2017: Kiosk Vol 79 by Kiosk

Cel ebrat i ng 79 Y ears o f P u bl i CATION

the art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College

2017

On the Cover WATER ON LEAF by Jesseca Ormond photography

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“Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.”

L ord G eorge G ordon B yron

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Volume 79 2017

the art and Literary Magazine of Morningside College

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Staff EDITOR-IN-CHIEF ASSISTANT EDITORS VISUAL EDITOR

Heather Eisele Brayton Hagge, Allison Linafelter, Alexi Malatare Emma Miller FICTION

Associate Editor

Brayton Hagge

Alexi Malatare

Board Members

Tyler Gandy Ellie Freebern Sara Locke Diane Nguyen

Allison Agee Rachel Bonnichsen John Stajner

Nicole Beaman Shelby Small Kellan Walker

POETRY

COPY EDITORS

Associate Editor

Kristen Brown Amy Carothers Lindsey Smith Mariah Wills

Allison Linafelter Board Members

NON-FICTION

Mattie Carstens Madison Hoff Taylor Hixon Kendall Kumba Madison Monahan Ashley Stagner ART

Associate Editors

Emily Knapp Emma Miller Megan Hart

FACULTY ADVISORS

Steve Coyne John Kolbo Terri McGaffin

About Our Judges: Barbara Rodman is a graduate of the University of Denver (PhD English 1988) and has taught at the University of North Texas since 1992. She has published short stories in a variety of journals including the Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly, Ball State Forum, and others.

Karla Santi is chief executive officer at Blend Interactive, a 20-person web design and development firm she started with two business partners 12 years ago. For more than a decade, Karla designed interactive interfaces and content for brands such as BMW, Dell, and Nintendo and worked on multiple national advertising campaigns. Karla is a 1998 Morningside graduate and as an alumna taught web design and development there for three years.

Benjamin Pratt is a native to Sioux City who is a graduate of Briar Cliff University. He works as an industrial drafter and practices as a visual artist. For the last 10 years, he has focused much of his energy on his paintings. His work has been shown in multiple publications, and has gallery representation. Ben just recently enjoyed the success of his first solo show at the Sioux City Art Center. 6

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Letters From the Editors Submitting to a literary and arts magazine is not so different from loving someone. Both acts take courage beyond measure. The fear of rejection and the hope of acceptance argue within the mind until the victor determines whether or not to share what the heart has kept secret. When hope wins the battle, the writer or artist bares the self to the scrutiny of the selection process and awaits returned interest. Putting a piece of oneself and one’s soul out there to be judged, picked apart, and tweaked for publication mirrors going on a first date and judging, picking apart, and deciding how to tweak that new significant other into someone to spend forever with. If submitting writing and art to a magazine is like falling in love, then surely the most meaningful subject matter is love itself. Stories center on relationships and the events that result from those relationships. Whether the relationship is between an abusive father and devoted son, a doctor and her dying patient, or a divorcing couple, I believe that each piece in this year’s Kiosk demonstrates that stories revolve around love. This year, we celebrate the 79th edition of Kiosk, and we also celebrate Dr. Marty Knepper, the chair of the English department, who is retiring after 33 years of teaching at Morningside. Her love of teaching and love for her students has shaped our campus community, and, while we are sad to see her go, we wish her all the best. Because of her undying support for student writers of all genres over her career, we would like to honor her by dedicating this year’s edition of Kiosk to her. Additionally, I would like to thank everyone who worked on the magazine this year. The associate editors, board members and copy editors have been invaluable to me, and it was an honor to work with each of them. My thanks also go to the faculty adviser of Kiosk, Dr. Stephen Coyne; without his instruction, I would not have learned as much from my mistakes, nor would I have enjoyed as much of my successes. Thanks to Emma Miller, John Kolbo, and Terri McGaffin from the art department for creating such a beautiful, visual experience within the magazine. A special thank you goes to President Reynders for his support of our magazine over the years, and to the English and art departments for their support as well. Marcie Ponder, in particular, has been helpful in every step of the magazine-making process. Most importantly, I would like to thank the contributing authors and

artists of this year’s Kiosk because without them, Kiosk could not exist. I hope that as you read this year’s magazine, you take the time to think about how the relationships in the stories and poems affect you. Allow each work of art to speak to you, and ponder what it is about art and literature that gets right to our hearts. Within each piece, find the connecting force that draws us all together and makes us all human; find the love.

Heather Eisele

Editor-in-Chief

This year was my first year with the Kiosk magazine and I have to admit, it would be hard to turn down if I was offered this position again. Being the visual editor to such a creative and award winning publication made all of the long nights worth it. This was not only a great experience doing things that I love–Graphic Design–but it was amazing to see all of the creative talent we have here at Morningside College. This publication is great for the art community at Morningside because not only are the artists recognized for their hard work and creativity, we all come together and support each other. I hope every student who has ever written a poem or fell in love with drawing decides to submit to the next Kiosk magazine regardless of their field of study. I want to thank Emily Knapp and Megan Hart for their time and expertise in selecting this year’s visual submittions. I would also like to think Editor-In-Chief, Heather Eisele, for dealing with my late night e-mails and for helping this process go so smoothly. A huge thanks goes out to John Kolbo for not only guiding and teaching me, but for always supporting me. I’m so appreciative and proud to be a part of the 79th Kiosk magazine.

Emma Miller

Visual Editor

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Contents LITERATURE

The Life of a Tree

Poetry

When I Wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Looking

Nonfiction

Love, or What Really Matters The Pain Theory Janice

Poetry

Fiction

Poetry

Fighting Fire

Poetry

Mama Always Told Me To Be a Doctor Speak

Poetry

Simplicity Cages

Poetry

Fiction

Man Down

Poetry

The Angelman Alone

Poetry

The Streets of Nashville Faux Stars

Fiction

Bone Orchard

Poetry

Nonfiction

Fiction

A shley Stagner

M aggie Theiler

Amy C arothers

Amanda Girres

Jeraldine Johnson

Anna Zetterlund

A llison Linafelter

Amanda Girres

A lexi M alatare

Amy C arothers

Brayton H agge

K risten Brown

Tyler Nordstrom

M ax H annes K raft

K risten Brown

M ariah Wills

Debbie Sharp

Page from the Past

Lesson in Love

All entries are considered objectively by the judges with no artist names or special consideration for any piece. Editorial staff are eligible for contest placement but not for prize money. 8

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ART

Water on Leaf

Jesseca Ormond

Cover

View from Neuschwanstein

Lexa R ahn

Sunrise in Colorado

Jesseca Ormond

Get a Grip

C assandra Warner

Smooch

C assandra Warner

Beauty After the Storm

R ae Clickenbeard

Sunset in South Sioux

Jesseca Ormond

Jellyfish

Lexa R ahn

Sass

Niccole Wolken

Untitled

Brooke Spencer

Unconditional

Jade Phaly

Contrast

Shaina Le

Horizon Seas

Paul Tucker

Cabin in the Woods

Kyle Still

Puesta Del Sol

Miguel Beltran

Finch Tattoo

Shaina le

Flow Down

Megan Stoberl

Hungry

Jade Phaly

Looking Through the Lens

L auren Lehmkuhl

Reflection

Miguel Beltran

Flooded

A lyssa Nehring

Fake Paris

Emily K napp

Smokey Bokeh

Jessica Quail

Amor

L auren Lehmkuhl

Typography Pineapple

A lyssa Nehring

Coastal Fresh Ads

Emma Miller

Lo’s Jo’s Package Design

lauren

Jellytype

K aitlynn McShane

Tag It Logo

Trey Russell

Magpie Tattoo

Shaina Le

Life Under the “C”

Slater M arshall

Peccato

Niccole Wolken

Lehmkuhl

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P O ETR Y

The Life of a Tree Ashley Stagner

Let me be a tree. Let me stand tall and free. Let my branches bravely stretch and sway in the starlight. Let me bend and bow in the breeze. Let me be a tree. Take me and make a fence. Let me embrace the golden meadow as the feathered grass plays in the wind. Let me be trusty enough to stand as I encompass the life within. Let me be a fence. No. Instead, take me and make a house. Let my raised roof and warm walls encase within my hearty halls the dreamers, the searchers, the lost, and make me their home. Let me be a house.

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No. Instead, take me and make a cello. Let my insides be hollow until the bow is pulled across my strings. Then let my heart vibrate and sing. Let me nurture the song, the voice of the broken canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t resound. Let me be a cello. No. Instead, take me and make a box. Let my lid rest on the lips of the ledge. Let me hold the gems and joys, the tears and letters held dear to the hearts of the wanderers. Let me be a safe space for their keepsakes. Let me be a box. No. Instead, let me be a seed. Let me be planted next to the Eternal River where my roots will run deep. Let the Mighty Penman write my story as His love grows to make its home in my heart. Let Him determine my boundless possibilities. Let me be a seed.

View from Neuschwanstein by Lexa Rahn photography

Sunrise in colorado by Jesseca Ormond photography

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C REATI V E N O N f i c t i o n

When I Wasn’t Looking Maggie Theiler

“S

Hold the

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tation one, medic one, man down,” boomed the monotonous, loud tones from the speakers above, followed by the address we would soon be rushing to. “Dad, Medic one. Is that us?” I asked with a grin on my face. My dad, with his shaved head, tanned skin, crooked nose, and big grin looked almost as excited as I felt. He was a stern-looking man to strangers, but to me he was lighthearted and funny. He was intelligent and quick-witted, and in this moment I saw him in his element; his passion was coming alive. “Yup,” he beamed, and moved away from where we were sitting. Most fire stations nowadays don’t have tall, shaky, brass poles for the firemen to jump fearlessly from the ceiling and back of my shirt slide down at the speed and don’t let go. of light, but Station 1 did. For kids, the rule regarding the poles was that you could only slide down as far as you were able to climb up. I could climb all the way to the top and bang on the hinged covers overhead. It was one of my dad’s favorite things to show off to his buddies. I was the only kid, boy or girl, able to do it. Now, as a teenager, I shied away from the attention, but when no one was looking, I proved to myself I could still do it. On this day, I wouldn’t have time to climb up, so while the excitement commenced, I ran down the stairs quicker than I thought possible. I burst through the doors, my heart racing excitedly, to see my favorite part of a call: the action. Hatches were thrown open from above, and men slid down the poles only to stop inches from the ground. Ambulance doors opened to reveal the bed and supplies within. Everyone ran towards the truck, and the best part happened as we pulled out of the station: the sirens. I had never ridden in an ambulance before and was amazed at how shaky the ride was. I tried to imagine starting IVs, assessing a critical patient, and working to keep a person alive in these conditions. It seemed next to impossible. Being in a vehicle that, for a little bit,

did not heed the normal rules of traffic and rode with reckless abandon was empowering and enthralling. That abandon would soon result in healing. We finally arrived at the scene: the Francis House, a homeless shelter in downtown Omaha. The clientele here was interesting according to the stories my dad brought home. We exited the truck, and my dad sternly whispered in my ear, “Hold the back of my shirt and don’t let go. Stay within an inch of me. Do not move. You are my shadow.” I did as I was told and followed closely behind my dad, sticking to him. The man we were set to pick up was highly intoxicated and unconscious. He lay limp on the floor, near a wall, in the farthest corner of the building. A faint buzz from the fluorescent lights lingered. The air was damp and smelled vaguely of urine. A crowd had formed the instant our ambulance arrived on the scene. We managed to wiggle the stretcher through the slim walkway as the crowd absorbed us. The patient was loaded up on the stretcher, and we began the trek back to the squad. After lots of yelling for people to move, we again pushed our way through the sea of people inching towards the door. Outside, the crisp fall air relieved me of the sour stench. We hopped in and closed the doors to the ambulance. The crowd dispersed as we drove away. Once in the ambulance, chaos ensued. I attempted to stay out of the way, and let the paramedics do their jobs as I eagerly watched from the corner. One paramedic gathered supplies from a cabinet next to me. I curiously looked on. He all but threw them at me and then started shouting as if I had done something wrong, “Are you going to start the IV, or are you just going to stand there staring?” This question got me thinking. Why was I here? My dad had talked me into a ride along that day. “Wear a plain colored polo with khaki pants and your hair pulled back,” he had instructed. So here I was, spending a Saturday night with a bunch of middle-aged men in a stuffy fire station. What had made me say yes? Was this for me? On a warm, summer afternoon when I was

eight, the entire neighborhood was out to play. At the suggestion of a game of hide and seek, everyone was immediately excited. My sister, Nina, was chosen to be it first. She sulked slowly to base with a disheartened frown and began counting. I began to search for the perfect hiding place. I scanned the yard and tested a few places, quickly realizing they were not up to par. I then ran into the garage, which served as a cool respite from the sweltering summer heat. I stepped into the welcoming shade and gave my eyes a moment to adjust. With time running out, I settled for a small space between the back wall and the front of the car just wide enough for my little body to squeeze into. There, I waited in the dark, damp garage, crouched, coiled, and ready to take off when the moment came. I waited with no sign of my sister for so long that my knees began to hurt from squatting. I debated adventuring towards base with hopes of winning. As I debated the possibility, Nina turned the corner and entered the garage. She paused a second to let her eyes adjust and scanned her surroundings. I held my breath and waited to see what she would do, where she would look, and where my escape route would be. She began walking directly towards me, looking in my direction, but not at me. My heart was racing as I crouched just a little lower and slid slowly to my left. As I moved, the skin directly below my right eyebrow slid along the top of the license plate in front of me causing a gash to run parallel with my eyebrow. I was bleeding, and it hurt, but I was not going to lose this game. Nina turned and ran from the garage. She hadn’t seen me. This was my chance. She left the garage and turned right, still searching for the other participants. I sprinted left towards base. I felt the blood drip, and some got into my eye, clouding my vision. I could still see clearly in one eye as I sprinted towards the tree that was base. I looked behind me to see if Nina was chasing me. She was not alone. Everyone chased me now, screaming wildly and trying to get me to stop. I wouldn’t fall for that; I was going to win. There was no way anyone was tagging me. I was so close to base, just a few more steps.

