The Wire Harp - 2009 by the Wire Harp

the wire harp.

Spokane Falls Community College

25th Anniversary Introduction This 2009 issue of The Wire Harp marks a 25-year milestone in the creative life of Spokane Falls Community College. In 1984, SFCC published its first issue of The Wire Harp, and today, as for the past 25 years, SFCC celebrates the creative talent of its students, staff, and faculty through this publication. As this is an anniversary issue, we want to take a look back at our history. SFCC published literary magazines before the 1984 debut of The Wire Harp; these early publications appeared under various monikers, including Realms, Nuances, Imagery, and Campus Carousel. When Almut McAuley came on board as the faculty advisor, she gave the magazine its current name. The phrase “wire harp” inspired her because it is poetic and brings to mind a freespirited minstrel, toting this small harp, more durable and portable than its larger cousin. When McAuley researched the title, she found a collection of ballads and poems entitled The Wire Harp, published in 1965 by the East German writer, Wolf Biermann. Because of the political and artistic turmoil that surrounded Biermann’s book, The Wire Harp became synonymous with a cry against creative repression, and McAuley found the name even more fitting for SFCC’s literary magazine. Since 1984, then, SFCC’s showcase publication has proudly called itself The Wire Harp and has dedicated itself to serving as a public arena for the creative voices we foster on our campus. While the name has stayed the same for twenty five years, some welcomed changes have occured in the magazine. Namely, The Harp began as a literary review, primarily publishing student poems and stories. Then, as the fine arts and graphic arts programs on campus flourished, The Harp began to publish work by visual artists as well and has thus become the more inclusive “creative arts” magazine it is today. Today’s Harp is produced by two student staffs who volunteer their time and collaborate their efforts to produce the magazine. The literary staff, led this year by Robert Chenault, reads the submissions and selects the best work for publication. The graphic arts staff, made up of an art director and an assistant, selects the visual arts to be included. Kevin Armstrong is this year’s art director, and he designed the cover and page layouts, the entire physical look of the magazine, and prepared the format for publication.

Another change is the addition of the Richard Baldasty Award, which we created last year to honor Richard Baldastyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s retirement. Baldasty taught philosophy and history at SFCC from 1972-2007, and during his tenure, he was regularly published in this journal and contributed significantly to the arts on our campus. Every year, The Wire Harp literary staff will select what we consider the most artistic poem, written by a student and published in the issue, as the literary recipient of the award. And the Graphic Arts staff will likewise choose a student visual artist to honor. Each of these students will receive a $100.00 prize, starting with the winners in this issue, as a result of a generous gift from Richard. We are very grateful to Richard for this gift, for the poetry he has given to the Harp over the years, and for inspiring us to create this legacy in his name. A silver anniversary is an auspicious one. Silver is used with china, in jewelry, in photography, in mirrors. It is elegant and beautiful. It helps reflect moments back to us, preserve images. Just like the arts. Please celebrate this important anniversary with us.

2008-2009 Wire Harp Staff Literary Editor | Robert Chenault Literary Advisor | Laura Read Art Director | Kevin Armstrong Assistant Art Director | Jesse Hansonl Graphic Advisor | Doug Crabtree Literary Staff | Christie Anderson Derek Annis Leona Brumitt Jonelle Campbell Mikayla Davis Judy Johnson Rachel Kartz Sherrin Lawson Katharine Lime Stephanie Lundquist Jolynn Morse Allen Stover Zac Whitman Julia Zurcher Special Thanks | Richard Baldasty Jonathan Clayton Connie Johnson Amanda Markley Heather McKenzie Neil Nedrow Alexis Nelson Karl Richardson Tammy Santanna Connie Wasem Dan Wenger

Literary Nonfiction Peek-a-Boo | Adam LeBon | 22 Inhaling a Friend | David Baughman | 41

Aimee Hoff | Secrets There is a delicate balance between a secret and an omission. Ever since these words whispered themselves into my ear, I’ve been toeing the line. It’s been bothering me that I don’t know the right words; I feel like it’s sitting at the tip of my tongue, kicking its legs like a child whose feet don’t quite touch the ground while sitting at the table. There must be a word for this somewhere, because one isn’t enough and the rest are too much. But, oh, if I had secrets to spill, I would whisper them into your pockets and the seams of your clothes and you could keep them there for a short forever unknowing, until stitches come undone and the holes in your favorite shirt begin to whisper endlessly about love and how incredibly scared of it we’ve all become.

