Proudly Sponsored by The University of Toledo English Department and the Edward Shapiro Fund for English Composition II
The
Mill
Spring 2012
Editorial Board Chief Editor: Peter Faziani Assistant to the Chief Editor: Lindsay Vreeland Media Art Editors: Fiction Editors: Poetry Editors: Specialists: Mary Persichilli Peter Faziani Mary Persichilli Alysha Hill Rebecca Stanwick Alysha Hill Chris Riley Mary Persichilli Chris Riley Lindsay Vreeland Laura Scroggs Cover Art by Timothy Salow Layout by Peter Faziani & Lindsay Vreeland After initial publication via print and online, all Copyright reverts back to the author/artist 1
April 10th, 2012 Dear Reader, Before you read my final issue as Chief Editor of The Mill, I wanted to take a moment to tell you how difficult drafting this letter was; I went through several key points - First, I knew that I wanted to thank you, the reader, for picking up this copy and making this endeavor worthwhile. So I wrote that up. - Second, I wanted to express my gratitude for all the amazing submissions from many excellent University of Toledo writers. - Then, I realized that I needed to acknowledge all the hard work that my staff, and especially my assistant, Lindsay, put into this issue. So I added that. Also, I referred to Lindsay as my Padawan Learner (a Star Wars reference). - Then, I thought about the faculty members that really supported this magazine in its infancy and helped me bring this project to life, which also had to be a part of my letter. When all that was in there, (aside from the Star Wars reference) I felt that it wasn't my letter anymore. It was a list of names and abstractions that no one really wanted to read. I wanted to write something humorous to you, that prepared you for the best issue of The Mill yet, but I'm rarely funny, and never funny on command, so that failed. As I continued to work on it, I decided that I only needed to say "thank you, everyone." So thank you.
The Mill has made me super busy, but it was also super rewarding. I know that if the dedicated staff and contributors continue supporting this magazine it will become something great. Hell, the production quality of the magazine has already improved tenfold since the spring of 2011. So from here on out, I am officially passing the torch of Chief to Lindsay Vreeland, and to quote a close friend of this magazine, "Long live The Mill."
Peter Faziani
Mission Statement
The Mill is a literary journal that publishes poetry, short fiction, and art by University of Toledo students in an attempt to strengthen ties and voices in the literary community at the university. It is edited and produced once per academic semester. We consider all submissions for the writing contest and publication. Two pieces are awarded top honors in this publication-one fiction and one poetry. All submissions were evaluated based on established criteria. The Mill editorial staff made the final decision on the contest winner. For more information regarding the editorial board, past issues, or general inquiries find us at our website, Themillmag.weebly.com, or on Facebook. 2
Table of Contents Cover Art Contest Winner: “Summer at Dusk” - Timothy Salow Fiction Contest Winner: “Atlas Retired” - Russell Axon Poetry Contest Winner: “Fifteen” - Sam Fetters
Elizabeth Anderson An Almost Love Story
Chelsea Griffis 6
Russell Axon The Last Things I Remember The Lovely Shall Be Choosers
9
Jennifer Bismack (Anteau) Sunday
10
Feliza Casano Good Girls Michigan Tastes
11 13
14 15
Patrick Cook Scratches Wordsmith
16 17
18 20
21
Weslie Detwiler Awakening
Magdalena Hirt After In Common with You Virgin Martyr
28 29 31
Christine Hombrink Lightning Bug in Michigan Snake Bite
32 33
Felicia Preece 35
Kevin Risner 2:13 A.M.