I felt a sense of pride as I playfully tapped the tree. I turned around to see a crowd of people staring at me in awe, and another drop of blood fell directly into my eye. My sister yelled across the street for my mom, who had been outside with my little brother, in the yard. My mom bolted into action by throwing a towel at me and instructing me to hold pressure. She herded me towards the car and sent my siblings to stay with the neighbor. In the car, I pulled down the visor, opened the mirror and revealed the horror movie that had become my face. While running to base, the blood which flowed from my wound streaked my face along my forehead back towards my hairline. Stripes of blood littered my face. I closed the mirror and stared straight ahead as my mom weaved through Omaha traffic. I wondered to myself: What kind of scar am I going to have? Will I need stitches? Am I going to be able to play in my softball game tomorrow? At least I got to base safe. I WON! I hadn’t panicked, hadn’t been worried, and the pain was finally starting to set in. Seven stiches later, I was back home. Ready for another round of hide and seek, this time I would avoid hiding anywhere near cars.

get a grip by Cassandra Warner conté crayon

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but I was

Later that summer, June bugs sang along to the elated giggles of children catching lightening bugs, which illuminated the night sky in staggered twinkles. The warm, humid air sent beads of sweat streaming down the faces of the joyous children. This night was the most picturesque portrayal of an Omaha summer on a residential street. The low rumble of I-80 nearby added a slight buzz to the already noisy front yard, with an abrupt honk of the horn every so often and the smooth rumble of tire treads on concrete. It was my dad’s birthday, June 22nd. Neighborhood friends came over for a barbeque to celebrate. The smell of hamburgers hung in our noses. While the children played in the front yard, the parents drank on the back porch. The house made a perfect barricade between adults’ conversation and children’s play. As the night wore on, new games were being made and put into action. One in particular, created by my sister, was the game that ruined the evening. She grabbed I was bleeding, and it hurt, a softball bat from the garage, and we watched not going to lose this game. as she began hitting lightening bugs, as if each one were a fastball down the middle, bottom of the 9th, down by one, a trip to the World Series on the line. It soon became a game; everyone took a turn to see how many lightening bugs would meet their demise in one minute. My brother, Ben, who was six at the time, insisted on catching the insects, instead of killing them. He boasted that he wouldn’t need a nightlight that night, because all the bugs would be so bright. He carried his glass jar with him around the yard snatching the bugs midflight as they hovered low enough for him to grab, while the chaos with the bat ensued around him. In baseball, the crack of the bat means good, solid contact; this night it meant the same, but without a ball. In slow motion, I saw my sister swing and hit a lightening bug. She continued her follow through. My brother stood too close. The tip of the bat made solid contact with the tip of my brother’s finger, pinching it between the lip of

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the jar and the metal of the bat. Blood immediately began to flow and I heard a pained shriek escape his lips. He dropped the unshattered jar and froze in pure shock. His brown eyes opened wide; his jaw dropped. I sprinted across the yard to my brother, grabbed his hand, set it in mine, and rushed him towards my father. Everyone else stood motionless and terrified as I pulled Ben towards the house. My baby brother was almost missing thr tip of his pointer finger, which was hanging on by mere threads of skin. Blood dripped through my fingers and onto the ground, leaving a trail behind us. The nearly severed finger lay limp in my palm. My dad, upon seeing the chaos and assessing my brother’s finger, threw a towel around his hand, and whisked him out the front door towards his truck. Off they went down our street, towards the hospital, where Ben’s finger would be reattached. “Dude, she’s sixteen. That’s my daughter!” my dad said as he worked to get the man’s vital signs taken. I snapped back to reality as I heard my dad’s voice. I hadn’t even realized I had yet to respond to the situation in front of me. I turned to see how the paramedic was reacting. “Oh, sorry, man. I thought she was an EMT student,” the paramedic said. He turned and inserted the IV himself while the ambulance bumped and bounced through potholes en route to the hospital. I watched in utter fascination. In this moment I began to think: I would’ve liked to start the IV. I wonder how you do it? What is the technique behind this? Is it difficult to do? They are assessing him now, what are they looking for? How can I get to do this? I want to do this. I never thought about how, in high intensity situations, I always seemed to jump into action while others stood and watched. I thought what I did was normal; it was just instinct. I never thought twice about what I did or how I was reacting. Crisis brought out the best in me. When I told my parents I wanted to be a nurse, it was as if they already knew. I never thought nursing was where I belonged, but nursing had a way of finding me.

P O ETR Y

Love, or What Really Matters Amy Carothers

Love is that album you played for a month straight, lying on your back in your bed, phone in hand, heart-bass beating in time. Love is 3 AM with your head in your best friend’s lap, hair cascading over thighs, whispering about Netflix and changing your major.

Love is found in the pollen-snagged hairs of a bumblebee, or in the stanza you slaved over for a week to get perfect. Look: it’s right here.

Love is a fuel gauge with the needle pointing to full. You’ve rolled the windows down, with shades on your eyes and dollar dice dangling on the rearview. Love is dulcet sunshowers in a dripping dawn, falling from clear skies to splatter the leaves, petrichor wafting from thirsty soil. Love is a savory pot roast with thick-sliced potatoes, carrots, celery, Dad’s gravy, and a fat slice of oven-hot cornbread with melty butter. Love, true love, is a bonfire spewing sparks toward the stars, char-black hotdogs and a grainy-sand beach. You stretch on the ground beneath the pinpricks of light sewn into a watercolor scrim of yellows and blues. Acutely aware of the asteroids above, you are swollen in the light of something much greater than yourself.

smooch by Cassandra Warner graphite

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FI C TI O N

THE PAIN THEORY Amanda Girres

Imagine your life is a notebook. A line is a week, a page is a year, and your life is the notebook. In theory, you turn over the ink-filled page at the end of the year and start over on a clean sheet. Except you can’t. See, when you write, you’re not just leaving a mark on the present page. Your words are already permanently dented on the next, each letter of your past ghosted into your future. In reality, there is no such thing as a fresh start, which is a shame because I could use one right about now. I cringe as the harsh sunlight beats through a cheap, white hospital curtain, and I examine my surroundings: a Your words are already permanently stiff-looking couch, an old TV, and some dented on the next, each letter of your motivational posters past ghosted into your future. that haven’t really been motivating me all that much. Then I register the awful beeping noise of that machine you see in the movies. “Oh good,” I think, “I’m still alive.” My eyes fall to a pile of books on the table by my bed. Mom must have dropped those off. I notice a handwritten sticky note crinkled on top of the pile. I reach over and clasp it, scanning over my mom’s cursive: Lannie, I brought these by for when you feel up to it, but don’t strain yourself. Your father and I will be back in a few hours. We just heard that the other driver is stable and that both of you are expected to be just fine. In the meantime, try to relax. Everything is going to be fine, sweetheart. It could have been so much worse. We love you! Mom and Dad The accident. The realization hasn’t hit me yet. I know it will eventually, but for now, all I feel is a tingly numbness beneath my skin and a dull pulse of depression. I nearly killed a stranger. I almost stopped his heart from pumping blood and his lungs from 16

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taking in air. I almost stopped him from loving his friends, family and anyone else he cared about. I know that when the shock wears off, I’m going to be scared that I have the power to do something like that. Granted, he almost killed me too. Here’s the thing about driving on New Year’s Eve: you’re drunk, and so is everyone else. If you cross the centerline just a little bit, and some other drunken asshole happens to do the same, you’re suddenly involved in a head-on collision. This is exactly what happened to me, according to a witness. Naturally, I’m not in great shape—a broken leg, two broken ribs, a concussion, and a lifetime of regret. Though the emotional part doesn’t hurt all that much right now, it will. I call it the bicycle effect because it’s like falling off a bike. It doesn’t hurt at first. You stand up, laugh and say you’re okay or whatever. It takes a second or two to actually feel the pain, but when you do, it hurts like hell. For now, I’m going to push off the bicycle effect for as long as possible and repress my memories of the accident. The doctors tell me that I shouldn’t even have memories. They explain that I almost died, that I should have died. In my almost-dying moments, I shouldn’t have been conscious enough to remember anything, but I do.

I I. “Stretcher! I need a stretcher!” “She’s losing blood fast!” “And the boy?” “Hardly breathing!” Somehow, I hear the voices through my throbbing ears, though I think it’s my head that hurts. I can’t tell anymore. I hear some other words: party, New Year’s, drunk… What have I done? The spinning red and blue lights of the ambulance stretch upward into the night sky through my blurred vision. They dance off the shards of

glass shattered around me. I feel the warmth of blood pooling below me, and in the very corner of my sight, I can see it seeping into the deathstained snow. I think that this will be my dying thought, but just before I close my eyes, a man comes into focus in front of me. When I see him, it’s like I’m detached from everything in the world. I can’t even feel the pain anymore. It’s like I’m floating. Every detail of his flawlessly chiseled face becomes perfectly clear to me: the well-defined line of his jaw, the thin curve of his lips, the concerned arch of his thick eyebrows. I meet cerulean eyes that shimmer with fear behind square, thick-framed glasses. Waves of obsidian hair are somewhat slicked back. He looks like… “Superman?” I ask. “Not quite,” he says firmly. There’s a lightness to his voice, and for a moment, I swear on the sliver of a life I have left that I see him smirk. “Hang on just a little bit longer,” he says. I hear a twinge of uncertainty in his voice. “Promise me you’ll try?” he asks. The pain returns, mercilessly pulsing through my whole body, and my vision blurs again. His words don’t make sense to my bleeding brain. Maybe they aren’t supposed to. When I feel my blood-crusted lips part to ask him, I realize that he’s gone. Had he really ever been there? My eyes burn. I can’t keep them open anymore. I feel myself slipping into unconsciousness. The last thing I see is a medic running toward me before my eyes flutter closed. Sorry, Superman. I can’t keep that promise.

I I I. “That’s the last thing I remember,” I explain to my mom for the third time this week. “But I saw a man,” I argue. “I remember it.” She gives me that signature look that mothers give when they feel sorry for you. “There was no man, sweetie.” She pulls her thin, honey-blonde hair back before leaning in to press her cold lips

against my forehead. It feels nice. I jump at the click of the door handle turning. “Good morning, Miss Elaina!” the doctor greets me. Jesus, he sounds like my mother. “Lannie,” I correct him. I probably sound like a bitch. Since I almost killed a man, I decide I’m

probably a bitch anyway. “How are you feeling today?” he asks. I try not to cringe at his optimistic tone. Tufts of gray hair stick out from his balding head, and a miniature pair of spectacles rest on the bridge of his wrinkled nose. He has a clipboard clutched between his bony white fingers. “Peachy,” I say without thinking. I don’t think my brain is ready for thinking yet. “Excellent!” he continues, either not understanding my sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. “I have some news for you!” I bite my lip, expecting the worst. “The x-rays on your leg came back, and it looks like it will be almost good as new in a few months.” He begins pointing to various black and white blobs on a screen, speaking in a language quite foreign to me. I nod and pretend to understand. “So in other words,” he tells me, “the bone will

beauty after the storm by Rae Clickenbeard photography

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I might

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heal, and so will everything else.” “What good news,” I say. I mostly mean it, though it doesn’t sound that way. “On the other hand,” he begins, “the bone in your leg won’t be exactly the same.” Of course there’s a catch. He continues with doctor speak that makes absolutely no sense to my poor, concussed head, but I manage to understand something about the bone being sensitive to cold temperatures, something I have to live with for the rest of my life, I suppose. I think back to my notebook theory. It’s funny really. I have had this theory that New Year’s Eve is really just an excuse to mess up one last time, like a new year means that nothing in the past matters anymore because we get If I were my heart, to start over. I’ve made try to escape, too. my mistake, and I’m starting over. But if you squint, you can still see last year’s words etched into my new page. My leg will heal, but it will always hurt. Mistakes like this don’t just disappear come New Year’s Day. “Well, Miss Elaina,” the doctor interrupts my thoughts. “Lannie,” I interrupt him back. “Well, Miss Lannie,” he corrects with a fake smile, “we’re all done for today!” “Okay.” “Rest up,” he says, striding toward the door. The poor man probably wants to get the hell away from me. “You should be able to go home in about a week!” The door closes, and I sense with my college kid senses that Mom isn’t too pleased with me. “Elaina Rose!” she scolds. “These people saved your life! At the very least you could act grateful!” “Sorry, Mom,” I say. I’m not in a mood to argue. “This isn’t a joke, Elaina.” She sighs. “You almost died, and you almost killed someone in the process. Why do I feel like this is all a big joke to you?” I don’t respond. Not because she’s right or anything, I just know she wouldn’t understand. See, I have a pain theory. There are two ways to cope with pain. Some people deal with it the

hard way. They cry and scream and let the thing that hurt them keep hurting them and eating away at them until there’s nothing left. I deal with pain the less painful way. I refuse to let myself dissolve into sadness. What kind of person would I be without my witty, sarcastic sense of humor? I deal with pain by pretending it doesn’t exist. Not because I’m heartless. It’s just the only way I know how.

I V. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” My mom asks me. I hesitate. I haven’t felt this much emotion since before the accident. This brings me to part two of my pain theory. See, there are two kinds of pain: physical and emotional. You can’t have an equal amount of both. One is always worse, so it overshadows the other. In my case, the physical pain overshadows the mental pain. After all, a person can only experience so much pain at once, and at maximum pain, you die. Pain is finite. So according to my theory, the reason my emotions have been so dulled is because my body hurts so badly. Now that physical pain is fading, my repressed feelings are stabbing at me from the inside. “I don’t think I can move on until I do this,” I say. I notice the tears shimmering in the corners of her dull green eyes, almost like this is harder for her than it is for me. The pale skin beneath her eyes and at the corners of her chapped pink lips wrinkles with age and exhaustion. I feel bad for the poor woman. I give her a nod of reassurance before pushing off, crutches-first, from the safety of my room. Kendall Clarkson, the man I almost killed, is recovering just a few halls down from me. Yesterday, he asked to meet me, and I gave my consent. I actually want to meet him too. The doctors tell me he’s doing fine, but I need to know for sure. If I don’t, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to make my

emotional recovery. Somehow, I think he might feel the same way. So I stumble along clumsily down the wide hallway. My mom holds her arms out nervously as we walk, almost as if she actually thinks she could catch me if I fell. A nurse leads the way. I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous before. My sweaty hands keep slipping against the slick handle of my crutches, and the “soft” part at the top digs mercilessly into my aching armpits. I decide that crutches suck. Suddenly, I feel extremely lightheaded, and the tip of my nose begins to tingle with numbness. My stomach burns like I just took a shot of vodka, and my heart throbs uncontrollably. For a moment, I swear I can see it pounding beneath my skin, as if it’s trying to escape. I don’t blame it. If I were my heart, I might try to escape too.