Laura Chang | Sense and Sensibility 9

Lynette Tate | Lips 1

Lisa Nilles | Night Power Pole 11

Lynette Tate | High Heel Drama 12

Stephanie Lundquist | Taken Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the last thing I want it to be. Maybe given, or could it be shared? Mine. Against the sheets and skin. Respect and trust, love? Is that necessary? Too much to ask for. The battle to hold on like the last leaves of fall against a harsh winter wind. A promise made and broken. When I fall, does that mean I fail?

Craig Rickett | Alma Mater for Northwest Nazarene College I watch for her from the window of the dormitory where my tuition dollars purchase the right to skip class and think for myself. I watch Sunday mornings when she comes to the garden alone. There, she tends her wild patch of humanity, tucked away in the northwest corner of Christendom beyond the spiked shadow of the House oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; God away from the Astro-turf orthodoxy of truer believers. She ignores the buzzing homily that drones worshippers into a stiff trance, and the wide brim of her sun hat shields her from the heat and scorn of her proper sisters, who sit reciting the Apostleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Creed through pursed lips, polite hands folded across virginal laps. Her Sunday best is an old print dress, the millennial flowers faded and worn thin to the point of transparent, exposing breasts, plump full and unrestrained, swinging counter to the rhythm of the hymn as she hoes her rows of apostates. And rather than leave her children as Holy Sacrifice to the faith of their fathers, she draws a small key that hangs from a silk ribbon and unlocks the gate that lies hidden beneath the thorny bramble of sin, sending her wayward progeny out with a wink, her good wishes, and a long reading list.

Cody Burns | Untitled

Zac Whitman | Fields The birds sang a sleeping song to fields of limbs strewn like confetti. I slept in bedridden innocence, a decaying inactivity. Suspended between festering knowledge and sanitized guilt. The birds with their bellies distended with sweet flesh of soldiers migrating towards desolate paradise. In internment my wound popped, leaking estuaries of clarity pooled in nerve racked silence. The sound of marching like bombs shook the fields and I quaked with an inner knowledge. Fueled by myth inequities of forefathers brutal and ignorant. Soldiers parade towardsâ&#x20AC;Ś

James Browning | Weeping Buddha

Rachel Kartz | Mushrooms I went to the Farmer’s Market in Cathedral Square this morning to check out mushrooms, and men. After I ran a razor over the essential parts of my body, after I pulled on the most spring-like skirt I owned, after I brewed a pot of coffee and drank it reading the early Sunday edition of the paper, I thought maybe I wanted fresh produce. It was a spontaneous decision. I’ve been making a lot of those lately. In the paper this morning I read advertisements for car seats, cribs, those strollers built for rocky trails and mountain expeditions. I thought, humans are like bears or birds. I thought, there certainly have been a lot of front-heavy women tra-la-la-ing around town. I thought, man, those marketers are good. I thought, if I had a child, I’d never push her up the side of a mountain. If I had a child. If I had a child the father would be a first generation American. In bed at night he would teach me things I didn’t know, like world history or the mating habits of blue whales. He would prefer his produce to taste like it came from the ground. The mushrooms from the Farmer’s Market taste like dirt. I don’t like mushrooms. It’s a texture thing. In my mouth, they don’t feel like they belong. But I am trying to reverse all of my dislikes. A man said to me once, “You’d never be a good mother.” It wasn’t because I have a short temper, or because sometimes I forget to turn the stove off. He said it was because I don’t like children. I didn’t know this was true. Much later that same man said to me, “You have the self-esteem of a mushroom.”