36
Solitude and Such
37
Jasmine Townsend Ars Poetica Brat
38 40
Kelly Thompson
Erynn Daum My Grandma’s Hands
26
Timothy Salow
Stacey Cruzado Brandon Whispering Something Sweet
Bizarre War
Portrait of a Lilac - A Poem
Karen Chahal #9 (for Ms. Gloria) #10
25
Matt Gunn 7 8
Fran Barror Wishes for My Ex-Husband
Returning
Orphans at Thanksgiving
42
Chelsea Vogelbacher 23
Braids of Hair Screams
43 44
Sam Fetters Months (Six, Ten, Eleven, and Twelve)
24
3
Russell Axon
Fiction Contest Winner
Atlas Retired After Heracles sets up his pillars, the first thing Atlas does is stretch. Entering World’s Strongest Man competitions (“Is the mascot allowed to compete?”) introduces him to money, fame and his wife. A Jefferson fracture during the quarterfinals of the overhead press introduces him to a hospital bed. Working night security at Rockefeller Center keeps the bills paid, but he always avoids his bronze reflection, opting to use the side entrance. The occasional jammed door calls for Hermes’ swiftness and a downward gaze. Once satisfying snacks of golden apples and blessed water are slowly replaced with Cool Ranch Doritos and liters of Mountain Dew. The plaid recliner secured in front of the T.V. quickly becomes the only chair willing to welcome his corpulence. He has a difficult time watching sports, both jealous and embarrassed by the heroic physiques on display. During the divorce, his wife cites his “emotional detachment and apathetic attitude.” She moves to California with the kids; he gets to keep his old, unused bench press and the spiders who call it home. He returns defeated to that spot where dirt and stars dare each other to make contact, where his power, protection and sacrifice went unnoticed. Haunted by the shames of Zeus’ punishment, Heracles’ trickery, failed careers and losing his family, he destroys the pillars, and the sky and the earth once again embrace. And the once great Titan of Power who held up the world welcomes them with open arms.
4
Poetry Contest Winner
Sam Fetters
Fifteen The waitress is smiling fifteen. And bopping her hips into the table next to my coffee and close to my face.
I tell her she shouldn’t do these things.
5
Elizabeth Anderson An Almost Love Story For two years they were like Oreos and milk.
Now they are more like Coke and Pepsi.
6
Russell Axon The Last Things I Remember the back seat a ruby Bronco burnt-out cigarettes scattered in cup holders wrapped in the scent of carcinogens voices rise like a heat from a fire words I’ll never understand her hands crash into his chest shove him away chain-link fence with spokes like jagged knives pierce his back pain escapes his mouth my father the strongest man alive now broken my mother the comforter now the terror I cry of on the driveway things fall apart
7
Russell Axon The Lovely Shall Be Choosers Every Tuesday night, Jim goes to The Tavern, the bar down the street, where the margaritas are cheap, the atmosphere is thick and loud, and Kim will take care of you for $5 a shot and $3 a beer, tip not included. And every Tuesday night, as the drinks, wallets and awareness levels dry up, and the space between stools widens, while the hearing distance thins, and his confidence hovers somewhere between foolish and rational, Jim buys Kim’s ears, eyes and interest — just for a minute — and tells her that since he rose out of the gutters of divorce, he has fallen in the net of her love (a line he came up with himself), and if she marries him, then he’ll buy her a beautiful ring fit for a queen, climb virgin mountains to shout her name, and always make her feel happy and loved and wanted. And every Tuesday night, Kim just smiles softly at Jim, a playful conveyance of flattery, sets down whatever type of glass or rag she’s holding, and raises her left hand next to her left cheek, displaying the faded gold band residing on that most sacred finger — a subtle but effective conveyance of refusal. And Jim smiles back, a wide, toothy smile exaggerated by two strawberry margaritas and a Corona sans lime, and tells Kim that one day she’ll say yes, to which she shakes her head in contest, keeping her own smile intact. And as Tuesday night fades into Wednesday morning, when the loiterers have vacated to the next bar, and the collective spills have soaked and discolored once white towels, and the tips have been accumulated and divided like the spoils of war, Jim doesn’t see Kim remove that faded gold band residing on that most sacred finger and drive alone to her bedroom apartment for one.
8
Fran Barror Wishes for My Ex-Husband I wish him worry. I wish him fear as he looks out the window looking for my car. I wish him sleepless nights as he wonders where I am. I wish him questions from our children with answers that just do not come. I wish him overdraft charges from all the alcohol wasted. I wish him a pit in his throat that gets bigger every day. That pit will turn into bitterness not unlike a grapefruit. I wish him sorrow and regret for all the wasted years
9
Jennifer Bismack (Anteau) Sunday My backside wasn't even frozen. We lay looking up at the starry sky. Angel imprints...or windmills? Love reflects between you and I. Standing up hoping to never fall. We skated circles around one another. Like past broken relationships. A figure 8, unsynchronized. What a relief to be someone’s bullseye. A Cavalier King Charles mix & red leash. Zig-zag, zig zag across the shoveled lake. Alcoholic Stan brings a radio to the set. A Bad Romance, but a happy ending. What is a happy ending? My backside wasn't even frozen.
