freshflavor
The Wire Harp creative arts magazine
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The Wire Harp {2008} what would we do without the artist? Which colors would be missing and what songs would we not be singing? The artist, in all his or her wonder, takes the everyday, the ordinary, and flavors it extraordinary.
The Wire Harp is a non-profit annual publication of Spokane Falls Community College, presenting the creative works of students, alumni, faculty and staff. Manuscripts and inquiries, accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope, should be sent to:
The Wire Harp Spokane Falls Community College Communications MS 3050 3410 West Fort George Wright Drive Spokane, WA 99224-5288 The Wire Harp Online http://graphicdesign.spokanefalls.edu/wireharp ©2008 The Wire Harp: Spokane Falls Community College. All rights reserved. All rights revert to individual authors and artists. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval system—without written permission of the publishers.
wire harp Staff Literary Editor
JoLynn Morse
Literary Staff
Judy Johnson Karhonkwison Logan Matthew Lott Kiila Douglas-Chambers
Art Director
Heidi Jantz
Assistant Art Director
Kevin Armstrong
Literary Co-Advisors
Connie Wasem and Laura Read
Graphic Advisor
Doug Crabtree
Special Thanks Christie Anderson, Richard Baldasty, James Gonzales, Connie Johnson, Megan Martens, Nathaniel Morse, Alexis Nelson, Hayley Sims
CONTENTS Poems Spinning in Circles Brad Humphrey In Case You Were Wondering Danielle Desjardins Thus Far Robert Chenault When Pleasure Goes Home Michaela Kasbar Beautiful Ride Matthew Lott Bass Notes Brad Humphrey Excerpts of Lovers, past Shawna Hutchings Raindrops Lahja Aberash First Thanksgrieving Gerene Townsend The last life in the universe Jake Shaw Correspondences Bradley Bleck two possible conclusions in darkness James Gonzales Russkie Business Richard Baldasty Second Attempt at Kindness Eric James Dying Autumn Melissa Viehouser Atlantic Mantis Matt Smith Cabin in the Woods Renee Schneider First Dirt Road JoLynn Morse Grandpa’s Cows Christie Anderson Media Presents Judy Johnson The Appeal of the Big Screen Pirate JoLynn Morse Death of a World Moriah Iverson From Whence We Came Robert Chenault 012789 Jake Shaw bathwater James Gonzales Accomplice Tom Versteeg Confessional Mess for Sharon Karhonkwison Logan
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2 5 7 11 14 16 18 21 24 28 32 36 40 42 48 50 54 58 62 66 76 78 80 82 84 86 92
Fiction The Answers Justin Van Elsberg Are You Going to Finish That? Karhonkwison Logan Weurd Catfush James Crofoot Love, Lust, and Louis Vuitton Gerene Townsend Biblical Geography Eric James
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Visual Arts Untitled Kelly Crocker Umbrellas I Jessica Polm A Tracker's Feet Fran Hailey Rolly Folders Matt Smith Still Life Boxes Ashton Kilgore Vintage Door Vanessa Knerr Resetting the Compass Collista Bejjani Alice’s Mushroom JoLynn Morse Untitled Lance Putt Buffalo at Big Hole Fran Hailey Buffalo in Wood Fran Hailey Elephant of Africa Ashton Kilgore Listening Collista Bejjani Floating Miriam Palavicini Getting on My Nerves JoLynn Morse Home Gillian Frederick Untitled III Trina Snediker Untitled II Trina Snediker Downtown Lance Putt
4 6 9 10 12 13 15 17 20 22 23 26 27 30 31 34 38 39 41
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Hesitance Converse I Springs Chambers This is your hand, this is your hand on drugs Native American Dancer Train Tracks Near St. Mary's American Flag Summer Palace Girl Untitled Paradise Valley Horses Untitled Steelhead Crazy Caribbean Bloom Untitled VW Who Do You Think I Am Cincinatti Burn Light Switch Ostrich All Locked Up Found Object Assemblage Music Man Blueberries
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Collista Bejjani Sam Brown Sam Brown Trina Snedicker Kellie Eggers JoLynn Morse Jeff Ferguson Vanessa Knerr Fran Hailey Albert Sed Fran Hailey Jody Hudgeons Melissa Lindsey Moria Felber Kelly Crocker Sasha Walker Matt Smith Vanessa Knerr Ashton Kilgore Sam Brown Trina Snediker Collista Bejjani Sam Brown
44 47 49 51 53 56 57 59 60 61 64 65 68 69 74 75 77 79 81 87 88 91 94
Richard Baldasty Poetry Award This issue marks the inauguration of the Richard Baldasty Poetry Award. Richard Baldasty taught history and philosophy at SFCC from 1977-2007, and during his tenure, he was regularly published in this journal and contributed significantly to the arts on our campus. Each year, the Wire Harp staff will select what we consider the most artistic poem published in the issue. It will be our intention to give this award to a poem written by a student, rather than a faculty member. As Richard has honored us with his love of poetry, we seek to honor him with this annual award.
start { pouring } here
Spinning in Circles { Brad Humphrey } This morning, when the sky was still black and blue from the day before, when the burnt leaves of the fiery fall were only just visible in the first freeze, I undid the glass dressing over my dial alarm clock and laid it naked in my steady hands. Â My hands ran around its smooth black edges, like the top of a silent grand piano on a deserted stage. My fingers fell onto its numbered, white inner surface, like if you were to dip yourself in the milky puddles of your lover's eyes. Numbers whose hands they hold swing around in an endless carousel of highs and lows, like two fighters in a dusty ring or like the twirling, twisting, entangling steam rising from a winter's kiss. Â
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Whichever you prefer in its intoxicating spin of hours and minutes of twisted sheets and locked hips in the happily heavy air or the unknown seconds till distressed weather is no longer taken in by your lips, it’s sobering to think that all the events of my life will fall somewhere on its spinning circle, somewhere I can see this very instant. Such a small circle to encompass a life.
