 28

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College? I thought not, so sit still and listen.

You see, Morningside College’s Charles City Hall is haunted. It’s haunted by the ghost of a long-dead undergraduate student, some poor soul who came to the college with high hopes and majored in music.

Unfortunately, it being the height of the Great Depression of the early 1930s, the only work he could find upon graduation was filling in for a local organ grinder’s monkey on the monkey’s days off. Shamed by his ordeal, and slowly starving to death on a meager diet of shelled peanuts tossed him by curious onlookers, the once-proud music major vowed that one day he would wreak his revenge on the inhabitants of Charles City Hall, and especially on the professors who had promised him the world only to deliver him a beat-up tin cup and a cute little red cap.

Of course, the one person still suffering these many decades later from the curse of the Mad Music Major is me, a lowly history professor who can’t even carry a tune himself! And every Halloween Eve, year after year, I alone must endure the Mad Music Major’s vile torture. I alone must listen hour after horrible hour as the ghost of the Mad Music Major torments me with his music. I alone must lie curled up in the fetal position on my office floor, crying out “My god, stop it already! Haven’t you considered just going back to school and trying your hand as an Art History major instead?!”

But no. There’s no reasoning with an angry spirit, especially in the Midwest where they tend to be so darn passive aggressive. In fact, I can almost hear his smirk as he plays the same tune over, and over, and over again, all night long, until my head is about to burst and the few remaining threads of my sanity threaten to snap.

The irony is that I know – and even respect–the tune with which he torments me. It’s a true classic by a well-known American composer! I always mention it in my history classes as a fine example of Existentialism’s influence on the arts. And yet every year it comes back to haunt me as the instrument of my torture…

SMOKING LIGHT

by Alex Davalos digital photography

Damn you, John Cage! And damn your infernal composition 4'33"!!

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FICTION

THE TERRIBLE TALE OF THE MAD MUSIC M AJOR OF CHARLES CITY Greg Guelcher

G

od, how I hate having an office on the third floor of Charles City Hall!

And no, it’s not because of all the steps and the lack of an elevator. Frankly, I welcome the exercise.

I feel only pity for those sad football players I find collapsed outside my door on a Monday morning, wheezing, gasping, with neck veins throbbing, clutching their overdue papers in sweaty, shaky hands. For them, three flights of stairs are an instrument of torture!

But for me, it’s that damn ghost I hate! In case you weren’t aware, the topmost floor of Charles City Hall was once also home to Phi Mu Alpha, the music fraternity. Apparently they There’s no reasoning with an blocked off that floor in the angry spirit, especially in the late 1980s during renovations, and over the years Midwest where they tend to be so most people forgot a fourth darn passive aggressive. floor even existed. But believe me, it’s still there. And so are traces of the music fraternity: a garish 1960sera orange couch, some random sheet music strewn haphazardly across the floor, even a full-scale painting of the fraternity emblem covering one entire wall.

Plus, there’s a beat-up old piano and piano stool.

And therein lies my dilemma.

But first, let me ask you this question: what rational person seals up an old piano and piano stool behind fake ceiling tile and mountains of fiberglass insulation? It can’t have been a sane person, in my opinion. It smacks too closely of Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado,” if you know what I mean. Yes, I believe the workmen knew what they were doing back then. They knew they were just trying to appease the ghost of the Mad Music Major (granted, all music majors are a bit mad, but trust me on this one!).

What’s that? You’ve not heard of the ghost of theMad Music Major? Of course you haven’t. Do you, like me, have an office on the third floor of Charles City Hall? Do you also work late into the night every Halloween Eve, trying to seek shelter from the horde of greedy, candy-obsessed urchins who roam at will like a rampaging horde outside the hallowed, ivy-covered walls of Morningside 28

KIOSK14

College? I thought not, so sit still and listen.

You see, Morningside College’s Charles City Hall is haunted. It’s haunted by the ghost of a long-dead undergraduate student, some poor soul who came to the college with high hopes and majored in music.

Unfortunately, it being the height of the Great Depression of the early 1930s, the only work he could find upon graduation was filling in for a local organ grinder’s monkey on the monkey’s days off. Shamed by his ordeal, and slowly starving to death on a meager diet of shelled peanuts tossed him by curious onlookers, the once-proud music major vowed that one day he would wreak his revenge on the inhabitants of Charles City Hall, and especially on the professors who had promised him the world only to deliver him a beat-up tin cup and a cute little red cap.

Of course, the one person still suffering these many decades later from the curse of the Mad Music Major is me, a lowly history professor who can’t even carry a tune himself! And every Halloween Eve, year after year, I alone must endure the Mad Music Major’s vile torture. I alone must listen hour after horrible hour as the ghost of the Mad Music Major torments me with his music. I alone must lie curled up in the fetal position on my office floor, crying out “My god, stop it already! Haven’t you considered just going back to school and trying your hand as an Art History major instead?!”

But no. There’s no reasoning with an angry spirit, especially in the Midwest where they tend to be so darn passive aggressive. In fact, I can almost hear his smirk as he plays the same tune over, and over, and over again, all night long, until my head is about to burst and the few remaining threads of my sanity threaten to snap.

The irony is that I know – and even respect–the tune with which he torments me. It’s a true classic by a well-known American composer! I always mention it in my history classes as a fine example of Existentialism’s influence on the arts. And yet every year it comes back to haunt me as the instrument of my torture…

SMOKING LIGHT

by Alex Davalos digital photography

Damn you, John Cage! And damn your infernal composition 4'33"!!

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29

NON-FICTION

DANCING WITH FRIENDS Kay Goldsmith

D

oug holds the wooden door open and I peer into the dimly lit lobby before I maneuver my manual wheelchair over the bumpy threshold. The early evening sunlight, scent of freshly cut grass, and sounds of crickets and birds disappear when the door slams shut. Suddenly, all eyes are upon me, and I can smell cologne, a buffet line set with various foods, and waxed wood. Track lighting, miniature white lights, and jazz help create a glitzy ambience. Several friends run over and hug me and greet Doug as we make our way to the check in counter. I gaze up at the coat and ticket usher and he greets us with enthusiasm and a hint of sadness. He is wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black tie, and very shiny shoes.

We take our tickets and follow our friends who invite us to sit at their table. Everyone asks “His eyes do not stray as he looks at how I am doing and my neutral nylon-clad legs that are still if the doctors think I shapely since paralyzed muscles do will walk again. But I not atrophy within the first year.� change the conversation to the weather. I am wearing my royal blue dress with matching high heels. My shiny blonde hair accentuates the color. Doug is wearing a navy blue suit, white shirt, and red tie.

Some are sitting at tables with drinks and food while others are standing in line to go through the buffet. Still others are casually leaning against the wall that wraps around the dance floor and faces the lobby. This is a prime spot for watching people as they come through the front door. I notice more stunned stares from across the dimly lit room where people are sitting in a slightly raised loft-like alcove.

Abruptly, a few stand up and stare at me. I do not recognize them. This is also a coveted area because it faces the dance floor as well as the entire dining area and bar. Onlookers have the advantage of spying on everyone as they go about eating, dancing, flirting, etc.

Doug leaves to go mingle and says he will be back in case I want to leave early. I quickly excuse myself from the others, make my way down a dimly lit hallway, past the dance floor and towards the re30

KIOSK14

strooms. But I quickly veer in the direction of the dance floor and sit by the shadowy sidelines to watch the dancers with envy. I try to see through sudden blurriness as some of my friends come into focus and stride off the dance floor towards me. Frantically, I blink and say my eyes are watery from allergies; they do not seem to notice. They prod me to join them and excitedly tell me there is someone who wants to meet me.

Reluctantly, I allow one of the men to help lift me in my chair up the two foot step onto the dance floor. Penetrating heat from the track lighting above, glaring reflections of miniature lights against the dance floor and pounding music bombards me.

My friends gently push me towards the edge of the dance floor and I see Dale, whom I met last week.

He is sitting in his manual wheelchair. His hair is neatly combed back and he is dressed in a black suit and tie. I watch in awe as he pops wheelies and keeps time with the music.

I sit up straighter, pat my dress, and fluff my hair before I roll closer.

He looks up and stops what he is doing as my friends watch with excitement.

Finally, I muster up the courage to spin and twirl around and find myself dizzy while clumsily attempting to pop a wheelie. I almost tip over backwards and barely miss hitting the wall. Somehow, I manage to lean forward and make the front wheels land hard on the floor and my chair goes upright.

Smugly, I look up to see if he is watching me but his attention is directed elsewhere, past the dance floor. His eyes follow a cute, blonde midget who is visiting from table to table.

age to stay in such good shape. Elated, I blush as his eyes roam from my face. His eyes do not stray as he looks at my neutral nylon-clad legs that are still shapely since paralyzed muscles do not atrophy within the first year.

His admiring gaze is replaced by a look of skepticism. He says I seem too well adjusted and positive considering I have been disabled for such a short time. There is an awkward silence. He glances to the right and left before saying he thinks my friends hope we will hit it off and eventually be an item.

I look at him in dismay as he expresses concern that I need to feel grief, anger, and finally, resignation before going into a relationship.

I am speechless as he says we should just be friends and excuses himself to go meet the midget who is standing at the sideline. Doug is standing nearby with my friends and they listen to our exchange.

I say it is time to go and we weave through the tranquil dining area and into the shadowy abyss.

Once again, the same coat check usher stands alone in the dark, deserted lobby and smiles at me with sadness. He walks over and opens the heavy door, holds it open and bids us farewell. I gracefully maneuver my wheelchair over the bumpy wooden threshold and escape into darkness. The music is barely audible and the last remnants of polyurethane, food, cologne, and perfume waft out into the night as the door slams with a loud clap. We are greeted by sounds of crickets chirping, soft white glow of a half moon, bright stars that twinkle, and a cool breeze on our faces.

ELEPHANT

by Katie Weis

We remain at the side on the dance floor as he continues to furtively glance around and then at me.

Finally, I ask if he is comfortable to tell me why he is in a wheelchair.

print

Distractedly, he says sure and matter-of-factly explains his paralysis is due to a car accident some twenty years ago.

Without prompting, I cheerily tell how my paralysis suddenly occurred only six months ago.

He looks at me with intensity, asks how I manKIOSK14

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NON-FICTION

DANCING WITH FRIENDS Kay Goldsmith

D

oug holds the wooden door open and I peer into the dimly lit lobby before I maneuver my manual wheelchair over the bumpy threshold. The early evening sunlight, scent of freshly cut grass, and sounds of crickets and birds disappear when the door slams shut. Suddenly, all eyes are upon me, and I can smell cologne, a buffet line set with various foods, and waxed wood. Track lighting, miniature white lights, and jazz help create a glitzy ambience. Several friends run over and hug me and greet Doug as we make our way to the check in counter. I gaze up at the coat and ticket usher and he greets us with enthusiasm and a hint of sadness. He is wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black tie, and very shiny shoes.

We take our tickets and follow our friends who invite us to sit at their table. Everyone asks “His eyes do not stray as he looks at how I am doing and my neutral nylon-clad legs that are still if the doctors think I shapely since paralyzed muscles do will walk again. But I not atrophy within the first year.� change the conversation to the weather. I am wearing my royal blue dress with matching high heels. My shiny blonde hair accentuates the color. Doug is wearing a navy blue suit, white shirt, and red tie.

Some are sitting at tables with drinks and food while others are standing in line to go through the buffet. Still others are casually leaning against the wall that wraps around the dance floor and faces the lobby. This is a prime spot for watching people as they come through the front door. I notice more stunned stares from across the dimly lit room where people are sitting in a slightly raised loft-like alcove.

Abruptly, a few stand up and stare at me. I do not recognize them. This is also a coveted area because it faces the dance floor as well as the entire dining area and bar. Onlookers have the advantage of spying on everyone as they go about eating, dancing, flirting, etc.

Doug leaves to go mingle and says he will be back in case I want to leave early. I quickly excuse myself from the others, make my way down a dimly lit hallway, past the dance floor and towards the re30

KIOSK14

strooms. But I quickly veer in the direction of the dance floor and sit by the shadowy sidelines to watch the dancers with envy. I try to see through sudden blurriness as some of my friends come into focus and stride off the dance floor towards me. Frantically, I blink and say my eyes are watery from allergies; they do not seem to notice. They prod me to join them and excitedly tell me there is someone who wants to meet me.

Reluctantly, I allow one of the men to help lift me in my chair up the two foot step onto the dance floor. Penetrating heat from the track lighting above, glaring reflections of miniature lights against the dance floor and pounding music bombards me.

My friends gently push me towards the edge of the dance floor and I see Dale, whom I met last week.

He is sitting in his manual wheelchair. His hair is neatly combed back and he is dressed in a black suit and tie. I watch in awe as he pops wheelies and keeps time with the music.

I sit up straighter, pat my dress, and fluff my hair before I roll closer.

He looks up and stops what he is doing as my friends watch with excitement.

Finally, I muster up the courage to spin and twirl around and find myself dizzy while clumsily attempting to pop a wheelie. I almost tip over backwards and barely miss hitting the wall. Somehow, I manage to lean forward and make the front wheels land hard on the floor and my chair goes upright.

Smugly, I look up to see if he is watching me but his attention is directed elsewhere, past the dance floor. His eyes follow a cute, blonde midget who is visiting from table to table.

age to stay in such good shape. Elated, I blush as his eyes roam from my face. His eyes do not stray as he looks at my neutral nylon-clad legs that are still shapely since paralyzed muscles do not atrophy within the first year.

His admiring gaze is replaced by a look of skepticism. He says I seem too well adjusted and positive considering I have been disabled for such a short time. There is an awkward silence. He glances to the right and left before saying he thinks my friends hope we will hit it off and eventually be an item.

I look at him in dismay as he expresses concern that I need to feel grief, anger, and finally, resignation before going into a relationship.

I am speechless as he says we should just be friends and excuses himself to go meet the midget who is standing at the sideline. Doug is standing nearby with my friends and they listen to our exchange.

I say it is time to go and we weave through the tranquil dining area and into the shadowy abyss.

Once again, the same coat check usher stands alone in the dark, deserted lobby and smiles at me with sadness. He walks over and opens the heavy door, holds it open and bids us farewell. I gracefully maneuver my wheelchair over the bumpy wooden threshold and escape into darkness. The music is barely audible and the last remnants of polyurethane, food, cologne, and perfume waft out into the night as the door slams with a loud clap. We are greeted by sounds of crickets chirping, soft white glow of a half moon, bright stars that twinkle, and a cool breeze on our faces.

ELEPHANT

by Katie Weis

We remain at the side on the dance floor as he continues to furtively glance around and then at me.

Finally, I ask if he is comfortable to tell me why he is in a wheelchair.

print

Distractedly, he says sure and matter-of-factly explains his paralysis is due to a car accident some twenty years ago.

Without prompting, I cheerily tell how my paralysis suddenly occurred only six months ago.

He looks at me with intensity, asks how I manKIOSK14

31

POETRY

THE AUTUMN PATH Doug Collins

I dance among the warriors Fallen in the fray They languish here beneath my feet In this vainglorious day.

The flash of crimson The jaundiced face They fall, strengthless To common place.

But these no simple warriors be For they have fought against the Sun They litter field and canopy In heaps and piles they lay undone.

And as I walk this hallowed ground And breathe chill air for sport I glory in their dying sound And marvel at the crisp report.

Alas how Summer’s allies fade Who once stood out so bold While Winter’s armies by brigade Usher in the cold.

YELLOW CROPPED

by Claire May-Patterson digital photograph

32

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33

POETRY

THE AUTUMN PATH Doug Collins

I dance among the warriors Fallen in the fray They languish here beneath my feet In this vainglorious day.

The flash of crimson The jaundiced face They fall, strengthless To common place.

But these no simple warriors be For they have fought against the Sun They litter field and canopy In heaps and piles they lay undone.

And as I walk this hallowed ground And breathe chill air for sport I glory in their dying sound And marvel at the crisp report.

Alas how Summer’s allies fade Who once stood out so bold While Winter’s armies by brigade Usher in the cold.

YELLOW CROPPED

by Claire May-Patterson digital photograph

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NON-FICTION

POETRY

YOU GOTTA HAVE IT

SUNLIGHT Bailey Baack

Cameron Oakley

our sunlight does not filter through the windows as sunlight tends to do instead, it reaches through the glass it stretches toward my skin it grasps the blue of my child’s eyes it tangles itself in his daddy’s messy hair the sunlight sprawls across the wooden floors it warms the leather sofa the dog catches it in his mouth

T

the sunlight watches as we flip pancakes it embraces our laughter it runs after me as I chase the little one our bare feet, elegant and rough padding down the hallway observing as I wrestle her out of the too-big t-shirt she wears as pajamas the sunlight cannot capture us it cannot match our glow it only illuminates our brief golden moments wishing to be as bright as we are

SYDNEY BRIDGE

by Caitlin Casey photography

he fire crackled as pinecones and logs slowly broke into glowing red embers. Stockings hung on the mantle below a scene of caroler figurines and fake fluffy snow. The plush cream sofas and loveseat were packed. Cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers, and sisters spilled over arm rests onto the floor or into high back mahogany chairs brought in from the dining room. So many Sullivans in one room always ensured at least some laughter, awkward caroling with offbeat clapping, and stories. My grandma sat nearest the fire in a fashionably oversized Christmas sweater. She always looked younger than 65, with a classic style supported by her large bank account. She kept her small five-foot-three frame fit by jogging five days a week and taking step classes at the Y. Her clear, powder blue eyes sparkled, framed by soft skin that wrinkled when she smiled, like a theater curtains pulling back. Seeing her children and their children all together, she would remind us how proud and thankful she was. We were the product of her love having multiplied, which gave her a family of five children and fifteen grandchildren.

The noise of merriment must have been loud enough to muffle the usual creaks of the grand staircase. A deep, professional-sounding voice like that of a sports announcer startled everyone.

“Hey, there. God Bless America. How’s everyone doin’?” Pops said. He was not asking, but making a statement to get our attention focused on him.

Although we never knew what to expect, surprise was apparent on the faces of everyone in the room.

Pops stood there covered only by sagging no longer whitey-tighties that barely hug on his hips. He wore dark rimmed half-moon glasses on the tip of his nose, and a tobacco pipe stuck between his lips. His salt and pepper comb-over was disheveled from a long day of the rituals of his running; running had come to mean a limping walk that had replaced Pops’ run years ago. Aside from his white and wrinkled skin, he looked like one of the African children on the commer- “Hey there. God Bless America. cials asking for a donation of five How’s everyone doin’?” cents a day to UNICEF’s Save the Children Fund. His limbs were so thin that even the sagging skin couldn’t camouflage the bone, but his belly bloated like a balloon from the band of his underwear due to the eating disorder that showed itself in late night bingeing.

“Hunny, why don’t you go put something on,” my grandma pleaded, moving to the edge of her seat and sitting on her hands. Her blue eyes no longer shone wide with pride and joy. Instead, her now closed-lip smile caused her eyes to squint, making the skin around them look like the crinkled edges of cellophane-wrapped hard candy.

“Be quiet!” he barked, not even looking at her.

He turned to continue to be the center of attention in the room, but before he could start a monologue about his day, he noticed someone. “Kennedy! You’re here. When did ya get here, kid? Come here and give me a hug!”

One of the youngest boys in the family stood up. He had been sitting on the floor, discussing with an uncle the start of his fourth grade basketball career. His eyes remained on his Air Jordans after he glanced at his mother to see if he really had to.

Kennedy was considered one of Pops’ favorite grandchildren. Everyone knew it was because Kennedy gave him something many of the others couldn’t seem to give–undivided attention. He worshipped his grandfather, who was unlike any other person he had ever met. Kennedy was a baby when Pops first started having episodes. Unlike Pops’ own kids and the older grandkids, he didn’t know the former

34

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NON-FICTION

POETRY

YOU GOTTA HAVE IT

SUNLIGHT Bailey Baack

Cameron Oakley

our sunlight does not filter through the windows as sunlight tends to do instead, it reaches through the glass it stretches toward my skin it grasps the blue of my child’s eyes it tangles itself in his daddy’s messy hair the sunlight sprawls across the wooden floors it warms the leather sofa the dog catches it in his mouth

T

the sunlight watches as we flip pancakes it embraces our laughter it runs after me as I chase the little one our bare feet, elegant and rough padding down the hallway observing as I wrestle her out of the too-big t-shirt she wears as pajamas the sunlight cannot capture us it cannot match our glow it only illuminates our brief golden moments wishing to be as bright as we are

SYDNEY BRIDGE

by Caitlin Casey photography

he fire crackled as pinecones and logs slowly broke into glowing red embers. Stockings hung on the mantle below a scene of caroler figurines and fake fluffy snow. The plush cream sofas and loveseat were packed. Cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers, and sisters spilled over arm rests onto the floor or into high back mahogany chairs brought in from the dining room. So many Sullivans in one room always ensured at least some laughter, awkward caroling with offbeat clapping, and stories. My grandma sat nearest the fire in a fashionably oversized Christmas sweater. She always looked younger than 65, with a classic style supported by her large bank account. She kept her small five-foot-three frame fit by jogging five days a week and taking step classes at the Y. Her clear, powder blue eyes sparkled, framed by soft skin that wrinkled when she smiled, like a theater curtains pulling back. Seeing her children and their children all together, she would remind us how proud and thankful she was. We were the product of her love having multiplied, which gave her a family of five children and fifteen grandchildren.

The noise of merriment must have been loud enough to muffle the usual creaks of the grand staircase. A deep, professional-sounding voice like that of a sports announcer startled everyone.

“Hey, there. God Bless America. How’s everyone doin’?” Pops said. He was not asking, but making a statement to get our attention focused on him.

Although we never knew what to expect, surprise was apparent on the faces of everyone in the room.

Pops stood there covered only by sagging no longer whitey-tighties that barely hug on his hips. He wore dark rimmed half-moon glasses on the tip of his nose, and a tobacco pipe stuck between his lips. His salt and pepper comb-over was disheveled from a long day of the rituals of his running; running had come to mean a limping walk that had replaced Pops’ run years ago. Aside from his white and wrinkled skin, he looked like one of the African children on the commer- “Hey there. God Bless America. cials asking for a donation of five How’s everyone doin’?” cents a day to UNICEF’s Save the Children Fund. His limbs were so thin that even the sagging skin couldn’t camouflage the bone, but his belly bloated like a balloon from the band of his underwear due to the eating disorder that showed itself in late night bingeing.

“Hunny, why don’t you go put something on,” my grandma pleaded, moving to the edge of her seat and sitting on her hands. Her blue eyes no longer shone wide with pride and joy. Instead, her now closed-lip smile caused her eyes to squint, making the skin around them look like the crinkled edges of cellophane-wrapped hard candy.

“Be quiet!” he barked, not even looking at her.

He turned to continue to be the center of attention in the room, but before he could start a monologue about his day, he noticed someone. “Kennedy! You’re here. When did ya get here, kid? Come here and give me a hug!”

One of the youngest boys in the family stood up. He had been sitting on the floor, discussing with an uncle the start of his fourth grade basketball career. His eyes remained on his Air Jordans after he glanced at his mother to see if he really had to.