I try to calm myself down, but the closer we get, the more terrified I become. What if he blames this solely on me? What if he’s angry? Or worse, what if he’s in horrible condition and the doctors lied to make me feel better? Oh God. What if he’s dead, and my family hired someone to pretend to be him so I didn’t feel so guilty? “Are you okay, Lannie?” Mom asks. Moms have that sixth sense where they just know stuff. “I’m just nervous is all,” I say. It’s the truth, though I’m not sure she believes it. “If you aren’t ready to move around this much yet, we can get you a wheelchair,” the nurse says. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” “No,” I insist, “I’m fine.” It’s half true. I see the room up ahead where the nurse stopped. Through the open door, I see the light from the window shimmering against the tiled

sunset in south sioux by Jesseca Ormond photography

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floor, and the image seems inviting enough. Still, I’m horrified. “God, I think I need more morphine,” I mumble. No one hears me.

JELLYFISH by Lexa Rahn photography

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“Good morning, Kendall!” the nurse greets him, walking into the room. I remain just outside. “Good morning, Sadie,” a voice answers. He sounds healthy enough, polite even, not on the brink of death or anything. His voice is strong, friendly, and…familiar somehow? “Kendall, someone is here to meet you this morning!” the nurse says, motioning for me to enter the room. I take a deep breath and clutch onto my crutches for support. I feel my mom give me an encouraging push on the back as I step forward. “This is Lannie,” she introduces me. Right on cue, I stumble into the room. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about her!” I ignore the nurse’s optimistic talk about us getting to know each other better and something about us benefiting each other by overcoming emotional trauma together. All I can focus on is the person sitting on the hospital bed. His deep blue eyes study me behind square, thick-framed glasses. Black waves of hair stand up messily on his head, and dark bushy eyebrows arch upward with confusion. But his face…I’ve seen him before. “Have we,” I hesitate, “have we met before?” Suddenly the firm line of his jaw relaxes, and his thin lips twist upward with understanding, as if he’s figured something out. Eventually, I do too.

P O ETR Y

JANICE Jeraldine Johnson

In the newspaper Is your photo. You’re wearing your Girl Scout uniform. Your obituary: died at ninteen of a “criminal abortion.” It was 1962. No pill. No Roe v. Wade. No mercy. Just secrets and shame to suffer alone. Friends went to the church together but you were alone and despairing. Friends joined to memorialize, to tell the stories

And for today’s young women

and the “remember whens.”

who were too young to say no,

But you died alone.

who were unconscious,

Alone.

who were forced,

sass by Niccole Wolken photography

who made a mistake, Now, all these years later,

who thought it was love,

to hear the word “abortion”

who might have to choose,

brings back the grief for you, Janice.

or might not have a choice.

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P O ETR Y

FIGHTING FIRE Anna Zetterlund

Poems are written about her—

Do you ever wonder if she resents the rain?

the girl with fire in her heart.

Maybe she’s afraid that her strength

The one who ignites the souls

makes her unreachable.

of those she encounters.

That no one can love a storm.

She leaves the world in a better

Or maybe she’s afraid that her fire

state than she found it.

will consume her, that she will just

There is power in her touch, hope

burn and burn until only ash remains.

on her breath, and love burning deep in her heart.

Maybe her fear is of inadequacy.

Her eyes tell ten thousand stories at once.

That her hurricane love will never

She’s a mess of passion and chaos.

quench the thirsty world.

It’s a glorious thing to watch her storms swell.

Maybe she’s afraid of all of it. Maybe she spends her nights throwing water on the fire, trying desperately to put it out. In fits of tears and anguish, she cries out against her gift. Guilt overwhelms her as the fire fights back. “How dare you detest me? You need me. I am what makes you special.” So she sits, defeated and lets the storm rage on, a horrid mixture of fire and salt water, wishing with everything in her that instead of being fire, she could just be warm.

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untitled by Brooke Spencer photography

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FI C TI O N

MAMA ALWAYS TOLD ME TO BE A DOCTOR Allison Linafelter

ou’d think that leaving school would be the best part of my day, but it’s not. Not by a long shot, as my dad would say. Today is no different at Roosevelt Junior High, or, as I like to call it, Hell on Earth. Standing around and waitin’ for Mama to come pick me up is prime time for some idiot to try and mess with me. It’s even worse when Mama, dressed in her dingy waitress uniform, has to drive Dad’s old beat up truck that rattles and gushes smoke even when it’s standin’ still. It really ain’t that bad for most of the others, at least. Their moms drive nice cars and don’t smell like stale cigarette smoke. I’m a Reynolds boy though, and we’re bad news. Actually, “bad news” is probably the nicest thing I’ve Actually “bad news” is been called around here. probably the nicest thing I’ve And it’s not all from the been called around here. other kids either. “White trash,” “stupid,” “inbred…” I’ve heard it all from just about everyone. From Tanya with her blonde braids to Ms. Higgins, even. Right now though, I’m just tryin’ to get out of this place without too much attention. I always end the day with art class. I chose that one because I knew it was in one of the last time slots, and it’s art, so it’s gotta be easy to sneak out of, right? Wrong. Mr. Stewart, or “Mr. Stalin” as I like to call him, doesn’t let anything get past his notice. At least all the other kids get the same treatment as me from him. We’re all in lockdown the minute the bell rings for class to start, and there’s no way I’m gonna get out of here until the end bell rings. That doesn’t mean I’m not gonna try anyways. I look over to see Mr. Stalin’s skinny frame hunched over Brice. That kid is an idiot; he doesn’t know a paintbrush from a pencil, and Mr. Stalin lets him know it. “Brice, how many times have I told you?” I hear him quietly ask the buckteeth stickin’ out of Brice’s face. No one can look away from those things when Brice’s got his dumbfounded mouth open, which is pretty much all the time. “Told me what, Mister?” Brice asks. I can’t tell if he’s being intentionally obnoxious, or if he 24

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genuinely doesn’t remember. I’m pretty sure every kid in this class knows exactly what Mr. Stalin is about to say. Do not. I think, right before he says it. “Do not,” he says, and I grin. Brice is really gonna get it this time, and be the perfect distraction. Use. I think as I carefully slide out of my chair, careful not to scrape it along the tiled floor. “Use,” Mr. Stalin echoes. He’s already starting to get louder, and I can just imagine the red flush that’s gotta be creeping up his neck by now. Your fingers, I continue. I reach down to grab my duct taped backpack strap, and I glance up to see that Mr. Stalin’s back is fully turned away from me now. Perfect. “Your fingers,” he spits out as his big hands hit the table in front of him. To paint! I finish, just as I reach the door right behind me. The class is dead silent by now. Everybody’s just starin’ right at the car crash that’s happenin’ in front of them. “To paint!” I hear him yell as I close the door behind me. I make sure the handle is pushed down so the door won’t click as I close it. I take one last look through the little window on the door and see that Tanya’s lookin’ right back at me. She opens her mouth to tattle. I grin and wave, then turn around and book it down the deserted hallway to freedom. Thanks Brice, I think. You’re finally gettin’ your comeuppance and I’m gettin’ the heck out of here! I take the side exit to the playground so I don’t have to walk by the front desk and give Mrs. Sully some big excuse. Even if I actually had just thrown up all over the classroom with the remains of a sloppy joe covering my shirt as evidence, she still wouldn’t believe me. I make it outside, and the sun shining makes the dandelions dotting the grass look even brighter. I walk to the far corner of the yard to my usual spot. There’s a gap at the bottom of the chain link fence that keeps all us kids in here. During recess, I used to scratch at the ground underneath it with my fingers or a stick to make the gap big enough for me to fit. Sure, I

might’ve ripped a nail off once or twice, and I got teased extra for my poor, dirty hands, but it was worth it. I push my backpack through the dusty dirt to the other side, and I army crawl under the fence, careful to not get caught by the metal sticking out at the bottom. Mama would kill me if I ripped this shirt; it’s one of the few that still fits me after I “grew like a weed” all summer long. I’m honestly surprised that they didn’t put up barbed wire at the top of this fence, but maybe they felt it would’ve made the school feel too much like a prison. I look back one last time before trudging through the long grass and prickly weeds covering the abandoned lot next to the school. I’m sure Mrs. Sully will find out from Mr. Stalin that I left class, and she’ll call home in a rage, ready to tell Mama how bad she is at raising her kids. Hopefully Mama isn’t home when that happens, because otherwise Mrs. Sully will learn some new phrases she’s never heard before. And then I’ll get the beating of a lifetime because of how angry Mama will be at her. Either that, or she’ll be so mad that she’ll forget why Mrs. Sully called in the first place, and I’ll get away until she remembers or Randy tells on me. He really is the worst older brother a kid could have. I’m sweating before I even reach the sidewalk. Tennessee doesn’t really have a spring; we just go straight into the scorching summer. I hold onto my backpack straps to help with the weight. I didn’t have time to drop anything off at my locker, plus Mama will think I brought home my books to study or something, so maybe she won’t be so mad at me when I walk through the front door early. Cars whiz by me as I march on home. The sidewalk is so cracked I can’t help but break my mother’s back with every step. I make it through the run-down “downtown” of our little town, and pretty soon I’m surrounded by little clapboard houses with more wood than paint showing through. At least there are trees over here to keep the blinding sun out of my eyes. A couple more blocks and I can see my overgrown front yard. Dad hasn’t had the strength to mow it what with

his accident at work and all. A dirty red van pulls over next to me; it’s the lady from work that Mama carpools with. She rolls down her window and yells through chomps of her gum, “Joshua, what’re you doing here?”

“Hi Clarice,” I say. “I got outta school early today.” “Uh huh,” she says, lookin’ at me with her eyebrows raised over her big, bug-eyed sunglasses. “I swear it Clarice!” I say, givin’ her a winnin’ smile. “Whatever you say, Joshua,” she says, and I’m sure she’s rollin’ her eyes under those sunglasses. “Just run on home before your Mama drives off to

unconditional by Jade Phaly print

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that I

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pick you up from school.” “Yes, ma’am,” I say, and she drives off listening to her and Mama’s favorite country station. I waddle the last couple feet to our driveway that’s lined with cracks. I see Mama unlock the dingy blue truck that I hate so much, and I reach up to poke her on her bony shoulder. She yells as she turns to see who startled her, and I have to laugh. Her hand even flew up to cover her heart, just like if she were a damsel in distress or somethin’. “Joshua Lee,” she yells, “what in the Sam Hill are you doin’ here, and why do you think it’s a good idea to scare your mother like that!?” I laugh again and smile, Mama sure is easy to sneak up on. “Sorry Mama, I just couldn’t help it!” She rolls her eyes and puts her hands on her Dad always tells me hips with the key to the got Mama’s smarts and truck still trapped in her her charming style. strong hands. “Alrighty then, so why aren’t you at school?” she asks, giving me a very pointed look. Her red lips are already thin, but when she purses them at me, it’s like they disappear completely. “Uhhh, Mr. Sta-,” I start, “Mr. Stewart let us out early!” “Mhmm,” she says, not changing her look. “And why is that?” “I got done with my art project early Mama, you know how I am.” She sighs and then turns to unlock the car. She still has to pick up the twins from the elementary school. “I know you’re smart Joshua, and I also know that you hate that school with your whole soul.” “Mama, I don’t hate the school…” I say. It’s true really, learnin’ stuff is easy for me. It’s just the people I hate. “Joshua, just get in the house and get your homework done, I have to go—” “Pick up the twins,” I finish for her. “I know Mama, I will.” She gets in the truck and turns the

key. It growls to a start, and she has to practically yell for me to hear her. “Joshua, you’re just gonna have to grin and bear it. You know those kids don’t mean nothin’ by any of it.” “Yeah yeah,” I say, looking at our sagging front porch and the ripped screen door peppered with duct tape. “And I just have to turn the other cheek…” “And show them you’re the better person,” she says, returning the favor for me interruptin’ her earlier. She slams the truck door shut with a creak, and checks the rearview mirror before rumbling away. She reaches the end of the driveway and cranks down the window to yell, “Now get your homework done!” I wave in response and smile, and she waves back with a similar grin on her face. Dad always tells me that I got Mama’s smarts and her charming smile, and from him I got the attitude of a rebel. Nobody tells me what to do unless it’s him or Mama, and that’s the way I like it. I turn away from the street and take the last steps of my grueling journey. Home ain’t much, what with the chipped paint and the faint smell of tobacco, but it’s mine. I’d better actually do that homework to get on Mama’s good side and make up for leavin’ school early. She comes home with the twins in tow, and all I hear are pots and pans banging in the kitchen for a while. She must’a finally gotten dinner in the oven and got a break when I hear “Joshua Lee Reynolds, get your ass in here!” I bound down the stairs from my room and run into the kitchen. Us kids know that you don’t ignore Mama Reynolds when she uses your full name. I careen around the corner to the kitchen, slipping on the linoleum in my socks. I turn to face Mama, and she glares at me in all her motherly glory, in an apron with her hair up in a bandana, no less. “What did I tell you about runnin’ in the house?” she asks. “Sorry Mama, I just wanted to answer your call as quickly as I could,” I say, looking up at her through my eyelashes. I sure hope she’s forgiven me for skippin’ outta art class. “Oh, don’t you start that mister,” she says, and