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Untitled { Kelly Crocker } Charcoal and Conte crayon 4
In Case You Were Wondering { Danielle Desjardins } You left your purse. You never left without your purse. I looked through it, no one else had yet. I took precious things of yours. Not money or credit cards, but your keychain and the mirror that you kept for years and years after the makeup was gone. You won’t miss these things where you are. I looked in the bathroom for you. You weren’t there, but your perfume was. Jasmine. It’s in a box in my room now and sometimes I take out that box and smell your perfume and think of you, then dream of you holding me close when I am sad. I thought I saw your car at the grocery store; it wasn’t yours, but it reminded me of a time, not that long ago when you left your car running the entire time we went grocery shopping together. I bought your favorite, almond roca, in case I saw you; I didn’t. Three years now since I have seen you; I have your earrings in my bedroom, if you were looking for them. You may need them some day for some special occasion when your ruby earrings might match your red sweater just right. Sometimes, I will admit, I take your lock of hair out of my special box, the hair we got from the funeral home after you left. It’s a dyed color I'm sure, so typical, but it’s a beautiful shade of gold, maybe the same gold as your watch, the one you wore every day for 8 years; I have that in my room too. When you come back, or if I see you, I’ll give you back all your things. I don’t claim them as mine; I am just keeping them safe for you, in case you were wondering.
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umbrellas I ​{ Jessica Polm } Acrylic 6
Thus Far { Robert Chenault } 1) Together, with me inside Mamma's belly, we graduated high school–the proudest, yet most embarrassing moment of her young life. 2) The smell of my great great grandmother's fried chicken clung to the cool air when Mamma's water broke in the autumn. Three years later they sat me up in Grammy's lap when the paper came by to take a picture they entitled, "Five Generations." 3) Daddy was ordained and we moved deeper south. We left the dead and dying behind to follow Daddy's new job. I started school the only white skin in my whole neighborhood. 4) "New Orleans was the front lines of SIN!" Daddy said. While he was busy saving sinners, Mamma was just as busy recruitin' em. 5) Only Daddy's denial kept us sheltered in our religious bubble of ignorance. But the bubble was to burst when Mamma ran off with another convert. Soon I would understand as my peach fuzz turned dark and curly. 6) Sunken into defeat, Sin won the war on Daddy. Depressed, drunk, and angry, he soon lost his job, taking me down alongside with him. He soon found an outlet; his fists came down hard. 7) I was next to leave the fallen preacher. Alone with no home and hustlin' the French Quarter. Fresh meat for rotten potatoes. 8) Turning eighteen in boot camp, brought my age as a sailor. Twice the world over before New Orleans called me home. 9) ALL night parties, ALL stripper girlfriends, stumblin' out of bars Sunday mornings at 7:00 a.m.
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10) Mardi Gras marked the years with no family contact. To them I was dead, and I was, only walking. 11) We somehow found love together in Darkness, Her belly grew Big with our growing son. 12) While I was there, they cut open her belly. A blinding light shone as our son emerged. Cleaned up and weighed, his red face was wailing, but placed in my arms, his comfort was found. 13) Once love was enough to sate our addictions, but as Beau grew strong, we grew weaker still. Fighting around our beautiful Angel until we could neither fight anymore. One day she took our beautiful Angel and fled far away to never return. 14) The Fog rolled in with the things I ingested. Everyone loved me. I hated myself. I sold less fun than the fun I ingested, 'til nothing was left but to start selling myself. I want to stop, this black hole, this vacuum. Not knowing how, I resigned to my fate. 15) God smote New Orleans in Biblical Measure. With a sick sense of humor He answered my prayers. 16) After many years gone, I revisit Texas. Returned from the dead, they welcome me back. Renewed for awhile, I try to start over. But over me hovers my still haunted past. 17) Old habits bring me my cage as a present. 18 months of self-discovery wrapped in 18 months of hell. 18) A letter arrives to one Texas prison. A prodigal father seeks a prodigal son. Putting aside the hurt of the present, the hurt of the past–Son, come to Spokane. Today) Invisible stripes wear one lonely person, seeking the freedom that is only his to give.
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A Tracker’s feet { Fran Hailey } Photograph 9
rolly folders { Matt Smith } Photograph 10
When Pleasure Goes Home { Michaela Kasbar } When pleasure goes home, nobody opens the door. He is not immersed with golden light. No cookies bake in the oven, no fireplace warms his cheeks. No red rose petals lead up to the bedroom, no sexy, lingerie-clad woman leans over the feathered comforters. There are no comforters. No, when pleasure goes home, he brings a gun and a tool to pick the lock. He creeps past his alcoholic father, drooling and slumped over the dusty chair, crawls over the dirty casket at the foot of the staircase, climbs up past the broken glass that once covered the family portrait, tiptoes into his room. He rummages through his old things: the corsage never worn, the letters never sent, the eviction notice from the last house, the diamond ring—he throws that far, far away. His fingers strike a piece of wood. He smiles (hasn’t done this in a while), picks the old guitar up from the floor, darts back down to the door. Leaves. Striding towards the horizon, the dusty road misting in clouds around his worn out sneakers, his hand strums the song he sings when he needs to forget.