We were in bed, my head on his shoulder, my lip puffy. I sucked the blood from it. I wanted to say, What kind of mushroom? The slimy ones I pushed aside when digging through the carton of Chinese take-out? Or the kind that provided visions, like the ones I slipped onto my tongue before senior prom? Or Portobello? They make entire sandwiches out of those. I could be the main ingredient of a sandwich. As if it made a difference. Instead, I said, “I’m sorry.” We were the kind of people who said that often. The next morning I took my coffee outside. I sat on the cold concrete steps by the front door watching a neighborhood that didn’t belong to me. I liked the way I couldn’t feel the hot ceramic mug on the puffy side of my lip. The bugs were coming out. Bugs I didn’t know the names for. They were all there. A beetle-looking one scampered toward me. I tried to push it away with the tip of my finger, and it spread its wings, hopping through the air. Afraid it might land on me, and now not so sure it was a beetle, I stomped my foot down on it. Half its body was alive, the other half dead, and it kicked its good feet frantically, not moving anywhere. I went inside to warm up my cup. Awake now, he poured his own mug. He ran his fingers through my hair above my ears, pulled my face to him. He kissed my lip. I couldn’t feel that either. He joined me on our porch. A family of ants worked on the beetle. Carrying away or eating every part of it. I said to him, “That is what you do to me.” He said, “Nothing you say is unexpected.”

Tamra Pfeifle Davisson | Alex 20

Jessica Hernacki | Dark Nights 21

Adam LeBon | Peek-a-boo I’m flying. The air is cool above the clouds, and for a moment I think I’ll stay here all day. This quiet, this silence, is all exhale; it’s holding your breath until your lungs burn and your heart thumps against your ribs, then releasing— forever. It’s a strange feeling – flying – as if I’ve been here before; there’s no moon, sun, or stars. No birds, no sound, no color, no sight. I’ve flown above sight, sound, and I’m not sure how to land. I wish that I could stay here all day. I’m lying on my back, my hands stretched over my head. There’s a vibration against my neck – a massage, a thousand little fingers, begging me to sleep. Now I hear drums. The massage spreads toward the back of my skull. I’m falling through the sky. A guitar solo? I’m plummeting. There must be some kind of way out of here. I see land. Before I hit the ground, my eyes open to black. No angels, no sky, no sun, and no moon. I’m awake. According to the cell phone under my pillow that’s vibrating and screaming Jimi Hendrix into my lifeless body, it’s 6 a.m. Through the glow of the phone, now in my palm, all I can see is the back of my wife’s head and Luci’s limp arm resting on my chest, her face buried in my armpit. They’re still above me, flying; they’ve learned to ignore Hendrix this early, and they’ll continue to fly while I take a shower, make some breakfast, back down our driveway, and drive into the frigid morning world. I’m invisible. On most days I feel like a ghost. I wander from class to class, subject to subject, thought to thought, without the motivation of interest, only time. Time may be the most important thing in my life. Just like anything else, someone with too much time can easily take it for granted. I could say that I wish I had more time, but I’d be lying. Time may heal all wounds, cure the common cold, or leave scars that last a lifetime, but it’s time that makes a moment, a small fragment, seem so much more important; it’s time that makes little miracles. I see people. I don’t watch them, I glance through them. I ponder my difficulty creating relationships, and then only shallow and tenuous, while wandering through halls, grass, and concrete. I, along with these invisible, moving statues, spend hours listening to lectures on society, equations, and words. This weight strapped to my back, between my shoulder blades, is my cross to bear – my time alone to ponder heaven, and realize that I’ll soon be there. 22

I’m driving. My mind is filled with knowledge, these few useful nuggets – I have to sift them through a pan. It feels like one too many voices, all giving me opinions I don’t agree with; they’ll argue, I’ll listen, and pretend not to care. I’ll try to avoid hitting a child darting across the street. I’ll try to make sense of the vibrations of knowledge still floating through my head. Traffic is somehow humiliating. I find myself to be tolerant, accepting, and forgiving. I find myself to be loving, perhaps too confident in human nature, but… traffic is humiliating. When I’m behind the wheel, I’m a reckless bastard placing all possible judgment on one’s ability to signal before a turn; to ease into a stop; to go 5mph over the speed limit. Fuck you, guy staying stopped as the light turns green; I bet you’re a rapist, molester, or worse. It’s hard being confused on the way to heaven. Should you be angry, happy, or sad? I’m home. I’ll slam my head on the car door seven out of ten times as I emerge into wind, sun, and green, knocking out the thoughts, the confusion, the ideas. My mind will run, but my body will drift: through grass, chest-high and soft; through flowers, a dot-matrix of hues; through gates, where judgment and conscience is erased. Everything gets erased here, and I feel like I’m flying. I am free, released from life. I don’t wake, I don’t learn, I don’t drive, and I see no one. I am flying. I walk into the front hallway of our home; to the left is an opening with two stairs leading to the family room. There’s a couch and a few chairs in no particular arrangement, baby clothes and toys are scattered everywhere. The kitchen dining table, overlooking the family room through an open, rounded platform, has Cheerios and mashed potatoes smashed into abstract patterns. There was a war here, and it ended with a grenade of cuteness, exploding over everything. Through the family room, dining room, and kitchen, you’ll find a living room: a TV mounted in the corner, a well-placed couch and love seat, and a few more toys spilling into the entry. I’m still in the entryway, resting my backpack onto the floor and untying my shoes. I can hear small shrieks and little motor sounds coming from the normally-placed couch. As I slip my shoes off and bounce through the dining room, I can hear, “Mom-om-om-om-om-om.” I pretend she’s saying, “Dad-ad-ad-ad-ad-ad” as I walk around the corner and proclaim, “Luci Belle! Daddy’s home!”