I quickly lose my pout. “You’re in trouble, and it’s not because I found you here instead of at school today!” Uh-oh, I think as I search through my brain, trying to figure out which offense she could be talking about. “Trouble?” I ask as innocently as possible, fishing for some kind of clue. She’s got a slip of paper in her hand, and I try to get a look at it without her noticing. Her blue eyes tighten and she pulls the paper closer to her, so I can’t see it. Dammit. “Yes,” she says with a tone that means I’m really about to get it, “trouble.” That last word feels like a shot through my chest. “What kind of trouble?” I ask, still hoping to get out of this as painlessly as possible. “The bad kind,” she says, and I gulp. I hope whatever it is, dad doesn’t know about it yet. She holds up the piece of paper in her hand and asks, “Do you know what this is?” “Well, maybe if I could see it…” I reply, and then wince as she rolls it up and whacks me with it. Yeah, I probably deserved that. “You better watch your mouth right now, mister. You’re in deep enough shit as it is!” she says, somehow managing to look even madder as she glares at me. “Sorry Mama,” I say, looking down at my toes. At least I can rely on them to not yell at me. She wipes at her brow and sighs, pushing the baby wisps of brown hair escaping her bandana away from her face. “Josh, I just checked the mail,” she says, and I furrow my brows trying to figure out what that had to do with me. “This is your report card from school.” That’s it; tell my friends and siblings goodbye, my funeral will be tomorrow. “Do you know what grade you got in math?” she asks, hammering home the final nail in my coffin. I slowly look up at her and answer, “No…” I never do my math homework, it just makes sense to me, so why should I? Miss, sorry Ms. Higgins is always waitin’ for me to fail a test, but I never do. She might’ve been praying the last time we took a test because she wanted to fail me so bad. She sighs again; I think I’ve taken at least five years off of this woman’s life. “You got a ‘D’ Josh,”

and I nod, letting my bottom lip start to stick out. “That’s basically failing.” “I know Mama, but it’s just so boring and Ms.—” “Oh, don’t you give me none of that boy,” she interrupts, and I notice the fire from earlier is back in her eyes. It’s probably best for me to just keep my mouth shut and take whatever she decides to dish out. I’ve caused too much trouble today to get out of this one that easily. “You remember what I always tell you about school? Dammit, now I have to answer her. “Well yeah, I always remember what you tell me, mama,” I reply as sweetly as I can. I don’t, and she knows it, but it’s worth a shot. “I’ll let that one slide for now,” she says, “and I told you to do well in school!” Ugh, not this again. She knows those kids all bully me, and I already know most of the stuff they teach us anyways! Plus, the teachers already hate me because I’m a Reynolds boy, and, like I said, we’re bad news. I tell mama such, but she just tucks my report card in her stained apron, and gets ready to preach. “You and I both know how those yuppies feel about our family, but that doesn’t mean you have to give them what they want.” “But mama, Ms. Higgins—!” “No buts mister,” she interjects, “you just have to rise above what they think of you.” “Mama—” “Now Joshua Lee, you’re a smart boy,” she says, trying her best to look encouraging. She ain’t used to it though. It looks funny, like she’s trying to remember if she left the stove on or not. “You gotta succeed in school to get out of this town, and then…” “Then I can go on to medical school, be a doctor, and take care of you when you’re old. I know, I know.” I give her a wry smile; she might make a good kid outta me yet. She pulls me in for a hug, and a cloud of flour puffs up from her apron. “I love you Josh,” she says in my ear, “but Lord help me, you’re impossible!”

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P O ETR Y

SPEAK

Amanda Girres

I am speaking in silence, but no one is listening. Or rather, their thunder hearts beat so loudly they can’t hear— they won’t hear— a heart that is not their own. My heart beats, swirls, and flips beneath the tsunami of their endless arrogance. I’m running recklessly fast, but it’s me against the tide,

and it sweeps me back to the start, and the confidence I’ve created slips through the cracks of my doubt and tumbles into rubble. It’s like being a Jenga tower. I build myself up but they take and take and take away my pieces until I’m too weak to stand on my own. I collapse. But the best part of being a Jenga tower is that I can always be rebuilt with the high hope that maybe next time I will not topple under the weight of their hands, fat with arrogance and scarred deep with sickening disdain. And this—this is my moment. While they may be the sun beating hot with light of day, I am the speckled silver stars twinkling bright against the night. And I exult in my ability to shine even when it’s dark. So I will keep crying, shouting, fighting, kicking, yelling, and screaming, until someone finally hears me. contrast by Shaina Le digital

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P O ETR Y

SIMPLICITY Alexi Malatare

Words adorning a page weave intricate little tales and speak of the sweet smell of lilacs swaying in a country breeze. Butterflies beat their wings in time with the laughter of children. Sprinklers hiss, feeding life into the grass. The condensation forms on a glass of slightly sour lemonade. The blue sky is cloudless with a brightly shining sun.

Tears fall from her eyes, dampening the book. She looks up from the black ink, reacquainting herself with reality. A standing lamp dimly lights the small bedroom. Raised voices pierce the walls. Screams of anger reverberate in her skull. She stares at the page, unable to reconnect to beauty.

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FI C TI O N

CAGES

Amy Carothers

The

he bird they found, tangled in mesh and flapping feebly against the snow, was not normal. Reverend Malcolm Hall leaned his rifle against an ice-encrusted tree and folded his arms. She was a beauty: an M1903 Springfield, an antique. His thick hunting boots sunk into the snow, digging the last in a trail of footprints weaving back into the forest. It was deep December, right in the midst of his annual break from shepherding the wayward souls of his penitent Pennsylvanian congregation. His son, Elijah, stooped to the ground. “It’s a falcon?” Eli hazarded. It was certainly some bird of prey, with steel blue facial feathers, a yellow beak, and speckled, downy wings, but its wings, its shape… Eli couldn’t place them. When he reached out his hand to stroke its crest, it snapped at him, and he recoiled. “Speak properly,” reverend’s eyes were meant for said Reverend Hall. He bobcats and deer and sons. peered over Eli’s shoulders at the huddled shape. “Is it a falcon?” “Peculiar.” Eli’s brows knitted together. “She’s too big to be a peregrine, but the markings are wrong for anything else.” Speaking of peculiar, the bird had stopped squirming the moment the two approached. It now lay quite still, legs and wings wrapped in netting, regarding the men with eerie stillness. Its black, yellow-rimmed eyes seemed to bore into Eli’s chest, through flesh and ligament and heart and lungs. He edged back, heart pounding. “Not many falcons roost in winter,” he said. Reverend Hall’s eyes focused on something on the forest floor. “What are those?” All around the net, amidst snow scraped aside by the falcon’s struggles, there were prints. The claws of opossums and porcupines, the cloven prints of stags, the tiny ghost-paws of squirrels, rabbits and chipmunks, the long, spiny talons of birds were frozen into the dirt. The bird lay in the middle of it all. “It’s a fucking zoo,” Eli whispered. Without warning, Malcolm slapped him. Hard. Eli’s head snapped to his chest, stars bursting beKiosk17

hind his eyes. He fell sideways against the tree. Coolly, Malcolm said, “Watch your mouth.” “Sorry,” Eli muttered, struggling to breathe. He tasted copper. For a long, tenuous moment, he kept his head bowed and his eyes downturned. Then the reverend snorted. “Bag her anyway,” he said. “Gotta be good for something.” Elijah reached for a sack. Malcolm trudged on, the hawk already slipping from his mind. The reverend’s eyes were meant for bobcats and deer and sons. Larger prey. The falcon didn’t twitch. In fact, she remained unearthly still even as Elijah unraveled the netting and tied her gingerly inside the musty leather bag. She kept her baleful eye on him all the while, never blinking. The Wakewood was a misty gray patch of pine and birch that garrisoned the Pennsylvanian countryside for some sixty miles. It had lurked on the outskirts of the old, Slavic-settled town for as long as anyone could remember, a nagging itch that would no doubt one day be noticed and paved over in favor of some parking garage or shopping mall. Yet for now, it remained, ancient as the hills. Eli had always felt oddly at home here amongst the snowdrifts and the tall, diamondbarked conifers. If he craned his head back into the falling snowflakes, vertigo washed over him, and he felt as if he might shoot into the sky alongside them, fingers sprouting needles, chest filling with sticky sap. But he didn’t, and so he followed his father through the forest. At nineteen, Elijah was the eldest of his siblings. He had dark, curly hair shaved close to his head and dark, clever eyes set beneath heavy brows. His black skin often smelled of antiseptic. Though tall and broad-shouldered, he had a soft, rumpled-in look. His shoulders slumped forward. He studied the ground when he walked, as if the path might be snatched from beneath his feet. Malcolm Hall was an oak tree in a clerical collar. His lined face was inscrutable behind wire-

framed glasses.The two looked more alike than Elijah would prefer to admit. The pale gray wash of the sky was seeping down into the horizon. By the time they reached the cabin, the glimpses of sky past the evergreen boughs were a star-studded black and blue. Elijah’s hands shook as he tried to fit the key into the lock. “You trying to convert the thing?” said Malcolm.

padlock and chain. This cottage had seen the Hall boys grow up, and, one by one, flicker out. All except Eli. Malcolm closed the door behind them. Eli handed him the bags and traps stuffed with squirming creatures and collapsed into a chair amidst the hundreds of cages. They loomed on every available surface. In dog crates, coops and wire cages, sleek-furred shapes

“Hurry up.” “The lock’s frozen.” “It’s always frozen.” “Jude’s usually in charge of the keys.” “Jude isn’t here, Elijah!” “I know!” Eli peeled off his gloves, unveiling bluish fingers. Finally, the door swung open, and the cabin breathed a warm breath onto the grateful duo. It was small,yes, with slapdash wooden boards and strung-up bare lightbulbs, but its guts were comfortable—rough-hewn wood, red velvet armchairs and a gun closet, mummified by

paced the shadows, yellow eyes gleaming behind bars. Feathers ruffled; guttural voices keened. The blood stank like the change jar Eli’s grandfather used to keep in the window of his study. The reverend let the traps thud onto the table. “Grouse, bobcat, beaver,” He began the long task of sorting through their catches of the day, practically humming with satisfaction. “Just look at our haul, Elijah! It proves it. We don’t need anyone. Heck, this persists, it’ll be our best trip since ’03.” That got a grin out of Eli. “That long ago? I was, what, six? I couldn’t help at all.”

cabin in the woods by Kyle Still photography

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Malcolm offered a sideswept smile, face softening into something that might be called affection. He displayed it so rarely that it was difficult to tell. “Ahh, perhaps that’s why it was so successful. Isn’t that what those brothers of yours always claimed?” Eli laughed, tossing his head back. “Man, don’t even pretend! As if they have anything on me. I’m the reliable one. I was helping you out ’round here before some of them were even alive.” “Well, you’re not helping now. Busy your idle hands, Mr. Reliable.” Eli unfolded his lanky frame from the ratty armchair. When he tried very hard, he could switch on the Elijah that Malcolm had so lovingly cultivated, the Elijah that looked at this table and saw nothing but ant“Break its wing, then.” lers and taxidermied heads. But it always… voice was cool. “No one took something from needs it in one piece.” him. Something precious, something he feared he could never get back. He sorted through the game almost mechanically. Raccoons, minks, and foxes went into the dog crates. Birds— Eli stiffened when his fingers brushed the snow-crusted leather bag. The feathered lump inside was stone-still. His stomach plummeted. Fuck! What’d I do? It’d been so long since he tossed a bag too hard, wound a trap too tight… he teased the twine knot apart. It happened like a ship breaching fog. The hawk’s feathers fluffed out oh-so-slowly, its small shape expanding to something spiked and foreign. Then, through the fog, something lunged. The world turned back on again as the bird sank her teeth into Eli’s knuckles. “Fuck!” he screamed. Malcolm wheeled. “Elijah!” These weren’t dog teeth, weren’t rat teeth. They were shark teeth, serrated and sharp; Eli’s skin ripped as his father tore the hawk from his body. The reverend flung her across the room, where she hit the wall and then the ground, wings closing shudderingly over her body. Elijah stumbled back,

clutching his bloody hand to his chest. “Teeth!” he cried. “It had—that bird had—!” The reverend seized Eli’s wrist, wrenching it away from his body. “Don’t spew profanities!” “Sorry!” Elijah pulled, but his father twisted his arm. “Pa! I said—” Malcolm yanked Eli so close that all he could see was flared nostrils. “This is because of that college of yours,” he spat. “I knew it was a bad idea! I warned you!” “I know! I know you knew, Pa! We’re fine now—” “You come back with these ideas in your head? Filth in your mouth?!” Eli tore free. He fell against the table, scrambled for balance. “We’re fine, Pa! We are fine!” Anticipating a blow, he fixated on his father’s hands. Those never lied. They were twitching now, thirsty hands. Expectantly, Eli flinched back. And the storm broke. Just like that. Malcolm engulfed him in a warm, strong, forest-scented embrace. Home. Eli stiffened, but after a moment, he relaxed into his father’s arms. “You’re my firstborn,” Malcolm whispered, stroking Eli’s neck. “The only one that stayed. I know you despised it. Shhh... I know. I know. But you’re here. And you will be rewarded for it. My boy.” Eli closed his eyes into his father’s shoulder. The only one that stayed. Jude eloped. Sammy—soft, lovely Sammy— enlisted. Levi took off to California in a van packed with boys and marijuana fumes and legal love. Now it was only Eli. Eli to wipe down the pews, Eli to light the votives, Eli to organize the prayer books on the shelves in the study that still, still reeked of pennies and blood. And now the house felt like its organs had been unspooled and discarded, leaving behind a hollow shell; his mother was less than nothing, a ghost with a pulse and a heartbeat, but never a voice. He was alone with Malcolm Hall. Eli’d gotten just a semester at the old community college in the city past the Wakewood. Four blessed months beyond the veil. But after that…

yes, he’d stayed, as his brothers scattered one by one. When asked why, he had only one answer: someone had to. Still, there was the bird. While Malcolm shrugged off his coat and

her back into the snow and watch her become a dark speck in the sky, but that wasn’t wise, and Eli knew it. He sucked in a deep breath. “Pa!” “What?!”