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Still Life Boxes { Ashton Kilgore } Graphite on Gesso 12
vintage door { Vanessa Knerr } Photograph 13
Beautiful Ride { Matthew Lott } Fertilized with lusty eyes and born of vanity. Come into my world and silence the demons. Oh little one, fill your lungs with one pure breath. Suckle until your heart is full, and those milk drunk eyes roll back. Just hold on for your beautiful ride has already begun.
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Resetting the compass { Collista Bejjani } Sculpture 15
Bass Notes { Brad Humphrey } Past and future congruently stow the rhythm in each measure. The present beats out the melody as we traverse down each foot and inch, down into each store line of the static choir, to the bars that end each love and tell us to stay for a while. Pushed and pulled down these black streets, the harmonic lines of mass transit routes concrete veins of this garden state. They rise and fall with each coming day beat, some at a vivace pace jetting from each metered line, others somewhat more gravely to focus on each, single, note. But underneath this roaring interstate of each his own key of those dressed up gratifying ties, walk just you and me holding hands, down an endless road. We are only but the bass notes, in this moving score.
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Alice’s Mushroom { JoLynn Morse } Imagon 17
Excerpts of Lovers, past { Shawna Hutchings } I don’t trust myself to lie next to you. You’ll drink my liquor like a fine wine intoxicating all your senses. Your head spins round and violently you make me shake. Silence the voices that chastise your reason, suffocate the words. They all echo truths that do not exist over the memories that we slayed lying broken, shattered in the alleys. Again I am drunk over you and can still taste the salt that healed my wounds when swallowed without fear.
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You… brutally controlling my words opening my mind sucking out my thoughts, I beg of you, just how you like, please don’t shut out my sanity of existence. Don’t tell me no! It rips like a force of chaos. You never could understand this deep, dark, ache. My love, this is what creates sin dripping down naked enticing your soul… This torturous sweet misery— of what excites you… is how you dream…. I don’t trust you to lie next to me anymore.
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Untitled { Lance Putt } Photograph 20
Raindrops { Lahja Aberash } My body never rested naked with a person before, and neither had his. The edges of my fingers traced the indents of his muscles, the raised surfaces of his scars. His sleeping body shivered in soft silence. My hands traced up his arms—little swirls—until I reached his fingers, curled over my heart, as if he was holding it in his hands, so softly. It seemed he was inside my chest, unlocking a cage, to find a lamb within. I wanted to bottle this moment, this feeling, this position he was in … throw it out into the ocean, let it break on the coral … seep through the water, into the clouds, and fall in droplets on my skin, absorbing him.
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Buffalo at Big Hole { Fran Hailey } Photograph 22
Buffalo in wood { Fran Hailey } Photograph 23
First Thanksgrieving { Gerene Townsend } It’s the second time this month I’ve seen people that I haven’t seen in years, or my entire life. Now and at the funeral. Uncle David, still grieving drowns his sorrows in the presence of odd company. Distraction. He brought three people to dinner, who no one else knows. He was the baby. Her death may have hit him the hardest. It’s the first Thanksgiving without Grandma. There are people all over the house. The chaos resembles a ghetto circus of sorts, loud, drunk black people, one white guy passed out on the couch, and a feud in the front yard. Baby mama drama. Mom asks one of the uninvited guests for some assistance peeling potatoes. “You should buy sharper knives.” Her face as red as the cranberry sauce. She smiles and knows that grandma would have done likewise, and says nothing. Rather she recites a sweet silent prayer, for the strength not to attack the stupid girl. After dinner, Uncle Curtis who moved away and hasn’t spoken to anyone in 25 years, tells my mother that Grandma’s death is her fault.
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His head comes off and rolls across the floor in front of everyone. My mother leaves the room with sweet red victory smeared on her face and hands. The crowd settles and leaves a few tears shed, some broken dishes, and the white guy passed out on the couch. My mother and I stand in the kitchen and she tells me, “I love her, but I’m never doing this again.” Grandma lived for the lives of others and believed in an open home and heart. But my mother will go to sleep tonight knowing she has to buy sharper knives.
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Elephant of Africa { Ashton Kilgore } Graphite 26
Listening { Collista Bejjani } Collagraph Plate 27
The last life in the universe. { Jake Shaw } I was sleeping when she died. I was sleeping when I found out. It wasn't a surprise and it didn't hurt. Replayed it in my head a thousand times-a-second. Looked at the window and at me until it started seeping in. Tried to block it out with music, any music at all. The lyrics were cheap and absurd, like a bad TV movie. I started to feel nauseous, through my whole body. My head, my limbs and my torso were on the verge of vomiting. I screamed until my lungs threatened collapse.
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My aunt's knock on the door interrupted. She held me. I put my arm around my brother for the first time in my life and we left that place and that life.