10
Feliza Casano Good Girls I. A good girl would do as her mother says: fold this cloth like this and tuck it round your hair, wrap this veil of lace over your lips, bow your head to your intended. That’s what my mother says to me before I meet the man I’ll marry. Good girls receive good marriages to good men, everyone knows. Good men are strong men who make strong protectors and stronger sons. II. But I’ve never been my mother’s daughter so much as my father’s son. And though I’ve been beaten by boy-cousins for countless years and suffered gossip from aunties and girl-cousins since childhood, in every face I pass every day I see my people – my clan, my family – the same smooth black hair, the fierce dark eyes staring back at me every day, the rich red and blue of the clothes I’ve always worn and banner I’ve always flown, the shining silver sheen on our steeled knives and armor. The man I’ll marry has eyes paler blue than our banners. His banner is not my banner: it flies in tattered green and black. I don’t want a banner I’ve never flown. I don’t want children without smooth black hair, fierce dark eyes.
11
Feliza Casano III. A girl like me knows what the cloth and lace and bowing really mean: A woman who bows her head submits. I stand straight and tall and I look him in the eye. He’s never had a woman stare back. A veil of lace is for delicate speech by a woman refined and sweet. There is no sweetness in me and this veil is for silencing. I tie burlap around my face heavy with the scent of the fields. A cloth over the hair is the worst offense: we cut our hair only in defeat. When I meet him, I tear the cloth away so he sees my hair is longer than his. He should know now I’ve never been defeated.
12
Feliza Casano Michigan Tastes like a crisp apple fresh from the gray orchard in Aunt Linda’s backyard, the time I climbed her tree to pick the prettiest fruit – peach-pink skin streaked with red and speckled with yellow – the time Mama screamed when she saw how high I climbed and she saw me falling – falling – Then standing on the porch step before her, unblemished apple in my outstretched hand, and she saw I hadn’t been falling – falling – but climbing up and down and down and up the tree sure as the little brown squirrel who ate Aunt Linda’s birdseed – which was for the bluejays, not the squirrel, but we never saw any that year or the year after – even though Aunt Linda said they loved the orchard near as much as she did the time she pressed those crisp apples into a warm pastry and set it on the table for Mama and me – perfectly syrupy and bitter and sweet smeared all over my hands as I ate the apple from the orchard my Mama wouldn’t take even though I picked it just for her – she wouldn’t stop fussing with my arms and legs for scratches I didn’t have or couldn’t feel – the time Aunt Linda bit into my prettiest apple and said “Isn’t this just how things should taste?”
13
Karen Chahal #9 (for Ms. Gloria) goddesses of modern dwellings chanting our moon-linked orbs produce love not political gain nary a debate can split our bond our call-and-response is limitless reverb our deepest desires to make our voices heard my blessing to be in kinship with such wit my Brethren my Sisters we Revolutionized! because you were now I may pursue my fullest your cause is our cause and we mature as you’ve, taught us, we shall, overcome
14
Karen Chahal #10 so you're in some post-punk haze some indie dream of originality a sonic youth living breathing walking jiving contradictions I suppose it's the artist's plight to suffer darkly from bleeding ego hyper-id reaction to monotony the road calls to you and its high-flying thigh-thumping celebratory rituals that loose meaning after one, two eighty times around.
15
Patrick Cook Scratches My glasses have scratches. They’re there even when you don’t see them, like germs, or atoms, or the air right in front of you.
But then you catch an odd fuzzy glamour, and remember just how hindering they can be. Before long, they’re all you can think about, like a dead relative from years forgotten.
Then you think “I need a new pair. Maybe this time I’ll get contacts. Or have laser surgery so I can be rid of these scratches forever.”
But then the mind wanders and your needs get postponed. Forgotten again, you look past them to the world outside, and your dead relatives fade from your mind until you’re given that little reminder that revives them.
16
Patrick Cook Wordsmith He thrusts the raw ore into the furnace. There he leaves it until it glows, with the intense heat of potential.