Kennedy was considered one of Pops’ favorite grandchildren. Everyone knew it was because Kennedy gave him something many of the others couldn’t seem to give–undivided attention. He worshipped his grandfather, who was unlike any other person he had ever met. Kennedy was a baby when Pops first started having episodes. Unlike Pops’ own kids and the older grandkids, he didn’t know the former

34

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35

Pops, Charles Sullivan. He didn’t feel the embarrassment, the lack of patience, or even the pain in seeing the state of the beloved head of the family. Instead, growing up, Kennedy saw Pops’ quirks as super cool perks that no other kids seemed to be able to claim.

Who else’s grandpa let their grandkid get soft-serve ice cream daily, even before dinner, at a nearby convenience store in the 32oz. drink cups, ignoring all the signs saying not to do so? And who else’s grandpa would give his grandchildren ten cents each day just for making the beds? Who She had given up on a fight else’s grandpa ordered lishe knew was already lost. mos to pack family into for a drive around town and to see Christmas lights, letting whoever wanted to stick their head out the sunroof? Kennedy could always be found in Pops’ office listening to the outrageous stories Pops made up about statues being raised in his name. Kennedy laughed until his sides hurt.

But as Kennedy got older, things changed. Kennedy confided in me that like many of the other grandkids he began to realize his grandpa said and did things that weren’t normal. He started to see how everyone else saw Pops, and things weren’t as funny anymore. Bipolar disorder, as explained to the grandkids when questions were asked, was what made Pops so unique.

He displayed several of the symptoms listed as common for people with bipolar disorder. These include inflated sense of self, decreased need to sleep, incessant talking, racing thoughts, inability to concentrate, increased focus on goals, and an increase in risk-taking. Kennedy and the other grandchildren were reminded of this illness every time Pops called.

Pops was known for leaving incessant and illogical voicemails, describing having run an impossible number of miles that day. And it seemed like the message machine played the family’s secrets on loud speakers.

As Kennedy walked across the room, stepping over bodies and around chairs, no other sound besides the crackle of the fire could be heard. Everyone was pretending to pull off hangnails or to study the interesting patterns in the shamrock-green carpet. No one could seem to bear to look at the melt 36

KIOSK14

down everyone knew was coming.

life too hard if you thought about them too long.

“Charles, come on now. Kennedy doesn’t want a hug if you’re just in your briefs, he’s a growing boy,” Grandma tried one last time, standing up as if she could control the situation better. She seemed to realize that the social taboo of an old man in underwear hugging a young boy was completely lost on her husband; he was happy to see his grandson who was devoted and looked up to him. She put her arm around Kennedy’s waist, who was already towering over her at age 9, and squeezing his waist, she said with a forced smile, “Kennedy, once Pops gets dressed you make sure to go give him a big hug.”

However, her eyes did everything but smile. Grandma turned her face away from Kennedy toward Pops, and even her forced smile disappeared. Her now icyblue eyes stared at Pops as if the two were childishly having a staring contest, the winner take all.

Pops grabbed Kennedy’s arm more gently, pulling him into a hug with one hand and raising his pipe with the other to take a drag. Through the sweet smelling haze of the exhaled smoke, we all could see Kennedy’s face smushed flat up against the grey hair on Pop’s glaringly white chest. Kennedy’s big brown eyes squinted with discomfort. He began a few stifled coughs as his eyes watered from the smoke.

“Now you listen here,” Pops hissed, grabbing Grandma’s arm hard enough to show how serious he was but not hard enough to elicit any immediate complaints from the surrounding family. My aunts squirmed in their seats with pained looks on their faces as they watched the scene. My own father stared intensely at the carpet. He gripped the arm of the loveseat so hard that the small veins in his hands rose up. However, my own grandmother had lost the intensity in her eyes. She had given up on a fight she knew was already lost. She stared blankly at Pops.

“I’m going to hug my grandson whenever I feel like it.” He dropped his wife’s arm. “This is my house and my family.”

A lump sat in my throat, and everyone in the room seemed just as uncomfortable. He had never shown signs of danger beyond the occasional rough handshake or grabbing an arm as far as I could find out. But no one ever likes to think about the what-ifs.

Some studies indicate that about twenty percent of people who have bipolar disorder that goes untreated commit suicide every year. Pops had been living untreated for decades. How many times did he get close to hurting himself? And if he were capable of hurting himself, would he ever hurt his own wife? These kinds of what-ifs made

My dad stood up. “Come on now, Dad,” he said.

“We’re all having a great night. Let’s not change that.

We all need to just calm down a bit,” he said, his jaw muscles twitching with tension beneath the vacation stubble of relaxation and comfort.

Pop’s eyes narrowed. “Boy,” he said, “sit back down. I am the Joe Kennedy of this family goddamn it. I am the reason you all are here. I built this family.” He glared, daring anyone else to speak up. “And don’t you forget it.”

My grandmother still stared blankly at her husband with her arms hanging like dead weights.

Looking back years later, I wondered where she was in that moment.

After a few moments of silence and no one making eye contact with him, he spoke again. This time his professional announcing voice returned as if nothing had happen.

“Well, I’m going to go eat my supper. I got a big day of running head of me tomorrow. I’m going to try to shoot for 30 miles. Are we all havin’ fun?” he asked, but this time it was not a rhetorical question.

It seemed he wanted an answer, not necessarily because he cared if everyone was having fun, but it was as if the answers would show our loyalty and love, our submission to his authority as the head of the household, the Joe Kennedy goddamn it. Were we all havin’ fun?

You betcha.

It was a special weekend hosted by the St. Louis Cardinals Baseball Network for wining and dining the regional television and radio affiliates, including my grandfather, Charles Sullivan. Charles, before he

was ever known as Pops, asked his youngest son, Jim, a freshman in college at Eastern Illinois University at the time, to be his guest at the event. I find it strange to call such a young man my dad, but that’s who Jim was. Honored, he stuffed a duffle bag with the clothes that smelled least like a football locker room and drove back to Adams, Illinois to meet up with his dad.

Most of the weekend took place at Grant’s Farm, a banquet hall that was nothing like a real farm.

Charles was greeted as Mr. Sullivan. Budweiser, the owners of the St. Louis Cardinals at the time, wanted Charles to continue to broadcast their games on his television stations. To encourage his loyalty, along with other television and radio station owners, all stops were pulled to let them know how valued they were. Crystal glasses sparkled as golden liquid bubbled with excitement. On china rested prime rib that exuded pink juices accompanied by delectable and almost artistically shaped garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus. When dinner was finished, the group was taken outside and introduced to the famous Budweiser Clydesdales that stomped and whinnied to greet the guests. Each guest stayed at the Ritz Carlton Hotel in St. Louis. The following day was baseball, free beer, and the best seats money could buy, right behind the Cardinal’s dugout. It was a college boy’s dream. Nothing cost and nothing was out of reach.

All he needed was for his father, Charles, to raise a finger to have wait staff immediately at their side, ready to take an order. The power in that one little finger and that charismatic smile amazed Jim. He saw how important his father was. What man could claim such royal treatment? All Jim knew was his father could, and that made his own shoulders sit a little straighter and his chest protrude a little farther.

Although pride and joy kept this time alive in my father’s memory, I realized through an interview that nothing seemed more vivid to him that the conversation in the car ride there.

They sat in the white New Yorker, the yellow and green blur of cornfields rushing by as they pressed forward on the highway to St. Louis. The sun shone.

Sweet pipe smoke made a haze in the car that mixed with excitement for the weekend ahead. Charles puff, KIOSK14

37

Pops, Charles Sullivan. He didn’t feel the embarrassment, the lack of patience, or even the pain in seeing the state of the beloved head of the family. Instead, growing up, Kennedy saw Pops’ quirks as super cool perks that no other kids seemed to be able to claim.

Who else’s grandpa let their grandkid get soft-serve ice cream daily, even before dinner, at a nearby convenience store in the 32oz. drink cups, ignoring all the signs saying not to do so? And who else’s grandpa would give his grandchildren ten cents each day just for making the beds? Who She had given up on a fight else’s grandpa ordered lishe knew was already lost. mos to pack family into for a drive around town and to see Christmas lights, letting whoever wanted to stick their head out the sunroof? Kennedy could always be found in Pops’ office listening to the outrageous stories Pops made up about statues being raised in his name. Kennedy laughed until his sides hurt.

But as Kennedy got older, things changed. Kennedy confided in me that like many of the other grandkids he began to realize his grandpa said and did things that weren’t normal. He started to see how everyone else saw Pops, and things weren’t as funny anymore. Bipolar disorder, as explained to the grandkids when questions were asked, was what made Pops so unique.

He displayed several of the symptoms listed as common for people with bipolar disorder. These include inflated sense of self, decreased need to sleep, incessant talking, racing thoughts, inability to concentrate, increased focus on goals, and an increase in risk-taking. Kennedy and the other grandchildren were reminded of this illness every time Pops called.

Pops was known for leaving incessant and illogical voicemails, describing having run an impossible number of miles that day. And it seemed like the message machine played the family’s secrets on loud speakers.

As Kennedy walked across the room, stepping over bodies and around chairs, no other sound besides the crackle of the fire could be heard. Everyone was pretending to pull off hangnails or to study the interesting patterns in the shamrock-green carpet. No one could seem to bear to look at the melt 36

KIOSK14

down everyone knew was coming.

life too hard if you thought about them too long.

“Charles, come on now. Kennedy doesn’t want a hug if you’re just in your briefs, he’s a growing boy,” Grandma tried one last time, standing up as if she could control the situation better. She seemed to realize that the social taboo of an old man in underwear hugging a young boy was completely lost on her husband; he was happy to see his grandson who was devoted and looked up to him. She put her arm around Kennedy’s waist, who was already towering over her at age 9, and squeezing his waist, she said with a forced smile, “Kennedy, once Pops gets dressed you make sure to go give him a big hug.”

However, her eyes did everything but smile. Grandma turned her face away from Kennedy toward Pops, and even her forced smile disappeared. Her now icyblue eyes stared at Pops as if the two were childishly having a staring contest, the winner take all.

Pops grabbed Kennedy’s arm more gently, pulling him into a hug with one hand and raising his pipe with the other to take a drag. Through the sweet smelling haze of the exhaled smoke, we all could see Kennedy’s face smushed flat up against the grey hair on Pop’s glaringly white chest. Kennedy’s big brown eyes squinted with discomfort. He began a few stifled coughs as his eyes watered from the smoke.

“Now you listen here,” Pops hissed, grabbing Grandma’s arm hard enough to show how serious he was but not hard enough to elicit any immediate complaints from the surrounding family. My aunts squirmed in their seats with pained looks on their faces as they watched the scene. My own father stared intensely at the carpet. He gripped the arm of the loveseat so hard that the small veins in his hands rose up. However, my own grandmother had lost the intensity in her eyes. She had given up on a fight she knew was already lost. She stared blankly at Pops.

“I’m going to hug my grandson whenever I feel like it.” He dropped his wife’s arm. “This is my house and my family.”

A lump sat in my throat, and everyone in the room seemed just as uncomfortable. He had never shown signs of danger beyond the occasional rough handshake or grabbing an arm as far as I could find out. But no one ever likes to think about the what-ifs.

Some studies indicate that about twenty percent of people who have bipolar disorder that goes untreated commit suicide every year. Pops had been living untreated for decades. How many times did he get close to hurting himself? And if he were capable of hurting himself, would he ever hurt his own wife? These kinds of what-ifs made

My dad stood up. “Come on now, Dad,” he said.

“We’re all having a great night. Let’s not change that.

We all need to just calm down a bit,” he said, his jaw muscles twitching with tension beneath the vacation stubble of relaxation and comfort.

Pop’s eyes narrowed. “Boy,” he said, “sit back down. I am the Joe Kennedy of this family goddamn it. I am the reason you all are here. I built this family.” He glared, daring anyone else to speak up. “And don’t you forget it.”

My grandmother still stared blankly at her husband with her arms hanging like dead weights.

Looking back years later, I wondered where she was in that moment.

After a few moments of silence and no one making eye contact with him, he spoke again. This time his professional announcing voice returned as if nothing had happen.

“Well, I’m going to go eat my supper. I got a big day of running head of me tomorrow. I’m going to try to shoot for 30 miles. Are we all havin’ fun?” he asked, but this time it was not a rhetorical question.

It seemed he wanted an answer, not necessarily because he cared if everyone was having fun, but it was as if the answers would show our loyalty and love, our submission to his authority as the head of the household, the Joe Kennedy goddamn it. Were we all havin’ fun?

You betcha.

It was a special weekend hosted by the St. Louis Cardinals Baseball Network for wining and dining the regional television and radio affiliates, including my grandfather, Charles Sullivan. Charles, before he

was ever known as Pops, asked his youngest son, Jim, a freshman in college at Eastern Illinois University at the time, to be his guest at the event. I find it strange to call such a young man my dad, but that’s who Jim was. Honored, he stuffed a duffle bag with the clothes that smelled least like a football locker room and drove back to Adams, Illinois to meet up with his dad.

Most of the weekend took place at Grant’s Farm, a banquet hall that was nothing like a real farm.

Charles was greeted as Mr. Sullivan. Budweiser, the owners of the St. Louis Cardinals at the time, wanted Charles to continue to broadcast their games on his television stations. To encourage his loyalty, along with other television and radio station owners, all stops were pulled to let them know how valued they were. Crystal glasses sparkled as golden liquid bubbled with excitement. On china rested prime rib that exuded pink juices accompanied by delectable and almost artistically shaped garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus. When dinner was finished, the group was taken outside and introduced to the famous Budweiser Clydesdales that stomped and whinnied to greet the guests. Each guest stayed at the Ritz Carlton Hotel in St. Louis. The following day was baseball, free beer, and the best seats money could buy, right behind the Cardinal’s dugout. It was a college boy’s dream. Nothing cost and nothing was out of reach.

All he needed was for his father, Charles, to raise a finger to have wait staff immediately at their side, ready to take an order. The power in that one little finger and that charismatic smile amazed Jim. He saw how important his father was. What man could claim such royal treatment? All Jim knew was his father could, and that made his own shoulders sit a little straighter and his chest protrude a little farther.

Although pride and joy kept this time alive in my father’s memory, I realized through an interview that nothing seemed more vivid to him that the conversation in the car ride there.

They sat in the white New Yorker, the yellow and green blur of cornfields rushing by as they pressed forward on the highway to St. Louis. The sun shone.

Sweet pipe smoke made a haze in the car that mixed with excitement for the weekend ahead. Charles puff, KIOSK14

37

puff, puffed on his mahogany pipe, and he spoke slowly and deliberately to his son.

“This is a prime time in your life, kid,” Charles said in between pressing his lips to the stem to slowly inhale the gray smoke. “Your education, that’s the key to your success.” Jim sat there staring at his father, nodding his head, and hanging on to every word.

“But do ya know what’s even more important for your success? Empathy. Empathy, kid. Do you know what I’m sayin’?” he continued without a verbal answer, after glancing over to see Jim, his youthful forehead scrunched up and head continuously nodding like a fishing bobber sitting on top of the surface of a rippling lake. Jim was try“But do ya know what’s even ing to take in everything his more important for your success? dad was saying, cherishing their time alone together, Empathy. Empathy, kid. Do you which was a rare commodknow what I’m sayin’?” ity in a household of seven, especially being away at college. “Empathy, it’s gettin’ in someone else’s shoes and knowin’ how they feel. If you’re going to be successful in life, you gotta have it, kid.”

This conversation would come to be the truest thing my father ever remembered his own father saying to him. It was also one of the last conversations when he remembers his father being the lucid man he grew up with. Shortly after this, Jim began to see Charles’s mind break slowly but surely. Jim struggled seeing the change in his father. He seemed to live out the paradox described by psychologists who study bi-polar disorder. My father, like many of his other immediate family members, was simultaneous needed yet rejected by the head of the Sullivan household. When Jim would be called into his father’s office during a visit to Adams later on in his life, he would not be able to deny that his dad’s slow, deliberate, and intelligent advice had become forced lectures. Pops was going to tell you something, whether you liked it or not.

That was Pops. But long before, Charles had been a man with an intelligent patience to him, and if you sat around to listen, you could learn from a man who had great successes in life. This was the 38

KIOSK14

man my father liked to remember as his dad, but every phone conversation and visit to Adams made it just a little bit harder.

“Chaaaaarrlieee,” my grandmother yelled as she bustled around the kitchen that seemed small because my father, mother, brother, sister, and I were packed in on white stools that matched the round white kitchen table. My grandmother was a multitasking queen–cooking five eggs, washing dishes, frying bacon, and making toast. My family and I were dead after the seven-hour drive across the state of Iowa, down into Missouri, and across the border into Southern Illinois where my dad grew up. However, no one was tired enough to miss one of grandma’s famous egg breakfasts that could never be replicated.

My grandfather limped into the kitchen doorway, making the room seem to shrink. He wore a once-white Hanes t-shirt that was decorated with little holes, unidentifiable stains, and a small American flag attached haphazardly with safety pins.

“Alrighty gang. God Bless America. Are we all havin’ fun?” The traditional spiel made me feel at home as I smiled and stood up to give my grandfather a hug.

“Hi Pops,” I said. I hugged him awkwardly, avoiding getting knocked in the gut by the two eightpound dumbbells he always had in his hands. He was thinner than last time I saw him, with the new wrinkles and bags under his eyes.

I sat back down, and my sister leaned over and whispered in my ear, “It looks like someone stole his hairbrush again.” We both stifled giggles.

Grandma interrupted Pop’s conversation with my dad. “Dear,” she said, “will you try to pick up the bathroom a bit? I want to make sure Jim and his family can get in there to clean up before we get started with our busy day ahead.”

“Liz, ya see I don’t have time for stuff like that. I got my schedule I have to keep up with. I need to get back out there and get some more miles done. I just don’t have time for that.”

“Charles, it will only take a minute. You have

about eleven Diet Mountain Dew bottles sitting around the toilet. Someone is going to knock them over. And if you could just wipe up all that tobacco that you’ve spilt. I had my helper Margret over to clean yesterday, and it’s back to the way it was before she came. Could you just do that for me real quick?”

“Didn’t you hear me, Liz? I am not going to say it again. I just don’t have time for that! Now before I get upset, drop it. Will you just run upstairs and pick up those sodas Cameron? Alright, thanks now. You all have a good day. God Bless America,” he said, holding up a hand with a blue weight in it towards my brother, Clinton, raising two fingers as if to request a high five.

“I got that bathroom stuff for you, Pops,” Clinton’s polite soft voice, rare for college boy, replied. He stood to give Pops a high five. My brother left the room behind my limping grandfather. Everyone and everything else was silent besides the popping and sizzling of the bacon and eggs. I looked up to see faint wrinkles instead of the deep crevices around Grandma’s eyes and mouth. Her mouth looked older. She frowned, and her dimples were missing in softy sagging skin on her cheeks. She pretended to be occupied by breakfast, and my family and I pretended to not have witnessed the scene or been embarrassed.

I caught my dad giving his mother an empathic smile. Although I was uncomfortable, I knew that they were feeling something I wasn’t; they understood what had just happened differently than the rest of my family. Maybe it was because I had never known my grandfather as the man my grandmother or father had. Maybe it was because I had only seen the tip of the iceberg of what Pops was really like.

Either way I knew that as many times as I talked with my grandfather or asked questions about him to Grandma or my dad, I would never truly know Charles Sullivan. This could be why my father got angry when I asked him if Pops would ever have such a bad episode that he would hurt Grandma.

My father couldn’t seem to imagine his own father crossing that line. I had felt this same sense of lack of understanding when I asked my grandmother if she ever thought of leaving Pops. I knew there was

sometime underneath her long lecture about the sacred nature of the vows of marriage that sometimes had to be influenced by her memory of the man she married, right? Could my grandma just stay with Pops because of a vow all the way back in 1960 if she didn’t still love him or at least love the person he had been?

It was November 7, 1985. Exactly twentyfive years had passed since the day that two teens held hands that were not yet marked with wrinkles. They stared into each other’s eyes, one pair deep chocolate brown and the other powder blue, and their youthful lips released the words, “I do.” Those two teens were my grandfather, Charles, and grandmother, Elizabeth. Twenty-five years, five children, two grandchildren, three houses, and many memories later the two lovers sat by the glowing fireplace in the beautiful house on 24th Street that would become a symbol of family and love for the many grandchildren yet to come, including myself.

VERSUS

by Randy Chavez photography

Whether it had caused a fight earlier or not, my grandmother told me she couldn’t remember, but she did clearly recall that my grandfather had not been fond of parties or large celebrations, much to her displeasure. He just wanted to keep things simple. A glass of wine, or two or three. Dinner at a nice restaurant, maybe a rib eye or prime rib.

And of course time with the love of his life, my grandma. My grandmother was used to sacrificing her desires and interests for those of other people she loved, a skill a mother like her truly mastered.

KIOSK14

39

puff, puffed on his mahogany pipe, and he spoke slowly and deliberately to his son.

“This is a prime time in your life, kid,” Charles said in between pressing his lips to the stem to slowly inhale the gray smoke. “Your education, that’s the key to your success.” Jim sat there staring at his father, nodding his head, and hanging on to every word.

“But do ya know what’s even more important for your success? Empathy. Empathy, kid. Do you know what I’m sayin’?” he continued without a verbal answer, after glancing over to see Jim, his youthful forehead scrunched up and head continuously nodding like a fishing bobber sitting on top of the surface of a rippling lake. Jim was try“But do ya know what’s even ing to take in everything his more important for your success? dad was saying, cherishing their time alone together, Empathy. Empathy, kid. Do you which was a rare commodknow what I’m sayin’?” ity in a household of seven, especially being away at college. “Empathy, it’s gettin’ in someone else’s shoes and knowin’ how they feel. If you’re going to be successful in life, you gotta have it, kid.”

This conversation would come to be the truest thing my father ever remembered his own father saying to him. It was also one of the last conversations when he remembers his father being the lucid man he grew up with. Shortly after this, Jim began to see Charles’s mind break slowly but surely. Jim struggled seeing the change in his father. He seemed to live out the paradox described by psychologists who study bi-polar disorder. My father, like many of his other immediate family members, was simultaneous needed yet rejected by the head of the Sullivan household. When Jim would be called into his father’s office during a visit to Adams later on in his life, he would not be able to deny that his dad’s slow, deliberate, and intelligent advice had become forced lectures. Pops was going to tell you something, whether you liked it or not.

That was Pops. But long before, Charles had been a man with an intelligent patience to him, and if you sat around to listen, you could learn from a man who had great successes in life. This was the 38

KIOSK14

man my father liked to remember as his dad, but every phone conversation and visit to Adams made it just a little bit harder.

“Chaaaaarrlieee,” my grandmother yelled as she bustled around the kitchen that seemed small because my father, mother, brother, sister, and I were packed in on white stools that matched the round white kitchen table. My grandmother was a multitasking queen–cooking five eggs, washing dishes, frying bacon, and making toast. My family and I were dead after the seven-hour drive across the state of Iowa, down into Missouri, and across the border into Southern Illinois where my dad grew up. However, no one was tired enough to miss one of grandma’s famous egg breakfasts that could never be replicated.

My grandfather limped into the kitchen doorway, making the room seem to shrink. He wore a once-white Hanes t-shirt that was decorated with little holes, unidentifiable stains, and a small American flag attached haphazardly with safety pins.