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Floating { Miriam Palavicini } Photograph 30
getting on my nerves { JoLynn Morse } Charcoal 31
Correspondences { Bradley Bleck } I It’s Easter; he shivers beneath blankets, Chilled by his decline and longevity. Pale arms are smooth as if shaved; gnarled knuckles Clutch the covers close. Three watch with pity. They question and tell stories to replace Phantom voices that pain, torment, deride. At times his eyes see clear and the faces Prompt mumbles. Child, grandchild, and great-grandchild Watch close. Granddaughter and cankered mother Search for life when eyes sink deep and hollow. More talk sparks awareness of another, Now forsaken past. Later comes shallow Breaths from wracked lungs. The eyes quietly close So he cannot torture, rise or repose.
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II Your loved Mother is dying in our home. Leaving her bed, she walks entranced and sits Before the fire, found alone in transit— Yellow blue flames flare—no longer to roam. Led to her room, she climbs stairs, hefts legs. Unaware she treads back up to her bed; We pull her feet forward, move them muffled. One foot, the other shuffles slow through dregs. Pillows prop her, pumpkin pie, sweet whipped cream For sustenance; awareness and thoughts wane. Change diapers, moisten lips to ward off pain; Warming tears, lasting love, fading lost dreams. In the living room, we gaze through windows; Death rattle startles, then entropy grows.
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Home { Gillian Frederick } Colored pencil, Sharpie, Pastel 34
The Answers { Justin VanElsberg } God give me the strength to believe in you, because it's getting late and you don't come around much anymore. My room gets very small. That's when I lie in the corner. I'm very careful not to touch anything. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I sleep. Sometimes I listen. This is all under the cover of night. It's hard to believe that the sun will rise in the morning, so I sometimes wait it out to see. Most people just believe what they're told. I always want to make sure. How do we know the universe follows these laws we've stumbled upon? Maybe all we know is one chapter, and the next one will start tomorrow. Without a sun. Gravity. Mom and dad. They don't know that I think this way. I save it all for night. That way they'll never have to find out. I eat in lunch groups, play softball, and go to dances. I never let them kiss me though, or tell them this. If they take anything away from me, I'll become a part of them, and they'll become a part of me. I'll become a story they tell their uncle about things that don't make sense and get a "Ha!" during their noon day break. Maybe I'm a story now, but not a true one. Maybe one of those Walmart novels that sells for 3 dollars and is never heard from again. Those novels that people who get excited for prime time t.v. read when they can find the time. There once was an understanding fear that my mother and I shared with one another. A fear of God. It made us close, but sad. Every time someone died, we would look at the sky and assume. If someone questioned our assumption, we would lash out at their throats. I stopped believing when I started reading. That's when I started hating her. She doesn't know I hate her, but oh do I hate her. I'm on the other side now. Still, there is something I don't trust about this side. What if there really is a God? says this tiny voice inside me. I shudder and moan, and burn a hole through the back of her head.
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two possible conclusions in darkness { James Gonzales } i stone tower stairs rise to the astral plane falling from the window blue in rose blood light the bone bride combs her silver hair night free of splintered stars spacecraft hover above the morning gallows birds sing a backward fool
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ii a moth navigates by memory of sunrise do not consider a return to the mornings of ordinary streets in a room of broken dolls an aching skeleton stirs in her sleep bound with rope to her bed she dreams once more of falling
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Untitled III { Trina Snedicker } Colored pencil, Graphite, Mixed media 38
Untitled II { Trina Snedicker } Colored pencil, Pastels, Mixed media 39
Russkie Business { Richard Baldasty } Lord, redeem and have mercy upon Russian youth, which has sunk deep into the sins of impiety, misbelief, ignorance, and foul language. —online prayer, Orthodox Soul Care Center, Moscow O tempora! O mores! Blasphemy and culture clash! Much Russkie business such beastie chaps— O waggish dregs, alas— what trash they talk, rude chaff they ask: Does she shimmy, her icon dance, can she groove, matushka, move, Holy Virgin of Murmansk?
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downtown { Lance Putt } Photograph 41
Richard Baldasty Poetry Award Winner Second Attempt at Kindness { Eric James } sweet, like wild oats. or, what joy the horses sang! when they licked each grain from our finger tips. i remember being afraid, i remember always being afraid. still, like an autumn morning, which is certainly not still, but really puts you in your place yet you still become the unmoving center of the universe.
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- that is until that gentle, soft, tingling touch just creeps (it cannot crawl) right up your spine. much like the touch of a woman, or maybe it is the touch of a woman; her eyes on you, so deep and so kind. her fingers find you (humbled, like those wild oats).