Swiftly the ideas are pulled out and hammered, as a pen draws ink into new shapes. The product may be as useful as a horseshoe, or as decorative as a filigreed sconce.
They are forced into shape quickly, before the metal cools and shatters under the stress. This outcome means the fires were not hot enough.
The product is given shape through his tools. The molds of language, anvils of metaphor. Used with the proper knowledge give shape to the words.
17
Stacey Cruzado Brandon A hopeless family road trip in complete silence. Staring blankly out the window at a familiar path. Green fields. Corn fields. Passing cars. Our destination is a brick island. Grassy moat. Sky-scraping fences topped with barbed wire. Invasive metal detectors guarded by robots in blue uniforms. Accessorized with flashy gold badges & walkie talkies. Misery welcoming company. The walk is the worst. The hallway has no pictures or windows. Just more bricks & stalking cameras. You never know who’s watching. This room could be used as a dance hall. Rows of tables and chairs lined up accordingly. Filled with anticipating guests. There’s a quiet chatter in the air. Gang banger friends. Crying babies. Numb mothers and fathers.
18
Stacey Cruzado Unaware children. Resentful girlfriends. Desperate brothers. Angry sisters. Distant cousins. Pen pals & accomplices. Then there is us. The moment the room’s been waiting for. One by one the orange uniforms march into the room. They aren’t accessorized with shiny gold. Just dull metal bracelets & dull metal chains. They even get their own blue uniformed escort. It’s like a game of bingo waiting for his number to be called. Time starts now: 3 hours to make up the past 6 months of robbed family time. The drive here was 4 hours. Updates. Smiles. Tears. Laughs. Advice. Prayers and goodbyes. Time’s up. If only his time was up, too.
19
Stacey Cruzado Whispering Something Sweet Frayed edges and faded colors This picture has been to Puerto Rico & back Your eyes are invigorating like rich morning coffee Rimmed with dark feathered eyelashes Flawless auburn skin and deep dimples accentuate Your Colgate smile as your masculine hands are touching Your two & a half most prized possessions. Brandon & my pregnant Mother Brandon is your exact replica. Curious Like he is today. & mom is caught in the middle of a laugh Her glow strong enough to make Central Park in July even brighter Your whispering something to her Your tucking a piece of her soft afro behind her ear While your whispering something sweet This picture proves to me she was happy once Then right before the gunshot mom tells me your whispers were saying how you couldn't wait to meet me
20
Erynn Daum My Grandma’s Hands My memories are accompanied by a raw, aching emptiness because they’re just of her hands. Of how her tan didn’t seem to reach all the way into the contours of her wrinkles. Her voice is an empty echo, her laugh a silent movie. Her face is so indistinct, that I have to rely on photographs to remind me. Even then, how do I know that this is how I saw her? I thought she was prettier, and taller. The pictures don’t show her energy, Or even her spirit. She taught me to dance, explore, and nurture, and all I have is her hands. All I remember from our walks Are the ducks we fed. I can’t place the taste of her little ham and cheese quiches that the whole family looked forward to at every gathering. I can’t even point out the cat figurines she gave me over the years on birthdays and Christmases. What happens when the memories of her hands are gone? Will it be as if I never knew her, and everything I’ve learned from her, will that leave me too? I prayed every night that I wouldn’t remember her on her deathbed the last day. Instead, it seems that the good memories are slipping, And I’m going to be left with a half-aware shell of a woman -
21
Erynn Daum A woman with extra skin piled next to her on the hospital bed. The way she couldn’t focus enough to solve one crossword puzzle clue. The way her eyes were lost in the back of her head. The way it seemed as if it wasn’t her at all. No, it wasn’t her. She never made it to that hospice room. The cancer had taken her by then, I don’t know who that was on the bed. I remember someone I barely knew better than the woman who taught me how to live.
22
Weslie Detwiler Awakening Moon shadows creep across suburban lawns and darken white picket fences. They crawl up beige siding and through clean windows to meet plush-carpeted living rooms, pillows with tassels, and Cherry wood banisters. Moon shadows climb through second-story window frames and inch across the white linens of a gentle girl’s queen-sized bed to envelop her tenderly as she wakes
23
Sam Fetters Months Month Six “Summer of our Discontent,” blah. blah. blah. Another fucking summer of discontent, police brutality and bad weather reporting.