“Alrighty gang. God Bless America. Are we all havin’ fun?” The traditional spiel made me feel at home as I smiled and stood up to give my grandfather a hug.

“Hi Pops,” I said. I hugged him awkwardly, avoiding getting knocked in the gut by the two eightpound dumbbells he always had in his hands. He was thinner than last time I saw him, with the new wrinkles and bags under his eyes.

I sat back down, and my sister leaned over and whispered in my ear, “It looks like someone stole his hairbrush again.” We both stifled giggles.

Grandma interrupted Pop’s conversation with my dad. “Dear,” she said, “will you try to pick up the bathroom a bit? I want to make sure Jim and his family can get in there to clean up before we get started with our busy day ahead.”

“Liz, ya see I don’t have time for stuff like that. I got my schedule I have to keep up with. I need to get back out there and get some more miles done. I just don’t have time for that.”

“Charles, it will only take a minute. You have

about eleven Diet Mountain Dew bottles sitting around the toilet. Someone is going to knock them over. And if you could just wipe up all that tobacco that you’ve spilt. I had my helper Margret over to clean yesterday, and it’s back to the way it was before she came. Could you just do that for me real quick?”

“Didn’t you hear me, Liz? I am not going to say it again. I just don’t have time for that! Now before I get upset, drop it. Will you just run upstairs and pick up those sodas Cameron? Alright, thanks now. You all have a good day. God Bless America,” he said, holding up a hand with a blue weight in it towards my brother, Clinton, raising two fingers as if to request a high five.

“I got that bathroom stuff for you, Pops,” Clinton’s polite soft voice, rare for college boy, replied. He stood to give Pops a high five. My brother left the room behind my limping grandfather. Everyone and everything else was silent besides the popping and sizzling of the bacon and eggs. I looked up to see faint wrinkles instead of the deep crevices around Grandma’s eyes and mouth. Her mouth looked older. She frowned, and her dimples were missing in softy sagging skin on her cheeks. She pretended to be occupied by breakfast, and my family and I pretended to not have witnessed the scene or been embarrassed.

I caught my dad giving his mother an empathic smile. Although I was uncomfortable, I knew that they were feeling something I wasn’t; they understood what had just happened differently than the rest of my family. Maybe it was because I had never known my grandfather as the man my grandmother or father had. Maybe it was because I had only seen the tip of the iceberg of what Pops was really like.

Either way I knew that as many times as I talked with my grandfather or asked questions about him to Grandma or my dad, I would never truly know Charles Sullivan. This could be why my father got angry when I asked him if Pops would ever have such a bad episode that he would hurt Grandma.

My father couldn’t seem to imagine his own father crossing that line. I had felt this same sense of lack of understanding when I asked my grandmother if she ever thought of leaving Pops. I knew there was

sometime underneath her long lecture about the sacred nature of the vows of marriage that sometimes had to be influenced by her memory of the man she married, right? Could my grandma just stay with Pops because of a vow all the way back in 1960 if she didn’t still love him or at least love the person he had been?

It was November 7, 1985. Exactly twentyfive years had passed since the day that two teens held hands that were not yet marked with wrinkles. They stared into each other’s eyes, one pair deep chocolate brown and the other powder blue, and their youthful lips released the words, “I do.” Those two teens were my grandfather, Charles, and grandmother, Elizabeth. Twenty-five years, five children, two grandchildren, three houses, and many memories later the two lovers sat by the glowing fireplace in the beautiful house on 24th Street that would become a symbol of family and love for the many grandchildren yet to come, including myself.

VERSUS

by Randy Chavez photography

Whether it had caused a fight earlier or not, my grandmother told me she couldn’t remember, but she did clearly recall that my grandfather had not been fond of parties or large celebrations, much to her displeasure. He just wanted to keep things simple. A glass of wine, or two or three. Dinner at a nice restaurant, maybe a rib eye or prime rib.

And of course time with the love of his life, my grandma. My grandmother was used to sacrificing her desires and interests for those of other people she loved, a skill a mother like her truly mastered.

KIOSK14

39

She had much practice with three boys all within two and a half years of each other who had been known in Adams for their mischief, and fighting.

Elizabeth was no stranger to not getting her way, and spending a quiet evening with a few finer things that many people could not afford was special enough to please her.

Charles poured bubbling champagne, his drink of choice, out of a glistening Waterford crystal-ware.

The light of the fireplace made miniature rainbows in the intricate cuts of crystal. Elizabeth’s chardonnay in a large Waterford goblet sparked but without the bursting bubbles of her husband’s drink.

but

A long thin, swirling line of smoke lazily escaped his lips. He continued to stare at the bright fire that reflected in He hated the big to-do of parties, his dark eyes. “I was she loved them. And he loved her. thinking,” Charles said, “we could go to The Pier or the Country Club for dinner.”

“Sure, dear,” Elizabeth offered. “Would you like me to make reservations?”

Charles turned to look at her with a loving smile and shook his head no, which was a relief to Elizabeth as she was comfortable lounging on the couch.

Her short, lean legs in skinny black cigarette jeans were curled beneath her. She was unwinding, coming to terms and making herself realize how nice tonight could be even without friends and family to celebrate the major milestone of her and Charles’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Who cared if most of their family and friends used the occasion for large parties, decadent drinks, and dancing into the night, all of which were some of Elizabeth’s favorite things. But she, like always, could get used to the comfort of a quiet night with her husband filled with good food and reminiscing about the memories they had made throughout the years. Yes, that would be good for her.

Elizabeth’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of loud knocks, almost pounding, on the door. Her thin brown eyebrows rose at Charles as if to ask if he was expecting company, but his face seemed to show a lack of interest as he continued to stare into the fire and puff away on his pipe.

40

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“Well, I wonder who would be stopping by. The kids are all out of town, right?” Not waiting for an answer, Elizabeth uncurled from her position, slipping on her black heels that sat in front of her on the floor. No one was at the front door, but this was no surprise since many friends and family were known for parking on the no longer used tennis court and coming to the back door. Elizabeth took the four steps down onto the landing between the kitchen and basement, and opened the door.

“SURPRISE!!! HAPPY ANNIVERSARY LIZ AND CHARLIE!” a group of at least fifty people yelled in unison in a way that is rarely heard beyond the classrooms of elementary school.

Shocked, Elizabeth started laughing, her beautiful white smile shone. Realizing someone was responsible for this, yet unable to put it all together, her head spun with surprise and joy. Elizabeth turned around in the doorway to see her husband in his classic cream khakis, white button-up oxford, and navy blue blazer, looking as handsome as the day she met him, she claimed.

He smiled in a shy, intimate way like a young boy, desperately and vulnerably hoping to please a girl he had a crush on. This vulnerability was rare these days as his confidence budded with one business success after another. Their eyes connected, causing them to momentarily forget the huge crowd of family and friends, whistling and clapping behind them. He did this all for her. Just to please her. He didn’t want a party. He hated the big to-do of parties, but she loved them. And he loved her.

This was the story my grandmother remembered effortlessly, prompted by the simple questions: Did Pops ever have empathy? Did he ever do something for you, just for you because he knew how happy it’d make you? I didn’t have to pry with questions for her to recall this memory; it simply flowed from her. It was when her husband was the man she had actually married.

Psychologist Julie Fast, author of Loving Someone With Bipolar Disorder, warns loved ones to first and foremost treat the disorder in order to prevent the person with the disorder from losing himself and becoming only the person the illness has formed.

This advice was useless to the Sullivan family.

Pops’ continual refusal to get treatment over the years allowed what Fast had warned against to come true. Charles Sullivan was lost; he had disappeared decades ago. However, memories like Charles and Elizabeth’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary acted as a reservoir in my grandmother, allowing her to live and even at times be happy with the shell of the man she married. This reservoir was there for her to replenish her strength at times when she didn’t think she could take seeing another dumbbell weight left on the upstairs railing, waiting to get knocked off and damage whatever thing or person was standing beneath it on the first floor. Or when she wasn’t sure she could handle another concerned phone call from a friend or even her child seeing their father hobbling down the middle of Main Street as cars carelessly zoomed by the old man that had become a regular obstacle in the road on his daily “runs.”

She had years of memories saved to remind her and comfort her. When Pops couldn’t or wouldn’t do anything for her, even if she would resort to asking him to do it just for her, my grandmother knew her husband would have done them if he were there, for he had been a man of kindness, love and empathy.

And she would never allow herself to forget that.

THE TOWER

by Caitlin Casey photography

KIOSK14

41

She had much practice with three boys all within two and a half years of each other who had been known in Adams for their mischief, and fighting.

Elizabeth was no stranger to not getting her way, and spending a quiet evening with a few finer things that many people could not afford was special enough to please her.

Charles poured bubbling champagne, his drink of choice, out of a glistening Waterford crystal-ware.

The light of the fireplace made miniature rainbows in the intricate cuts of crystal. Elizabeth’s chardonnay in a large Waterford goblet sparked but without the bursting bubbles of her husband’s drink.

but

A long thin, swirling line of smoke lazily escaped his lips. He continued to stare at the bright fire that reflected in He hated the big to-do of parties, his dark eyes. “I was she loved them. And he loved her. thinking,” Charles said, “we could go to The Pier or the Country Club for dinner.”

“Sure, dear,” Elizabeth offered. “Would you like me to make reservations?”

Charles turned to look at her with a loving smile and shook his head no, which was a relief to Elizabeth as she was comfortable lounging on the couch.

Her short, lean legs in skinny black cigarette jeans were curled beneath her. She was unwinding, coming to terms and making herself realize how nice tonight could be even without friends and family to celebrate the major milestone of her and Charles’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Who cared if most of their family and friends used the occasion for large parties, decadent drinks, and dancing into the night, all of which were some of Elizabeth’s favorite things. But she, like always, could get used to the comfort of a quiet night with her husband filled with good food and reminiscing about the memories they had made throughout the years. Yes, that would be good for her.

Elizabeth’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of loud knocks, almost pounding, on the door. Her thin brown eyebrows rose at Charles as if to ask if he was expecting company, but his face seemed to show a lack of interest as he continued to stare into the fire and puff away on his pipe.

40

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“Well, I wonder who would be stopping by. The kids are all out of town, right?” Not waiting for an answer, Elizabeth uncurled from her position, slipping on her black heels that sat in front of her on the floor. No one was at the front door, but this was no surprise since many friends and family were known for parking on the no longer used tennis court and coming to the back door. Elizabeth took the four steps down onto the landing between the kitchen and basement, and opened the door.

“SURPRISE!!! HAPPY ANNIVERSARY LIZ AND CHARLIE!” a group of at least fifty people yelled in unison in a way that is rarely heard beyond the classrooms of elementary school.

Shocked, Elizabeth started laughing, her beautiful white smile shone. Realizing someone was responsible for this, yet unable to put it all together, her head spun with surprise and joy. Elizabeth turned around in the doorway to see her husband in his classic cream khakis, white button-up oxford, and navy blue blazer, looking as handsome as the day she met him, she claimed.

He smiled in a shy, intimate way like a young boy, desperately and vulnerably hoping to please a girl he had a crush on. This vulnerability was rare these days as his confidence budded with one business success after another. Their eyes connected, causing them to momentarily forget the huge crowd of family and friends, whistling and clapping behind them. He did this all for her. Just to please her. He didn’t want a party. He hated the big to-do of parties, but she loved them. And he loved her.

This was the story my grandmother remembered effortlessly, prompted by the simple questions: Did Pops ever have empathy? Did he ever do something for you, just for you because he knew how happy it’d make you? I didn’t have to pry with questions for her to recall this memory; it simply flowed from her. It was when her husband was the man she had actually married.

Psychologist Julie Fast, author of Loving Someone With Bipolar Disorder, warns loved ones to first and foremost treat the disorder in order to prevent the person with the disorder from losing himself and becoming only the person the illness has formed.

This advice was useless to the Sullivan family.

Pops’ continual refusal to get treatment over the years allowed what Fast had warned against to come true. Charles Sullivan was lost; he had disappeared decades ago. However, memories like Charles and Elizabeth’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary acted as a reservoir in my grandmother, allowing her to live and even at times be happy with the shell of the man she married. This reservoir was there for her to replenish her strength at times when she didn’t think she could take seeing another dumbbell weight left on the upstairs railing, waiting to get knocked off and damage whatever thing or person was standing beneath it on the first floor. Or when she wasn’t sure she could handle another concerned phone call from a friend or even her child seeing their father hobbling down the middle of Main Street as cars carelessly zoomed by the old man that had become a regular obstacle in the road on his daily “runs.”

She had years of memories saved to remind her and comfort her. When Pops couldn’t or wouldn’t do anything for her, even if she would resort to asking him to do it just for her, my grandmother knew her husband would have done them if he were there, for he had been a man of kindness, love and empathy.

And she would never allow herself to forget that.

THE TOWER

by Caitlin Casey photography

KIOSK14

41

FICTION

DATE AT A CAFÉ Jacob Chauss

I

thought about the date that I had today. It was right after my uncle’s funeral and the only time that the girl had available. I was lonely enough to take whatever she wanted to give me. I got there on time but she was late. Attractive girls are always late. We were meeting at a café that she recommended. I didn’t drink coffee but I thought I’d give it a try. I tried to order something. The barista at the register asked me a bunch of questions I didn’t understand.

I didn’t want a latte. I didn’t know what a latte was.

I didn’t want a cappuccino. I didn’t know what that was either. She never made eye contact with me. I asked her for something to drink and she asked me for $4.50. I couldn’t be mad at her though because whatever she gave me a minute later was delicious and had a little foamy pic“I was lonely enough to take ture of a leaf on it. I thought whatever she wanted to give me.” about all of the students that I went to college with that always had a coffee in their hands. They probably had life more figured out than I did. I couldn’t even order my own coffee.

I picked out a nice little table in the middle of the place and sat facing the door. The café had nice calming music playing. It was an artist that I had never heard of before and they were singing about girls. The café was open and industrial looking. I could see the framework on the ceiling. I wondered if they were renovating or if this was the finished product. I felt better than I had a few hours earlier when I was at the cemetery. I thought about the girl that I was there to meet. Her name was Diana and I had been matched up with her from a free online dating application that I had on my phone. She was a short blonde woman with high cheek bones. She played the ukulele. I was a lanky boy with messy hair who watched television on Friday nights.

I mentally prepared myself while I waited for her. I thought about ways in which I could make myself sound interesting but I was having a hard time coming up with anything. I planned on letting her talk about herself.

I noticed her walk in. She opened the door and I could feel the heat from the August afternoon follow her in. I stood up and hit my knees on the table. She 42

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smiled and waved at me. Oh god, she had dimples and clear as water blue eyes. The butterflies in my stomach fainted and sank to my gut. As she walked over to me I thought about our life together: what month we would get married, what our house would look like in the suburbs, where our kids would go to school, who would balance the checkbook, where we would go caravanning once we were both old and retired.

“Michael, hey!” her voice was made from angels strumming harps.

ery. I didn’t look up but I could tell everyone was looking at me. I heard the barista start to laugh. The floor was cold and the stinging of the fall made my body numb. I felt the hot sting of embarrassment as I started to sit up. I looked over at Diana. She was standing up and holding her phone towards me. I think she was taking a picture. She held her phone towards the ground and put her other hand over her mouth as she began to giggle.

“Diana! It’s so nice to finally see you!” I wanted to hug her but I was frozen and there was a table in my way. I shook her hand. My hands were clammy and she noticed. She wiped them on her green sundress as she sat down. “Can I get you a coffee?”

A middle-aged woman and her teenage son came over to help me up. I met her eye line and thanked her and her son. They both had warm brown and comforting eyes that seemed to care about me a lot. Then they left and I walked over to my table. Diana was still laughing. I asked her if she wanted another coffee.

“Uh, sure! I’ll have an iced coffee.” She said as she pushed some hair behind her ear.

“No, no. That’s ok. Are you ok? You have coffee all over you.” She had pretty eyes and I was a pushover.

I kicked the table again as I got up again and staggered over to the counter. It was still the same girl at the register. She was on her phone and didn’t notice me as I stood there. “Can I get an iced coffee?”

I didn’t know that coffee could be iced.

“It’s really not a big deal,” I felt my shirt stick to the back of the chair, “I feel bad, I’ll go get you another one.” I stood up and walked back to the counter.

I realized that I was spending more time with this barista than with my actual date. “Can I get another iced coffee?” I watched her make another one and thought about what our children would look like. I felt pathetic.

The girl shoved her open hand towards me and said, “$3.90”.

My bank account was running dangerously low and I started to wonder if I could pay my electrical bill as I watched the angry barista make the coffee. I looked back at Diana. She was on her phone. I was hoping that when I looked at her she would be looking back and we would have a moment together like in a movie. She was having that moment but just not with me. I was jealous of a phone.

I took the coffee and started walking back to the table. The cup had a lot of condensation on it already from the heat outside that was barging inside. The café had its air running but this was one of those truly hot August days where there’s nothing to do but sit around and complain about how hot it was. The coffee was starting to slip out of my hands. I looked down at the cup as I walked. I lost my balance. I fell and spun my hands around to try and grab something. I ended up hitting an elderly man in the back of the head and dropped Diana’s coffee on myself.

I sat there on the ground in my newly found mis-

I paid for the third drink and walked back to the table. I held the coffee with two hands this time.

“Thanks,” she said as I handed her the cup. Our hands touched. She had really smooth hands. Mine were cracked and coarse. I wondered why she ever started talking to me in the first place. “Are you going to be ok? You’re still covered in coffee.”

I looked down at my shirt and pants. Most of it got on me and not the floor. “I’ll be ok. It doesn’t bother me. I’d like to sit and talk to you if that’s still ok.”

tion or music company. I think it was a little bit of both. She was a single child and lived at home with her parents. Her parents were very wealthy and it kind of showed through her. If I knew much about fashion I would say what kind of expensive dress she was wearing but all I knew was that it was green. She had a large group of friends and they were always posting stuff between each other on Facebook. Her photos on her Facebook showed that she went to a lot of parties with guys who looked more handsome and interesting than me. I though again about why she ever messaged me back.

GIRL

by Scott Martinson oil on canvas

“Why are you wearing all black?” She squinted her eyes a little as she asked me, “And pants? It’s so hot out. I’d be dying.”

“Yeah that’s fine.” She smiled. She had a wonderful smile. It was one where you could see lots of teeth and made you so happy that you had to smile back.

“I’ll tell you later. So you were at a show last night? I’ve never heard that band before. Were they any good?” I didn’t want to focus on myself. I wanted her to talk about herself.

I already knew a few things about her. She was a junior at the University of Lincoln and was majoring in advertising or graphic design or something like that. She had a full schedule with twenty credit hours and an internship at some local communica-

“Yeah, they’re like my favorite group. They’re from Omaha. I had to take pictures for my internship. I’m supposed to edit them later and write a short article about them for the website. It shouldn’t take too long. I took a lot of great pictures. I just KIOSK14

43

FICTION

DATE AT A CAFÉ Jacob Chauss

I

thought about the date that I had today. It was right after my uncle’s funeral and the only time that the girl had available. I was lonely enough to take whatever she wanted to give me. I got there on time but she was late. Attractive girls are always late. We were meeting at a café that she recommended. I didn’t drink coffee but I thought I’d give it a try. I tried to order something. The barista at the register asked me a bunch of questions I didn’t understand.

I didn’t want a latte. I didn’t know what a latte was.

I didn’t want a cappuccino. I didn’t know what that was either. She never made eye contact with me. I asked her for something to drink and she asked me for $4.50. I couldn’t be mad at her though because whatever she gave me a minute later was delicious and had a little foamy pic“I was lonely enough to take ture of a leaf on it. I thought whatever she wanted to give me.” about all of the students that I went to college with that always had a coffee in their hands. They probably had life more figured out than I did. I couldn’t even order my own coffee.

I picked out a nice little table in the middle of the place and sat facing the door. The café had nice calming music playing. It was an artist that I had never heard of before and they were singing about girls. The café was open and industrial looking. I could see the framework on the ceiling. I wondered if they were renovating or if this was the finished product. I felt better than I had a few hours earlier when I was at the cemetery. I thought about the girl that I was there to meet. Her name was Diana and I had been matched up with her from a free online dating application that I had on my phone. She was a short blonde woman with high cheek bones. She played the ukulele. I was a lanky boy with messy hair who watched television on Friday nights.

I mentally prepared myself while I waited for her. I thought about ways in which I could make myself sound interesting but I was having a hard time coming up with anything. I planned on letting her talk about herself.

I noticed her walk in. She opened the door and I could feel the heat from the August afternoon follow her in. I stood up and hit my knees on the table. She 42

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smiled and waved at me. Oh god, she had dimples and clear as water blue eyes. The butterflies in my stomach fainted and sank to my gut. As she walked over to me I thought about our life together: what month we would get married, what our house would look like in the suburbs, where our kids would go to school, who would balance the checkbook, where we would go caravanning once we were both old and retired.

“Michael, hey!” her voice was made from angels strumming harps.

ery. I didn’t look up but I could tell everyone was looking at me. I heard the barista start to laugh. The floor was cold and the stinging of the fall made my body numb. I felt the hot sting of embarrassment as I started to sit up. I looked over at Diana. She was standing up and holding her phone towards me. I think she was taking a picture. She held her phone towards the ground and put her other hand over her mouth as she began to giggle.

“Diana! It’s so nice to finally see you!” I wanted to hug her but I was frozen and there was a table in my way. I shook her hand. My hands were clammy and she noticed. She wiped them on her green sundress as she sat down. “Can I get you a coffee?”

A middle-aged woman and her teenage son came over to help me up. I met her eye line and thanked her and her son. They both had warm brown and comforting eyes that seemed to care about me a lot. Then they left and I walked over to my table. Diana was still laughing. I asked her if she wanted another coffee.

“Uh, sure! I’ll have an iced coffee.” She said as she pushed some hair behind her ear.

“No, no. That’s ok. Are you ok? You have coffee all over you.” She had pretty eyes and I was a pushover.

I kicked the table again as I got up again and staggered over to the counter. It was still the same girl at the register. She was on her phone and didn’t notice me as I stood there. “Can I get an iced coffee?”

I didn’t know that coffee could be iced.

“It’s really not a big deal,” I felt my shirt stick to the back of the chair, “I feel bad, I’ll go get you another one.” I stood up and walked back to the counter.

I realized that I was spending more time with this barista than with my actual date. “Can I get another iced coffee?” I watched her make another one and thought about what our children would look like. I felt pathetic.

The girl shoved her open hand towards me and said, “$3.90”.

My bank account was running dangerously low and I started to wonder if I could pay my electrical bill as I watched the angry barista make the coffee. I looked back at Diana. She was on her phone. I was hoping that when I looked at her she would be looking back and we would have a moment together like in a movie. She was having that moment but just not with me. I was jealous of a phone.

I took the coffee and started walking back to the table. The cup had a lot of condensation on it already from the heat outside that was barging inside. The café had its air running but this was one of those truly hot August days where there’s nothing to do but sit around and complain about how hot it was. The coffee was starting to slip out of my hands. I looked down at the cup as I walked. I lost my balance. I fell and spun my hands around to try and grab something. I ended up hitting an elderly man in the back of the head and dropped Diana’s coffee on myself.