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Hesitance { Collista Bejjani } Monoprint 44
Are You Going to Finish That? { Karhonkwison Logan } I met a guy one day on the bus, on my way home from work. He approached my seat and asked me if he could have the rest of my Pepsi. "Excuse me; are you going to finish that?" I heard from my left. "Don't worry,� he said when I recoiled from his shabby appearance. "I won't bite,� he smiled a warm and crusty grin, "or rob you." At this his smile widened. I couldn't help but crack a smile too and blurt out a nervous giggle. I wasn't entirely sure that he was joking, but his smile was easy and I was reassured. Still, I took a mental note of where my purse sat beside me. "Go ahead." I offered the semi-sampled soft drink to him with a shy voice. "Thank you," he said as he extended his hand toward me, slightly touching my fingers as the bottle exchanged hands. He lowered himself in the bench seat in front of mine and I watched him enjoy the drink. I didn't mind his nearness as I might have done otherwise. I wasn't overly repulsed by his smell of dirt and sweat. He had lines in his face that were newly carved and a look in his eye that wouldn't commit to one thought. The back of his hair was matted but still orderly, like well kept dread locks. He appeared older than me but his whole look was deceiving. Shagginess hid a wide jaw line. With a good clean and shave, he probably looked the same age as me. "You know, the day is too hot to waste a good drink. You didn't even drink half of this and it's already getting warm." He seemed to be chastising me in a playful way. "I guess I wasn't as thirsty as I thought," I said defensively. I could afford to be wasteful, I thought to myself. He seemed to pick up on this and continued to tease me. "Well, next time you don't want something, you can share it with me."
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"Or I could just throw it away." I smiled in spite of myself. "Yeah but it's so much nicer to share." His eyes flickered at me and the smile continued. Apparently, he thought he was being very charming. He seemed familiar to me and easy to talk to. There was a subtle sense of warmness between us that I didn't like. I didn't know what else to say so I opted for nothing and turned toward the window. He let out a long sound of satisfied thirst and looked at me with appreciation. He capped the bottle and stuffed it into a plastic bag he had with him. He pulled the cord to indicate his stop and heaved a tarpaulin bedroll onto his back as he stood. "That was very nice of you. You take care." He laid his hand on my shoulder as he said so. I assume he was smiling at me but I couldn't look into his face. I felt the urge to put my hand over his but I resisted. Time stopped and his hand was still there. I wanted to change my mind but he suddenly pulled away, realizing that he had overstepped a boundary. The door opened and he left in a crowd of other passengers. The doors shut and the bus began to move before I turned to the window to look for him. He was already gone. I decided not to mention it when I got home.
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converse I { Sam Brown } Photography 47
Dying Autumn { Melissa Viehouser } Icy white fingers Scratching at the silver orb Pale against the sky. Grey insecure limbs, A silent cry of lovers Reaching in the cold. The scent of dead trees. The last breath of falling leaves. Sleeping in the chill.
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springs { Sam Brown } Photography 49
Atlantic Mantis { Matt Smith } Milky white, silky legs. 8 of these, and then 16. 32 of them are new. Soon to do what others do: The Deadly Deep Sea Spider Medley. They crawl and brew their waxen joints. Like a jaundiced finger, they linger. Brackish, abysmal. Heaps of the pallid, slow-moving mass, wriggle so seemingly slow while putting out moans of a venomous woe. But one will escape, while God turns his head. Alone in pelagic abandon. As slowly as 8 legs can shuffle a beast, but tired is he who is lost at sea. At least, for now, this albino will cease. Such a leviathan’s crushing the sea. What with his wings, waxing and waning. And this, this great cyanic conclusion‌ The masses bore witness to all of his fitness: his descent upon their entangled legs.
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Chambers { Trina Snedicker } Acrylic 51
Weurd Catfush { James Crofoot } The air was slightly foggy that night just to suit my mood. I was in the winter doldrums; the lack of warmth and sunlight had driven my spirit into a darker place. The grass and foliage had gone into hiding for the winter, sleeping beneath a thick blanket of snow. I slowly trudged my way through this thickness, through the vast slow white insanity. My spirit urged me to move away from darkness, so I walked, but I felt I was moving toward somewhere I shouldn’t. I knew where I had come from and I knew I would be sure to find my way back, but I didn’t know where I was going. The horizon was light pink in color but the sky above it was thick and hovered above me luminously, its heavy dark clouds moving eerily. They blew quickly across the sky-scape and broke apart and reassembled and took on new forms faster than I could comprehend. I thought it seemed that they too were lost, only they had the advantage. They were not given the handicap of having legs, they didn’t have to trudge, knee deep, through pure insanity. They were free to ride the wind; they were getting to where they weren’t supposed to be at a very impressive pace. They made me feel small. The fir trees were my saviors; they stood up to the harsh sky majestic and proud. Pristine white, they glowed in comfort, no longer trees but noble mountains of snow standing on one leg. They stood contently, occasionally releasing cascades of their white burden, but never exposing their infrastructures, their skeletal branches. The further I walked, I began to notice the clouds were dissipating; the light pink of the horizon began to lift up all around me. In time I realized my source of light, the moon, was directly above me. I had forgotten about the moon and it was then I saw two silver catfish, in a place where it seemed the moonlight shone brightest, as if in celestial spotlight. Below them the snow sparked and glistened as they dance above it in circles around each other, their tails flicking with delight.