Month Ten I bury me in the leaves I’m far away and I don’t need– anything.
Month Eleven Snows coming. I can smell it. Time to bring in the welcome mat for winter.
Month Twelve Covered pools and granite countertops and credit cards– the true causes of seasonal depression.
24
Chelsea Griffis Returning Creeping through the back door Floorboards squeak unanswered greetings As settled dust eddies Orbs in the air Mildewed fabric and unpolished wood Handrails marred and insecure Climb past pictures and paintings so commonplace Familiarity left uninspiring Yet in the evanescent light dance and speak Of what was witnessed in the interim On the landing doorways like open mouths Gaping and hungry for intruders One entryway especially scratched and dented Drawing, commanding, inviting Ceiling bulbs burnt belie shadows of former selves And shaded misted memories Inside, bed left unmade Dank and dirty Blankets asunder Pillows askew Sheets wrinkled and yellowed Surrendered to sometime slumber some time ago Through all the years of disuse and neglect Past times left unattended Past promises pushed aside Curses quickly cast away Secrets spoken and dreams displayed All faded, forgotten, and frayed It still smells like home.
25
Matt Gunn Bizarre War The bizarre, the before, hereafter, and therefore, Before I knew the allure of the glory of prize and award Before I knew where I stood in the eyes of the lord I took no glances for time or for score Absolutely absorbed In dividing the chore Defining the vile and malice which is money and war The flies at the palace that know the honey and manure Vatican eyes cast callous valiance, glitz and galore Just to keep the few complacent I’m hog-tied war-torn screaming from the basement An analogy for knowing, hiding, but subtly showing Letting this get going where it seems to be going Some sexual innuendo I refuse to keep ignoring To forge foreign feelings I forgot to keep exploring But inside, it scratches and keeps on imploring That I know the truth in the words that keep flowing The propellers on the Boeing keep rotating and rowing blowing hot air in the vacuum of above our loathing So is the story that I avoid from into going The silver spoon wielders in Massachusetts and Connecticut Rewiring, defying and redefining a subject’s predicate Denying, conforming and complying into the next surrogate Where I’m fighting, grinding and hiding a delicate Demonstrably, and subconsciously monster, see I Break the vine Feel it fall Metaphors are dead to you all. Symbolism lost in the distractions of self and the sprawl And expanse of mall The watches you ball And women who crawl
26
Matt Gunn And the men that laugh And the white that win And color in last See I’m breaking the cast And taking off my mask Screaming in the mirror like, “where the fuck is matt?” Where the fuck am I at? I lost myself trying to chase a cat Metaphor for the pussy I’ll break it down for you rookie Like I’m screaming at a child and his ego crumbles like a cookie You see I’m on some convoluted shit, like the falling of Tripoli I’m full of symbols allegories and similes You want the truth in the situation I’ll break it down simply Everyone has a cause, call it God’s agenda, Butterfly wings making wind break windows The masses standing up screaming we all have endo But we hide behind the scene like a subtle pentimento The times at hand, for a revolution, crescendo Let the ripples in the water be your brand new innuendo But I’m done boring you with my genius like a blind playing Nintendo So I’m going leave you with these words Real eyes realize real lies Break it down past phonetically, think past it alphabetically, more theoretically Pragmatically, I know these words are harsh and It seems to happening like this crack addict is stabbing me erratically Dramatically and emphatically You automatically jump into your dogmatic Democratically diplomatically subliminally and systematically tampered mind Managed me into a corner where I hide behind the veil of my eyes. Back to work, the mouse off his wheel doesn’t get his fuckin’ prize. Wise words: don’t comply, don’t hide, rise.