I sat there on the ground in my newly found mis-

I paid for the third drink and walked back to the table. I held the coffee with two hands this time.

“Thanks,” she said as I handed her the cup. Our hands touched. She had really smooth hands. Mine were cracked and coarse. I wondered why she ever started talking to me in the first place. “Are you going to be ok? You’re still covered in coffee.”

I looked down at my shirt and pants. Most of it got on me and not the floor. “I’ll be ok. It doesn’t bother me. I’d like to sit and talk to you if that’s still ok.”

tion or music company. I think it was a little bit of both. She was a single child and lived at home with her parents. Her parents were very wealthy and it kind of showed through her. If I knew much about fashion I would say what kind of expensive dress she was wearing but all I knew was that it was green. She had a large group of friends and they were always posting stuff between each other on Facebook. Her photos on her Facebook showed that she went to a lot of parties with guys who looked more handsome and interesting than me. I though again about why she ever messaged me back.

GIRL

by Scott Martinson oil on canvas

“Why are you wearing all black?” She squinted her eyes a little as she asked me, “And pants? It’s so hot out. I’d be dying.”

“Yeah that’s fine.” She smiled. She had a wonderful smile. It was one where you could see lots of teeth and made you so happy that you had to smile back.

“I’ll tell you later. So you were at a show last night? I’ve never heard that band before. Were they any good?” I didn’t want to focus on myself. I wanted her to talk about herself.

I already knew a few things about her. She was a junior at the University of Lincoln and was majoring in advertising or graphic design or something like that. She had a full schedule with twenty credit hours and an internship at some local communica-

“Yeah, they’re like my favorite group. They’re from Omaha. I had to take pictures for my internship. I’m supposed to edit them later and write a short article about them for the website. It shouldn’t take too long. I took a lot of great pictures. I just KIOSK14

43

POETRY

GUERRILLA WARFARE Cameron Oakley

have to decide which ones I want to use.”

confused. Did I do something wrong?”

“Mmmhmm,” I was nodding along and listened to her talk more about herself. A lot of what she was saying she already told me but I continued to let her talk because I didn’t want to bore her and for her to leave.

“No. I like you a lot. It’s just that I don’t really think I want to date anyone right now. I’d like to be your friend still and I don’t want you to go away. I just don’t want to lead you on. I think we should keep talking.

I like talking to you, but I don’t want to date anyone right now.”

“… So, yeah. Tell me a little bit about yourself.”

I swallowed hard and a hot flash of panic went through my body again. I could feel my armpits start to sweat. Did I remember deodorant this morning?

That was a stupid question to ask myself as I had coffee all over my shirt and pants. “Um,” maybe I should lie. “I work at Hyvee and I’m graduating in the spring.” I already told her “Maybe I could give her some of my that I was going to graduempathy. I felt like I had too much.” ate soon but the Hyvee thing was new. “I’m a business major but I’m not sure what kind of job I want after I graduate. Whatever I can get I guess, Ha ha.” I laughed at my own bad joke and she sat there sipping her coffee.

“That’s all good. At least you have plans to get a job after you graduate. I went on a date with this other guy last week and he was twenty-four and wasn’t doing anything with his life. He still worked at Home Depot or something.”

This other guy? Who was he? Was he more handsome than me? Was she still talking to him? My old friend depression started creeping back. “Yeah?

That’s… uh… strange.” I had friends who were older and worked with me at Hyvee. I didn’t understand how it was lame but I’d let Diana tell me how.

“Yeah, it’s like: get your life together.”

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She got up and put her purse over her shoulder.

She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. Depression already had a knife in my heart but now he was twisting it. “I like you but I’m just not ready for something.”

She walked out of the café and probably out of my life.

I sat there in my chair for a while after she left. I thought about all the mistakes I’ve made in my life.

Maybe if I had gotten a job at Target instead of Hyvee she would love me. Maybe if I hadn’t gotten my hair cut two weeks ago and left it long she would have kissed me on the lips. I couldn’t live in the real world so I had to create a hypothetical one where we were together and had fun every day.

In hopes for a brighter future You rush into the Dark unknown Welcomed by the Chaotic Crashes Of city bombs and bullets blasting.

“On Revolution!” you scream.

But this is not a yelling fight.

Not a clash of competing sides Where you can see the enemies’ eyes.

No, this war is a bit trickier.

Oh poor guerillas, Sadly you stand no chance.

For your big, black clumsy thumbs Are too big for the triggers.

On Revolution!

The barista walked over to me and asked, “Are you done with your cup?

I looked up at her. She had green eyes. “Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“No.” She took my empty cup and left.

I was starting to think that she wasn’t a very considerate person. Maybe I could give her some of my empathy. I felt like I had too much. I asked her what her favorite things were. I felt bad for helping her talk poorly about this guy I’d never met. I began to wonder if I would be him next week.

I stood up and walked out to my car. On the drive home I didn’t cry. I saved that for after I took off my funeral clothing and got into the shower. There are no tears in the shower. I got out of the shower and looked at my phone. I had a text from Diana

The date didn’t last too much longer after that.

She stopped talking in the middle of her sentence about this other show that she had to take pictures at next week and looked at me in the eyes. “…I don’t think that this is going to work out.”

I didn’t respond. I turned on the television. My roommate had been watching a documentary about bees and had paused it before he left for work. I continued where he left off. The narrator was talking about how the male drone dies after it has sex with the female bee. I felt better about life.

My heart died. I tried not to cry. “W…what? I’m 44

I needed to leave the café. I wanted to get out of my clothes and crawl back into bed. I wanted to cry and have anyone hug me and tell me that I was a talented human being and that they would like to introduce me to all of their beautiful friends that wanted to date me. I wanted so many things to go differently but I couldn’t change them.

Oh poor guerrillas, You should feel quite at home.

For you still live in a jungle, Although this one made of stone.

*im sry. pls dont hate me* TEQUILA SUNRISE

by Emilee Hardy mixed media

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45

POETRY

GUERRILLA WARFARE Cameron Oakley

have to decide which ones I want to use.”

confused. Did I do something wrong?”

“Mmmhmm,” I was nodding along and listened to her talk more about herself. A lot of what she was saying she already told me but I continued to let her talk because I didn’t want to bore her and for her to leave.

“No. I like you a lot. It’s just that I don’t really think I want to date anyone right now. I’d like to be your friend still and I don’t want you to go away. I just don’t want to lead you on. I think we should keep talking.

I like talking to you, but I don’t want to date anyone right now.”

“… So, yeah. Tell me a little bit about yourself.”

I swallowed hard and a hot flash of panic went through my body again. I could feel my armpits start to sweat. Did I remember deodorant this morning?

That was a stupid question to ask myself as I had coffee all over my shirt and pants. “Um,” maybe I should lie. “I work at Hyvee and I’m graduating in the spring.” I already told her “Maybe I could give her some of my that I was going to graduempathy. I felt like I had too much.” ate soon but the Hyvee thing was new. “I’m a business major but I’m not sure what kind of job I want after I graduate. Whatever I can get I guess, Ha ha.” I laughed at my own bad joke and she sat there sipping her coffee.

“That’s all good. At least you have plans to get a job after you graduate. I went on a date with this other guy last week and he was twenty-four and wasn’t doing anything with his life. He still worked at Home Depot or something.”

This other guy? Who was he? Was he more handsome than me? Was she still talking to him? My old friend depression started creeping back. “Yeah?

That’s… uh… strange.” I had friends who were older and worked with me at Hyvee. I didn’t understand how it was lame but I’d let Diana tell me how.

“Yeah, it’s like: get your life together.”

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She got up and put her purse over her shoulder.

She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. Depression already had a knife in my heart but now he was twisting it. “I like you but I’m just not ready for something.”

She walked out of the café and probably out of my life.

I sat there in my chair for a while after she left. I thought about all the mistakes I’ve made in my life.

Maybe if I had gotten a job at Target instead of Hyvee she would love me. Maybe if I hadn’t gotten my hair cut two weeks ago and left it long she would have kissed me on the lips. I couldn’t live in the real world so I had to create a hypothetical one where we were together and had fun every day.

In hopes for a brighter future You rush into the Dark unknown Welcomed by the Chaotic Crashes Of city bombs and bullets blasting.

“On Revolution!” you scream.

But this is not a yelling fight.

Not a clash of competing sides Where you can see the enemies’ eyes.

No, this war is a bit trickier.

Oh poor guerillas, Sadly you stand no chance.

For your big, black clumsy thumbs Are too big for the triggers.

On Revolution!

The barista walked over to me and asked, “Are you done with your cup?

I looked up at her. She had green eyes. “Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“No.” She took my empty cup and left.

I was starting to think that she wasn’t a very considerate person. Maybe I could give her some of my empathy. I felt like I had too much. I asked her what her favorite things were. I felt bad for helping her talk poorly about this guy I’d never met. I began to wonder if I would be him next week.

I stood up and walked out to my car. On the drive home I didn’t cry. I saved that for after I took off my funeral clothing and got into the shower. There are no tears in the shower. I got out of the shower and looked at my phone. I had a text from Diana

The date didn’t last too much longer after that.

She stopped talking in the middle of her sentence about this other show that she had to take pictures at next week and looked at me in the eyes. “…I don’t think that this is going to work out.”

I didn’t respond. I turned on the television. My roommate had been watching a documentary about bees and had paused it before he left for work. I continued where he left off. The narrator was talking about how the male drone dies after it has sex with the female bee. I felt better about life.

My heart died. I tried not to cry. “W…what? I’m 44

I needed to leave the café. I wanted to get out of my clothes and crawl back into bed. I wanted to cry and have anyone hug me and tell me that I was a talented human being and that they would like to introduce me to all of their beautiful friends that wanted to date me. I wanted so many things to go differently but I couldn’t change them.

Oh poor guerrillas, You should feel quite at home.

For you still live in a jungle, Although this one made of stone.

*im sry. pls dont hate me* TEQUILA SUNRISE

by Emilee Hardy mixed media

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45

POETRY

H OW PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS SHOULD BE RUN Matthew Ponder

I see the white smoke before I hear the crack of the starter pistol.

I turn and run into the green field.

If I look back would I see the raptors tear the starter apart?

See those monsters rip him in two?

Exposing his spine and freeing his intestines in their jaws?

Heavy breathing like a rhino comes from the incumbent I look to the right and see his eggplant face struggling to pull his body forward. His suit jacket Strains at the button in his large middle.

I face forward to the distant electric fence.

A wheeze, an oof, and I know the incumbent lost the race.

Through the second gate I fall on the white gravel.

My lungs cannot take in enough air.

A toe of a boot rolls me on to my back.

I open my eyes, even though sweat pours into them. Stinging them.

The gate worker in his white coat and orange high visibility vest stands tall like the Washington monument.

He points a pistol at my head.

Looking down the barrel I hear him say “You’ve lost the raptors and won the bullet. Congratulations Mr. President.”

The raptors with their strong legs couldn’t be far and his large body will feed them long enough for me to win.

Ahead I see the other candidate.

He struggles to hold onto green wads of hundreds.

The hundreds are a different color than the grass growing in the Soil, growing in the Earth.

I heard a short scream then a distant gurgling. The poor incumbent Lost his throat to the prehistoric monsters.

The other candidate chances a look back and drops more wads of money.

My heart pumps fire through my veins and my lungs are made of Pink housing insolation, I catch up to my opponent.

The electric wires on the looming fence consume my vision.

I dared to look to the left but my opponent isn’t there.

He must have stopped to pick up what is left of his money.

Air around me stings.

Breathing is a battle.

Legs are worn to the bone.

Toilet paper tubes must have been placed on my eyes.

I can only see a small circle.

The buzz of the fence and a light smell of ozone.

I sprint through the first gate. It screams shut or another opponent dies when the scaled and feathered raptor claws close.

46

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INSTRUCTORS

by Tymmrie Rath print

KIOSK14

47

POETRY

H OW PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS SHOULD BE RUN Matthew Ponder

I see the white smoke before I hear the crack of the starter pistol.

I turn and run into the green field.

If I look back would I see the raptors tear the starter apart?

See those monsters rip him in two?

Exposing his spine and freeing his intestines in their jaws?

Heavy breathing like a rhino comes from the incumbent I look to the right and see his eggplant face struggling to pull his body forward. His suit jacket Strains at the button in his large middle.

I face forward to the distant electric fence.

A wheeze, an oof, and I know the incumbent lost the race.

Through the second gate I fall on the white gravel.

My lungs cannot take in enough air.

A toe of a boot rolls me on to my back.

I open my eyes, even though sweat pours into them. Stinging them.

The gate worker in his white coat and orange high visibility vest stands tall like the Washington monument.

He points a pistol at my head.

Looking down the barrel I hear him say “You’ve lost the raptors and won the bullet. Congratulations Mr. President.”

The raptors with their strong legs couldn’t be far and his large body will feed them long enough for me to win.

Ahead I see the other candidate.

He struggles to hold onto green wads of hundreds.

The hundreds are a different color than the grass growing in the Soil, growing in the Earth.

I heard a short scream then a distant gurgling. The poor incumbent Lost his throat to the prehistoric monsters.

The other candidate chances a look back and drops more wads of money.

My heart pumps fire through my veins and my lungs are made of Pink housing insolation, I catch up to my opponent.

The electric wires on the looming fence consume my vision.

I dared to look to the left but my opponent isn’t there.

He must have stopped to pick up what is left of his money.

Air around me stings.

Breathing is a battle.

Legs are worn to the bone.

Toilet paper tubes must have been placed on my eyes.

I can only see a small circle.

The buzz of the fence and a light smell of ozone.

I sprint through the first gate. It screams shut or another opponent dies when the scaled and feathered raptor claws close.

46

KIOSK14

INSTRUCTORS

by Tymmrie Rath print

KIOSK14

47

FICTION

ATYPICAL LOVE STORY Hannah Hecht

W

hen my mom gets a million dollar idea, there’s pretty much nothing I can do to keep her from carrying it out. I begged. I pleaded. I even made a thoughtfully organized list of “Things I Would Do if You Let Me Skip This Date,” which deserved a Pulitzer, according to my dad. But, nothing I could think of would stop my mom from forcing me into a greyish-plaid button-up, shoving me into our Suburban, and steering toward Charlotte Samuels’s house.

“Charlotte Samuels is a nice girl,” my mom always tells me. Well, she says all the kids whose parents are in her Wednesday night poker group are “nice girls” and “nice boys.” Those are pretty low standards. My mom used to say that the kid next door was a “nice boy,” that is, until he set that mailbox on fire.

like me or anything. I just get called a nerd every now and then. I think it has to do with the fact that I wear Spongebob Squarepants boxers and can’t throw a football.

It’s not that Charlotte’s a terrible person or anything. I’d really just have an easier time if she weren’t always trying to talk to me. Every time she runs up to me in the hall, I have to Her hands were soft, but firm, hold my breath to avoid her like a perfect mattress. Actually, highly unappetizing odor of that’s a terrible metaphor. cats and stale sweat. I guess it takes some people longer than others to be responsible for their own showering habits. She also always starts answering teachers’ questions before they finish asking them, and she pulls out the Christmas sweaters at the beginning of August.

“Yeah, but the Tigers’ defense might be too much for them to handle. I hear one of their freshmen is quite the… the… catcher.”

On the way to her house, we drove past the Curtis’s. Their youngest son Bryan stood in the driveway in his letter jacket, enjoying the crisp, fall air and passing a football to his Neanderthal of a friend. Bryan and his friend were both freshman at Mapleview High, just like me, but as my dad would say, we “run in different circles.” I try to keep to my own “circle,” which usually doesn’t involve organized sports. The last time I tried to mix with the popular kids did not end well.

My first mistake was going to Bryan Curtis’s party. When my best friend Lewis suggested that we go over there after our normal Friday night session of Super Smash Brothers, I tried to convince him that we should stay home. It’s not that people dis48

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When we got there, all of the boys were more like fifteen-year-old men. Every one of the guys in attendance had sports letters on their jackets, a beer in hand, and hair under their arms. I, of course, had none of those things. Even the girls were unapproachable, an impenetrable mass dancing to hiphop in the living room. At first, Lewis and I kept to one corner, unsuccessfully attempting to have a conversation that our classmates would approve of.

“Oh yeah, the Bulls are looking pretty sharp this year. Their new quarterback is able to throw the ball… really hard?”

As the night went on, Lewis became more adventurous, eventually striking up a conversation with a freckled blonde from our Spanish I class. Lewis at least has armpit hair, and I assume he wasn’t wearing Spongebob underwear, so he had that going for him.

For reasons I tried not to think about, she relocated their conversation to a closet.

So then, I was content to watch alone from the corner as my classmates drunkenly stumbled and slurred. I watched one couple in particular, an intertwined set of limbs on an armchair, kissing in a way that I’m grateful I’ve never seen my parents kiss. Their hands were firmly grasped around butt cheeks, their legs wound tight around waists, and their mouths moving in and out of each other’s as if they were trying each trying to find something.

All of a sudden, I felt a huge paw on my shoulder, pulling me into a one-armed embrace that Lewis would have called a “bro hug.” My face hit someone’s chest, and I felt as if in the presence of a giant.

“Look everybody!” said Bryan Curtis, “It’s Zach!”

I corrected him under my breath, “Actually, it’s Jack.” We were only in six classes together this semester.

“Whatever you say, little bro.”

He had the swagger of someone who was on top of the high school world. Or maybe he was just swaying from the alcohol.

“Dude, you need to relax.” Bryan grabbed a halfempty beer can off a nearby table and handed it to me. “Here. If you want to have fun, you need to get on our level.”

I had no idea what he meant, but my throat was a little dry, so I took a sip. And it took all the effort in my body to swallow. The beer tasted like a heel of wheat bread that someone had ground into the dirt with a muddy cowboy boot. And I don’t even like wheat bread.

“Keep that up, and you’ll be having fun with the rest of us in no time.”

I pretended to take another sip and answered, “Sounds like a plan!”

Bryan shot me a somewhat confused look. Apparently, cool football players don’t say “sounds like a plan.”

He turned and walked toward a mass of drunken girls, and I could tell I was supposed to follow.

A tall brunette had taken off her zebra-striped tank top and was swinging it above her head, dancing in time with the music. She wore a bright pink bra that was plenty filled up. Her face was smiling, but her eyes weren’t.

“Okay, Zach,” he said.

I didn’t bother to correct him.

“Be cool. Since you’ve never been to one of these parties before, I’m gonna help you out.”

“Thanks?”

He pushed me right into the middle of the girl mob. “Hey! Lisa!” he directed his voice to the shirtless girl, “This kid Zach here has been looking at you all night. I think you two should go somewhere a little more cozy.”

Zachary.

She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into a nearby bedroom. Her hands were soft, but firm, like a perfect mattress. Actually, that’s a terrible metaphor. We sat down on the bed and she looked me straight in the eye, as if trying to read me. I struggled to keep my eyes on hers, but it was difficult since she still wasn’t wearing a shirt. How many chances do you get to look at a girl who’s practically half-naked?

But, I was kinda embarrassed at wanting to stare, so instead of looking where my eyes wanted to go, I studied her blue eyes and her makeup, caked onto her face in layers and layers. She would probably be an entirely different person without it, one with a genuine smile and maybe self-esteem.

“Zach, do you like me?”

I must have hesitated too long, because a tear leaked out of her eye and flowed through the fine sand that formed rifts and valleys in her blush and foundation. Her breath smelled like my mom’s nail polish remover.

“I… I…” “Hold still…” Her streaked face moved closer.

“Wha—” She pressed her lips to mine.

I froze up. I didn’t know what to do. Beauty and the statue.

I felt her hand at work unbuttoning my tooshort jeans. She had the zipper unzipped and was about to pull my jeans down when I remembered the Spongebob boxers.

I ran out of that room as fast as I could and didn’t stop until I was four blocks away.

“Oh yeah?” Her voice was smooth and sultry in a manner that she probably imitated from the Bond girls. Actually, never mind, she probably didn’t watch a ton of James Bond. “Well, in that case, why are we still standing here, Zachary?”

That whole incident kind of shook me. I wouldn’t call my first kiss a “fun” or “meaningful” experience.

It wasn’t the stuff of sappy love songs or movies or anything. I mean, I would be keener on trying to kiss a girl again if a) she didn’t cry like Lisa had and b) she were anyone but Charlotte Samuels, who, of course, wrote the stupid note that led to my mom’s brilliant plan of sending the two of us off on a date.

I didn’t dare correct her either. I could be a

I found the note in my locker just a few days KIOSK14

49

FICTION

ATYPICAL LOVE STORY Hannah Hecht

W

hen my mom gets a million dollar idea, there’s pretty much nothing I can do to keep her from carrying it out. I begged. I pleaded. I even made a thoughtfully organized list of “Things I Would Do if You Let Me Skip This Date,” which deserved a Pulitzer, according to my dad. But, nothing I could think of would stop my mom from forcing me into a greyish-plaid button-up, shoving me into our Suburban, and steering toward Charlotte Samuels’s house.

“Charlotte Samuels is a nice girl,” my mom always tells me. Well, she says all the kids whose parents are in her Wednesday night poker group are “nice girls” and “nice boys.” Those are pretty low standards. My mom used to say that the kid next door was a “nice boy,” that is, until he set that mailbox on fire.

like me or anything. I just get called a nerd every now and then. I think it has to do with the fact that I wear Spongebob Squarepants boxers and can’t throw a football.

It’s not that Charlotte’s a terrible person or anything. I’d really just have an easier time if she weren’t always trying to talk to me. Every time she runs up to me in the hall, I have to Her hands were soft, but firm, hold my breath to avoid her like a perfect mattress. Actually, highly unappetizing odor of that’s a terrible metaphor. cats and stale sweat. I guess it takes some people longer than others to be responsible for their own showering habits. She also always starts answering teachers’ questions before they finish asking them, and she pulls out the Christmas sweaters at the beginning of August.

“Yeah, but the Tigers’ defense might be too much for them to handle. I hear one of their freshmen is quite the… the… catcher.”

On the way to her house, we drove past the Curtis’s. Their youngest son Bryan stood in the driveway in his letter jacket, enjoying the crisp, fall air and passing a football to his Neanderthal of a friend. Bryan and his friend were both freshman at Mapleview High, just like me, but as my dad would say, we “run in different circles.” I try to keep to my own “circle,” which usually doesn’t involve organized sports. The last time I tried to mix with the popular kids did not end well.

My first mistake was going to Bryan Curtis’s party. When my best friend Lewis suggested that we go over there after our normal Friday night session of Super Smash Brothers, I tried to convince him that we should stay home. It’s not that people dis48

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When we got there, all of the boys were more like fifteen-year-old men. Every one of the guys in attendance had sports letters on their jackets, a beer in hand, and hair under their arms. I, of course, had none of those things. Even the girls were unapproachable, an impenetrable mass dancing to hiphop in the living room. At first, Lewis and I kept to one corner, unsuccessfully attempting to have a conversation that our classmates would approve of.

“Oh yeah, the Bulls are looking pretty sharp this year. Their new quarterback is able to throw the ball… really hard?”

As the night went on, Lewis became more adventurous, eventually striking up a conversation with a freckled blonde from our Spanish I class. Lewis at least has armpit hair, and I assume he wasn’t wearing Spongebob underwear, so he had that going for him.