She’s actually quite unimpressed, but raises her hands above her head, moving all her little fingers and blowing into the air, her way of telling me she wants “up.” Luci likes playing with her toys on our bed. It’s easy on her knees while crawling and she can easily tempt fate by looking over the edge and blowing spit bubbles. But after school and with Daddy, Luci doesn’t like to play with toys. She doesn’t like to blow spit bubbles, tempt fate, or crawl. She’ll simply sit on a pillow with blankets snuggled all around her and wait. She’ll wait for Daddy to change into his work pants. She’ll wait for Daddy to change into his work shirt. She’ll wait while Daddy puts on different shoes. She’ll wait until Daddy changes into his life without her. She’ll wait until all of this is done, and without a sound, an action, or a tear. “Peek-a-boo!” I’ll say as she rips the blanket from over her head. She’ll giggle and put the blanket back on. She’ll wait for a moment, until I call out her name, then she’ll rip it away again, and giggle even more. She’ll only do this for five minutes, because Daddy has to go. She’ll cry for ten minutes more, but Daddy will have already left. Ten minutes of her Daddy, after school, before work. Ten minutes of time we’ll never take for granted. I’m awake.

Cody Erickson | Faded Memories

Mikayla Davis | Lone Tree in a City A child scribbles away with crayons in a colorful playroom lost in her own world of fairies and forests even as other children thrive around her. As she grows to gangly adolescence, she finds that her peaceful solitude morphs into a cage where its boughs crush and leave her trapped for all the rest of the world to gawk at. Surrounded by so-called friends who gossip and giggle like newborn leaves in spring when they think she canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hear, her solitude becomes an ugly scarf that strangles and separates her from the rest.

Now a mature woman can walk beneath summer bloomed trees alone, but not aching from it. Her solitude a haven once more. The cat-calls of peers have faded from her heart and the ugly scarf is now a new trend. And still, when like autumn leaves the woman begins to age and crinkle around the edges, she too will give in to the solitude of winter.

Cleana Brown | Pretty 28

Richard Baldasty | My Audition for Griot Rest, relinquish, bend. All things through time. Little by little palm wine drips into the calabash. Who among you traps a monkey before he arrives? Who eats until spiced fish and rice have felt close fire? Cloth of many colors requires many dyes, slow gathering: tubers, bark, iridescent shells of hidden beetles. When out beneath they come their one night to fly, each sheds a carapace numinous on patient ground.

Cleana Broman | Angry Wolf 30

Makayla Cavanaugh | Untitled

Katharine Lime | Love. after Stephen Dunn Love is more than chocolates and cards, isn’t it? Love is a stealthy ninja; he sneaks around to get to know you, then disguises himself in order to get close to you. You can feel him, can’t you? But Love can get frustrated. And so, one night, when you’re asleep, dreaming of your white knight in shining armor, he will infiltrate your house, darkest of shadows, to assassinate you. Wounded, you open your eyes only to realize he has been leaving love notes all over your home for you to find.

He has fled into darkness, your heart as his prize. Love becomes the trail of blood left at the crime scene. Know the words “I love you” come with a price. Love is like getting hit by a semi going sixty miles per hour. Love is the never-ending rat maze you can never escape. I’ve learned that love is like trying to learn a yo-yo trick. It might come easier to certain people, but it seems hopeless for the rest of us unskilled losers. That’s why we practice so that we feel accomplished when we do master each trick. But rewards can’t come soon enough.