kindled the fire in the next room, Eli edged closer. He felt like a diver at the Ivory Coast, and chum was in the water. Teeth were still embedded in his flesh: tiny white triangles, shrapnel-deep. The bird was dead. She had to be. Tender wings crunching, fragile feet twisting, hollow bones snapping… Malcolm was not gentle, and Malcolm never lost. Unfathomably, sorrow settled in the pit of Eli’s stomach. Until she stirred. Eli leaped back. “Damn!” he breathed. “You’re resilient!” Although his hand still burned, he just couldn’t hate her for it. He’d just as happily toss

“The—thing!” he yelled. “She’s still alive!” Malcolm leaned out of the tiny bedroom, sleep shirt half pulled-on. “So toss it in a cage.” Eli glanced doubtfully at the bird, which was slowly gathering herself up, eyes unfocused, beak snapping. “Are you sure?” “Break its wing, then.” His voice was cool. “No one needs it in one piece.” The door slammed. Eli’s heart plummeted. The bird had gone very still, as if listening to every word. Eli shook himself out of his sickly guilt. Pulling on a thick pair of leather gloves, he picked her up by the legs and carried her to a crate. “What are you?” he whispered. The cabin was

puesta del sol by Miguel Beltran photography

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finch tattoo by Shaina Le digital

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hushed, save for the flames and the eerie wind. “You’re wrong. You don’t belong here. Not in the Wakewood, not in a cage, not with him.” He shook her, frustration bleeding into his voice. “What the fuck are you?” Her eyes betrayed no answers. Just break her wing, Elijah. Breathing shakily, Eli took a hold of it. Toothpick bones, shark teeth… A heartbeat passed. Two. His grip slackened. He leaned his head against the crate. “You’d better be grateful,” he whispered. The bird preened. “I’ll be spitting blood for days for this. It won’t even make a difference. You know that, right? Look around; you’re already done for. You’re a feather pillow, or taxidermy, or… or some exotic jerky. You know that, right?” Eli could swear she gave him an acidic look. A small smile pressed against the corners of his mouth. “I knew you did,” he said heavily. He reached through the bars to stroke her with the backs of his knuckles. She withdrew, feathers expanding, a soft hiss building deep in her throat. He expected the bite. He expected punishment. Then, after a moment, she relented. Eli found himself quite unable to breathe. Her feathers were glossy and silky soft—and cold, as if it were only minutes ago that Eli pulled her from the snow. She closed her eyes, not quite leaning into his touch, but permitting it, accepting him. He ran his fingertips gently across her breast feathers, up her downy face, down her uppity beak. Exhaling long and slow, Eli withdrew his hand. The bird slunk back into the shadows.

“Well, at least pretend to have a broken wing,” he muttered, almost to himself. He fell onto the ratty couch as if toppling from a great precipice, the air whooshing around him and ruffling his coat. When he stretched out his arms, he found that his own wing was broken, and he corkscrewed into a tailspin, screaming, spiraling. At the bottom, he fell into sleep. Wind whistled against the frosted windowpanes. Eli’s blanket had slipped away sometime in the night. He groped for it drowsily. BOOM. Elijah jerked upright. Freezing wood burned the bottoms of his feet. The wind swelled to a roar, rattling the walls. The whole building shook. “What the hell?” Eli cried, sleep-fuddled. BOOM. Lightning cracked. Eli hit the floor, gasping. Feathers whirled through the air; the cages were askew, scattered across the floor. One in particular seemed to have been ripped asunder from the inside out. In the middle crouched… a thing. She had hunched shoulders and black, matted hair. Her skin was pale as porcelain, nails long and jagged; she turned on Eli, twitchy and birdlike. She spoke in garbled tones, “Elijah Hall.” Eli’s mouth was dry. He swallowed hard. “M-ma’am?” “Are you to kill me with one of those guns of yours?” Her chin jutted out, a rebellion. Eli stammered; she raised a hand. “Don’t reply. I’ve watched you and your kin many years. Each season, you’ve brought those things into our Wakewood and killed.” She took a shuddering breath. “You’ve stolen the Wakewood’s life for so long that I should have assumed one day you would take me too. I had to do something…” Impulsively, Eli got on his knees, swaying. He was tired. So tired of everything. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, the words spilling out. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” She smiled thinly. “You like that word, don’t you? Fuck. But he hits you for it.”

Eli recoiled. “I trip on stairs,” he muttered. The placation tasted like cardboard, and he couldn’t stand leaving it bitter on his lips. “He… he doesn’t mean it.” That was precisely what he always told Levi. Levi would spit it right back at him in mocking tones. “He doesn’t meaaan it—he doesn’t meaaan to split your lip open, to break Sammy’s arm—to do what he did to me over a couple of muscle magazines—” Elijah always fended him off, but at night, with his hands folded on his chest, staring up at the ceiling, he let himself sink into Levi’s accusations. Cowardly. Callous. Complicit. It was relieving in the most nauseating of ways. The Thing watched him with otherworldly stillness. She slid forward. Hesitantly, Eli rested a hand on her cold, bony knee. “Elijah Hall,” she said softly, a kissed word, a whispered prayer. “Warm, blustery summers flit into gorgeous golden autumns, and then follows the snows, until finally, green shoots curl up out of the silence. I’ve presided here in every life cycle, even as the territories dwindled. The Wakewood has clung to this rough countryside so long, thriving in avalanches and tangles of bramble… stunning, and unique, and worthy of protection.” Her voice deepened. “And now it has gone sour, Elijah Hall. A rock thrown into the stream, disrupting the flow. Guns and gunpowder.” Eli’s mouth felt full of cotton. “Who are you?” he whispered. “What are you?” “Why am I, where am I, when am I?” “Just talk to me. Please!” Her hollow eyes fixed on his. Black eyes, yellow rimmed. “Tsk,” she whispered. “We must not look at goblin men.” Eli’s stomach turned. “Christina Rossetti,” he said, forcing lightheartedness. “I didn’t realize birds entertained poetry.” The corners of her mouth twitched up. “Birds? No,” she said. “Me?” “Yes?” “Oh, no.” Her lips drew back fully. A smile made of triangle teeth. “I am the goblin.”

Eli feared he took too much after his father. In the face of the unknown, he felt his palms tingle with a yearning to strike. Instead, in the stillness, in the quiet, he made a choice. Shakily, he tried to ask, ‘How can I help you?’ but all that came out was, “Help.” With a gentle, flying sensation—like tumbling from a cliff, only to plunge into zero gravity—the room dissolved. Eli woke to a rapping on the front door. His eyes flew open. His flannel blanket was still snug around him; the cabin was toasty and dry. He sat up slowly, clutchHer lips drew back fully. ing the quilt uneasily over his bare chest. A smile made of triangle Malcolm appeared from the bedroom with spectacles askew. Snow flurries knifed inside when Malcolm opened the door. The rangers were bundled up, olive-green uniforms peeking from beneath handknit scarves and traffic-cone windbreakers. The one on the right was square-jawed and mustached. The one on the left was squat and rosy-cheeked. “Officers!” Malcolm greeted, his voice warm and hickory-stained. It was a good-old-boys, finger-wagging, potato-salad, how’s-the-wife kind of voice. He leaned on the door frame—stoppering the door with his foot, hand on the knob. “What can I do you for?” “Oh!” exclaimed Rosy Cheeks. “Ho there, Reverend! Didn’t realize this was your place!” Malcolm chuckled. “Yeah, she’s a beaut. Built her myself, ’bout a decade ago now.” He slapped the wall affectionately. “Usually keep quiet about it, though. Vacations are so rare. I don’t need folks coming along for counseling during my flyfishing time.” He winked. “Don’t suppose that’s what you boys are after?” Officer Mustache smiled. “No, sir! As it happens, nothin’ so, ah… pleasant. See, we’ve been having a poaching problem.” Malcolm’s eyebrows flew up. “Poaching?” “Illegal hunting,” said Rosy Cheeks solemnly. Malcolm’s hands twitched; Eli knew he was craving

teeth.

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a smoke. Malcolm had given it up years ago, but Eli missed it. With a cigar in his hands, Reverend Hall looked as fallible as any other earth-crawling sinner. “Does with fawns, endangered species… even big cats, hell if I know how.” Malcolm rubbed his face beneath his glasses. “Why, I—I don’t know what to say. Downright terrible. Why would someone go and do that?” “Money,” said Officer Mustache, lip curling. “You know how much a stag head or Consider it a… bear pelt fetches?” “Can’t rightly say,” said Malcolm holy deception. mildly. Officer Rosy Cheeks tut-tutted and hoisted up his trousers. “It’s a lot. We’re just doing some sweeps, alerting the locals to keep an eye out.” “I most certainly will,” said Malcolm warmly, “although, as it happens, we’ll only be here a few more days. I’d invite you inside, but my eldest boy is terribly sick. I’m afraid the rest of my vacation’ll be spent playing nurse!” All three got a laugh out of that. At last, after Malcolm’s fatherly chide to show up in the pews on Sunday and the officers’ penitent chuckles, Mustache and Rosy Cheeks departed. “Sick, huh?” Eli said as his father locked the door. Malcolm shot him a sneaky half-grin. “Consider it a… holy deception.” He cuffed Eli’s ear, a playful gesture; Eli ducked and laughed. “Long as we’re awake, we oughta get to work. Get yourself dressed. Dawn’s long broken.” The reverend disappeared into the bedroom. Eli reached for his shirt, and suddenly, it was as if he’d been punched in the stomach. The bird! He whirled, practically vaulting the back of the couch. There: the crates were stacked just the way he’d left them. The floors were clean. The slew of feathers had vanished. The falcon looked straight at him. Eli sat down hard. “Jesus,” he whispered. Malcolm had soft, slender fingers with cracked white palms, stark at the end of ebony-black arms. 36

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Reverends’ hands were shaped by silky velvet, tissue-thin pages of Scripture and infant baptisms. Malcolm’s were oddly loving in the way they wielded a knife. Friday before a trip’s end was skinning day. Eli always watched: the way the blood pooled out from the incisions, the way the hides burst like berries at the touch of the blade… Moses, parting the Red Sea. Long ago, he’d had to fight tears, trembling, fists clenching tight; he’d hit things, try to rip the knives from his father’s grasp. Malcolm took none too kindly to that. So now Eli watched, mesmerized. This was the calmest and gentlest he ever saw his father outside the pulpit. Thunder cracked. Eli jumped, knife slipping and slitting his thumb open. He hissed, pressing it hurriedly into a rag. “Bad weather, Pa,” he said. It was as if a white sheet had been strung up outside, blocking out the world. “Do you think we’ll get outta here alright?” “Oh, we always do.” Malcolm brought his cleaver down on the deer’s hock, bones snapping, silverskin crackling. Eli lowered his hands slowly, pressing palmsdown against the table, smearing a small, bloody stain into the veneer. His eyes closed. Back when Malcolm had been trying to quit smoking, his fingers would twitch. “It’s an itch, Eli,” he would say shortly when he caught Eli watching. Now, as Eli’s hands curled against the table, heart pounding so hard it hurt, he understood. That kind of itch you can sate with chewing gum and Nicotine patches. But the righteous itch that gets into your guts, crawls inside your ribs, makes its home there… those are much harder to scratch. “We must not look at goblin men,” Eli whispered. “We must not buy their fruits. Who knows upon what soil they fed their hungry, thirsty roots?” “Eli, what in God’s name—” “Don’t go out there.” It had been years since he’d dared to aim an imperative sentence in the vicinity of Malcolm Hall. “We’ve got to let all of the animals out now!” “What?! Why in the world—” “Pa, please, for once, listen to me.” Eli grabbed

his father’s sleeve. “It’s the Wakewood. The bird. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but if we—” Eyes flashing, Malcolm seized Eli’s wrist, twisting it backwards so hard that Eli cried out. “Are you five years old again, Elijah?” he snarled in a voice dark and low and tremulous with thunderstorms. “Crying because I stuck a knife in a hog? Find your spine and man up!” “Pa—!” “I don’t want to hear it, Eli!” Malcolm shoved him away, leaving Eli’s heart pounding, rubbing his wrist hard where bruises would form. The bird screamed, wings beating against the bars. Then Malcolm opened the front door, and it nearly blew off its hinges. Malcolm stumbled back as the wall of ice burst into the room. The blizzard was a living creature, snatching Eli’s hat from his head, swiping the contents of

the mantle and table onto the floor. Cages dashed against the walls like nothing. “What—” Malcolm’s voice was swallowed by the din. He struggled with the knob, wrestling the door back closed, where the wind continued to beat against it from the outside. He whirled and spotted the birdcage on the ground. The fall smashed its latch. The hawk shook her feathers, meeting Malcolm’s eyes. As his lips parted—“Elijah!”—she burst into flight. She was shockingly fast. A blur of claws. A streak of feathers. In moments she was upon him, talons goring long stripes down his cheeks and the hands he raised in supplication. He shrieked. The door behind him burst open, a mountain of snow sweeping in on the wind.