For reasons I tried not to think about, she relocated their conversation to a closet.

So then, I was content to watch alone from the corner as my classmates drunkenly stumbled and slurred. I watched one couple in particular, an intertwined set of limbs on an armchair, kissing in a way that I’m grateful I’ve never seen my parents kiss. Their hands were firmly grasped around butt cheeks, their legs wound tight around waists, and their mouths moving in and out of each other’s as if they were trying each trying to find something.

All of a sudden, I felt a huge paw on my shoulder, pulling me into a one-armed embrace that Lewis would have called a “bro hug.” My face hit someone’s chest, and I felt as if in the presence of a giant.

“Look everybody!” said Bryan Curtis, “It’s Zach!”

I corrected him under my breath, “Actually, it’s Jack.” We were only in six classes together this semester.

“Whatever you say, little bro.”

He had the swagger of someone who was on top of the high school world. Or maybe he was just swaying from the alcohol.

“Dude, you need to relax.” Bryan grabbed a halfempty beer can off a nearby table and handed it to me. “Here. If you want to have fun, you need to get on our level.”

I had no idea what he meant, but my throat was a little dry, so I took a sip. And it took all the effort in my body to swallow. The beer tasted like a heel of wheat bread that someone had ground into the dirt with a muddy cowboy boot. And I don’t even like wheat bread.

“Keep that up, and you’ll be having fun with the rest of us in no time.”

I pretended to take another sip and answered, “Sounds like a plan!”

Bryan shot me a somewhat confused look. Apparently, cool football players don’t say “sounds like a plan.”

He turned and walked toward a mass of drunken girls, and I could tell I was supposed to follow.

A tall brunette had taken off her zebra-striped tank top and was swinging it above her head, dancing in time with the music. She wore a bright pink bra that was plenty filled up. Her face was smiling, but her eyes weren’t.

“Okay, Zach,” he said.

I didn’t bother to correct him.

“Be cool. Since you’ve never been to one of these parties before, I’m gonna help you out.”

“Thanks?”

He pushed me right into the middle of the girl mob. “Hey! Lisa!” he directed his voice to the shirtless girl, “This kid Zach here has been looking at you all night. I think you two should go somewhere a little more cozy.”

Zachary.

She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into a nearby bedroom. Her hands were soft, but firm, like a perfect mattress. Actually, that’s a terrible metaphor. We sat down on the bed and she looked me straight in the eye, as if trying to read me. I struggled to keep my eyes on hers, but it was difficult since she still wasn’t wearing a shirt. How many chances do you get to look at a girl who’s practically half-naked?

But, I was kinda embarrassed at wanting to stare, so instead of looking where my eyes wanted to go, I studied her blue eyes and her makeup, caked onto her face in layers and layers. She would probably be an entirely different person without it, one with a genuine smile and maybe self-esteem.

“Zach, do you like me?”

I must have hesitated too long, because a tear leaked out of her eye and flowed through the fine sand that formed rifts and valleys in her blush and foundation. Her breath smelled like my mom’s nail polish remover.

“I… I…” “Hold still…” Her streaked face moved closer.

“Wha—” She pressed her lips to mine.

I froze up. I didn’t know what to do. Beauty and the statue.

I felt her hand at work unbuttoning my tooshort jeans. She had the zipper unzipped and was about to pull my jeans down when I remembered the Spongebob boxers.

I ran out of that room as fast as I could and didn’t stop until I was four blocks away.

“Oh yeah?” Her voice was smooth and sultry in a manner that she probably imitated from the Bond girls. Actually, never mind, she probably didn’t watch a ton of James Bond. “Well, in that case, why are we still standing here, Zachary?”

That whole incident kind of shook me. I wouldn’t call my first kiss a “fun” or “meaningful” experience.

It wasn’t the stuff of sappy love songs or movies or anything. I mean, I would be keener on trying to kiss a girl again if a) she didn’t cry like Lisa had and b) she were anyone but Charlotte Samuels, who, of course, wrote the stupid note that led to my mom’s brilliant plan of sending the two of us off on a date.

I didn’t dare correct her either. I could be a

I found the note in my locker just a few days KIOSK14

49

after the Bryan Curtis’s party. It was wrinkled, like someone had pushed it through the slots at the top.

I think the slots are there to air out any football jersey fungus that might be in some guys’ lockers, but the girls around here treat them like the U.S. Postal Service.

“Jack,” the note said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a while, probably years, but I’ve just now been able to work up the courage. I don’t know what it feels like to be in love, but if I have ever felt that way about anyone, it’s been you. I love the way you always helped me with In her rosy wonderland, boys and my math homework girls are perfectly paired up to live back when we were in sixth grade and also happily ever after at the age of fifteen. the way your blue eyes sparkle. If you like me too, let me know by the end of the week. Yours (if you’ll have me), Charlotte.”

Every “i” was dotted with a heart.

I mean, seriously… Who does that? I think Charlotte might have missed the memo that we’re not middle schoolers any more. If I knew that she was going to do something like this, I wouldn’t have been nice to her when we were young and everyone else in our grade made fun of her.

So, naturally, I crumpled the note up and stuck it at the bottom of my backpack. I couldn’t have Lewis seeing that. My plan was to lie low and try to avoid her until graduation day in four years. Maybe if I would’ve talked to the principal, I could have gotten him to move my locker to the other side of the building. He was a kid once, and I’m sure he’s smelled Charlotte Samuels’s odor when she’s walked by his office, so he might have understood. The plan might have worked if my mom wasn’t so snoopy.

That night, I was in my basement bedroom, minding my own business and counting up my allowance to see whether I could afford the new Spiderman game, when my mom yelled from upstairs.

“Jackson Thomas Ryan!”

The full name. It didn’t bode well.

“Just a second, Mom!” I counted the last five quarters. $27.25. Looked like I’d have to wait another week.

50

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The first thing I saw as I made my way up the top of the stairs was my mom’s high-heeled foot tapping expectantly. She wore a black, sparkly dress that I had never seen before, but that wasn’t really a surprise; my mom isn’t the type of person to wear an outfit more than once. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows furrowed, and her eyes narrowed as she glared at me over a light layer of nude-colored makeup, the kind that you don’t realize is there, except that it makes people look unnaturally perfect. She didn’t look happy. One hand was behind her back, presumably holding something.

“What’s up?” I tried to stay optimistic, even though all signs pointed to trouble.

“I found this in your bookbag,” she pulled a crumpled piece of notebook paper from behind her back. I recognized the stupid dotted heart “i”s.

“You went through my backpack?!” What high schooler’s parent does that?!

“Did you seriously think that you could just blow this poor girl off like that?” she said, ignoring her gross abuse of my privacy. “Did you?”

If my mom were a Looney Toon, steam would’ve shot out her ears.

“How would you feel if you went to all this trouble to pour your heart out and produce this beautiful piece of writing, only to have someone crumple it up at the bottom of their bookbag and leave it there to rot? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Beautiful? But, sh–” My temper rose, but I couldn’t get a word in.

“Don’t talk back to me,” her face grew red and she took a breath to continue the tirade, “Charlotte Samuels is such a nice girl and…”

She went on, and I tried to shut my ears off.

Sometimes moms are so far away from the real world that they aren’t even worth listening to. In her rosy wonderland, boys and girls are perfectly paired up to live happily ever after at the age of fifteen. Her hair caught my eye. She needed to have it dyed again; the roots were growing in chocolatecolored at stark contrast to her bleach blonde curls.

Being a girl would be a lot of work with the hair and the skin and whatever else they do. I prefer to just

roll out of bed, put on some deodorant, and call it good. But I guess if you’re Charlotte Samuels, you can skip the deodorant.

“–just don’t know what you’re going to do with yourself, Jack.”

The tirade raged on, and she grew angrier and angrier. A vein throbbed in her temple.

“By your age, your father and I… Well…we’d already started dating and… you… you…” she took an exasperated breath, “Jack, have you ever even talked to a girl?”

Her face went white. The anger was gone.

“Uh… I…” I stuttered. Steam came out of my ears now. I wanted to get her back. I wanted to rub all of my romantic successes in her face, but of course, I had none.

“I didn’t mean that. I… I really didn’t mean that,” she said, her face apologetic. “I’m being too hard on you. I know I am, aren’t I?” I was too indignant to answer. This wasn’t the first time that something like that had slipped out.

In high school, my dad was captain of the basketball team and my mom was student-body president. It was love at first sight; they got engaged their senior year, and they had me at an almost-embarrassingly early age. From what I could tell, she sure didn’t want me to get some girl pregnant. But, on the other hand, she wouldn’t mind if I started dating some “nice girl” and started throwing a football around with friends who were cooler than Lewis.

“You know what? Here’s what we’re going to do.”

She got visibly excited over an idea. “I’ll give you some money and you’re gonna take the Samuels girl out on a real date.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but she shot me a look that said I’d better not push it.

“Yep. That’s what’s going to happen,” she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, “I’ll call Carol and let her know. She’ll be so happy that you and Charlotte are going out. She’s such a nice girl once you get to know her.”

And so, there we were, four days later and pull-

ing up on the curb beside the Samuels’ house. My mom wouldn’t even let me drive myself to pick her up, even though I’d passed driver’s education. She said that I would get a ticket for being underage if I got pulled over. But I know that she wanted to drive so I couldn’t escape.

Charlotte walked down the sidewalk and up to our car, her blonde, curly hair bouncing out at all angles. It reminded me of a mad scientist’s. She wore a bottle-cap necklace and a Christmas sweater with a light-up Rudolph nose. A huge, stupid smile occupied her entire face, as if she was at the front of the line for a roller coaster. Or, in her case, maybe at the front of the line to see a unicorn movie.

“Hello, Jack and Mrs. Ryan! We’re just going to have such a fun afternoon!” Charlotte said, climbing into the back seat and closing the car door.

“That’s a…nice necklace…you have there.” My mom looked at her in the rearview mirror and coughed to suppress a smile.

In that moment, I hated my mom even more than I hated Charlotte. Maybe more than I had ever hated anything. When your mom thinks that you can’t date anyone better than Charlotte Samuels, you’ve hit rock bottom.

I felt my face grow hot with anger, and I looked out the window to avoid talking to either of them.

“Thanks!” said Charlotte. “This necklace was my last project. I love crafts. In fact, I’ve gotten really good at knitting and that takes up most of my time now.”

“That’s… nice.” My mom was at a loss for words. If she was starting to regret damning me to an afternoon with Charlotte, she wasn’t showing any signs of it.

We were on our way to the Maple Hills Mall, which is the generally agreed-upon place for parents to drop off their pre-teens and teenagers so they can hang out with friends. The stores there aren’t particularly edgy; there aren’t any Hot Topics, Hollisters, or tattoo parlors, plus the parking lot is pretty open, so I guess parents think kids won’t find any dark corners where they can give each other handjobs.

“You kids have fun,” my mom said when we KIOSK14

51

after the Bryan Curtis’s party. It was wrinkled, like someone had pushed it through the slots at the top.

I think the slots are there to air out any football jersey fungus that might be in some guys’ lockers, but the girls around here treat them like the U.S. Postal Service.

“Jack,” the note said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a while, probably years, but I’ve just now been able to work up the courage. I don’t know what it feels like to be in love, but if I have ever felt that way about anyone, it’s been you. I love the way you always helped me with In her rosy wonderland, boys and my math homework girls are perfectly paired up to live back when we were in sixth grade and also happily ever after at the age of fifteen. the way your blue eyes sparkle. If you like me too, let me know by the end of the week. Yours (if you’ll have me), Charlotte.”

Every “i” was dotted with a heart.

I mean, seriously… Who does that? I think Charlotte might have missed the memo that we’re not middle schoolers any more. If I knew that she was going to do something like this, I wouldn’t have been nice to her when we were young and everyone else in our grade made fun of her.

So, naturally, I crumpled the note up and stuck it at the bottom of my backpack. I couldn’t have Lewis seeing that. My plan was to lie low and try to avoid her until graduation day in four years. Maybe if I would’ve talked to the principal, I could have gotten him to move my locker to the other side of the building. He was a kid once, and I’m sure he’s smelled Charlotte Samuels’s odor when she’s walked by his office, so he might have understood. The plan might have worked if my mom wasn’t so snoopy.

That night, I was in my basement bedroom, minding my own business and counting up my allowance to see whether I could afford the new Spiderman game, when my mom yelled from upstairs.

“Jackson Thomas Ryan!”

The full name. It didn’t bode well.

“Just a second, Mom!” I counted the last five quarters. $27.25. Looked like I’d have to wait another week.

50

KIOSK14

The first thing I saw as I made my way up the top of the stairs was my mom’s high-heeled foot tapping expectantly. She wore a black, sparkly dress that I had never seen before, but that wasn’t really a surprise; my mom isn’t the type of person to wear an outfit more than once. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows furrowed, and her eyes narrowed as she glared at me over a light layer of nude-colored makeup, the kind that you don’t realize is there, except that it makes people look unnaturally perfect. She didn’t look happy. One hand was behind her back, presumably holding something.

“What’s up?” I tried to stay optimistic, even though all signs pointed to trouble.

“I found this in your bookbag,” she pulled a crumpled piece of notebook paper from behind her back. I recognized the stupid dotted heart “i”s.

“You went through my backpack?!” What high schooler’s parent does that?!

“Did you seriously think that you could just blow this poor girl off like that?” she said, ignoring her gross abuse of my privacy. “Did you?”

If my mom were a Looney Toon, steam would’ve shot out her ears.

“How would you feel if you went to all this trouble to pour your heart out and produce this beautiful piece of writing, only to have someone crumple it up at the bottom of their bookbag and leave it there to rot? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Beautiful? But, sh–” My temper rose, but I couldn’t get a word in.

“Don’t talk back to me,” her face grew red and she took a breath to continue the tirade, “Charlotte Samuels is such a nice girl and…”

She went on, and I tried to shut my ears off.

Sometimes moms are so far away from the real world that they aren’t even worth listening to. In her rosy wonderland, boys and girls are perfectly paired up to live happily ever after at the age of fifteen. Her hair caught my eye. She needed to have it dyed again; the roots were growing in chocolatecolored at stark contrast to her bleach blonde curls.

Being a girl would be a lot of work with the hair and the skin and whatever else they do. I prefer to just

roll out of bed, put on some deodorant, and call it good. But I guess if you’re Charlotte Samuels, you can skip the deodorant.

“–just don’t know what you’re going to do with yourself, Jack.”

The tirade raged on, and she grew angrier and angrier. A vein throbbed in her temple.

“By your age, your father and I… Well…we’d already started dating and… you… you…” she took an exasperated breath, “Jack, have you ever even talked to a girl?”

Her face went white. The anger was gone.

“Uh… I…” I stuttered. Steam came out of my ears now. I wanted to get her back. I wanted to rub all of my romantic successes in her face, but of course, I had none.

“I didn’t mean that. I… I really didn’t mean that,” she said, her face apologetic. “I’m being too hard on you. I know I am, aren’t I?” I was too indignant to answer. This wasn’t the first time that something like that had slipped out.

In high school, my dad was captain of the basketball team and my mom was student-body president. It was love at first sight; they got engaged their senior year, and they had me at an almost-embarrassingly early age. From what I could tell, she sure didn’t want me to get some girl pregnant. But, on the other hand, she wouldn’t mind if I started dating some “nice girl” and started throwing a football around with friends who were cooler than Lewis.

“You know what? Here’s what we’re going to do.”

She got visibly excited over an idea. “I’ll give you some money and you’re gonna take the Samuels girl out on a real date.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but she shot me a look that said I’d better not push it.

“Yep. That’s what’s going to happen,” she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, “I’ll call Carol and let her know. She’ll be so happy that you and Charlotte are going out. She’s such a nice girl once you get to know her.”

And so, there we were, four days later and pull-

ing up on the curb beside the Samuels’ house. My mom wouldn’t even let me drive myself to pick her up, even though I’d passed driver’s education. She said that I would get a ticket for being underage if I got pulled over. But I know that she wanted to drive so I couldn’t escape.

Charlotte walked down the sidewalk and up to our car, her blonde, curly hair bouncing out at all angles. It reminded me of a mad scientist’s. She wore a bottle-cap necklace and a Christmas sweater with a light-up Rudolph nose. A huge, stupid smile occupied her entire face, as if she was at the front of the line for a roller coaster. Or, in her case, maybe at the front of the line to see a unicorn movie.

“Hello, Jack and Mrs. Ryan! We’re just going to have such a fun afternoon!” Charlotte said, climbing into the back seat and closing the car door.

“That’s a…nice necklace…you have there.” My mom looked at her in the rearview mirror and coughed to suppress a smile.

In that moment, I hated my mom even more than I hated Charlotte. Maybe more than I had ever hated anything. When your mom thinks that you can’t date anyone better than Charlotte Samuels, you’ve hit rock bottom.

I felt my face grow hot with anger, and I looked out the window to avoid talking to either of them.

“Thanks!” said Charlotte. “This necklace was my last project. I love crafts. In fact, I’ve gotten really good at knitting and that takes up most of my time now.”

“That’s… nice.” My mom was at a loss for words. If she was starting to regret damning me to an afternoon with Charlotte, she wasn’t showing any signs of it.

We were on our way to the Maple Hills Mall, which is the generally agreed-upon place for parents to drop off their pre-teens and teenagers so they can hang out with friends. The stores there aren’t particularly edgy; there aren’t any Hot Topics, Hollisters, or tattoo parlors, plus the parking lot is pretty open, so I guess parents think kids won’t find any dark corners where they can give each other handjobs.

“You kids have fun,” my mom said when we KIOSK14

51

pulled up to the south entrance. Her voice had a hint of false cheer, as if she was dropping off a lovestruck Mickey and Minnie Mouse, as opposed to a skinny, irate pubescent boy and a knitting enthusiast in a Rudolph sweater.

different places and I’m pretty sure his mom never hugged him when he was a child. When he saw Charlotte’s hand still gripped my wrist, his one visible eye narrowed and he cracked what may have been his first smile in years.

The only good thing about the situation was the thirty dollars my mom had given me before we got in the car. I was firmly instructed to buy my “date” and myself a late lunch, movie tickets, and popcorn.

I was also supposed to be a gentleman, or so help her, my mom would ground me for a month.

I focused all of my strength and power into one motion, jerked my arm from her grasp, and walked over to the dining area. I hoped no one else would see me here with her. Charlotte followed; sat down across from me at a two-person, date-sized table; and started up a very one-sided conversation.

That wasn’t going to happen.

“Okay, here’s the deal, Charlotte.” I had the speech all preplanned in my head. “I’m going to the video game store to get the new Spiderman game,” (thanks to my mom’s His face was pierced in money) “then to the food approximately 29 different places court to get a pretzel, and then to the movie theater and I’m pretty sure his mom never to see Revenge of the Sith. hugged him when he was a child. If you want to come with me and pay for it all yourself, fine, but if not, we can meet back here at 5:00, tell my mom that we had a good time, and get on with our lives.”

She smiled and let out a long, snorting laugh.

The laugh caught the attention of three passing girls from our high school. They saw Charlotte’s blinking sweater and had to choke down their own laughter. I tried my best to melt into the cement floor.

“Oh Jack, you’re just so funny,” she said, in a voice too loud and boisterous for social convention.

She grabbed ahold of my wrist and dragged me off to the mall’s bookstore and to the inside coffee shop. So much for my brilliant plan. I would have struggled, but her grip was inexplicably strong (knitting must give people superhuman strength) and I didn’t want to make a scene.

Still holding my wrist, Charlotte strolled up to the coffee shop counter and ordered two grandenonfatmochafrappelattecappuccinomacchiattos. I think. I don’t speak coffee. The cashier had his hair swooped over one eye and dyed a soul-crushing black. His face was pierced in approximately 29 52

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“Jackson, I’m just so excited that this is finally happening. My mom was just so happy when she heard that you and I were going on a date. She’s actually the one who told me to gather up the courage and ask you out, I mean she thinks you’re such a ‘nice boy’ and I have to agree…”

I, meanwhile, was trying to lick the whipped cream off the top of my drink without tasting any of that bitter, earthy coffee flavor. But, while Charlotte was in the middle of a monologue about cats or something, someone across the store caught my eye. Walking toward the coffee counter, with a thick head of flowy brunette hair, a painted-on makeup face, and an oddly familiar zebra-striped tank top was–Oh crap. I didn’t want anyone to see me here with Charlotte, least of all my “midnight hookup,” as Lewis jokingly called her.

I prepared to fill that one syllable with a vibrato worthy of Bond himself.

she unzipped my pants and almost… Well, I’d show her. I’d… I’d…

“TH–anks,” and my voice cracked like a middle school clarinet squeak.

I broke into a sprint back to the date-sized table, tripping only once, grabbed Charlotte’s face in my hands, pulled it close to my own, and kissed her square on the lips, with what I thought had to be furious passion.

I felt my face grow hot and flushed. Lisa stifled a giggle, but her eyes didn’t light up in recognition.

From the look on her face, she was a person talking to a stranger. She had absolutely no idea that I was Zachary, I mean, Jack. She didn’t know that she had held me close, breathed her alcohol-breath in my face, studied my eyes, brought me in closer, and—” “HE SAID THANKS!” Charlotte yelled from our table, to clarify just in case Lisa hadn’t understood my crackling clarinet voice.

Stupid Lisa. I sure showed her what she was missing out on. Then, I straightened up and walked straight out of that bookstore. I wanted to keep my face forward, like a cowboy riding off into the sunset, but I couldn’t resist a glance over my shoulder.

Lisa turned, saw Rudolph’s nose blinking at her, and burst into merciless, unforgiving laughter.

Charlotte looked at me wide-eyed with her jaw open, like she wanted to follow me, but she was too stunned to move. Lisa’s face was quizzical. She didn’t know what hit her.

My blood boiled and, for some reason, something broke within me. She didn’t remember me?

She didn’t even remember being so turned on that

I turned my head forward, straightened up my posture, and walked straight to the theater box office to buy one ticket for Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith.

I stood abruptly. “I have to go to the bathroom!” It came out a louder and more intense than I had intended.

Charlotte looked taken aback, confused at the interruption in her monologue.

I started to walk very quickly out of the bookstore.

“Hey you. Guy in the plaid.” Even those wholly unsexy words took on a sensual Bond girl-ishness when she said them. “You dropped this.”

I slowly turned around and saw Lisa, this time fully clothed, but no less beautiful for it. She stood tall with an air of confidence, and her vulnerability was hidden deep inside her clothing, probably in the same place as the bright pink bra. She held out the thirty dollars that my mom had given me.

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by Kasi Lee photography KIOSK14

53

pulled up to the south entrance. Her voice had a hint of false cheer, as if she was dropping off a lovestruck Mickey and Minnie Mouse, as opposed to a skinny, irate pubescent boy and a knitting enthusiast in a Rudolph sweater.

different places and I’m pretty sure his mom never hugged him when he was a child. When he saw Charlotte’s hand still gripped my wrist, his one visible eye narrowed and he cracked what may have been his first smile in years.

The only good thing about the situation was the thirty dollars my mom had given me before we got in the car. I was firmly instructed to buy my “date” and myself a late lunch, movie tickets, and popcorn.