I keep hearing this ticking inside my head, and it reminds me to reach into my bag and check my cell phone for messages. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pass a single day without hearing the sound of your voice. Love is what the heart feels when it dances to the tune of other hearts. Even off key notes have a place in our overall score. I want to look into a mirror someday and not have to wonder if that person is loved. I want to feel love in your warm embrace and fall asleep knowing Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m safe. I want to hear your voice say my name tenderly and only for me.

Lisa Nilles | Elegantly Beautiful 35

Cody Erickson | 77 36

Sumayah Ammohanna | Untitled 37

Hannah Koeske | Untitled 38

Antoinette Faber | Misato Her Demise 39

Kathleen Parr | Shoe Study

Dave Baughman | Inhaling a Friend When most people hear the word health, they assume that you’re referring to their physical well-being. In the last twenty-five years of my life, I have had constant reminders that there are more aspects to your health than just your physical well-being. Every time I see a little girl on a bike, I am reminded of a friend whom I lost a long time ago. Every time I’m at the beach, every time I’m on a boat, every time I have that eerie feeling around water, I am reminded of that day that changed my life forever. It was around 5:00p.m., and the afternoon was a particularly warm one. Amy and I had both rounded up our bikes and were reluctantly moseying to the front gate of the park. The ensuing bike ride home was going to be a dreaded one, especially what seemed to be the never-ending Suncrest hill. What made this repetitious bike ride somewhat humorous was that though it was long and tedious, we chose to do it every day. What makes it haunting is that when I look back on that summer Tuesday, I would give everything that I own right now just to have finished the long and hot trek home. As I felt the cold, wet hand of a stranger on the back of my right shoulder, I knew that I had just had an epiphany. While I pondered whether what I had just witnessed was real, I heard a very deep, yet gentle voice begin to speak: “It’ll be O.K.–it’s not your fault. There was nothing that anyone could do.” A portion of these words kept repeating in my head over and over: “there was nothing that anyone could do, there was nothing that anyone could do.” These words seemed to grow louder and louder in my mind, and as the volume increased, so did my anger. Before I even realized it, I was sobbing uncontrollably. I was laughing hysterically. I had just gotten off the phone with my best friend Amy. Amy had moved into the neighborhood in kindergarten. Her family moved in just a few houses down the road from us. Amy was somewhat of a tomboy, so the two of us got along great. Amy and I were very excited to have finished the fourth grade and had just found out that we would have the same teacher for fifth, thus the hysterical laughing. The prior conversation consisted of all the mischief and fun that the two of us were anticipating in the upcoming school year; we also devised a plan to meet up and hang out at the park for the day. Because I got out the door sooner than Amy, I headed straight over to her house. I was greeted at the front door by her giant mutt of a dog Chewy, which 41

was short for Chewbacca. The mammoth of a dog knew me very well and was always excited to see me. That being said, my face was licked vigorously like a big juicy T-bone. “Chewy, get down,” I heard Amy’s father bark; he had probably noticed my newly moistened face glistening through the plexi-glass door like the beacon that it had become. Amy came running up the stairs from the basement and yelled “see ya later” to her folks. The two of us got on our bikes and made our way down the driveway, but then her dad stepped halfway out the door and yelled for us to come back. Amy’s dad was a huge man. Even though we could only see half of his body, he still looked like a juggernaut. Wisely, we turned around and headed back to the front door. Our summer vessels approached the porch, and “Goliath” handed Amy a brown paper bag and said “don’t forget your lunch. Oh, and I made some for you too, David.” “Thanks Dad,” “Thanks Mr. Lane,” we said in unison. As we turned around and began our pilgrimage, I couldn’t help but smile. For such a huge man to be so gentle and caring always seemed to amaze me. What a great guy he was! What a worthless excuse for a human being he was! As I knelt there on the blood-covered dock, I looked over at the man. He was about 40 feet away from me. All I could see was this look of confusion on his face. I don’t know if the look was from complete surprise or if it had been induced by the tens of empty beer cans that were floating next to the upside down Evinrude that was his boat. The man was about 6 feet tall and gaunt. His face was flushed and drawn. His hair was long and wiry. It was brown like the mud at the bottom of the lake. His skin was pink like bubblegum from a long afternoon in the sun. His teeth were gray, and his fingers stained yellow, both caused by extensive smoking. His eyes were red and filled with crocodile tears. What a coincidence that his tears showed up the same time that the police arrived. In comparison, who would the world miss more, a vibrant youth with intelligence and personality to spare, or a middle-aged alcoholic who saved up enough welfare checks to buy a toy from the Joneses? Unfortunately, the alcoholic was the one making the decision. I loathed this man; I wanted to kill him. I felt so much hatred that I went numb. I was so filled with joy that my body was tingling. We had finally reached the lake. We went and locked our bikes to the same bike rack that 42