27
Magdalena Hirt After Carpet. Look at the carpet. Wait. Stay. You can do it. Waiting room. Counter girl looking at me, whispering to other women. It will be an old man. An old man, pervert doctor, I will have to see to be safe. Never let this happen again. Men, men are always looking, waiting for an opportunity. I will take that opportunity. I am not to be had. Mistakes. Another mistake cannot happen. “Ca-mel-ia Rae.” “Yes, that’s me.” They never get my name right. “Right this way.” Carpet. Focus on the carpet. Dirty. Stains. I’m dirty. Oh no. . . tiles, no more carpet to contemplate. “Completely undress. Put this robe on. You may leave your socks on, if you want.” Shit. Socks? How about my life? Can I keep that on in this free clinic by the mall? By the mall? So typical for a teenage rape victim. Mall Gyno visit, mmm. Sounds delightful. How old am I again? 50? No. 16. I feel like I’m going to puke. What happened to the carpet? They need tiles for messes. Clothes? Where do I put them? Should I fold them? I’m gonna be sick. Just undress and sit. A sick old man is coming to ram his fingers up me before he will give me the pill. Wait. Waiting again. Where’s the carpet? Tiles? Messes. This is dirty. Read a poster. Make it through: second by second. What if he asks questions? Don’t worry about the old pervert. Read a poster. AIDS. HPV. Pregnancy. These are uplifting. Smoking hurts your baby. No shit. I thought everyone knew that. Knock. Knock. “Hello. My name is Dr. Bruckhorst.” Like a bratwurst? I knew it: sick, old man. Though, he does have good hair for being grey. “First I will take off your shirt to feel for bumps.” You mean feel my budding breasts. You are going to cop a feel? Sick old man with good hair. “You may feel a little bit of pressure.”
Cause ramming your fingers in me is a good thing? An exam? Snap. Snap. His rubber gloves come off. A smile? Did you just smile at me fucker? My arms are wrapped tightly around my body and gown. This is our culture? Our world. Men exam teenagers? Gross. I feel gross. I need a shower. “Everything looks good.”
It better fucker. “Nurse Betty will finish up.” Snicker. Your name is fucking Betty? She squiggles. Hands me six months worth of pills. Alice. My car. My haven. I lock the door, open my pill package and pop the first tiny pill out to swallow. No fucking rape is going to give me the fear of a baby
ever again. 28
Magdalena Hirt In Common With You Inspired by Matthew Zapruder I look out the window at muddy, snow-melted streets. Earth soaking in our problems, trash exposed. Can I force it? Pretend? Where is Luke now? Happily married? Kids? What will his wife do when she finds out what he did to me? Deny it? Be disgusted by it? Feel pity? Want revenge? Red wine, sweet apple, juice in the crunch of teeth. Fingers feel home on keys. Soft surfaces memorized. Movements that know letters. No need to think. Here, my dog barks, hoodlum crossing. Is he a rapist? Has he hurt a woman? Statistics would agree. Neighbor girl sings crossing the road. She embarrasses herself. Has she been raped? Slice of string cheese, crisp cracker, two bites, grading to do. Husband getting kids from school.
29
Magdalena Hirt Laundry is done. Clothes set out for tomorrow. Apple, Thursday, 4:09 p.m. Here, wine, dog barking. Pen unused, computer screen, powder blue. Waterbed, vision blurs, rain begins. Christmas lights still out front. Curious George stares from my son’s cot. I put on a summer dress today, January 26. My jaw is sore, tense unable to give, speak. I write, laptop on a pillow, sitting in bed. The same side he raped me on, the left.
30
Magdalena Hirt Virgin Martyr
Ruben’s Apollonia Four women, united in virginity, symbolically exhibit their destruction and torture with props.
All robust in beauty, Apollonia, not Catherine, moves my eyes. To the left of Madonna and child, she holds,
heavy in hand, iron pincers that were used to shatter her teeth--to squeeze, pry, and bleed her sanity.
She envisions heaven, a life there, to escape caresses of men here. Purity, virginity, holiness,
every moment for there--she throws herself on the pyre. Seized in violence, she did not falter her story. The nape
of her neck, the skin of her wrist, will burn in the flames, leaving broken teeth in the ashes, the smell of her burning hair.
31
Christine Hombrink Lightning Bug in Michigan Rose hipped sunsetMonroe is on the cusp of the last summer evening of the season.
Minutes before the hiss of the toads, Slipping on algae along the low creek bed;
Seconds preceding the caterwauls of the dying cicadas, perched among the low branches of the old magnolia tree.