flow down by Megan Stoberl photography

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“Pa!” Eli howled. He grabbed the nearest object, a crucifix statuette, but after winding back, he found himself frozen. He couldn’t swing. “Eli, you useless boy!” Malcolm snarled. He screamed as the bird slashed his face, shredding his ear, and, in a blink, slipped past him, disappearing into the blue-black forest. Blood streamed down his face, streaking his shirt with crimson. Rifle dangling from his fingers, the reverend’s eyes were wide and wild. Eli was paralyzed. “That demon!” Spittle flew from Malcolm’s lips. “That fucking bird! No one—nothing does that and gets away! Nothing!” He staggered toward the doorway. “What do In moments she was you think you’re doing?” upon him, talons goring long Eli shouted. “You’ll die out stripes down his cheeks… there!” Malcolm turned so fast that his blood spattered Eli’s face. “Wait here,” he growled. Then Malcolm Hall shouldered his rifle, disappearing into the Wakewood. Elijah stood there, cemented to the spot, as martens and lynxes and red-throated loons cried out all around him. It should’ve been an easy decision. It should’ve been a non-decision. Eli was a good son. Whenever Malcolm stormed out, whenever Malcolm said “stay put,” Eli stayed put. Eli stayed quiet. Eli gathered his brothers on the couch and kept them there until Malcolm returned. Yet, he found fists forming at his sides. “You can be Levi,” he whispered to himself, and grabbed his coat. Vindication rushed through him imagining his brothers’ stunned faces. He could almost hear Jude whistling, long and low, ‘Damn, Lev, he’s actually doin’ it!’ The Wakewood was made of white. Vertical black streaks of trees appeared without warning; unseen roots clawed up to entangle hurried feet. Eli shielded his face with his arm, struggling forward. “Pa!” he bellowed. The wind snatched his voice 38

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away. He turned round and round, breathing hard, digging his hands through his hair. Nothing, he saw nothing. White. White. White. He could die here. He could freeze, alone; the cold was already clawing into his bones— Somewhere in the distance, two shots went off one after another. Eli jumped, lips pressing together. He took a deep breath, ice burning the insides of his cheeks, and set off. The gunshots continued, echoing through the forest, a demented breadcrumb trail. Eli’s heart leapt each time shots ricocheted, blows he always expected to land. He gritted his teeth, shivers wracking his spine, eyes unable to penetrate the snow and the dark. Something caught his shoe. Eli cried out, falling hard onto the frozen earth. Looking up, dazed, he found himself in a clearing, the same one where the bird had been found yesterday. The reverend had his rifle raised. A dark shape flitted from branch to branch. BANG. The bird dove, erratic and panicked, twisting her tiny body as Malcolm fired again. Again. The bird was blown into a tree with a bloodcurdling, otherworldly scream. She hit the gnarled roots. Fluttering, she tried to drag herself away, blood glimmering in her wake. Malcolm advanced on her like a prowling panther. “Pa!” Eli bellowed. Malcolm didn’t hear. Eli struggled to his feet, palms bleeding freely. “Pa, stop!” His father turned. He clenched his rifle in clawlike hands, jacket only half pulled-on. His entire face was drenched in red, one eye squeezed shut from talon wounds. “Elijah!” His voice boomed across the field. “Stay out of this!” Eli staggered to his feet. “No!” Malcolm stopped dead. “What did you say?” “I said no!” Rage bubbled up deep from a well Eli didn’t even know was inside. His voice rose. “I’m tired, Pa! I am tired! What you do out here— what we do out here—it’s illegal, and it’s wrong!” “Man makes laws, Elijah,” Malcolm snarled, spectacles crusted with frost. “God makes truths!” He raised the rifle. “Pa, no!”

For a hideous, bloody eternity, father and son grappled. Each clutched the rifle, swinging around. Malcolm was strong, but Elijah was young. Malcolm’s eyes widened, the whites yellowed and bloodshot. “Respect—your—father!” Crack. The rifle crunched against Eli’s temple. Stars burst inside his skull. He hit the snow hard; hot blood streamed into his eyes. It smelled like pennies. Vision swimming. A dark figure appeared above him. “Oh, now you’re going to cry? Just because you threw yourself on the ground!” A hateful voice, faraway, swallowed by the ringing in Eli’s ears. Malcolm seized Eli’s collar. He choked as his father hauled him up; he couldn’t stay on his feet. He hit his hands and knees, swaying. Malcolm crouched before him. “Lord,” he said, “how I’d love to know why I must suffer these sons of mine! We never got along, you and I, but you stayed by my side, you stood by me, when Samuel and Jude and Levi—” he spat it like a sin— “all fled.” Malcolm grabbed his collar once more. “This is what happens now. We are going back to the cabin. We are going to load the merchandise into the truck. We are going to pass off our antlers and bearskins and wolf pelts, but first, for the love of sweet fucking Jesus, I am killing that bird!” Malcolm dragged Eli behind him, towards the hawk collapsed in the snow. The feathers of her left wing were bloody and matted. Her chest fluttered with each ounce of blood that her tiny heartbeat expelled from her body. As her gaze locked with Eli’s, her beak parted. He saw the glimmer of teeth. Eli’s heartbeat slowed. His pulse calmed. Even the whipping snowflakes seemed to suspend in midair. “Pa,” Eli said in a low, rumbling voice. God, he sounded like him, just like him. “I’m warning you. Stop before you get hurt.” “When we get back to the cabin,” said Malcolm through gritted teeth, “we shall discuss who will be getting hurt.” “I’m not kidding.” The hawk was rising now; swaying, but solid. When she turned her head, Eli could see that her eyes had gone dark, inky blackness seeping into the yellows. “Please, for once,

turn back.” He swallowed. “Just show me that you can turn back.” Malcolm stopped then. The look he gave Eli was worse than any fist he’d ever raised. “Trying to save me from the flames of hell, Elijah?” he said softly. “That’s my area of expertise.” Behind Malcolm, the hawk changed. Shadows that whispered from her frame, coiling into an enormous black shape that loomed behind Malcolm, dwarfing him. A smile split open with several rows of perfect, serrated teeth. Eli’s lips parted. The warning was there, right on his tongue. The warning was easy. But he simply… stood. Boots frozen to the ground, dirt on his hands and blood on his temple, Eli learned that sometimes, violence doesn’t come from a fist or the back of a hand. Sometimes, the most violent act is nothing at all. He took a half-step back, and the shadows descended. It would’ve been better if it was fade-to-black. A flash forward. A scene skip. It wasn’t. Eli watched it all, heartbeat jackhammering enough to fracture ribs, as his father screamed a ragged, tortured, high-pitched sound, rattling the icicles, soaring and descending into the trees surrounding. Trees shook, limbs snapping, frozen sap splintering. Blood splattered so violently against snow. Eli fell and hit his back hard, shaking, and then the shadows receded, dropping something heavy and shredded into the snow. Eli didn’t move. He was crusted with snow, yet his hands and chest and flesh seemed on fire. He kept wiping his eyes, but the wetness there didn’t seem to fall. When he at last regained his faculties,

hungry by Jade Phaly print

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jerky as a newborn fawn, he crawled to Malcolm’s side. He sat there, and held his father’s hand, and cried. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. In his dreams, it was like a Hallmark movie: words and feelings and hearts spilling out, his father’s cheek pressed to his. Catharsis, exorcism; they shared bitter coffee and stayed up until dawn, and laughter echoed up to the rafters. Levi had predicted otherwise. He’d said as much in the last conversation they’d shared, two days before he disappeared Sometimes, the most to California. “Eli,” Levi violent act is nothing at all. had said, somber and tired, removing his glasses to look Eli in the eyes. “This is gonna end with one of you hitting the floor and not getting back up. Pick who it’s gonna be.” Dizzy, Eli wiped his tears with the back of his hand. When he turned, bleary-eyed, he spotted an innocent shape in the dirt. The bird. Somehow, after all the chaos, she’d gotten herself pinned beneath a branch. Her wings fluttered, tiny body squirming. Elijah dragged himself over and heaved the branch away. “Hey there,” he whispered. She cawed, biting his hand over and over again with a toothless beak. Her darting eyes were glossy and dumb. There were no teeth. There was no blood. Eli didn’t know if he believed in spirits. Malcolm called it devil talk—Ouija and Bloody Mary and the Wakewood Ghosts. The only things that visited men were God’s angels and Satan’s demons, and neither seemed too chatty this century. But Eli had seen something. He’d met something. She’d helped him. Yet here in his hands was this dumb creature, warm and struggling, so different than anything he remembered. Anything he’d

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thought he’d seen. He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I need some fucking therapy.” Slowly, softly, Eli pressed her to his cheek. He felt her warm body, her jackhammering heartbeat. He needed help. He needed to indulge, just for one soft moment. But she struggled against him, yearning to spread her wings and take command of the sky she was born for, so he let go. The hawk flung herself into the air with a victory cry. In moments, she had dwindled to a black dot on the horizon. She was gone. This time, for good. When he turned, Eli saw something that made him seize up: Malcolm’s cell phone, poking from his jeans pocket. For a long moment, he stared, dancing on the cusp of that crossroads. Then he exhaled. It was with cold but steady hands that Eli tugged the cell phone from his father’s prone form. His fingers were shivering, but somehow steady enough to dial the number that he’d feared for so long. “Lev…? Lev, it’s—it’s me. It’s Eli.” With the bite marks on his hand aflame, he forged forward, “I’m ready.”

P O ETR Y

Man Down Brayton Hagge Don’t make me wait to see your veins shudder under flesh. Why don’t you see? I need to feel your heart convulse, dripping blood onto bare hands. My plans to pry you open fail every time scalpel touches skin. I lose your pulse; you die again. Man down, man down! I tap dance on your chest, shove hot breath between blue lips, but damn you, you continue to resist— stubborn to the end.

My efforts fail. You don’t revive. I blame myself, but then they tell me that your heart stopped beating long before I met you.

Panic now. I shove a needle full of soul between ribs two and three. I scream, “Breathe, breathe!”

looking through the lens by Lauren Lehmkuhl drawing

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po e t r y

THE ANGELMAN Kristen Brown

I met the Angelman when my brother turned two. It strung up his arms and legs with unseen thread and transformed my brother into a marionette. The Angelmanthe marionettist.

It painted my brother’s face with a long, frozen smile, and replaced his eyes with beads that will always shine. By horizontal control, the Angelman spastically shook my brother’s body until pills satisfied the seizures. “But the Angelman’s threads can never be severed,” doctors said, “and your brother’s wooden body will not change back to flesh.” Without asking Mama first, the Angelman decided that my brother would never walk alone or speak alone or feel alone. The Angelman pulled up, and my brother took his first steps when he was six years old. The Angelman shouted, and my brother gleefully exclaimed, “Mama, Bubba,” to his loved ones.

reflection by Miguel Beltran graphite/charcoal

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My brother will always be a happy puppet, tethered to the Angelman for eternity.

P O ETR Y

ALONE

Tyler Nordstrom

Whoever said, “No man is an island,” had obviously strolled down a bustling city street, and had clearly eaten in a crowded cafeteria, and experienced the thrill of not fitting in.

Whoever said, “No man is an island,” knew that people love to make eye contact, never drown out the world with distasteful music, and simply hate staring at their phones.

Because on a bustling city street, everyone says hi and makes sure you don’t feel unwelcome. The kids in the cafeteria invite you to sit by them. and those who belong include those who don’t.

Whoever said, “No man is an island,” had never been ignored, and knew with confidence that the same was true for everyone else.

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C REATI V E N O NFI C TI O N

ON THE STREETS OF NASHVILLE Max Hannes Kraft

s Nashville paradise or something society should be ashamed of? I must note that perception is highly influenced by perspective, and unfortunately, no perspective is immune to prejudice and stereotype. The streets of Nashville are filled with one of the biggest homeless populations in the nation. But “this” is also a hip city in Tennessee ranked 11th in the nation in terms of attractiveness to real estate investors. The word paradise was used by a police officer, who described Nashville as a city offering great resources and support for these people. Jack, 56 years old, 5’ 8” and chubby but strongly-built, smiles mischievously when he hears about the policeman’s statement. On worn crutches, he stands on a He was proud of doing well-frequented downsomething meaningful. town walkway next to a traffic light and a crosswalk. After living on the streets for more than ten years, Jack knows the best spots for selling newspapers. Sometimes spending eight hours, sometimes 14, he sells them to passersby. Every morning he decides how many newspapers he buys from the company, which created this job opportunity for the homeless. His workday ends only after he has sold all the copies. Because of this project which helps homeless people escapie poverty on their own, Jack was able to afford a room in a shared apartment subsidized by the government. Still, he barely had enough money to buy food and was compelled to beg for tips when people bought papers. Jack hasn’t eaten for three days. It’s an anniversary for Jack. Exactly 14 years ago, an accident changed everything. He is reminded of that day with every step he takes. When Jack was 42, he worked as a fire fighter. That was the one thing he was really good at. The best part of the job was the respect and praise he received from the community. He was proud of doing something meaningful, which cannot be said about the rest of his family. When Jack was 14, his parents lost interest in him and his four younger siblings after immersing 44

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themselves in the world of cocaine. Jack has not seen them for 10 years. He stresses that he does not blame his siblings for ending up as drug addicts or unemployed. It’s difficult to choose the right path when parents aren’t role models, and underfunded schools cannot be expected to offer much support. Jack shakes his head. The motion of his gray, full beard lags behind the rhythm of his head. His beard seems to display everything he has gone through. Although his beard looks carefully maintained, it can’t be tamed on his cheeks. Some spots are densely covered with hair while other spots seem reluctant to grow in a consistent direction. The wind and rain have dyed his hair in different shades of grey. Jack does not understand why it had to be him who was hit by a car, who had lain in a ditch with severe injuries for hours after the driver hit and run. Why did it have to be his life that was ruined even though he was the only one in the family who had found his place in the world? He just doesn’t get it. He knows that his life started to go off the rails after that accident. Yes, the insurance paid for the first surgery, saving his left leg, but not for more than that. He should sit in a wheelchair, but instead he walks with crutches, swaying back and forth with every step. Jack stumbles through his life. Because he was disabled, he could no longer work as a fire fighter. After losing the job that he felt so deeply connected to, he couldn’t pay for necessary medical treatments or housing. He fell into a depression and ultimately became homeless. While telling me his story, his eyes constantly scan the street, seeking buyers for his newspapers. One can see his professionalism after years on the job. Laugh wrinkles around his sparkling, green eyes appear inviting to passersby, but most of them stigmatize him as a beggar and a potential threat which makes it much more difficult to sell his newspapers. Jack focuses on a young mother holding the hand of her preschool-age child standing at the other side of the crosswalk. The traffic light

turns green, and they move forward towards Jack. “How are you two doing?” Jack asks. “I’m selling some good newspaper. Also has a children’s section.” The child approaches Jack curiously. The mother pulls her away and hisses at her daughter with a stern look, “I told you not to talk with them. Some are crazy because they take drugs.” Resignedly, Jack stares at the ground in embarrassment. “Losing one’s dignity, that’s the worst part,” he says. The city of Nashville spends hundreds of millions of dollars on event centers and attracting investors but cuts funding for the poorest. Two years ago, the downtown area was equipped with long park benches that the homeless could sleep on, but recently, the government dismantled half of the park benches and added dividers in the middle of the remaining ones. Nobody could sleep on the benches anymore, which caused the homeless to leave the district. The rich feared that the hundreds of homeless would paint an unpleasant picture of the area. The peekaboo mindset—if one can’t see the problem, it doesn’t exist—supports the approach of the local government to address the problem of homelessness. Only minimum shelter facilities exist, and the police harass the homeless. Food banks and non-profit organizations try to care for the growing homeless population. No, the streets of Nashville can definitely not be described as a paradise. Society closes its eyes and the homeless try to survive every day.