I was also supposed to be a gentleman, or so help her, my mom would ground me for a month.

I focused all of my strength and power into one motion, jerked my arm from her grasp, and walked over to the dining area. I hoped no one else would see me here with her. Charlotte followed; sat down across from me at a two-person, date-sized table; and started up a very one-sided conversation.

That wasn’t going to happen.

“Okay, here’s the deal, Charlotte.” I had the speech all preplanned in my head. “I’m going to the video game store to get the new Spiderman game,” (thanks to my mom’s His face was pierced in money) “then to the food approximately 29 different places court to get a pretzel, and then to the movie theater and I’m pretty sure his mom never to see Revenge of the Sith. hugged him when he was a child. If you want to come with me and pay for it all yourself, fine, but if not, we can meet back here at 5:00, tell my mom that we had a good time, and get on with our lives.”

She smiled and let out a long, snorting laugh.

The laugh caught the attention of three passing girls from our high school. They saw Charlotte’s blinking sweater and had to choke down their own laughter. I tried my best to melt into the cement floor.

“Oh Jack, you’re just so funny,” she said, in a voice too loud and boisterous for social convention.

She grabbed ahold of my wrist and dragged me off to the mall’s bookstore and to the inside coffee shop. So much for my brilliant plan. I would have struggled, but her grip was inexplicably strong (knitting must give people superhuman strength) and I didn’t want to make a scene.

Still holding my wrist, Charlotte strolled up to the coffee shop counter and ordered two grandenonfatmochafrappelattecappuccinomacchiattos. I think. I don’t speak coffee. The cashier had his hair swooped over one eye and dyed a soul-crushing black. His face was pierced in approximately 29 52

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“Jackson, I’m just so excited that this is finally happening. My mom was just so happy when she heard that you and I were going on a date. She’s actually the one who told me to gather up the courage and ask you out, I mean she thinks you’re such a ‘nice boy’ and I have to agree…”

I, meanwhile, was trying to lick the whipped cream off the top of my drink without tasting any of that bitter, earthy coffee flavor. But, while Charlotte was in the middle of a monologue about cats or something, someone across the store caught my eye. Walking toward the coffee counter, with a thick head of flowy brunette hair, a painted-on makeup face, and an oddly familiar zebra-striped tank top was–Oh crap. I didn’t want anyone to see me here with Charlotte, least of all my “midnight hookup,” as Lewis jokingly called her.

I prepared to fill that one syllable with a vibrato worthy of Bond himself.

she unzipped my pants and almost… Well, I’d show her. I’d… I’d…

“TH–anks,” and my voice cracked like a middle school clarinet squeak.

I broke into a sprint back to the date-sized table, tripping only once, grabbed Charlotte’s face in my hands, pulled it close to my own, and kissed her square on the lips, with what I thought had to be furious passion.

I felt my face grow hot and flushed. Lisa stifled a giggle, but her eyes didn’t light up in recognition.

From the look on her face, she was a person talking to a stranger. She had absolutely no idea that I was Zachary, I mean, Jack. She didn’t know that she had held me close, breathed her alcohol-breath in my face, studied my eyes, brought me in closer, and—” “HE SAID THANKS!” Charlotte yelled from our table, to clarify just in case Lisa hadn’t understood my crackling clarinet voice.

Stupid Lisa. I sure showed her what she was missing out on. Then, I straightened up and walked straight out of that bookstore. I wanted to keep my face forward, like a cowboy riding off into the sunset, but I couldn’t resist a glance over my shoulder.

Lisa turned, saw Rudolph’s nose blinking at her, and burst into merciless, unforgiving laughter.

Charlotte looked at me wide-eyed with her jaw open, like she wanted to follow me, but she was too stunned to move. Lisa’s face was quizzical. She didn’t know what hit her.

My blood boiled and, for some reason, something broke within me. She didn’t remember me?

She didn’t even remember being so turned on that

I turned my head forward, straightened up my posture, and walked straight to the theater box office to buy one ticket for Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith.

I stood abruptly. “I have to go to the bathroom!” It came out a louder and more intense than I had intended.

Charlotte looked taken aback, confused at the interruption in her monologue.

I started to walk very quickly out of the bookstore.

“Hey you. Guy in the plaid.” Even those wholly unsexy words took on a sensual Bond girl-ishness when she said them. “You dropped this.”

I slowly turned around and saw Lisa, this time fully clothed, but no less beautiful for it. She stood tall with an air of confidence, and her vulnerability was hidden deep inside her clothing, probably in the same place as the bright pink bra. She held out the thirty dollars that my mom had given me.

CICADA FLOWER

by Kasi Lee photography KIOSK14

53

POETRY

CHRIST AND ME Victoria Anthony

As I kid I watched in wonder at the sight.

The shining goblet of Grape Juicy Juice, Candles, flags, robes, and glorious gold-tipped bibles.

I loved the songs, the community, and the people.

Faces and arms raised to press up to the sky Like they could literally feel the hand of God. It was everything I’d been missing at home.

It was home cooked meals, smiles, and togetherness.

It was leadership, mentors, and pop rocks.

I joined AWANA at age 8.

We read the scriptures, played games, ate snacks, And enjoyed the bath of warmth that God’s love gives, With the intensity and guilelessness that only kids can have.

There were no difficult questions and everything had an answer.

Until I got a little older.

The questions got harder and the words got harsher.

My mentor, Denise, loved me. I know she did, in her way.

But she didn’t understand why my family never came with To church or on my spiritual journey.

It was my responsibility to save their souls form eternal hellfire.

“Don’t you love them? Don’t you want them with you in paradise?”

Of course I did. I tried to tell them But their expressions were condescending, Like they knew something I didn’t about the world.

But God wants to save them. God loves everyone.

Or does he?

Slowly there was less talk of love and forgiveness More of sin, atonement, and apologies.

“You lied to your mother, Victoria?”

She rapped my hands with the bible And looked down at me with disappointment in her eyes.

“You know God wants you to be sorry, but it’s not enough.”

She drilled it into me in increasingly violent ways.

The manifestations of my sins and their atonements became more.

More physical and more mental.

More and more rules piled up.

More and more sins piled up.

More and more lessons and meetings occur between us.

I read the entire bible. I memorized verse after verse.

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I became passionate about helping others, But instead of soup kitchens and fundraisers We spent more time outlining everyone who would burn.

Gays, feminists, other religions, different denominations, Me. “You don’t deserve God’s love and yet he gives it to you. Are you grateful?”

“You can’t preach or teach, you will find a man one day who will help you.”

“Hold out your arms.”

Until one day found me sitting on the edge of my roof.

Wondering what it would be like if I was in hell.

Wondering if I was gone would anything be different.

Wondering how I could prove myself.

I climbed back in through the window and picked up a hammer.

The one my dad used, but never to fix things, before he left.

I lay down on my bed and slammed it into my ribs Once. Twice. Three times.

Tears ran down my cheek while I gasped quietly.

Is it enough yet?

NIGHT SERIES

by Jazmine Dirks photography

KIOSK14

55

POETRY

CHRIST AND ME Victoria Anthony

As I kid I watched in wonder at the sight.

The shining goblet of Grape Juicy Juice, Candles, flags, robes, and glorious gold-tipped bibles.

I loved the songs, the community, and the people.

Faces and arms raised to press up to the sky Like they could literally feel the hand of God. It was everything I’d been missing at home.

It was home cooked meals, smiles, and togetherness.

It was leadership, mentors, and pop rocks.

I joined AWANA at age 8.

We read the scriptures, played games, ate snacks, And enjoyed the bath of warmth that God’s love gives, With the intensity and guilelessness that only kids can have.

There were no difficult questions and everything had an answer.

Until I got a little older.

The questions got harder and the words got harsher.

My mentor, Denise, loved me. I know she did, in her way.

But she didn’t understand why my family never came with To church or on my spiritual journey.

It was my responsibility to save their souls form eternal hellfire.

“Don’t you love them? Don’t you want them with you in paradise?”

Of course I did. I tried to tell them But their expressions were condescending, Like they knew something I didn’t about the world.

But God wants to save them. God loves everyone.

Or does he?

Slowly there was less talk of love and forgiveness More of sin, atonement, and apologies.

“You lied to your mother, Victoria?”

She rapped my hands with the bible And looked down at me with disappointment in her eyes.

“You know God wants you to be sorry, but it’s not enough.”

She drilled it into me in increasingly violent ways.

The manifestations of my sins and their atonements became more.

More physical and more mental.

More and more rules piled up.

More and more sins piled up.

More and more lessons and meetings occur between us.

I read the entire bible. I memorized verse after verse.

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I became passionate about helping others, But instead of soup kitchens and fundraisers We spent more time outlining everyone who would burn.

Gays, feminists, other religions, different denominations, Me. “You don’t deserve God’s love and yet he gives it to you. Are you grateful?”

“You can’t preach or teach, you will find a man one day who will help you.”

“Hold out your arms.”

Until one day found me sitting on the edge of my roof.

Wondering what it would be like if I was in hell.

Wondering if I was gone would anything be different.

Wondering how I could prove myself.

I climbed back in through the window and picked up a hammer.

The one my dad used, but never to fix things, before he left.

I lay down on my bed and slammed it into my ribs Once. Twice. Three times.

Tears ran down my cheek while I gasped quietly.

Is it enough yet?

NIGHT SERIES

by Jazmine Dirks photography

KIOSK14

55

AFTER HOURS Jess Anderson Weston Burkhardt digital posters

ILLIUM

by Matthew Hadley mixed media

DALE SKOG

by Jess Anderson visual identity

56

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KIOSK14

57

AFTER HOURS Jess Anderson Weston Burkhardt digital posters

ILLIUM

by Matthew Hadley mixed media

DALE SKOG

by Jess Anderson visual identity

56

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57

FIGHT FOR HOMELESSNESS

by Felicia Ely digital illustration

REACTION

by Alexis McKee acrylic

ATE PACKAGE DESIGN

by Felicia Ely package design

58

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59

FIGHT FOR HOMELESSNESS

by Felicia Ely digital illustration

REACTION

by Alexis McKee acrylic

ATE PACKAGE DESIGN

by Felicia Ely package design

58

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NON-FICTION

STAGES Katharine Klave

W

“I a loss

hen I was growing up, everyone called me “Little Laura” because I looked and acted so much like my mother. I was her little shadow, perpetually peeking out at the world from behind her legs. Even as I got older and became a teenager who wanted her space and independence, I still did not understand people who said they hated their moms. I adored my mom the way nuns love Jesus, and the feeling was mutual. One day, when I was twelve, my mother and I were driving in her car from Le Mars to Sioux City on one of our many shopping trips when she turned to me, “Don’t tell your brother and sisters, but you’re my favorite, Katharine.” Instead of feeling excited about being the was grieving favorite child, I felt sad that my siblings, yet to come.” Erika, Alanna, and Ryan, would never be loved by her as much as I was. That Irish-Catholic guilt that my mother had drilled into me was backfiring.

“You’re not supposed to say that, Mom,” I said as I stared out the window at the neat rows in the fields along the highway.

“I can’t help it. You’re my baby. I was my mom’s baby, too,” she said. Her thin lips that were caked with lip liner formed into a tight smile on her face, which was framed with a dark auburn bob that landed perfectly on her high, rosy cheeks. Looking back, it wasn’t the fact that I was her favorite that was surprising; it was the fact that she’d said it. My mother and I had always had a special bond. Being more than nine years younger than my brother, the sibling closest in age to me, I’d almost grown up as an only child. Other kids would play with their siblings, but mine were too busy working and going to school to play Monopoly with me or take me to the park. My mom tried to fill that role the best she could, hence the many shopping trips to Sioux City.

I think it was this deep bond that resulted in me, at the age of 22, predicting the exact date of her death.

Although my mother had been sick for a long time before her death, no one else knew it was coming the way I did. Somehow, for months before she passed, I knew December 1st would be the day she’d die.

I’ve always hated uncertainty in life. I always needed to know what was going to happen before

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it happened. I could never wait until Christmas to open up my presents; every year, I would scour my house, looking for the place my parents had hidden my presents because I wanted time to prepare myself in case I had a strong reaction to one of the presents.

However, this was one time when I wish I wouldn’t have known ahead of time. Knowing the day my mom was going to die didn’t make things easier; it just made me feel powerless against the inevitable tragedies of life.

In the wake of my mother’s death, much has been made of the theory of the stages of grief. People have said to me over and over again, “You’re just dealing with this stage right now. That’s just your bargaining stage coming through. You’ve gotta get through the stages.” Many people consider Elizabeth Kübler-Ross’s stage theory of grief to be the official one that applies to bereavement grieving, or grieving that happens after a loved one passes. What KüblerRoss’s theory really applies to is the grief a terminally ill patient feels once they learn that they aren’t going to be getting better. Her stages include denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

Although they normally apply to the patient who is dying, looking back, I really do feel like I experienced them. However, unlike what everyone thought, I was going through them long before my mother had taken her last breath. I was grieving a loss yet to come.

DENIAL My alarm was going off. It seemed like I’d just gotten to sleep when suddenly it was time to get up.

I rolled out of the guest bed and ran over to shut my phone’s alarm off.

“Today’s the day, Katharine. December 1st, 2012. The day your mom dies,” a voice said in my head. I tried to push back the thought as I got ready for the debate tournament. I was staying at my friend and boss Kathryn’s house in Sioux City because we had to be on a bus to Okoboji by 5:45 that morning.

As I slipped on my black dress shoes that I’d taken from my mother, the voice came back again and said, “This is the last time you’ll put your shoes on while your mother’s still alive.”

Again, I pushed it down. No one’s psychic, I thought. People don’t have predictions, and if they did, you would not be one of them, Katharine. You’re not that special.

time she needed to go somewhere.

I had a tournament to go to. I had responsibilities. I couldn’t let the whole debate team that I coach down just because I “had a bad feeling.”

“That’s great! You’ll be walking in no time! I’m so proud of you!” I exclaimed. I really was proud of her because those two little steps meant that she was

“It went well. I took a couple steps,” she said with a little smile. Her face was bloated and doughy from the steroids used to treat her Addison’s Disease.

Still, as the charter bus rolled down the highway, I couldn’t help but slip my feet out of my shoes and then put them right back on again. Ha! I thought.

Fates be damned! Earlier really wasn’t the last time!

She’s going to be fine!

ANGER My mother’s favorite room in our house was the bathroom. She loved to sit on the toilet that was wedged in a little nook between the bathtub and the cabinet-counter combination that housed the sink.

The bathtub’s primary function was as a storage place for old issues of the National Enquirer, empty boxes of Marlboro Menthol 72s (my mom’s favorite cigarettes), my mom’s blouses that she could no longer wear due to cigarette holes, and other items my family considered treasures. It was on the edge of this light blue bathtub that my 33-year-old sister, Alanna, was perched, sucking down one of our mom’s 72s as she talked to our mother, who was on her throne, the toilet, looking much older than her 55 years with deep wrinkles and her formerly dark hair a grayish brown in frizzes all around her head.

Alanna was wearing our mom’s red velour tracksuit, which kind of clashed with her red hair and freckles.

“Hey. How’s it going? How ya doin’ today?” I asked as a came in without knocking. I always made sure to check on my mom when I got home, and if she wasn’t in her chair by the TV, she was in the bathroom.

“I’m good,” my mom said.

“How did physical therapy go today? Did you make any progress?” I asked hopefully. My mom hadn’t been able to walk or get herself up since she’d broken her hip in October. It was February and not much headway had been made. Every time she’d get better, she’d get sick and lose all of her progress.

We’d have to pick her up and carry her around every

still able to do something.

“You should have seen her,” Alanna chimed in.

“She was standing so well and she almost pulled herself up without any help.”

NURTURE

by Cassandra Vogt acrylic

“Wow. Yeah. I’m definitely going to have to go with you to physical therapy and see you in action one of these days!” I said.

“I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about that,” Alanna said. “She has an appointment tomorrow at three, and I’m working then, so I’m going to need you take her to physical therapy.”

“What?” I spat out. “I- I have to work. I can’t take her tomorrow.” My boss, Kathryn, really needed me to help her build the sets for her play.

“Well, I’ve taken her every other time,” Alanna said. “I’m always the one to take her everywhere. You need to step up and take her KIOSK14

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NON-FICTION

STAGES Katharine Klave

W

“I a loss

hen I was growing up, everyone called me “Little Laura” because I looked and acted so much like my mother. I was her little shadow, perpetually peeking out at the world from behind her legs. Even as I got older and became a teenager who wanted her space and independence, I still did not understand people who said they hated their moms. I adored my mom the way nuns love Jesus, and the feeling was mutual. One day, when I was twelve, my mother and I were driving in her car from Le Mars to Sioux City on one of our many shopping trips when she turned to me, “Don’t tell your brother and sisters, but you’re my favorite, Katharine.” Instead of feeling excited about being the was grieving favorite child, I felt sad that my siblings, yet to come.” Erika, Alanna, and Ryan, would never be loved by her as much as I was. That Irish-Catholic guilt that my mother had drilled into me was backfiring.

“You’re not supposed to say that, Mom,” I said as I stared out the window at the neat rows in the fields along the highway.

“I can’t help it. You’re my baby. I was my mom’s baby, too,” she said. Her thin lips that were caked with lip liner formed into a tight smile on her face, which was framed with a dark auburn bob that landed perfectly on her high, rosy cheeks. Looking back, it wasn’t the fact that I was her favorite that was surprising; it was the fact that she’d said it. My mother and I had always had a special bond. Being more than nine years younger than my brother, the sibling closest in age to me, I’d almost grown up as an only child. Other kids would play with their siblings, but mine were too busy working and going to school to play Monopoly with me or take me to the park. My mom tried to fill that role the best she could, hence the many shopping trips to Sioux City.

I think it was this deep bond that resulted in me, at the age of 22, predicting the exact date of her death.

Although my mother had been sick for a long time before her death, no one else knew it was coming the way I did. Somehow, for months before she passed, I knew December 1st would be the day she’d die.

I’ve always hated uncertainty in life. I always needed to know what was going to happen before

60

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it happened. I could never wait until Christmas to open up my presents; every year, I would scour my house, looking for the place my parents had hidden my presents because I wanted time to prepare myself in case I had a strong reaction to one of the presents.

However, this was one time when I wish I wouldn’t have known ahead of time. Knowing the day my mom was going to die didn’t make things easier; it just made me feel powerless against the inevitable tragedies of life.

In the wake of my mother’s death, much has been made of the theory of the stages of grief. People have said to me over and over again, “You’re just dealing with this stage right now. That’s just your bargaining stage coming through. You’ve gotta get through the stages.” Many people consider Elizabeth Kübler-Ross’s stage theory of grief to be the official one that applies to bereavement grieving, or grieving that happens after a loved one passes. What KüblerRoss’s theory really applies to is the grief a terminally ill patient feels once they learn that they aren’t going to be getting better. Her stages include denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

Although they normally apply to the patient who is dying, looking back, I really do feel like I experienced them. However, unlike what everyone thought, I was going through them long before my mother had taken her last breath. I was grieving a loss yet to come.

DENIAL My alarm was going off. It seemed like I’d just gotten to sleep when suddenly it was time to get up.

I rolled out of the guest bed and ran over to shut my phone’s alarm off.

“Today’s the day, Katharine. December 1st, 2012. The day your mom dies,” a voice said in my head. I tried to push back the thought as I got ready for the debate tournament. I was staying at my friend and boss Kathryn’s house in Sioux City because we had to be on a bus to Okoboji by 5:45 that morning.

As I slipped on my black dress shoes that I’d taken from my mother, the voice came back again and said, “This is the last time you’ll put your shoes on while your mother’s still alive.”

Again, I pushed it down. No one’s psychic, I thought. People don’t have predictions, and if they did, you would not be one of them, Katharine. You’re not that special.

time she needed to go somewhere.

I had a tournament to go to. I had responsibilities. I couldn’t let the whole debate team that I coach down just because I “had a bad feeling.”

“That’s great! You’ll be walking in no time! I’m so proud of you!” I exclaimed. I really was proud of her because those two little steps meant that she was

“It went well. I took a couple steps,” she said with a little smile. Her face was bloated and doughy from the steroids used to treat her Addison’s Disease.

Still, as the charter bus rolled down the highway, I couldn’t help but slip my feet out of my shoes and then put them right back on again. Ha! I thought.

Fates be damned! Earlier really wasn’t the last time!

She’s going to be fine!

ANGER My mother’s favorite room in our house was the bathroom. She loved to sit on the toilet that was wedged in a little nook between the bathtub and the cabinet-counter combination that housed the sink.

The bathtub’s primary function was as a storage place for old issues of the National Enquirer, empty boxes of Marlboro Menthol 72s (my mom’s favorite cigarettes), my mom’s blouses that she could no longer wear due to cigarette holes, and other items my family considered treasures. It was on the edge of this light blue bathtub that my 33-year-old sister, Alanna, was perched, sucking down one of our mom’s 72s as she talked to our mother, who was on her throne, the toilet, looking much older than her 55 years with deep wrinkles and her formerly dark hair a grayish brown in frizzes all around her head.

Alanna was wearing our mom’s red velour tracksuit, which kind of clashed with her red hair and freckles.

“Hey. How’s it going? How ya doin’ today?” I asked as a came in without knocking. I always made sure to check on my mom when I got home, and if she wasn’t in her chair by the TV, she was in the bathroom.

“I’m good,” my mom said.

“How did physical therapy go today? Did you make any progress?” I asked hopefully. My mom hadn’t been able to walk or get herself up since she’d broken her hip in October. It was February and not much headway had been made. Every time she’d get better, she’d get sick and lose all of her progress.

We’d have to pick her up and carry her around every

still able to do something.

“You should have seen her,” Alanna chimed in.

“She was standing so well and she almost pulled herself up without any help.”

NURTURE

by Cassandra Vogt acrylic

“Wow. Yeah. I’m definitely going to have to go with you to physical therapy and see you in action one of these days!” I said.

“I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about that,” Alanna said. “She has an appointment tomorrow at three, and I’m working then, so I’m going to need you take her to physical therapy.”

“What?” I spat out. “I- I have to work. I can’t take her tomorrow.” My boss, Kathryn, really needed me to help her build the sets for her play.

“Well, I’ve taken her every other time,” Alanna said. “I’m always the one to take her everywhere. You need to step up and take her KIOSK14

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tomorrow because I have to work.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m in college and I work. I don’t have time to just take Mom every place in the world.

You get paid to do this; I don’t.” I yelled as I made sure not to look at my mother, fearing a look of disappointment on her face.

“I don’t get paid a damn thing. Dad’s too fucking cheap.”

“Really? You don’t get free cigarettes all the time?

You don’t get to drive Mom’s car all the time, all over Plymouth County and Sioux City without ever putting gas in it or paying car insurance? You don’t get to live here for free even though you’re ancient and should be supporting yourself? You don’t get “loans” from everyone that you never pay back? By the way, you owe me 60 dollars, just so you know.” I shouted, pointing my finger at her.

“Getting paid is what this is all about for you?”

Alanna said in her quiet voice that just infuriates me.

“No, but I have obligations.” I said. “You can’t just spring this shit on me. If you want me to do something, you can’t tell me the night before you want me to do it.”