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This is your hand, this is your hand on drugs { Kellie Eggers } Sculpture 53
Cabin in the Woods { Renee Schneider } Skeletons of black trees, silhouettes One after the other With branches Dried out that snap off when touched Skeletons of spineless weeds Hanging upside down with string Wound around them like a noose Around the neck of a renegade cowboy Skeletons of heads of dead animals Lying on the window sills Still smiling at nothing With teeth that show their wisdom The wooded tables utilitarian and makeshift Nails loosened with time Continue to balance and lean to the left Or to the right With the weight of things still on top of them The cabin Hollow With its bones one after the other Showing through 2x4x10 boards that were never covered Or given paint to liven and beautify
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The ladder in the center Like a tall strong man Vertebrae exposed Resting in a hole in the ceiling To the second floor Balancing between Earth and the heavenly The only life visible Is through the windows Looking out At the vegetation overgrown And unobtrusive to the headstone of a cabin A rock is placed on the property to Remember Someone was here
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Native American Dancer { JoLynn Morse } Watercolor 56
Train Tracks near St. Mary’s { Jeff Ferguson } Photography 57
First Dirt Road { JoLynn Morse } My rural road is overburdened with city trash, usually loaded with lush green grass. The road is now a garbage cache. In the spring, city dwellers dump winter’s broken limbs that now house squirrel foxes. Summer brings bountiful yard clippings and worn out cold boxes. Autumn adds withered toothless pumpkins and colorful leaves, and if you believe, dry skeletons of Christmas trees. Nearby is another skeleton, bones not yet dispersed. Man’s best friend, betrayed and left for dead, seen last with taut skin over stark ribs as he scurried off with a forgotten leather glove, a meal he prospected. I suspect the bright-eyed pup was probably bought on a whim and lived behind a grey pen, dug a hole, his outlook now grim. Soon his owner lost interest, the dog forgot his purpose. “Come on friend, let’s go for a ride,” was his owner’s last call. The dog’s tail wagged in response. Then his master drove him out to the first dirt road, and he was easily disposed.
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american flag { Vanessa Knerr } Photograph 59
summer palace girl { Fran Hailey } Photograph 60
untitled { Albert Sed } Photograph 61
Grandpa’s Cows { Christie Anderson } In the pasture thick with December snow I stand back of my grandfather. The sun is blinding in the east so that the shadow of the hay barn falls on me and I am in the dark while grandpa stands in the bright light without his hat, white hairs twinkling like the crystals crusting the deep snow. Beyond him stand his girls. At the far end of the pasture the bull lingers next to a salt lick, his back turned, facing the St. Joe, watching its heavy winter currents, as if he knows what this morning will bring. Grandpa’s rifle rests across his arm, like holding a baby. Bessie stands chewing, straws of hay hanging from her mouth, her breath just like mine rising moist then seeming to fall. She knows my grandpa from when she was a calf. She knows me too.
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When she was born, she came out all wet and white. Grandpa stood me back just far enough while Daisy licked away what his quick cloth missed. Soon came the nursing bucket, and I was honored to feed her. Grandpa is saying something I can’t hear to Bessie. He raises his hand to indicate it’s time, un-cradles his rifle . . . and I can hear it boom down the valley and melt into the snow.
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paradise valley horses { Fran Hailey } Photograph 64
untitled { Jody Hudgeons } Graphite 65
Media Presents { Judy Johnson } Getting a half-eaten cupcake when a whole is desired. A few swigs of a flat coke doesn’t quench the thirst. Knowing what the world is capable of and what is presented. Why can’t society be open without gatekeepers choosing. When the public learns hidden truths, lies and exaggerations, anger rises into fury, “How un-American!” Controversial pictures present a choice. Most protest, not ready to see the gruesome acts of humanity.
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Cowering away, thinking of protection. Not understanding it could be their neighbor. Why shelter so-called delicate minds from knowing the facts. How do we prepare for the future if the present doesn’t exist.
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Steelhead { Melissa Lindsey } Photograph 68
crazy caribbean bloom { Moria Felber } Photograph 69
Love Lust and Louis Vuitton { Gerene Townsend } Running around the am/pm looking for weapons of mass destruction is not what I had planned for my Saturday night. Frantically pacing the three small aisles in the convenient store like two Jackie Joyner-Kersees, Wessi and I look for anything to MacGyver into something to seriously damage a car. “Ooh!” Wessi screams,“spark plugs!” She darts around the end of the aisle to the automotive section. I walk over to her and watch as she gazes up and down the small aisle. No spark plugs. The aisle is better equipped with a selection of windshield wiper fluid and motor oil. “What were you going to do with spark plugs anyways?” I ask. “I saw in a movie once that you could blow out someone’s window with a spark plug.” “How?” “I dunno,” she says almost condescendingly, “but I’m sure there are directions on the back.” I watch her big brown eyes trace a large slow circle in their sockets. *** Wessi wasn’t the brightest, but she was pretty, which was exactly why she was in this position in the first place. Wes had been suspicious of her boyfriend’s behavior for some time now, but figured it was the simple delusions of a female psychosis and kept the thoughts relatively at bay. ***
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Those thoughts went way the hell out to sea that night.