Does Jack still have dreams? He laughs. “Having surgery and working as a firefighter again, that would be great.” But after years on the streets, Jack doesn’t have illusions anymore. One of Minneapolis’s most famous attractions is the skyway system. Covered bridges connect the second and third floors of office towers,

hotels, stores and restaurants. I had not expected to be confronted with homelessness in this environment. No, the homeless don’t use the climatecontrolled footbridges as shelter; the system is closed overnight. Instead, homeless people have found a smart way to get money from tourists. While the skyway system is beneficial for rainy days and definitely eliminates the danger of being killed in a traffic accident, it’s an incredibly complex system. My four friends and I are lost after realizing that the main guidance available are the street names where the different skyway options would lead to. For tourists who have not memorized the whole city map

fake paris by Emily Knapp photography

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beforehand, this is not the best help. Occasionally, maps of the skyway system are provided, but some jokers had the glorious idea to remove the “You are here” stickers. An elderly African-American man passes us and asks where we plan to go. He looks exhausted, and his face is a little sweaty, but we only see a man who could help us find the store where our car is parked. He offers not only to give us directions, but also to accompany us on our way. As we walk, he constantly tries to keep us in conversation and make His face is a little sweaty, us laugh. Everything we say is awesome; before we but we only see a man can finish a sentence, he who could help us. interrupts to confirm that it’s a great story. Then he tells us his life story. Only then do I realize that a big fraction of his upper left incisor is broken off. His facial hair seems to have the aspiration to be a full beard but could only be described as irregularly growing and fuzzy. The bald spots on his face reveal impure skin, which makes the face look sort of unhealthy. His neck is covered with a flame-themed tattoo. I would associate that tattoo with a 20-something biker, not with a middle aged man looking for a job. He worked as a chef for his whole career but became unemployed a year ago. All day, he stops by at countless restaurants asking for job opportunities. He has had no success. His son just recently taught him to use a computer and the Internet, but he states that he is too old for new technology. He plans to get together with his son again to create a resume in order to increase his chances on the job market. We walk for twenty minutes, but he refused our offer to walk the rest of the way based on his instructions. After we finally reach the store, his voice changes to a more serious tone. Gazing at each of us rotationally, sweat-soaked, he confesses that he walks around the skyway system all day, helping tourists, and that he would need some money to afford a local shelter for his girlfriend and him. By this time, we already suspected that he would ask 46

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us for money, but we are still shocked that this man demands a reward for a service that he had presented to be an act of altruism. On the other hand, we also realize his desperate situation. With his age and without permanent residence, it’s incredibly difficult to re-enter the job market. Feeling uneasy, each of us give him some money. Unlike the newspaper peddler in Nashville, this man hid his homeless status for as long as possible. By doing this, he avoids being confronted with negative stereotypes, but this tactic can backfire when people realize his real intention in the end. They may get angry, and their image of homeless people deteriorates because of this dishonest practice. Homeless people do not have many opportunities to make a living with dignity. Society reacts with disrespect or disgust to them, so they either have to be sneaky like the man showing us the way to the store or be dependent on the few people who buy a newspaper out of pity. On the way home, we stop at a traffic light. A young man approaches our car, limping more than walking. Because he moves so slowly, he cannot even start washing our windshield before the traffic light turns green again. Resignedly, he turns away from our car, but not before he looks at me. We look at each other for what seems like an eternity; I am apologetic and confused by his failed attempt to wash the windshield, but he is a mix of despair and accusation. My friends and I spend the rest of the day driving back to college, recapping our experiences while this man tries to make some dollars washing windshields.

FI C TI O N

FAUX STARS Kristen Brown

ights like stars dangled from the low ceiling, shimmering and gleaming amber in a dim space. They radiated romance over a room laced with hot breaths and low words. In sets of two, chairs were fitted with groomed figures adorned in ebony dresses and clean-cut suits. Eyes dark with fascination only drifted from fixation on their partner to inspect the young Syrah being poured into their wide, clear glasses by a monochromatic host. Each table was clad with a white tablecloth, embroidered with faint designs, and decorated with spotless silverware and a single erect candle to project an intimate ambience. New and old lovers occupied nearly every seat, embracing the experience as a violin’s serenade sang in the background. Voices were hushed and smiles were amorous in the glow of the warm dining room. The sight was breathtaking for newcomers, but Aaron had delighted in the scenery many times throughout his twenties and thirties. Gliding through the evenly spaced tables was easy, but felt unnatural without a lady on his arm. When he was seated near the center of the room, he lost track of where the sea of couples ended and the walls began. Uncertainty dampened his forehead with sweat, and he had to rub the palms of his hands across the modest old suit-pants he plucked from the back of his closet. As Aaron’s hostess prepared his wine and water, he smiled up at her and relished in the pity that reflected in her eyes. “She’ll come,” he laughed. “She has no choice.” The woman smiled and dipped her head, retreating into the shadows. Aaron hovered his fingers before him, staring at them and hoping that they would cease their quaking before his date’s arrival. He couldn’t remember the last time his nerves served him so poorly. “Aaron,” her familiar voice cooed. Aaron’s hands retreated, and his eyes snapped upward to his wife’s shape, outlined by the twinkling starlight. He stood and his chair skidded out, striking another guest’s seat. They twisted around and Aaron quickly apologized, feeling his cheeks grow

rosy. Walking around the table, Aaron refrained from meeting his wife’s eyes. He pulled out the seat for her. When she sat, he retreated to his own chair and pulled up as close to the table as his gut would allow. “Thank you for coming, Emma,” he said, finally looking up. His wife was as beautiful as he remembered her. Her body was lean and curved beneath an elegant black dress. Tumbling brunette curls brought attention to her breasts, and her eyes were as rich as hot chocolate in midwinter. He couldn’t help but reacquaint himself “She’ll come.” He laughed. with her prideful poise “She has no choice.” and serious expression. A jacket was settled on her shoulders, but it didn’t hide the intimate bruises lurking against her lower throat. Aaron didn’t understand why she couldn’t have covered the hickies with the same makeup she used to hide the crow’s feet by her eyes. His gaze fell again and his hands settled in his lap. She appeared so certain, and he was a lost mutt in a luxurious restaurant. “Aaron, you know why I came,” Emma said, her voice gentle. “Yeah, I know,” Aaron said. He offered a smile but had to lower his eyes. “Before we get to all that, though, tell me about your new job.” Emma’s eyes rested on him for a moment, testing the waters before she spoke to her husband. “It’s great, actually. I was promoted just last week,” she said, “to chief executive.” “Wow,” he said, “congratulations.” “Thank you, Aaron.” “You’ve been working up to that for some time,” Aaron continued. Delighted, Emma allowed a smile to grace her pink-painted lips. “I know! After twenty years, I’ve finally accomplished something so wonderful. I honestly didn’t think I’d ever be able to do it.” “I always knew you could.” He gave her a warm grin. Emma’s delight became distant, and she turned her head away to sip her wine. “How are the kids?” Kiosk17

“Well, they’re struggling with the move, but holding up fine. They do miss you, a lot,” she said. “I’ll visit soon,” he responded. A silence began to swell again and Aaron looked at the lights above them. Emma’s gaze had settled on the candle’s dripping wax. Discomfort fogged the air between them, so Aaron sat forward. “Do you remember the first time we came here?” he asked. He kept his voice void of emotion to show her he wouldn’t try any sort of reconciliation. Emma was still hesitant to answer but willingly took the bait. “Of course I do. I was twenty-two, you were twenty-four,” she said. “You were graduating from college and deLike a snake, sudden rage cided it was a good idea uncoiled from its slumber to stick around and see if I would go on a date within his chest. with you. Instead of, you know, going somewhere your degree actually mattered.” She couldn’t resist a giggle. “I know,” Aaron said, grinning. “I was young and in love. God, I couldn’t afford this place. I was late on my rent because of that date.” They shared a laugh for the first time in a long time. “I remember how much your landlord hated you,” Emma said. “It was because you’d always invite that one guy over who kept stealing the mailbox from outside his door. I never understood why you hung out with him.” “He was hilarious! Jesse was comic relief for regular, everyday life.” The chatter drew out, a span of time happily lost. Their eyes shone like their relationship was still young and happy. They were like the other couples sharing delight in each other’s company. Aaron had begun to believe that he

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would be all right if they could remain in these magical moments. To Aaron, the dark room around them had become silent beyond the flow of his wife’s familiar voice. The night stars became real and illuminated against her skin in a way that reminded Aaron of basking in the moonlight during their honeymoon. “Baby?” Emma’s voice was groggy with sleep. Her bare feet overlapped his own, and her lean arms wrapped around his torso. “Why are you awake?” The newlyweds stood on a broad deck outside of their hotel room by the sea. As they embraced one another the midnight moon greeted Emma’s young flesh, nothing concealed from his sight. Her head rested against his naked chest, and he kissed her hair, finding comfort in the messy tendrils tickling his nose. He could have held her in that moment for eternity if time were so kind. “I was just thinking,” he whispered. A smile appeared upon his lips as his new wife croaked a nonverbal, weary response. He said, “I’m not ready for sleep to steal this perfect night away from me.” “Aaron?” Emma hissed. Aaron blinked and looked up confusedly as irritation poisoned her tone. He had been lost in thought, smiling dopily at his glass of wine as she went on to tell him about her new life. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” she snapped, clearly upset. “You need to sign these papers so I can go.” While Aaron had been fantasizing, Emma had pulled a series of documents from her handbag and now thrust them his way. Baffled, Aaron stared at the paperwork in his wife’s firm grip. He watched her knuckles go white as his mind adapted to their conversation’s sudden change of direction. “Please, I can fix myself,” he began to whisper. The sweat had return to his brow. She had been asking him to divorce her for almost three months. Time and time again, Aaron had managed to squirm his way out of the conversation because he wasn’t ready. One night he

worked up the nerve the call her, and he told her that if she shared one last date at their place, he would sign the divorce papers. Aaron had promised her he would do it. “No, Aaron. This isn’t your fault. I just don’t love you anymore. Please, sign the papers,” she begged. Her doe eyes filled with the same emotion he felt all evening. Like a snake, sudden rage uncoiled from its slumber within his chest. Something he had been holding back awoke. “How is it not my fault, Emma?” Aaron snapped. “If it isn’t my fault then why the hell did you cheat on me?” Emma’s face drained of what natural color bled through her makeup. “What are you talking about? I didn’t get with Robert until after I told you I wanted a divorce. Don’t make yourself the victim.” “Is that what’s happening?” he asked. Emma glanced around at the people who had caught wind of Aaron’s bitter tone. Some people gave them disgusted looks for dragging drama into their evening while others looked amused with the show. “Aaron, please stop.” “I still loved you, Emma. I knew about the affair for eight months,” Aaron said. “I still loved you. Even after I found a used condom in the trash the night you said you were too tired for sex. Even after coming home to his car in my driveway. Even after getting off early from work to hear you two together.” “Fuck you, Aaron!” Emma screeched, standing. Aaron placed his hand over his mouth, not to stop himself, but to hide the rage-enthused grin that made his lips ache. His mind raced too quickly to find reason for his actions. Everybody who hadn’t already been watching turned their heads. Monochromatic attires surrounded Aaron and Emma to demand they leave. Even the violinist had become silent. Aaron stood ready to leave. He hadn’t even had the opportunity to remove his jacket during his unnerving dinner date. “One last thing before I go,” Aaron said to

smokey bokeh by Jessica Quail photography

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the hosts, offering them a smile. He began to sign the divorce papers. He etched his name and scribbled his initials onto every highlighted line. “Sir, you need to go,” said one of the hosts. “Yes, of course,” Aaron said. He put down the pen and lifted the documents for Emma to take. She snatched them from his hand, tears running from her black-rimmed eyes. Aaron offered her a wide smile.

amor by Lauren Lehmkuhl drawing

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“Fuck you, Emma,” he said. Ahead of him, Emma was escorted outside. The hostess who had pitied Aaron took him by the arm to lead him away, too. He smiled at her look of perplexity and patted one of her hands on his arm. “I told you she had to come.” As Aaron was escorted out, he looked up to enjoy the sight of the faux stars one last time.

P O ETR Y

Bone Orchard Mariah Wills

They cannot hide the raw truths of those hidden beneath their roots. They can only stand and watch, their silent vigil never disturbed except for anyone who comes to visit and eat of their fruit.

Strange fruit grows on bone orchard trees: guilt, anger, despair. Their bitter, bulbous Fruit is hard to swallow. And yet people do, because trees from a bone orchard are full of secrets that the dead didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t reveal before their departure. So we come and sit and stare and pluck and eat and gaze longingly at the grey stones that rise up above the bones of those who form the roots. Because bone orchard trees are trees of truthâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; not the truth we want, but the truth we are given by those who did not tell us themselves. Their slick, white trunks and stark branches climb to the sky, smooth and harsh.