“You have an obligation to your mother! She gave birth to you, but you’re willing to forget that and help Kathryn because she pays you. It’s like you love Kathryn more than Mom.” Alanna barked.

“That’s not true! She’s just counting on me and she’s made arrangements for me to be there.

You know I love Mom more than anyone. And you can fuck yourself.” I growled and turned to leave the room.

“I bet if Mom just paid you, you’d be there. People can just buy your love.” Alanna taunted.

“You’re such a stupid bitch! Go to Hell!” I said, punching the blue wall that was covered in a film of tar from all the smoking.

Much to my surprise, I’d managed to punch a hole in the wall. Alanna started shouting at me about how I’d messed up, but my mom finally piped up with what she’s best at: Irish-Catholic guilt.

“You guys, stop fighting,” my mother said. “You know that fighting causes stress, which is bad for my Addison’s.”

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With that, we disengaged and I went back to my room. As I sat on my bed, icing my bruised hand, I realized I could have gotten out of work if I’d wanted to. I didn’t want to, though, not because of the money, like Alanna had claimed, but because I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing my mom so weak.

and spend all my time getting her better. As soon as I get back, I will take her in my car up to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, I promise. Just please don’t let her die. Don’t let me be right. I’m wrong all the time.

Please let me be wrong today,” I pleaded to God inside my head.

BARGAINING As the tournament in Okoboji got underway, I was forced to sit in high school classrooms and listen to two different kids every forty-five minutes or so argue about the moral implications of providing universal health care to United States citizens.

The thing was, I meant every word. I really would have done everything I’d said. The only reason I’m in school today is because I didn’t have the chance to make good on my promise.

In every round, one kid would preach that universal health care would spell the end of the nation and cause everyone to get sick while the other would hail it as the savior that would bring the nation together and keep everyone healthy and happy.

I couldn’t help but think that both sides were wrong. Doctors are sometimes unable to fix things, regardless of money and insurance cards. I thought about how my mom had been sick for so long. For the past year, she’d been in the hospital more often than she’d been out. She had bruises from all the needles they’d stick into her flesh, trying to find answers. On the rare occasions that they’d give us answers, they’d never be able to provide us with solutions beyond pumping her with more pain pills and more steroids.

I didn’t tell the kids any of this because as a judge I’m supposed to be impartial. I made the winner the one who argued well, not necessarily the one I thought was right.

Around 11 o’clock, during the fourth round, I received a text from my oldest sister, Erika. It said that my mom’s fingers were swelling too much and the nurses at the nursing home had been forced to take her rings off.

It’s begun. It’s happening. You were right, I thought. Although the message wasn’t meant to alarm me, I couldn’t help but freak out on the inside.

While I maintained a calm presence in front of the high schoolers, I was panicking within.

“I’ll do anything you want, God. Just get her through today. I swear to God–swear to you–that if she makes it through today, I will drop out of school

DEPRESSION “Thanks for meeting me,” my teacher said.

“I’ve become a bit concerned about the fact that you haven’t been turning in your assignments lately.”

I stared at the three-hole punch on his desk and fiddled with my hands in my lap.

“Ah. You know, I’ve just been kind of busy with mock trial and stuff. I promise I’m going to start doing my assignments on time from now on,” I said. I avoided eye contact.

“Okay. Well, make sure that you do because the end of the semester’s coming up and I don’t want to have to give you a bad grade. Not when I know that you are capable of so much more,” he said.

“Okay. I have to go or I’ll be late for my appointment. Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” I said. With that, I got up, went to my car, and drove to Mercy Hospital, where my mom was staying.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. She was lying asleep in the hospital bed with wounds all over her body. Her skin was paper-thin and delicate like a butterfly’s wings. She wasn’t always this fragile, but the steroids made her skin easy to damage. We couldn’t take her off the steroids, though, because she’d have an episode due to her Addison’s disease if we didn’t give her them. I didn’t understand most of the medical issues, but this was the way my sisters, who were both registered nurses and more than ten years older than I was, explained it to me.

“Mom, wake up. I want to talk to you about what we’re doing for Thanksgiving,” I whined. “It’s less than a week away, ya know. We’ve got to figure out what we’re doing, Mom. Wake up!”

My mom stirred and woke up. She looked over

at me and said, “Oh. Hello, Mom. I’m so happy to see you,” and then closed her eyes again. I tried not to be mad at her. Even at 55, she still missed her own mother, whom she’d lost to a heart attack when she was only 21 years old.

“I’m not your mom,” I squealed. “It’s me. It’s Katharine. I’m your baby. I’m your favorite child, Mom. Please wake up!”

She just kept sleeping.

Frustrated, I sat in the chair by her bed. I should have done my homework like I told my teacher I would, but I couldn’t. All I could do was cry and worry about what I knew was coming.

ACCEPTANCE I’d like to put a scene here where I’m happy and healthy and completely over her death, but I can’t because this isn’t fiction. I have accepted the fact that her death has happened, but I haven’t truly accepted her death and “The only reason moved past it.

I’m in school today is because I didn’t have the chance to make good on my promise.”

Late at night, when I’m in between being wide awake and asleep, my mind will take me back to December 1st and the days after. It’s like I’m still in the car with Kathryn.

We’re stuck in traffic, waiting for the Holiday Light Parade in downtown Le Mars.

“Your mother has passed.”

“Oh, God!” was all I could say. I pounced on her and she wrapped me up in her arms.

This is what I’m forced to relive almost every night before I can sleep, whether I want to or not.

Sometimes, once I’m finally sleeping, “Your mom’s dead,” will pop up from a voice in the back of my head and it’ll wake me out of a deep sleep. I’m forced to remember how I felt when I saw her in her coffin for the first time.

She looked surprisingly alive, but she didn’t look right. Her nose was all wrong. The nose that everyone said I shared with her was gone. She didn’t look like me anymore. She was gone.

As much as I hate having these intrusions, I am even more afraid of not having them anymore be-

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tomorrow because I have to work.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m in college and I work. I don’t have time to just take Mom every place in the world.

You get paid to do this; I don’t.” I yelled as I made sure not to look at my mother, fearing a look of disappointment on her face.

“I don’t get paid a damn thing. Dad’s too fucking cheap.”

“Really? You don’t get free cigarettes all the time?

You don’t get to drive Mom’s car all the time, all over Plymouth County and Sioux City without ever putting gas in it or paying car insurance? You don’t get to live here for free even though you’re ancient and should be supporting yourself? You don’t get “loans” from everyone that you never pay back? By the way, you owe me 60 dollars, just so you know.” I shouted, pointing my finger at her.

“Getting paid is what this is all about for you?”

Alanna said in her quiet voice that just infuriates me.

“No, but I have obligations.” I said. “You can’t just spring this shit on me. If you want me to do something, you can’t tell me the night before you want me to do it.”

“You have an obligation to your mother! She gave birth to you, but you’re willing to forget that and help Kathryn because she pays you. It’s like you love Kathryn more than Mom.” Alanna barked.

“That’s not true! She’s just counting on me and she’s made arrangements for me to be there.

You know I love Mom more than anyone. And you can fuck yourself.” I growled and turned to leave the room.

“I bet if Mom just paid you, you’d be there. People can just buy your love.” Alanna taunted.

“You’re such a stupid bitch! Go to Hell!” I said, punching the blue wall that was covered in a film of tar from all the smoking.

Much to my surprise, I’d managed to punch a hole in the wall. Alanna started shouting at me about how I’d messed up, but my mom finally piped up with what she’s best at: Irish-Catholic guilt.

“You guys, stop fighting,” my mother said. “You know that fighting causes stress, which is bad for my Addison’s.”

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With that, we disengaged and I went back to my room. As I sat on my bed, icing my bruised hand, I realized I could have gotten out of work if I’d wanted to. I didn’t want to, though, not because of the money, like Alanna had claimed, but because I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing my mom so weak.

and spend all my time getting her better. As soon as I get back, I will take her in my car up to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, I promise. Just please don’t let her die. Don’t let me be right. I’m wrong all the time.

Please let me be wrong today,” I pleaded to God inside my head.

BARGAINING As the tournament in Okoboji got underway, I was forced to sit in high school classrooms and listen to two different kids every forty-five minutes or so argue about the moral implications of providing universal health care to United States citizens.

The thing was, I meant every word. I really would have done everything I’d said. The only reason I’m in school today is because I didn’t have the chance to make good on my promise.

In every round, one kid would preach that universal health care would spell the end of the nation and cause everyone to get sick while the other would hail it as the savior that would bring the nation together and keep everyone healthy and happy.

I couldn’t help but think that both sides were wrong. Doctors are sometimes unable to fix things, regardless of money and insurance cards. I thought about how my mom had been sick for so long. For the past year, she’d been in the hospital more often than she’d been out. She had bruises from all the needles they’d stick into her flesh, trying to find answers. On the rare occasions that they’d give us answers, they’d never be able to provide us with solutions beyond pumping her with more pain pills and more steroids.

I didn’t tell the kids any of this because as a judge I’m supposed to be impartial. I made the winner the one who argued well, not necessarily the one I thought was right.

Around 11 o’clock, during the fourth round, I received a text from my oldest sister, Erika. It said that my mom’s fingers were swelling too much and the nurses at the nursing home had been forced to take her rings off.

It’s begun. It’s happening. You were right, I thought. Although the message wasn’t meant to alarm me, I couldn’t help but freak out on the inside.

While I maintained a calm presence in front of the high schoolers, I was panicking within.

“I’ll do anything you want, God. Just get her through today. I swear to God–swear to you–that if she makes it through today, I will drop out of school

DEPRESSION “Thanks for meeting me,” my teacher said.

“I’ve become a bit concerned about the fact that you haven’t been turning in your assignments lately.”

I stared at the three-hole punch on his desk and fiddled with my hands in my lap.

“Ah. You know, I’ve just been kind of busy with mock trial and stuff. I promise I’m going to start doing my assignments on time from now on,” I said. I avoided eye contact.

“Okay. Well, make sure that you do because the end of the semester’s coming up and I don’t want to have to give you a bad grade. Not when I know that you are capable of so much more,” he said.

“Okay. I have to go or I’ll be late for my appointment. Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” I said. With that, I got up, went to my car, and drove to Mercy Hospital, where my mom was staying.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. She was lying asleep in the hospital bed with wounds all over her body. Her skin was paper-thin and delicate like a butterfly’s wings. She wasn’t always this fragile, but the steroids made her skin easy to damage. We couldn’t take her off the steroids, though, because she’d have an episode due to her Addison’s disease if we didn’t give her them. I didn’t understand most of the medical issues, but this was the way my sisters, who were both registered nurses and more than ten years older than I was, explained it to me.

“Mom, wake up. I want to talk to you about what we’re doing for Thanksgiving,” I whined. “It’s less than a week away, ya know. We’ve got to figure out what we’re doing, Mom. Wake up!”

My mom stirred and woke up. She looked over

at me and said, “Oh. Hello, Mom. I’m so happy to see you,” and then closed her eyes again. I tried not to be mad at her. Even at 55, she still missed her own mother, whom she’d lost to a heart attack when she was only 21 years old.

“I’m not your mom,” I squealed. “It’s me. It’s Katharine. I’m your baby. I’m your favorite child, Mom. Please wake up!”

She just kept sleeping.

Frustrated, I sat in the chair by her bed. I should have done my homework like I told my teacher I would, but I couldn’t. All I could do was cry and worry about what I knew was coming.

ACCEPTANCE I’d like to put a scene here where I’m happy and healthy and completely over her death, but I can’t because this isn’t fiction. I have accepted the fact that her death has happened, but I haven’t truly accepted her death and “The only reason moved past it.

I’m in school today is because I didn’t have the chance to make good on my promise.”

Late at night, when I’m in between being wide awake and asleep, my mind will take me back to December 1st and the days after. It’s like I’m still in the car with Kathryn.

We’re stuck in traffic, waiting for the Holiday Light Parade in downtown Le Mars.

“Your mother has passed.”

“Oh, God!” was all I could say. I pounced on her and she wrapped me up in her arms.

This is what I’m forced to relive almost every night before I can sleep, whether I want to or not.

Sometimes, once I’m finally sleeping, “Your mom’s dead,” will pop up from a voice in the back of my head and it’ll wake me out of a deep sleep. I’m forced to remember how I felt when I saw her in her coffin for the first time.

She looked surprisingly alive, but she didn’t look right. Her nose was all wrong. The nose that everyone said I shared with her was gone. She didn’t look like me anymore. She was gone.

As much as I hate having these intrusions, I am even more afraid of not having them anymore be-

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POETRY

SISTERLY LOVE Victoria Anthony

cause I’m afraid that if I stop having them and finally “accept” my mother’s death, it will be like I’m giving her up. This makes sense, according to Freud’s theory of grief. The bereaved had to isolate themselves from the rest of the world and begin the process of detaching themselves from the lost loved one. I’m scared to finish the process because I don’t want to let go of my mother.

When I think about letting go of my mother, I think about the last time I saw her alive. It was the day before she died, Friday, November 30, 2012. I stopped by in the morning before class because I knew I wasn’t going to get a chance to see her later that day, because I was staying in Sioux City and she lived in Le Mars. As I walked into the nursing home she’d been in since March, my anxiety deepened. I knew what was coming the next day, and I felt powerless to stop it. It felt like I was being hurtled into Hell on a runaway train. I walked through the lobby, which smelled like disinfectant and urine. Even though I had a jacket on, the white nursing home hallways were too cold. As I got to my mother’s room, I feared what awaited me on the other side of

the door. I was afraid that maybe I’d been off by a day and she was already dead.

I braced myself for the worst and slowly opened her white metal door. I relaxed as I saw she was lying in her bed, still breathing. Even though it was nine in the morning, she was in a deep sleep. I was used to this as she’d been spending more time sleeping than being awake the past few weeks. Although I knew she needed her rest, I had to talk to her one more time, so I woke her up as best as I could.

She could barely open her eyes because of her puffy and disease-ridden face. I tried to have a conversation with her, but she kept falling asleep. After I’d been there for about fifteen minutes, I was getting frustrated and I was about to leave when my mother’s sister, Malea, came. She worked at the nursing home and visited my mother often. I used her arrival as an excuse to leave. I just couldn’t handle seeing her like that anymore. As I was leaving, I bent down, hugged my mom, and gave her a kiss.

“Mom,” I said. “Are you okay? Do you want me to take you somewhere?”

“I’m okay,” she mumbled and then passed out again.

Normally when I left, I’d tell her goodbye and that I loved her, but I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye. Instead, I said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mom.”

When we were small and the world was big Nothing mattered because we had each other Now that we’ve aged the world has shrunk I can see the cracks and stains it left on your skin Like a roadmap for your reckless and bitter life.

When you struggle we all know. We all feel it.

It’s like watching water in a clogged drain Struggling to leave but only succeeding in festering.

But I can help. I can take the brunt of you.

I can do it. I will do it. Whether you care or not Whether you are even here or not.

Breathe in my air, suck down my smiles I follow where you go, lay down your path of destruction The desolate soul inside your body is mine The aftereffects of this life should be mine I’ll steal it and transmute it. Give it back pure.

Pile it on. Throw up everything you have, Your meltdowns and your autobiographical epitaph.

I’ll take your screams, I’ll take your confessions.

Purge to me your perverse sins, violate me from within.

WHEN

I’m watching and waiting for your broken tantrums, I can wrangle all the phantoms in your hollow mind.

Feed me your lies, feed me your bile, feed me your life, I’ll eat it all and slip it through these bleeding ulcers, My body will never wither, never fade, like a super nova.

by Scott Martinson oil on canvas

Bathe me in your misplaced and violent debauchery While I knot together your frayed loose ends Miss Fix-it, Miss Make-it, Miss Fake-it-till-you-make-it Bring me these fights, these late night embraces.

SELF-PORTRAIT

by Tymmrie Rath acrylic

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POETRY

SISTERLY LOVE Victoria Anthony

cause I’m afraid that if I stop having them and finally “accept” my mother’s death, it will be like I’m giving her up. This makes sense, according to Freud’s theory of grief. The bereaved had to isolate themselves from the rest of the world and begin the process of detaching themselves from the lost loved one. I’m scared to finish the process because I don’t want to let go of my mother.

When I think about letting go of my mother, I think about the last time I saw her alive. It was the day before she died, Friday, November 30, 2012. I stopped by in the morning before class because I knew I wasn’t going to get a chance to see her later that day, because I was staying in Sioux City and she lived in Le Mars. As I walked into the nursing home she’d been in since March, my anxiety deepened. I knew what was coming the next day, and I felt powerless to stop it. It felt like I was being hurtled into Hell on a runaway train. I walked through the lobby, which smelled like disinfectant and urine. Even though I had a jacket on, the white nursing home hallways were too cold. As I got to my mother’s room, I feared what awaited me on the other side of

the door. I was afraid that maybe I’d been off by a day and she was already dead.

I braced myself for the worst and slowly opened her white metal door. I relaxed as I saw she was lying in her bed, still breathing. Even though it was nine in the morning, she was in a deep sleep. I was used to this as she’d been spending more time sleeping than being awake the past few weeks. Although I knew she needed her rest, I had to talk to her one more time, so I woke her up as best as I could.

She could barely open her eyes because of her puffy and disease-ridden face. I tried to have a conversation with her, but she kept falling asleep. After I’d been there for about fifteen minutes, I was getting frustrated and I was about to leave when my mother’s sister, Malea, came. She worked at the nursing home and visited my mother often. I used her arrival as an excuse to leave. I just couldn’t handle seeing her like that anymore. As I was leaving, I bent down, hugged my mom, and gave her a kiss.

“Mom,” I said. “Are you okay? Do you want me to take you somewhere?”

“I’m okay,” she mumbled and then passed out again.

Normally when I left, I’d tell her goodbye and that I loved her, but I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye. Instead, I said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mom.”

When we were small and the world was big Nothing mattered because we had each other Now that we’ve aged the world has shrunk I can see the cracks and stains it left on your skin Like a roadmap for your reckless and bitter life.

When you struggle we all know. We all feel it.

It’s like watching water in a clogged drain Struggling to leave but only succeeding in festering.

But I can help. I can take the brunt of you.

I can do it. I will do it. Whether you care or not Whether you are even here or not.

Breathe in my air, suck down my smiles I follow where you go, lay down your path of destruction The desolate soul inside your body is mine The aftereffects of this life should be mine I’ll steal it and transmute it. Give it back pure.

Pile it on. Throw up everything you have, Your meltdowns and your autobiographical epitaph.

I’ll take your screams, I’ll take your confessions.

Purge to me your perverse sins, violate me from within.

WHEN

I’m watching and waiting for your broken tantrums, I can wrangle all the phantoms in your hollow mind.

Feed me your lies, feed me your bile, feed me your life, I’ll eat it all and slip it through these bleeding ulcers, My body will never wither, never fade, like a super nova.

by Scott Martinson oil on canvas

Bathe me in your misplaced and violent debauchery While I knot together your frayed loose ends Miss Fix-it, Miss Make-it, Miss Fake-it-till-you-make-it Bring me these fights, these late night embraces.

SELF-PORTRAIT

by Tymmrie Rath acrylic

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POETRY

ENOUGH OF YOUR NOTHING Kelci Teut

You come to fill a void that you leave as empty as when you came.

Each time you walk out the door, you fail to say goodbye because you were never really here.

And when you are here, you use these big words to talk about big ideas you read about in your big books and explain to me in your big voice as you illustrate with your big hands

But I’m beginning to think that this is too much of a physical attraction.

That I long for your body and put up with your mind.

That’s not enough for me.

Don’t knock on my door when your apartment’s too cold.

Don’t stop by my house when you need to rant.

Don’t think that I’ll change my mind.

I’m done because I’ve had enough of your nothing.

to make me feel really small.

And you prattle on about culture and art and theory and class and it makes you seem like that much more of an ass every time you open your mouth But when you fold your paint smeared fingers around my hands and whisper into my ears the things I actually need to hear and entwine yourself around me, running your fingers through my disappearing hair and about my scratchless wrists I feel like it’s worth spending another night with your scathing bullshit.

RONALD

by Scott Martinson oil on canvas

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POETRY

ENOUGH OF YOUR NOTHING Kelci Teut

You come to fill a void that you leave as empty as when you came.

Each time you walk out the door, you fail to say goodbye because you were never really here.

And when you are here, you use these big words to talk about big ideas you read about in your big books and explain to me in your big voice as you illustrate with your big hands

But I’m beginning to think that this is too much of a physical attraction.

That I long for your body and put up with your mind.

That’s not enough for me.

Don’t knock on my door when your apartment’s too cold.

Don’t stop by my house when you need to rant.

Don’t think that I’ll change my mind.

I’m done because I’ve had enough of your nothing.

to make me feel really small.

And you prattle on about culture and art and theory and class and it makes you seem like that much more of an ass every time you open your mouth But when you fold your paint smeared fingers around my hands and whisper into my ears the things I actually need to hear and entwine yourself around me, running your fingers through my disappearing hair and about my scratchless wrists I feel like it’s worth spending another night with your scathing bullshit.

RONALD

by Scott Martinson oil on canvas

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POETRY

THE FAILURE OF A WOMAN Kelci Teut

When she was sixteen and all the guys took her out on dates, her mother told her, whatever you do tonight, if you come home pregnant, you’d better not come home at all.

She took her mother’s words to heart and after the movies and dinners and bowling as she sat, parked in the car with Jimmy or Bobby or Willie or Tom running his hand up her thighs and down her back and shoving his tongue down her throat and pulling her tighter and tighter she said NO and she said I’m waiting and she said Take me home And each one gave her that look as if to say you’ve got to be kidding me and each one said But Richie told me and each one said Fuck it! as they punched the steering wheel and put the keys back in the ignition and started the car to take her home And she waited And waited.

And the seventh month came and she still had to go to the drug store every month to buy her “feminine supplies” because no matter how hard they tried, their family of two wasn’t expanding.

And every time she went home, her mother said, whatever you do tonight, if you don’t come home pregnant, you’d better not come home at all.

Until she met Johnny who didn’t say fuck it but drove her home anyway and came the next day to take her out again and again and again Until he gave her a ring and his last name and his promise for life.

She wore a white dress and nobody scoffed because by then, her spotless reputation proceeded her down the aisle.

They honeymooned on the beach of some lake in a cabin in the wilderness and they needed the wilderness to silence her ecstatic cries as they fucked and canoodled and made love and romped around on the bed and the beach in the lake in the shower until the seventh day when they were too tired to do anything but rest.

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RINGLEADER

by Felicia Ely mixed digital media

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POETRY

THE FAILURE OF A WOMAN Kelci Teut

When she was sixteen and all the guys took her out on dates, her mother told her, whatever you do tonight, if you come home pregnant, you’d better not come home at all.

She took her mother’s words to heart and after the movies and dinners and bowling as she sat, parked in the car with Jimmy or Bobby or Willie or Tom running his hand up her thighs and down her back and shoving his tongue down her throat and pulling her tighter and tighter she said NO and she said I’m waiting and she said Take me home And each one gave her that look as if to say you’ve got to be kidding me and each one said But Richie told me and each one said Fuck it! as they punched the steering wheel and put the keys back in the ignition and started the car to take her home And she waited And waited.