I stand, solemn, soft pink hands reaching out
for a last spark to stoke the fire
32
Christine Hombrink Snake Bite When I was polished emerald green eyes and poesy pink cheeks dusted with tawny freckles, a faded, worn Batman shirt and a pair of crisp, clean blue jeans equipped with my favorite suspenders. I remember the ease of unclasping those neon yellow snakes from my jeans. Twirling around that old living room, laughing, these neon yellow snakes spinning out around me just like the swing ride at the fair that I was always too scared to go on. I was a blur of sunshine in a dark room. I should have been the main event, far surpassing the old dragster races that flickered on the television that night. The faint glow from the TV made my father’s face seem smooth and young as he laid there that evening, watching, eyes glued to the bulky screen, engulfed in the beauty of Hemi engines, cherry red paint jobs, and swirls of exhaust fumes. He warned me to be careful that day; He said that I could hurt someone
33
Christine Hombrink with the neon yellow snakes. He said they were uncontrollableI should slow down, I should stop. But I didn’t listen; I danced with the snakes I had tamed so well. The spectacle I created was more important than any muscle car revving it’s engine at the starting lineSurely my dad would turn and devote his attention to Me, the Neon Snake Charmer. Surly he would grab me and hug me tight, and tell me how much he missed me and that he’d promise to be around more often. I held these hopes in my fists as I spun faster and faster, my mind whirling with fantasies of daddy daughter dances and parent picnics. I squeezed even tighter, turning the pads of my fingers white; white as the snow that sometimes glittered over the ancient glossy television screen. The neon snakes stood on end, hissing and snapping. Suddenly, I was no longer the Neon Snake Charmer. And when the neon snakes reached out for my father, they drew blood. And I realized that the neon snakes had charmed me.
34
Felicia Preece Portrait of a Lilac- A Poem Eliot wrote "you do not know what love is You who hold it in your hands" And I am but a lilac stalk Fragile, full of life. All I can do is be there As you twist me between your fingers. At times I will loose a petal Or a leaf falls to the ground To you I am just a flower Or a branch from off the ground. You do not, and you cannot, Know the life, the soul, the love That you so carelessly hold. You've cut me from my life source The only thing I know You've swept me up and placed me In a bowl...but "ah, you do not know!" If I had a voice or a Stronger soul Then perchance I'd find a way For all my love to show.
35
Kevin Risner 2:13 AM Clutch the steering wheel And inch by inch Crunching over the bones Of ice Sludge The crawl you make Does not bring reaction to a living soul For it’s only the sky That paints a cloudy reminder That wandering dogs And bats and coyotes Lurkers of midnight Would not dare to venture Down this little swerving county road Curving Carving a hole Deep in the darkness With once-living speed bumps Like bear traps And once-living specks That spatter the windshield And once-living souls That diffuse through the windshield Protecting you for a few minutes Until the chill sneaks through the cracks of the car And rattles the engine dry And all ten fingers clutch tighter And your breath hovers like cigarette smoke Waiting for someone Maybe something To emerge from behind the nearest tree To where your car Your lonesome car Has conveniently stopped
36
Timothy Salow Solitude and Such— In the course of human events one finds the space of desolation inviting, from time to time, for the solitude of nonexistence. To be is fundamentally torturous. To live is to suffer the pains of disappointment, stress of commitment, the isolation of dependence both given and received. But the value of rest is inherent in the removal of all cause. This then is the prayer of the sorrowful. The sun that breaks upon the grassy plain unsettled by a northern breeze is blessed entirely for its inconsequence. The ornament and ribbon are beloved for their hanging and hanging only. The ineptitude of a pebble placed curiously upon a fence post knows nothing of the regret held in action. It is extant by peace, exact by patience and exempted from cause, but significant only in result. Night offers the hope of sleep, though none is offered at present. But this which is, is unknown to peace and thus struggles as beggar for a pittance of solace amidst the driven snows. We bundle our minds in hovels of shovels and scythes meant to achieve the unattainable, except in the pursuit; such is our pleasure, unrecognized by meditative minds but known only to the contemplative eye. And yet, these eyes gloss at once upon beholding this sight—and the sweet melody of solitude is smothered beneath the saddest sigh ever sung.