we occupied every day. We then laid out our blankets and things on the same piece of beach that we lay on every day. The festivities seemed to be playing out in a state of repetition. It was like the first song on that old favorite album; you put it on, and you know it word for word. Amy and I had a routine that we went through just about every time we came to the park. We immediately went down to the water and began to swim. We were both very strong swimmers so we swam out to the buoys and hung on to the rope that kept them unwillingly stationary. We would usually do this for an hour or so. As the sun grew higher in the sky and the heat grew more intense, the park also steadily grew with occupants and commotion. One by one, the regular park hooligans began to gather. First there was Jay. He was about average height and you could tell that he enjoyed his mother’s cooking. Then there was Mike. He was the tallest of the parkies; if my suspicions were correct, Mike must have had a regular seat over at Jay’s dinner table. Last but not least, with a disturbingly sexy strut at the seemingly innocent age of ten, tramped the twins Jen and Kim. It was obvious that a male presence in their household was somewhat non-existent by the scantily clad outfits that they were able to walk out the door wearing. Not like they didn’t already stand out, but just to make damn sure that they were always the focal point of any given moment, they both had an ever-so-charming valleygirl inflection to their speech. It was so shrill and broken that it was like torture to hear them speak. The words that were now being spoken to me were deep and soothing like that of a male gospel choir. I felt the giant hand on the back of my right shoulder go under my arm. With my heart feeling like it weighed a million pounds, I was amazed at the ease with which the man lifted me to a standing position. “Can I give you a ride home?” I heard the soothing voice say. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity without answering. I took another look over in the direction of the hated man, just in time to see him cuffed and stuffed in the back seat of a patrol car. At that moment, I felt the reality of the incident that had just unraveled before my very eyes register in my mind. A scene that had played out in about three minutes would now haunt me forever.

Once again the soothing and patient voice asked, “Can I give you a ride home”? This time I looked back, eye to belly, and realized that it was a fireman who commanded the choir. With a nod of the head, my bike was on the fire truck, and we were on our way. As the tears streamed down my face, I realized that I was in a fire truck. Under different circumstances, this opportunity would have been a dream come true. As it was, I felt myself unable to enjoy the situation. I just kept thinking that this wasn’t the ride I should be on right now. I should be about halfway up the Suncrest hill, shooting complaints back and forth with Amy about how hot out it was and how steep the hill was. We should be bragging about how we’re stronger swimmers than the rest of the gang and giving each other kudos in support. Instead, there I was, riding up the Suncrest hill virtually alone. God I wished I was on that bike ride right then. God I wish I didn’t have to take this bike ride right now. The time had come, and as fast as all of our friends had appeared at the park, they had now all disappeared. Dinner time in the neighborhood, I suspected. Amy and I started towards the front gate to the park. Because it was to be a long ride home, and our last chance to get wet before the ride, Amy pulled over to the fishing docks for one last swim. I had had my fill so I opted to stay in the shade on the grass that was about twenty feet from the dock. While I sat there and began to notice more boats in the vicinity, I couldn’t help but get this really eerie feeling. As I gazed out upon the water with squinted eyes, I heard the sound of a boat approaching our location with haste. The reflection of the sun on the water made it impossible for me to see clearly, but my sense of hearing was very sharp and keen. When the sound of the boat seemed to be right upon us, I could see out of the corner of my eye a sign that said “No boats.” I stood up to yell at the craft, “Can’t you read the sign, asshole?” Just as the last word left my mouth, I heard the sound of his underwater prop squeal as the 115 horses seized. In a panic, I searched the water for Amy but to no avail. I then knew that the boat had run her down. Why hadn’t she come up yet? My question was answered by the blood stain in the water that the boat was leaving behind. Amy was stuck in the prop! There were at least a half dozen boats in the area that had just observed the gruesome scene to which I had just borne witness. I stood there dumbstruck and in shock. Men began jumping out of their boats and diving down to try to free Amy from the prop. There was no such luck! 44