And the seventh month came and she still had to go to the drug store every month to buy her “feminine supplies” because no matter how hard they tried, their family of two wasn’t expanding.

And every time she went home, her mother said, whatever you do tonight, if you don’t come home pregnant, you’d better not come home at all.

Until she met Johnny who didn’t say fuck it but drove her home anyway and came the next day to take her out again and again and again Until he gave her a ring and his last name and his promise for life.

She wore a white dress and nobody scoffed because by then, her spotless reputation proceeded her down the aisle.

They honeymooned on the beach of some lake in a cabin in the wilderness and they needed the wilderness to silence her ecstatic cries as they fucked and canoodled and made love and romped around on the bed and the beach in the lake in the shower until the seventh day when they were too tired to do anything but rest.

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RINGLEADER

by Felicia Ely mixed digital media

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POETRY

PA G E F R O M T H E PA S T

S PICY SOUTHWEST VEGAN CHILI

BRUISES

Jacob Chauss

Eleanor F. Thorpe, ’43

i made spicy southwest vegan chili last night i couldn’t sleep with our neighbor’s dog barking he shit on our lawn again will you help me search for the hose? it’s good fertilizer and we need to be passive aggressive like your cartomancer said about the situation i used two jalapenos and a half of the can of whole kernel corn so there will be little golden nuggets in our chili

it will be hot and we will still eat it outside after we spray down the shit and watch our one tree shed its skin you called it beautiful but you don’t pick up the leaves i know you like how yellow they get though, and how crunchy they will be next year we can grow our own vegetables and add them to the pot i don’t like fall but I like you and spicy southwest vegan chili

When I had my sixth birthday They said I’d be grown-up, And yet they bought for me A pair of silvered roller-skates, And gave me lessons on the porch; But when I took my bath that night I thought and looked the same Except for those discolored spots Where the porch and I had disagreed.

Now I am nearly twenty, And quite grown-up, they say, And they have given me A pair silvery dancing shoes, A gown, and flowers for my hair To wear this day when I am wed; But still I’ll think and love the same Except for the discolored spots Where life and I will disagree.

Manuscript, Spring, 1941

3 C’S Jazmine Dirks photography

END GAMES CROP CIRCLES

by John Bowitz mixed media

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POETRY

PA G E F R O M T H E PA S T

S PICY SOUTHWEST VEGAN CHILI

BRUISES

Jacob Chauss

Eleanor F. Thorpe, ’43

i made spicy southwest vegan chili last night i couldn’t sleep with our neighbor’s dog barking he shit on our lawn again will you help me search for the hose? it’s good fertilizer and we need to be passive aggressive like your cartomancer said about the situation i used two jalapenos and a half of the can of whole kernel corn so there will be little golden nuggets in our chili

it will be hot and we will still eat it outside after we spray down the shit and watch our one tree shed its skin you called it beautiful but you don’t pick up the leaves i know you like how yellow they get though, and how crunchy they will be next year we can grow our own vegetables and add them to the pot i don’t like fall but I like you and spicy southwest vegan chili

When I had my sixth birthday They said I’d be grown-up, And yet they bought for me A pair of silvered roller-skates, And gave me lessons on the porch; But when I took my bath that night I thought and looked the same Except for those discolored spots Where the porch and I had disagreed.

Now I am nearly twenty, And quite grown-up, they say, And they have given me A pair silvery dancing shoes, A gown, and flowers for my hair To wear this day when I am wed; But still I’ll think and love the same Except for the discolored spots Where life and I will disagree.

Manuscript, Spring, 1941

3 C’S Jazmine Dirks photography

END GAMES CROP CIRCLES

by John Bowitz mixed media

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ART

LITERATURE

Victoria Anthony. I have been a writer for most of my life and generally draw inspiration from personal events. Some of my work is truth, embellished truth, and some is pure fiction. My goal is usually to make the reader feel like they have a window into a person, one who feels so real that you could reach out and slap them for making the wrong decision. I want others to read my poetry or short stories and feel transported from their life into another’s life; I want it to feel real and to say something real about the world or themselves.

Hannah Hecht is a junior English major from Lansing, Kansas.

Swimming is her primary mode of transportation, but her arms are getting tired, so she’d like to live somewhere with a subway system. Her favorite book is To Kill a Mockingbird, and when she grows up, she wants to be a boy wizard.

My name is Bailey Baack. I am a secondary English Education major here at Morningside, with the ultimate goal of being a published YA author. I grew up in Carroll, Iowa, and I can’t wait to graduate and never have to take a math class again.

Hello! My name is Cameron Oakley. It breaks my heart to say this is my last year at Morningside. This May I will be graduating with an English and PoliticalScience major with a Studio Art minor. Next year I will be attending Creighton Law School. Although my future will most likely be filled with legal briefs, memos, and opening statements, I hope I will always have time for writing poetry and prose.

My name is Jacob Chauss. I am from Minnetonka, MN. I like the internet. I am an English-Education major. I am not a robot. I am a man. I am a man, man. Follow me on Twitter and Tumblr.

Doug Collins. I am a non-traditional student that works as a pastor in the local community. I have a life-long love for the arts and a desire to see the people around me live up to their potential. We don’t create or initiate, but we get the chance to participate.

Pablo de la Cruz I’m a 22-year-old Senior Psychology Major.

My dream career is to be a mental health therapist. I am an Aries. I enjoy beach days. For more information, friend request me on Facebook.

Kay Goldsmith graduated from Morningside College in 2003, with a Bachelor of Science degree. Her major is Sociology, minor is English, with an emphasis in writing. In 1995, she was suddenly paralyzed from the waist down, due to a cold virus that attacked the nerve endings in her spinal cord.

This life-altering challenge inspired Kay to share experiences via writing. Kay is an Anatomy Tutor and Writing Consultant at Morningside College.

Dr. Greg P. Guelcher has taught history at Morningside College since 1996, and has by far the coolest office on campus.

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KIOSK14

Katharine Klave is a Hufflepuff who lives in Le Mars, Iowa.

She held a snake once and her dad has a mustache. Her hobbies include Starbucks, selfies, and rum. #basicallybasic

Matthew Ponder is a 2013 graduate from Morningside College. He majored in English and writes poetry. According to Facebook, if you find him a blank sheet of paper, he’ll doodle on it.

Kelci Teut is currently the AmeriCorps Mentor Coordinator for Every Classroom Counts at Big Brothers Big Sisters of Siouxland. Kelci graduated from Morningside College in the spring of 2013 and plans to attend the University of Cincinnati in the fall of 2014 to earn her Master’s in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. Kelci dislikes gendered pronouns and will work to establish non-binary pronouns in English grammar.

Jess Anderson is a senior at Morningside College, majoring in Graphic Design with a minor in Advertising. He is currently the President of AIGA Morningside and some of his interests include design, reading, video games, and music.

Charles Bass is a senior majoring in Studio Art, Philosophy, and Religious Studies. He is a longtime resident of Sioux City.

He is, like most children, convinced that not only is he not to blame for the evil in the world, but that he knows the way to remove it.

John Bowitz was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He has taught Art at Morningside College since 1977.

Matt Hadley is a Graphic Design major in his senior year. He enjoys extreme sports and death metal. He can usually be found watching wrestling on TV and spitting on orphans.

Samantha Hansen is a senior studying Writing and Photography. She is currently spending a semester abroad in England at the University of Oxford. Samantha enjoys experimenting with different photographic techniques as well as photographing the people and places around her. In her spare time, she enjoys going on adventures and quoting her favorite movies.

Emilee Hardy is a Religious Studies major in her senior year.

When she isn’t studying, she can often be found working at Pearl’s Wine and Booze, Buffalo Wild Wings or interning at the Sioux City Art Center..

Amber Burg is a sophomore at Morningside College and is majoring in Photography with a double minor in Journalism and Advertising. She is a member of the Morningside Photo Club and some of her interests include taking pictures, reading, and playing with her dog Meeko.

Kasi Lee is a Senior at Morningside and is majoring in Biology and Business Administration, with a minor in Photography.

Her interests are traveling and spending time with family.

Caitlin Casey is a senior from Emerson, Nebraska. She is double majoring in Corporate Communications and Graphic Design. Photography is one of her favorite hobbies.

Scott Martinson Scott Martinson is a Junior at Morningside and is majoring in Studio Art. He likes to paint and sleep.

Randy A. Chavez was born in Sylmar, CA, on April 15, 1990. He was raised in Mexico and immigrated to the United States at the age of fifteen. He first developed an interest in art while in high school. His focus is on Graphic Design and Photography.

Alejandro Davalos Alex Davalos is a Junior at Morningside College, who majors in Graphic Design and Photography. He spends his free time searching for new music, traveling and working on his art portfolio.

Jazmine Dirks will be graduating from Morningside College this May with a B.S. in Corporate Communications, B.A. in Photography, and a minor in Studio Art. Jazmine, although most fluent in photography, has recently taken a liking to sculpture and other areas of studio art. This August she is anticipating an exciting new adventure of pursuing a Masters of Art in Art Education at the University of Iowa.

Claire May-Patterson is a sophomore at Morningside College and is majoring in Art Education. She grew up in Sioux City and some of her interests include music, traveling, and swimming.

Alexis McKee is a Junior are Morningside College. She is double majoring in Arts Administration and Advertising. She is also minoring in Theatre Management. Her interests include painting, traveling, and binge watching Netflix.

Tymmrie Rath is a senior at Morningside College, majoring in Art Education. She is a member of the National Art Education Association and her interests include crafting, tinkering, and costume design.

Demirae Dunn is a senior Advertising major with a Business minor from Cherokee, Iowa. She recently returned from a semester studying in Sicily, Italy. She hopes to continue traveling after graduation and become an entrepreneur.

My name is Cassandra Vogt, and I am a non-traditional student.

I am married and have two children. I am obtaining my Elementary Ed and K-12 Art Ed degree. I enjoy taking photographs and have my own private photography business. Smile!!

Felicia Ely is a senior at Morningside College and is majoring in Graphic Design with a minor in Advertising. When she is not doing homework, she spends time with her son, Jagger.

Katie Weis is a senior majoring in Art and Special Education who hails from Treynor IA. She works at Beyond the Bell, ULTA Beauty and Charming Charlie.

ART

LITERATURE

Victoria Anthony. I have been a writer for most of my life and generally draw inspiration from personal events. Some of my work is truth, embellished truth, and some is pure fiction. My goal is usually to make the reader feel like they have a window into a person, one who feels so real that you could reach out and slap them for making the wrong decision. I want others to read my poetry or short stories and feel transported from their life into another’s life; I want it to feel real and to say something real about the world or themselves.

Hannah Hecht is a junior English major from Lansing, Kansas.

Swimming is her primary mode of transportation, but her arms are getting tired, so she’d like to live somewhere with a subway system. Her favorite book is To Kill a Mockingbird, and when she grows up, she wants to be a boy wizard.

My name is Bailey Baack. I am a secondary English Education major here at Morningside, with the ultimate goal of being a published YA author. I grew up in Carroll, Iowa, and I can’t wait to graduate and never have to take a math class again.

Hello! My name is Cameron Oakley. It breaks my heart to say this is my last year at Morningside. This May I will be graduating with an English and PoliticalScience major with a Studio Art minor. Next year I will be attending Creighton Law School. Although my future will most likely be filled with legal briefs, memos, and opening statements, I hope I will always have time for writing poetry and prose.

My name is Jacob Chauss. I am from Minnetonka, MN. I like the internet. I am an English-Education major. I am not a robot. I am a man. I am a man, man. Follow me on Twitter and Tumblr.

Doug Collins. I am a non-traditional student that works as a pastor in the local community. I have a life-long love for the arts and a desire to see the people around me live up to their potential. We don’t create or initiate, but we get the chance to participate.

Pablo de la Cruz I’m a 22-year-old Senior Psychology Major.

My dream career is to be a mental health therapist. I am an Aries. I enjoy beach days. For more information, friend request me on Facebook.

Kay Goldsmith graduated from Morningside College in 2003, with a Bachelor of Science degree. Her major is Sociology, minor is English, with an emphasis in writing. In 1995, she was suddenly paralyzed from the waist down, due to a cold virus that attacked the nerve endings in her spinal cord.

This life-altering challenge inspired Kay to share experiences via writing. Kay is an Anatomy Tutor and Writing Consultant at Morningside College.

Dr. Greg P. Guelcher has taught history at Morningside College since 1996, and has by far the coolest office on campus.

72

KIOSK14

Katharine Klave is a Hufflepuff who lives in Le Mars, Iowa.

She held a snake once and her dad has a mustache. Her hobbies include Starbucks, selfies, and rum. #basicallybasic

Matthew Ponder is a 2013 graduate from Morningside College. He majored in English and writes poetry. According to Facebook, if you find him a blank sheet of paper, he’ll doodle on it.

Kelci Teut is currently the AmeriCorps Mentor Coordinator for Every Classroom Counts at Big Brothers Big Sisters of Siouxland. Kelci graduated from Morningside College in the spring of 2013 and plans to attend the University of Cincinnati in the fall of 2014 to earn her Master’s in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. Kelci dislikes gendered pronouns and will work to establish non-binary pronouns in English grammar.

Jess Anderson is a senior at Morningside College, majoring in Graphic Design with a minor in Advertising. He is currently the President of AIGA Morningside and some of his interests include design, reading, video games, and music.

Charles Bass is a senior majoring in Studio Art, Philosophy, and Religious Studies. He is a longtime resident of Sioux City.

He is, like most children, convinced that not only is he not to blame for the evil in the world, but that he knows the way to remove it.

John Bowitz was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He has taught Art at Morningside College since 1977.

Matt Hadley is a Graphic Design major in his senior year. He enjoys extreme sports and death metal. He can usually be found watching wrestling on TV and spitting on orphans.

Samantha Hansen is a senior studying Writing and Photography. She is currently spending a semester abroad in England at the University of Oxford. Samantha enjoys experimenting with different photographic techniques as well as photographing the people and places around her. In her spare time, she enjoys going on adventures and quoting her favorite movies.

Emilee Hardy is a Religious Studies major in her senior year.

When she isn’t studying, she can often be found working at Pearl’s Wine and Booze, Buffalo Wild Wings or interning at the Sioux City Art Center..

Amber Burg is a sophomore at Morningside College and is majoring in Photography with a double minor in Journalism and Advertising. She is a member of the Morningside Photo Club and some of her interests include taking pictures, reading, and playing with her dog Meeko.

Kasi Lee is a Senior at Morningside and is majoring in Biology and Business Administration, with a minor in Photography.

Her interests are traveling and spending time with family.

Caitlin Casey is a senior from Emerson, Nebraska. She is double majoring in Corporate Communications and Graphic Design. Photography is one of her favorite hobbies.

Scott Martinson Scott Martinson is a Junior at Morningside and is majoring in Studio Art. He likes to paint and sleep.

Randy A. Chavez was born in Sylmar, CA, on April 15, 1990. He was raised in Mexico and immigrated to the United States at the age of fifteen. He first developed an interest in art while in high school. His focus is on Graphic Design and Photography.

Alejandro Davalos Alex Davalos is a Junior at Morningside College, who majors in Graphic Design and Photography. He spends his free time searching for new music, traveling and working on his art portfolio.

Jazmine Dirks will be graduating from Morningside College this May with a B.S. in Corporate Communications, B.A. in Photography, and a minor in Studio Art. Jazmine, although most fluent in photography, has recently taken a liking to sculpture and other areas of studio art. This August she is anticipating an exciting new adventure of pursuing a Masters of Art in Art Education at the University of Iowa.

Claire May-Patterson is a sophomore at Morningside College and is majoring in Art Education. She grew up in Sioux City and some of her interests include music, traveling, and swimming.

Alexis McKee is a Junior are Morningside College. She is double majoring in Arts Administration and Advertising. She is also minoring in Theatre Management. Her interests include painting, traveling, and binge watching Netflix.

Tymmrie Rath is a senior at Morningside College, majoring in Art Education. She is a member of the National Art Education Association and her interests include crafting, tinkering, and costume design.

Demirae Dunn is a senior Advertising major with a Business minor from Cherokee, Iowa. She recently returned from a semester studying in Sicily, Italy. She hopes to continue traveling after graduation and become an entrepreneur.

My name is Cassandra Vogt, and I am a non-traditional student.

I am married and have two children. I am obtaining my Elementary Ed and K-12 Art Ed degree. I enjoy taking photographs and have my own private photography business. Smile!!

Felicia Ely is a senior at Morningside College and is majoring in Graphic Design with a minor in Advertising. When she is not doing homework, she spends time with her son, Jagger.

Katie Weis is a senior majoring in Art and Special Education who hails from Treynor IA. She works at Beyond the Bell, ULTA Beauty and Charming Charlie.

A BOUT THE K IOSK

R ECENT AWARDS

“Subject to editorial fallibility, the best will be printed.”

This quotation first appeared in the foreword of the 1938 issue of Manuscript, the predecessor of the Kiosk. In the early years of Morningside, student satire and short fiction was often published in the yearbook, but an idea for a student literary magazine began to grow in 1937 during a meeting of the Manuscript Club. In March, 1938, student and faculty gathered to read aloud stories and poems, which has undergone a screening process; only pieces of “sufficient literary merit” made it to readings, recalled Miriam Baker Nye, first editor. That fall, South Dakota poet laureate Badger Clark visited campus, further fueling student desire for a literary magazine, and so on December 7, 1938, Manuscript was printed and distributed. Response to the publication was instant. One of the stories described students skipping Chapel to go to an ice cream parlor, and the next week President Roadman started taking roll during Chapel.

Over the next several years, students were motivated to submit their work and have their words read and their voices heard. The group published sixteen issues until Manuscript disappeared in 1952. The magazine resumed publication under the name Perspectives in 1955. Students changed the name to Kiosk in 1971 and have continued publications nearly every year since. Advisors over the years have included Donald Stefanson, Carole Van Wyngarden, Janice Eidus, Scott Simmer, Robert Conley, Jan Hodge, Jason Murrary, and for the past 24 years, Stephen Coyne.

While the Kiosk has included cover art in many of its publications, the format of the magazine was revamped in 2006 to include student and alumni-

created art of various media. Art advisors John Kolbo, Terri McGaffin, and Dolie Thompson have assisted student editors in allowing these artistic pieces take a more central role in the magazine.

With the continued support of President John Reynders and the Morningside community, this publication continues to grow and evolve. Since 2006, the Kiosk has won multiple awards from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and Associated Collegiate Press, including a Silver Medalist Award, a Silver Crown Award, four Gold Medalist Awards, and three Magazine Pacemaker Finalist Awards.

Submissions are accepted in the spring semester of each academic year. Literary work is then reviewed by the editorial boards, and recommendations are forwarded to the head editor, who then forwards accepted pieces for judging. Art work is selected by a panel of student judges who represent Morningside’s various art majors. A panel of area artists then selects the award winners. Those interested in working for and/or submitting to the magazine may contact Professor Stephen Coyne by email at coyne@morningside.edu.

2006

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Medalist Associated Collegiate Press Pacemaker Finalist

2007

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist

2008

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist Associated Collegiate Press Pacemaker Finalist

2009

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist

2010

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Crown Award

2012

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist Associated Collegiate Press Pacemaker Finalist

2013

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Crown Award

The Kiosk is published annually by Morningside College and is distributed at no cost to Morningside students and alumni.

The magazine is printed on a digital printing press using four process colors on 80# matte-coated cover and 80# matte-coated book paper stock.

Adobe InDesign CS6 is the page layout software used to assemble the entire publication.

76 Years of the Kiosk 1938

1956

1971

2006

2013

First literary magazine on campus.

Name changed to Perspectives.

Name changed, again, to Kiosk.

Format change introduced more artwork.

Columbia Scholastic Press Assoc. Silver Crown Award.

Copyright 2014 by the Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication all rights revert to the authors and artists. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of the Kiosk staff or Morningside College.

The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be suitable for children.

A BOUT THE K IOSK

R ECENT AWARDS

“Subject to editorial fallibility, the best will be printed.”

This quotation first appeared in the foreword of the 1938 issue of Manuscript, the predecessor of the Kiosk. In the early years of Morningside, student satire and short fiction was often published in the yearbook, but an idea for a student literary magazine began to grow in 1937 during a meeting of the Manuscript Club. In March, 1938, student and faculty gathered to read aloud stories and poems, which has undergone a screening process; only pieces of “sufficient literary merit” made it to readings, recalled Miriam Baker Nye, first editor. That fall, South Dakota poet laureate Badger Clark visited campus, further fueling student desire for a literary magazine, and so on December 7, 1938, Manuscript was printed and distributed. Response to the publication was instant. One of the stories described students skipping Chapel to go to an ice cream parlor, and the next week President Roadman started taking roll during Chapel.

Over the next several years, students were motivated to submit their work and have their words read and their voices heard. The group published sixteen issues until Manuscript disappeared in 1952. The magazine resumed publication under the name Perspectives in 1955. Students changed the name to Kiosk in 1971 and have continued publications nearly every year since. Advisors over the years have included Donald Stefanson, Carole Van Wyngarden, Janice Eidus, Scott Simmer, Robert Conley, Jan Hodge, Jason Murrary, and for the past 24 years, Stephen Coyne.

While the Kiosk has included cover art in many of its publications, the format of the magazine was revamped in 2006 to include student and alumni-

created art of various media. Art advisors John Kolbo, Terri McGaffin, and Dolie Thompson have assisted student editors in allowing these artistic pieces take a more central role in the magazine.

With the continued support of President John Reynders and the Morningside community, this publication continues to grow and evolve. Since 2006, the Kiosk has won multiple awards from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and Associated Collegiate Press, including a Silver Medalist Award, a Silver Crown Award, four Gold Medalist Awards, and three Magazine Pacemaker Finalist Awards.

Submissions are accepted in the spring semester of each academic year. Literary work is then reviewed by the editorial boards, and recommendations are forwarded to the head editor, who then forwards accepted pieces for judging. Art work is selected by a panel of student judges who represent Morningside’s various art majors. A panel of area artists then selects the award winners. Those interested in working for and/or submitting to the magazine may contact Professor Stephen Coyne by email at coyne@morningside.edu.

2006

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Medalist Associated Collegiate Press Pacemaker Finalist

2007

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist

2008

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist Associated Collegiate Press Pacemaker Finalist

2009

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist

2010

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Crown Award

2012

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist Associated Collegiate Press Pacemaker Finalist

2013

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Crown Award

The Kiosk is published annually by Morningside College and is distributed at no cost to Morningside students and alumni.

The magazine is printed on a digital printing press using four process colors on 80# matte-coated cover and 80# matte-coated book paper stock.

Adobe InDesign CS6 is the page layout software used to assemble the entire publication.

76 Years of the Kiosk 1938

1956

1971

2006

2013

First literary magazine on campus.

Name changed to Perspectives.

Name changed, again, to Kiosk.

Format change introduced more artwork.

Columbia Scholastic Press Assoc. Silver Crown Award.

Copyright 2014 by the Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication all rights revert to the authors and artists. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of the Kiosk staff or Morningside College.

The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be suitable for children.

1501 MORNINGSIDE AVE. SIOUX CITY, IOWA 51106 The Morningside College experience cultivates a passion for life-long learning and a dedication to ethical leadership and civic responsibility.