37
Jasmine Townsend Ars Poetica The universe is going to tear itself to shreds, you know, like ribbons stretching thinner until they become fine dust. I didn’t know that at the time. I just pointed up one early autumn day and said, Mom, the sky looks like a smooth, blue marble. I knew a guy who was just like the Sun – Pretty to look at, full of hot gas, and thought the world revolved around him. All he’ll leave behind is music with whiney vocals and cluttered guitar screeches on a lonely MySpace page. Suppose 2045 does happen, suppose man merges with machine – The Fountain of Youth in cold, hard steel. Don’t forget to plug up the kids before charging up for the night, dear. If we don’t blow ourselves up in mushroom clouds, maybe we could scavenge what remains before Earth suffers Venus’ death
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Jasmine Townsend and rocket to some Earth-twin beyond the crushing embrace of Andromeda’s fuzzy purple spiral arms. What I want to bring with me are the same kinds of thoughts I wrote down when I was little, sitting in the bleachers of a high school football game I wasn’t paying any attention to.
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Jasmine Townsend Brat I used to be two slices of cake until I discovered supermodels and mirrors. Every girl’s had a boyfriend but me – the reason I said no when Ashley asked me to switch seats so she could sit next to Jonathan. I was the world and Carmen Sandiego knew every inch of me before she made the daft decision to start leaping through time. I was the one named Sailor Moon, deep space bass, screeching, “ka ki ku ke ko,” as prompted by a little anime girl on the computer screen. I was the splattered orange blot and the black and white blocks. Yikes and away! – a running joke at my house. I was the Garden of Eden trampled by dinosaurs. I was Ain’t is in the dictionary! I am sweat on aerobic mats, organic green tea, and Raisin Bran sprinkled
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Jasmine Townsend over vanilla yogurt, tuning out the liars who call me skinny. Why is every girl having sex but me? (Most of my exes were assholes anyway.) I’m the gaping hole where Toonami used to be. And, what the hell is a Supah Ninja? I’m a suitcase on a plane to Japan where kokujin means “photo-op.” I don’t mind though, just as long as I don’t get kicked out of a shop for being one. I’m a cog in the clockwork set in motion by the Big Bang – a force of science personified as gods created in man’s image. And I don’t care if “ain’t” is in the dictionary. It’s not a fucking word.
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Kelly Thompson Orphans at Thanksgiving Those two whole faces are represented in the faded sunshine strips on the table, like these photographs with people you never met or will never know. But know that they were known, and let that be enough. It has circled around again, so it is one of those days where family talk seeps in, dripping, dropping gelatinous, onto the same table with the cranberry sauce, oddly-shaped, those false and waxy cornucopias, and the talk, too. Ignore their petty eyelash comments, the way their glasses wave brimming with sympathies, or molten lava memories. Pretend to be interested in: the amount of clove in the pie, the early Christmas dÊcor, the zombie traffic of Black Friday, anything else that comes to mind that isn’t harmful, specific, or meaningful. Little brother, Do not respond to their lava memories. Do not even respond to your own. I have only a few years more of this particular holiday (been hit over by a truck!/sledgehammer to the stomach!) experience, but I know it will burn the tastebuds right off the face of remembering, and slide them down into pools of shame rendering the turkey in front of you ashes, or dust.
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Chelsea Vogelbacher Braids of Hair One lock of wisdom, another of advice. A strand or two of understanding – empathy, companionship. Peppered with chit-chat – An open ear A freedom to speak – Simple, honest, Sincere. Carefully woven – Not too loose, Not too tight. Nimble fingers accomplishing What my own are incapable of Interlacing friendship, Knowledge, mentorship.
I stand a little taller, a little straighter Face clear, curls secure, Neatly sorted. Chaos curbed. Organized, strengthened, Understood. With the weight of the braid running down my back, Reminding me – I am not alone I stand, Ready to face the world.
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Chelsea Vogelbacher Screams Sleeping, my screams echo The room sounds empty, The silence talks back. SilenceSo misleading, misguiding Safe or a sneak attack? I feel your shape curl around mine, You try to hold me, comfort, cradle To love away my nightmares. I jolt, I shift, I startle RationalityYou mean well But the screamsHistory, trauma, terror The nightmares win again. I give in, Fall back asleep Trading one nightmare For another.
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