Every couple of months, Wessi would leave town for work. She had a great paying job with decent hours and really didn’t mind the traveling. She would leave town for a weekend or a couple of days and always return with a respectable amount of money. She liked her job so I was happy for her, although I still don’t understand why strippers are in such high demand in Missoula, Montana. This particular Saturday, Wes was scheduled for one of her out-of-town work weekends but had unusually decided to take the drive alone. Twenty minutes from home, she had to return due to forgetting something. I guess a girl really can’t go anywhere without a pair of tip jar platforms. Being gone less than an hour, Wes bounced up the stairs to her stunning twobedroom apartment, expecting to find her boyfriend where she left him. In front of the TV, 360 controller in hand, face in a zombie trance. Instead, slipped off at the front door, was a pair of five-inch suede leopard-print heels. Real Manolo. Blahniks. Bitch. In the hussy’s defense, her taste in shoes was decent, even if they were three seasons old. Halfway expecting to trip on a designer imposter Louis Vuitton, Wes took a few very quiet steps into the living room of her apartment, where she came upon a trail of clothes and heard undeniable sounds emanate from the bedroom. A few short minutes later, my phone rang. An inaudible blur of squeals, shrieks and sobs hummed through the ear piece of my cell. “Wes!” I screamed, “Calm down. What’s wrong?” She told me what she had seen and heard, and that she just left the apartment quietly, not knowing what to do. When finished, she stopped, inhaled quietly and waited for my solution. “Meet me at the am/pm on 63rd and Mission,” I said, hanging up. Gloriously, I pulled on my solid black velour sweat suit and black Puma runners – a uniform for revenge that only came out of the closet on special occasions just like this one. I didn’t know how, but I knew what. His car. And frankly, this occasion called for something different from the run-of-the-mill eggs, silly string and Stiletto in the white wall. Practically skipping, I left the house looking like the love child of J-Lo and Cat Woman.
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Giggling to myself, I approached the back of my car and caught the metallic glimmer from the decal of the back window of my car. Hell Hath No Fury. *** Ready to leave the am/pm, we walk to the door half-defeated. As we walk out the entrance, Wessi whisks her finger across a large stack of paper towels and says almost under her breath, “Too bad we can’t spit wad him to death.” I giggle falsely and roll my eyes because her joke isn’t funny. They never are. Mid-roll, out of the corner of my eye I spot a small half gallon of paint thinner placed haphazardly next to the diapers. “Wessi! You’re a genius!” “What?” She spins around confused. As usual. I race through the store snatching the paper towels, paint thinner and a sandcastle building kit, complete with hot pink sand bucket. We make our purchase and exit. On the way to her apartment, I explain to Wes what we will do with the supplies we have gathered. I watch her face begin to glow as she puts together the details. She giggles and begins to twist the seal on the container resting on the floor beneath her knees. I’m always screaming at her, but it really is necessary. “Wes! Stop! That’s paint thinner!” “Yeah. And?” It kills me how even after 13 years of friendship, I still find myself surprised by her lack of common sense. “And this is leather!” I poke the seat fast and hard near her thigh. “Oh,” she says. We pull slowly into the parking lot of the apartment complex, turning off the headlights of my car as we enter. Parking about 100 yards away behind a row of shrubs, we exit the car quietly, knowing from years of experience not to slam the doors, or make any unnecessary noise. The apartment lights are suspiciously low, and the parking lot is fairly empty. It’s Saturday, and very few people are home this late.
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I pour the paint thinner into the bucket and have Wessi pull apart each paper towel and smash it into an absorbent ball. We drop them into the bucket and watch as they drink up pungent liquid. Removing them from the bucket one by one, I carefully place them along the hood of his black Mercedes, squaring up each paper towel with the previous one, climbing up the hood to the windshield. Now either because she doesn’t know what else to do or because she thinks she’s supposed to, Wessi follows my lead, resulting in two paper towel racing stripes running down both sides of the car. Proud of our work, we climb back into the car. Despite all of the heat she will catch and the inconveniences she will face with this huge change in her life, I know she feels better. I can tell. On the way home, I ask Wessi if she wants to grab a drink. “Yeah, but can I borrow a pair of shoes? There’s no way these five inches are gonna last all night,” she says as she slips off a pair of three-season-old Manolos.
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Untitled { Kelly Crocker } Charcoal 74
vw { Sasha Walker } Photograph 75
The Appeal of the Big Screen Pirate { JoLynn Morse } On the big screen mechanical movie robots perceived as scoundrels, a sorry lot, as those pirates roll out of their below-deck cots. Ordered to loot, their toes rot in their boots. They play the role of scurvy-sickened crooks. They demand to look at your treasures they took. Malignant to the core, those movie pirates live true to the lore. We like to look the part of a pirate when dressing for corporate and techno-fashion is it. With blue tooth and pager, our pirate tools, we brandish a new world swagger. We are infected profit-driven swashbucklers, no fools. We scuttlebutt and rook, the corporate ladder shook as we climbed foot over hook. Our victory is not as appealing as the pirate’s lore. Our lives are a bore.
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who do you think i am cincinatti { Matt Smith } Photograph 77
Death of a World { Moriah Iverson } The land shakes and trembles in death's violent throes, spewing red-hot lava high in the yellowed sky. Bones scatter the arid land, human and animal together, mingled with the bones of cities. No sign of life anywhere. Brown, dead, lifeless, a land of deathly silence, garbage and waste everywhere. Seas of green toxins, rivers of sewage. A hot, dry wind wails its sorrow as it screams across the world, searching for life long gone, life which was destroyed by that which gave it life. The lonely wind howls its pain as the yellow-grey clouds scatter acid teardrops on the soil.
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burn Light Switch { Vanessa Knerr } Photograph 79
From Whence We Came { Robert Chenault } with thanks to Theodore Roethke We go down, inside the Earth, returning to the womb, returning to our roots as biological organisms. We are familiar with the damp, the dark and primordial past from which all life on Earth has sprung. We are both distanced, and welcomed, having evolved from this place but away from it. Our fingers have found their way through the cracks; we have escaped into the light. The images are phallic to us in this orgy of micro-organismic breeding, reminding us that we are never far from our deep-seated imperative to reproduce. Even the dank, musky aromas of this self-contained ecosystem remind the upright animal of the first smells which he was born into. The smell of spent sex, warm, intoxicating, floating thick in the air. Mesmerized, we are reminded of both what we are, and what we are forever distanced from.