Typography pineapple by Alyssa Nehring digital

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Pa g e f r o m t h e pa s t

Lesson in Love

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Debbie Sharp

From she was slug me or

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he sun beat down angrily on my head and back as I yanked weeds from the garden and flung them over my shoulder. I could hear the patter of dirt as it rained down on the sidewalk behind me making a mess I’d have to sweep up later. I didn’t give a damn. I was mad as hell, and it felt good to pull at the grasses. I imagined grabbing a handful of Cindy’s hair and pulling it. I didn’t really want to hurt her, but I was so angry I had to work hard at something to get rid of the fire that burned against her in my mind. “How could she be so stupid?” I muttered out loud. The girl I’d married two years ago had brains to spare. I just couldn’t understand how she could have made such a ridiculous mistake. The screen door slammed behind me. So, she’s come out to apologize, I the sound of it, thought and continued to either going to pull the weeds. Sweat ran down my bare chest. The run me down… seconds rolled by, but no one tapped on my shoulder. I reached the end of a row of tomatoes and, as nonchalantly as I could, peeked over the top. She was standing at the far end of the yard wrestling a sheet onto the clothes line. The wind whipped it around her body as she stood on her toes trying to get one end of it up and over. I nearly laughed out oud, but I caught myself. I was supposed to be mad, and mad people don’t laugh, I sternly reminded myself. I just couldn’t let her think I was sitting here waiting for her to come over and makeup. After a few more minutes of rigorous pulling, I heard the sound of sneakered feet stomping across the yard. From the sound of it, she was either going to slug me or run me down, but I kept on pulling those weeds. The screen door slammed.

“Oh, well if that’s the way she wants it,” I said and started down the third row of weeds. “Lettuce is comin’ up nice, Steve.” I groaned inwardly and squinted up at my next door neighbor, Art Forbes. He was the last person I needed to see today. Art had a habit of talking about his wife, Lucille. There’s really nothing wrong with that. It’s just that she’s dead. I generally have a hard time listening to him repeat stories I’ve heard a half dozen times. Occasionally, he talks about something new, and then it’s interesting, but here lately he just drones on and on. Art squatted in the next row and silently began to pull weeds too. Well, maybe he needs a little quiet companionship, I thought and leaned back to examine my scratched, sore hands. “Don’t you have a pair of gloves to use?” “Forgot to put ‘em on.” “Oh,” he said and turned his back to me. He crawled down the row backwards, pulling as he went. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout heading out West. You know, me and Lucille have a trailer out in Arizona.” “Yes, I know about the trailer.” “We bought it in, say, oh—musta been ‘bout ’59. Catherine was just a baby then.” “Yes, I know,” I said. He straightened up and twisted to look at me. I stared back, not quite sure of what to say next. Art settled back on his heels, rested his hands on his lap, and stared off into space. “Lucille and I always had such good times together. We were friends, not just man and wife. We’d go to ball games when the kids were home, and we just kept going after they grew up. She really loved them ball games.” He glanced over at me to see if I was still listening. “I used to get so embarrassed ‘cause she’d scream and jump around just like a kid. We had fun together. After the games, we’d go out for pizza and beer—Hell, we were just like teenagers.” He chuckled to himself and shook his head, then stared at the ground. I didn’t know what to say to him. “Went out to see her yesterday,” he said. “It rained yesterday.” “Did it? Hmm. Musta not noticed. Well, I

pulled weeds out there too and cleaned off her stone. I brought out some daisies. She always loved daisies. She even had fake ones in the house, you know, those silk ones. These that I brought out to her yesterday weren’t fake though; they were the real thing.” “She would have enjoyed them.” “You bet she enjoys them. That’s why I brought ‘em out to her.” “Art…” “Then I sat down on the ground beside her and talked everything over. We talked about the kids and selling the house…” “Selling the house?” “Yes, selling the house and moving out West.” “Would you really go out there to live alone?” “Oh, I wouldn’t be alone. Lucille’d go with me, just like she always does. Any time I go anywhere, she’s right alongside, keepin’ me company. Her body may be dead, but she still lives in my heart.” Art turned away, working his mouth furiously over clenched teeth. Art was a member of the generation of men who believed that real men don’t cry—not even when they’ve lost their reason for living. He stooped over, suddenly seeming much older than I had ever noticed before, and began pulling weeds again. I just sat there as I had been since Art started talking. I had no idea that his pain was this deep. He never let anyone see this part of himself. Suddenly, he was no longer the gruf old man who monopolized my time and attention. He became a real person carrying an exquisite load of hurt, anger, and loneliness. “People today talk about not being able to communicate with their spouses. Lucille and I never had any trouble with that. Hell, if she had something to say to me, she just said it, and vice versa, you know. Do you have trouble talking to Cindy?” I licked my lips and started to reply, but Art continued talking. “Those last few weeks there in the nursing home were as hard on me as they were on her. She couldn’t talk anymore. She’d just look at me when I tried to talk to her like we used to. All she could

do was grunt. Oh, sometimes she’d talk, but it was all garbled. It didn’t make any sense. I used to get so damn mad, I’d just want to shake her. I never did though. What good would it do? She couldn’t help the way she was. “Every night, I’d go up to the home and we’d sit and watch TV, just like we’d do at home. We liked to watch the national news, then we’d watch that game show, you know, Spin for a Win. Well, one night she dozed off in her chair, and I turned the TV off. She woke up right then and hollered ‘Turn that damned TV back on! I was watchin’ it.’ She said it just like that. I turned the TV back on. You know, I’d give anything to hear her say something to me—even if she’d holler at me. Just to hear the sound of her voice again…” “Steven, dinner’s ready,” Cindy called. “Well, guess it’s ‘bout time I went home and fixed my supper. See ya later, Steve.” “Bye, Art,” I said. I watched him walk slowly across my yard into his. I stood to stretch the kinks out of my legs and back. On the way into the house, I picked a rose for my love.

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IMAGE GA L L ER Y

G allery

Coastal fresh ads by Emma Miller digital

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Lo’s jo’s package design by Lauren Lehmkuhl digital

jellytype

Tag it logo

by Kaitlynn McShane

by Trey Russell

digital

Magpie tatToo by Shaina Le digital

life under the “C” by Slater Marshall digital

peccato logo by Niccole Wolken digital

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literature Kristen Brown is a sophomore English major with a minor in world history. She is from Denison, IA and keeps herself busy with two jobs and an internship. On campus, she is the writer and editor for the alumni section of The Morningsider and is most often found lingering around the English department with a cup of coffee in each hand.

Amy Carothers is a theatre/English double major with a minor in philosophy. She can most commonly be found acting, singing, or directing on campus. She enjoys Spiderman, lemon flavoring, Mad Max, and long walks on the beach!

Amanda Girres is a senior English and business double major from Sergeant Bluff, IA. On campus, she is involved with Sigma Tau Delta, Symphonic Wind Ensemble, and the Marching Mustangs. In her spare time, she enjoys writing, drawing, playing with cats, and hanging out with friends and family.

Brayton Hagge is a senior English major at Morningside College. She is originally from Crofton, Nebraska. In her free time, she likes to hang out with her friends and family, read, and daydream about traveling to new places.

Jeraldine Johnson has been writing poetry off and on since high school. Now a retired music educator, she has more time to write! She lives in Mountain View, California, but returns to Lake Okoboji every summer.

Max Hannes Kraft is a junior from Husum, Germany and a Political Science/ Social and Behavioral Science double major. Besides being member of the soccer team, he is involved in the Morningside Civic Union and the Student Alumni Association. He wants to use this last sentence to greet his Kraftis.

Allison Linafelter is a junior English major from Sioux City with minors in legal studies and women’s studies. She is excited to once again contribute and work on the Kiosk this year. She would like to thank the Kiosk staff members for their hard work, and also Dr. Coyne, for encouraging her to never stop writing. Lastly, she would like to thank her mom, Jean, and her cat, Sheldon, for always putting a smile on her face. She would like to dedicate her work in this edition of the Kiosk to her Grandma Max.

Alexi Malatare is a junior majoring in English, Counseling Psychology, and Social and Behavioral Sciences.

Tyler Nordstrom is a sophomore at Morningside College and is currently pursuing a double major in Library Sciences and Music, as well as a minor in English. Tyler enjoys keeping busy with playing the piano, whether it’s with the Morningside Jazz Ensemble, Morningside Jazz Combo, or working on his classical repertoire. Tyler also enjoys reading when he’s not swamped with homework.

Ashley Stagner is a senior English major from Columbus Junction, Iowa. She is an active member in the Morningside College Marching Mustangs, the Symphonic Wind Ensemble, and Bel Canto.

Maggie Theiler is a senior nursing student from Omaha, Nebraska. She completed a nursing internship at Great Plains Health in North Platte, NE last summer to solidify her nursing skills. She has participated in both basketball and track during her time at Morningside College. She also volunteers her time with Noah’s Hope Animal Rescue by fostering dogs.

Mariah Wills is a senior English and Spanish double major. She runs track and cross country and is the president of the Spanish club on campus.

Anna Zetterlund is a Junior from Keokuk, IA, currently pursuing degrees in Vocal Performance and Arts Administration. She is a member of several music organizations and ensembles including Opera Theatre, SNATS, and CNAFME. In her free time, Anna enjoys playing intramural volleyball, reading, and occasionally, writing poetry.

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Art Miguel Beltran is a Santa Ana, CA Native. Thinker, Strategist, and Visionary.

Rae Clickenbeard is a first-year student majoring in Arts Administration with a double emphasis in Photography and Studio Art and a minor in Sports Management. She is also on the Mustangs Swim Team. Emily Knapp Born in Sioux City, Emily always had an interest in the arts. She is in her junior year, studying photography with a minor in business. After graduation, she plans to open her own portrait studio, photographing anything from newborns to weddings, and everything in between. Shaina Le is a sophomore at Morningside College and is majoring in Art Education. She’s currently trying to determine if she’s shrinking at an alarming rate or if her little sister is indeed growing taller than her.

Lauren Lehmkuhl is originally from Wakefield, Nebraska and currently a Junior at Morningside College in Sioux City, Iowa. Her two majors are Graphic Design and Advertising with a minor in Business. Completing full academic schedules and Basketball team seasons, Lauren has also fulfilled two internships in Sioux City, one at an Art Center and one at a local real estate business.

Slater Marshall is a student from Durant, Iowa. Slater studies Graphic Design and Advertising at Morningside College. He runs on the Cross Country and Track team for Morningside. His hobbies include running, sketching, designining, and traveling.

Kaitlynn McShane is a sophomore from Bennington, Nebraska studying graphic design and advertising at Morningside College. Kaitlynn enjoys playing on the Morningside golf team, napping, and eating lasagna.

Emma Miller is a Junior majoring in Advertising and Graphic Design. She is from a small town in Missouri and enjoys cuddling with her dog and long naps (when she has time).

Alyssa Nehring is a Junior majoring in Arts Administration, Advertising, Graphic Design, and Photography with a minor in Journalism. She is originally from Humboldt, IA. She stays very busy on campus with her involvement in the Business & Art departments, and a member on the Morningside Swim Team. She enjoys painting, cuddling her dogs, and sweet tea.

Jesseca Ormond’s photographic interests are in portraits, boudoir and landscapes. Ormond strongly believes in story telling with photography and usually focuses her shoots around themes. When it comes to landscapes she leans towards the changes of light throughout the day and macro photography that depict intricate details of the world around us. Jade Phaly is a senior at Morningside college. She is studying Art Education. She hopes to become a high school art teacher when she graduates. Her preferred mediums are painting and print-making. Jessica Quail is from Sac City, Iowa. She is a Junior double majoring in Counseling Psychology and Photography. Jessica is an executive for the International Students Association and SHADES (Students Helping Achieve Diversity Equally and Socially) and also a part of Photo Club and the Psychology Club (UPSSA). Lexa Rahn is a junior at Morningside College majoring in Advertising with minors in Photography and Graphic Design. She loves to travel and take pictures of all of her adventures. She also enjoys spending time with her family and dogs at home in Sioux Falls, SD.

Trey Russell is a Senior at Morningside College. Trey is studying graphic design.

Kyle Still I am a junior at Morningside College from Bronson, Iowa. I am an avid outdoorsman and love being outside. Naturally, I like to shoot pictures of landscapes and tell stories through pictures of hunting and fishing. Megan Stoberl enjoys all aspects of photography, but definitely has a soft spot for nature shots. No matter it is traveling or finding gems locally, she finds something she wants to capture and shares it with others. Her two years at Morningside have been able to strengthen and grow her love for photography. Paul Tucker is a studio art major, with minors in graphic design and business management. He specializes in poster sculpture, graphic design, and photography. Paul never focused on art until his junior year of high school. Art has become more than a hobby and he is now looking to broaden his horizons with a career in his field of study. Cassandra Warner is a second year Art Education major. She was born and raised in Council Bluffs, Iowa and attended high school at Thomas Jefferson. Cassandra plans to finish my schooling at the end of the fall semester in 2018 and aspire to become a secondary art teacher following graduation. Niccole Wolken is expanding her skills through a triple major in graphic design, photography and advertising with a minor in business administration at Morningside College. Niccole will be completing a graphic design internship in London throughout the summer of 2017.

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A bout the Kiosk “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 had 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 Murray, and for the last 29 years, Stephen Coyne. While the Kiosk has included cover art in many of its publications, the format of the maga-

zine 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 to 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, three Silver Crown Awards, eight Gold Medalist Awards, three Magazine Pacemaker Finalist Awards and a Gold Crown Award. 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. The Kiosk is published annually by Morningside College and is distributed at no cost to Morningside students and alumni.

79 Years of the Kiosk

1938

1956

1971

2006

2016

First literary magazine on campus.

Name changed to Perspectives.

Name changed, again, to Kiosk.

Format change introduced more artwork.

Association Silver Crown Award

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Columbia Scholastic Press

R ecent Awards

2006

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Medalist Associated Collegiate Press Pacemaker Finalist

2007