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Ostrich { Ashton Kilgore } Graphite 81
012789 { Jake Shaw } I'll count down to zero before stopping to slow my breathing. One of you might acknowledge it. Yeah, I couldn’t care less, too. I wanted to crawl under the covers at seven. I left once, but came back right after I ate. Is there anything I can do to help you? Simply, "Nein." I can't remember when I was nine because things worth keeping numbered zero. I can't remember when I was eight. We threw everything out, the chance to start back at one. There aren't any pictures of me at age seven. I couldn't take anything; I counted my hands and came up with two.
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When the remaining members dwindle down to two, we will stay up much later than 9:00. I still pay no mind to the deadly seven. You know, I won't always be zero. Until then, I am my only one and I don't give a fuck about when I was eight.
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bathwater { James Gonzales } the baby carriage teeters on the cliff is the baby still inside or thrown out with the bathwater his mother bathed him in a wooden tub with a hedgehog that licked the child black and blueberry as the razor fan whirred overhead the boy can’t answer to his name
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mommy sewed shut his mouth and eyes the boy can’t see the sweating moon that rises up behind him like a laughing clown
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Accomplice { Tom Versteeg } You’re barely down off the red ball and somebody says here help me shake open this valise full of bones. The handle against your fingers is so smooth and so cool, but what you’ll stare at when your eyes close even years hence is the way each femur glowed like the nightstick of a cop from the land of the dead.
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all locked up { Sam Brown } Photograph 87
Found Object Assemblage { Trina Snediker } Mixed medium sculpture 88
Biblical Geography { Eric James } I am floating on my back, the stars holding me up like water, the entire universe an unending ocean for my free-flowing body to travel. Back strokes. Foreign and alien, I swim. The mysteries of each galaxy at my fingertips, still unattainable, and that’s fine. Things change. But, natural change is slow… true revolutions will not occur in one simple day; there is no glorious flash of revelation. Everything moves, and soon enough, said jellyfish is now a frog. Millions and millions of years must go by… I am floating on water now, mystical but familiar. The ocean at night, the stars and the moon reflected in its dark waves, rippling blots of bright white heat caressing my back with each ebb and tide. I am home. Timeless, but still in time, I roll with the current of the waves. Each strand of seaweed an extension of my arms and legs, each strand a leash for all the knowable and unknowable creatures of the deep, all drifting at the mercy of the sea right along with me. I close my eyes and simply exist: dust with an ego. I’ve washed ashore on a South American coastline. Never been here, always wanted to go. And I find she is already here waiting for me at the edge of the water, a ribbon in her hair and that yellow dress. Her feet buried in the sand, her long legs elegant towers of flesh and warm mud, lines easily traced to the birth of life, the fertile crescent. Her arms are Mother Nature’s arms, she values people more than systems; she embraces me like a lost lover, a lonely child. This is what I’ve always wanted. Eyes, big eyes, still wet with those moons and countless stars, find my eyes, bigger still, and soon lips find my lips and I am whole and new. She has no need for my ribcage, she lives. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she says. “You have?” I say. I am dead and reborn. “They’ve been waiting for you.” “I had not noticed.” Thousands of people on the edge of the coastline: the tired, the depressed, the
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oppressed and abused–all cheering in triumph. This revolution takes slow time. I have a purpose, and I had not noticed. She takes my hand, and together we lead the crowd to wander—the wilderness, the world, a land without borders. We stretch our souls across the countryside, covering new ground with each breath. In her arms, I close my eyes. I awake as if from a dream, and forget, just like every other morning.
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Music Man { Collista Bejjani } Woodcut print 91
Confessional Mess for Sharon { Karhonkwison Logan } It was early 1990-something and we were lying on the living room floor, when my brother asked, “Who do you love better, Mom or Dad?” Such a stupid question and I stupidly answered, Dad, for reasons not really based on love because eleven-year-olds don’t yet understand their own hearts. It was said out of guilt because he worked all night and slept all day. Because we never really got to see him and he seemed so upset. Because he lavished me with showy affection, and I thought he deserved it more than you. Because you were always there so I couldn’t see the working love you gave us every day. You were in the kitchen, chopping veggies, when you heard and starting crying. Dinner wasn’t finished but that was okay, because I had lost my appetite. You cried and drove away because my apologies took back nothing. Fifteen years later, a quarter of a century of living has taught me that that mistake has been the biggest and most unforgivable. So I say this now, before it’s too late. That I remember: lying behind you on the couch to watch TV, where I could see the screen and smell your shirt and be near you; waking you when I was hungry because I had chosen to skip dinner and I knew that you would make a PB&J at 1:00 a.m. without complaint;
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climbing into bed with you when I couldn’t sleep because I was scared to be alone even then; being an adult, stoned into vegetation, feeling for the first time that I am your life repeated, your pool distorted by ripples of my own. How could I say “sorry” when it’s such a flimsy word? As carelessly misused and mishandled as “love”? Instead I say that you need to know— I need you to know— you are my heart.
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blueberries { Sam Brown } Photography 94
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