“We’re going to have to flip the boat,” I heard one man yell. To my astonishment, the next comment was, “We can’t flip the boat--I just bought it!” Not even three seconds after that comment, the asshole was in the water floating amongst his beer cans, and the boat had been flipped. I’ve tried to forget the next visual, but it’s the one that haunts my mind, in consciousness, and out. There, right in front of me, was this flipped boat, the motor upside down and Amy stuck to it in a heap of pale and red flesh. It was as if the boat was protruding from her back like it were stuck to her and not her stuck to it. She was spread-eagle and face up. It reminds me of pictures that I’ve seen of Jesus nailed to the cross. Two men yanked her from the prop and swam her to the dock. As the men hoisted her up onto the dock, I could see the extent of her injuries. Her back had lacerations everywhere. There were two gaping holes that reminded me of crevices in the earth. I could see the unnatural sight of severed and broken ribs. I could also see organs but couldn’t tell the difference between them due to everything being covered in highly oxygenated blood that is so bright that it’s almost a neon red. As I kneeled down to her, a man began CPR. I saw Amy’s chest rise and fall a multitude of times. Finally with a loud cough, Amy opened her eyes and drew in a breath. As her heart began to beat, I noticed the dock covering with blood very rapidly. Some towels were stuffed underneath her and into the gaping wounds, but they didn’t slow the bleeding. Amy’s mouth opened and she labored to form these words, “I’m so sorry, you’re gonna be late for dinner.” This simple phrase echoed in my ears like the sirens that were now making their way towards us. “I love you” was all I could think to say. With that, Amy’s eyes closed, and she exhaled her last breath. As she exhaled, I inhaled and held my breath. In what was maybe a minute or so, I remembered what seemed to be a lifetime of memories that were Amy and me together. As I sat there, lost in a reverie, the EMTs put Amy on a gurney and loaded her into the ambulance. The world as I had known it had just imploded upon me. There I knelt, knowing that I had just seen my best friend for the last time. And so I sat, covered in what had been my best friend’s life force, which was now just gobs of sticky, crimson goo. Suddenly I felt a hand on my right shoulder. As my semi-conscious mind screamed back into reality, I had an epiphany. I realized that I had, literally, just inhaled my friend.

Zac Whitman | Post-it after Linda Pastan, for my brother I cannot write you a simple letter. There is no postage that spans time. So I leave Post-it notes scattered in the wind. Note-You’ve carried it seventeen years, cradled in your balled fists. I can tell by the wrinkles near your eyes, they are shaped like tears. Note-While you’re away building cages, remember that staring too far ahead will make things hazy. The same is true for looking back. Note-I don’t remember the day, carried so long. I was asleep. A friend told me, yesterday of your conscience chained.

Note-We raced our bikes shiny red, shiny black. As we sped, nothing could be taken back. Amidst the blood and shattered glass, you became stuck in your past. Leaving trails of blood between then and now. Why can I not make you see how the bloodstained street means to me you saved possibility.

Aimee Hoff | Moving On Simply (like opening a new six-colored pack of sidewalk chalk, scrawling childlike innocence onto driveways and empty streets, like the sun shining on Sundays, like everything turning out exactly as we had hoped and planned, like you and me when we were at our best) Uncomfortable (like my knees after pressing them against the pavement for too long, footprints smearing my art, like too many colors and not enough talent to use them all, like how reality is always messing up my comfort zone, like you and me, exactly as we are right now).

Jason Baldwin | Skate Tunes

John Mujica | Skullface 50

Richard Baldasty Award Winner

Randall Schleufer | Portrait of an Empty Chair 51

Kellie Crocker | Dancing Ribbon

Sumayah Ammohanna | Someday

JoLynn Morse | Grandmother’s Precious Things In honor of my grandmother, Virginia Carter A plain white apron with generous pockets, her daily uniform, well worn like the hinges of her golden locket. A celluloid tortoiseshell comb helped her tame the wildest hair into neat plaits when we arrived home. A silver thimble helped her hide blind stitches as her nimble fingers mended holes in britches. “Old lucky,” a large metal kitchen spoon that turned out perfect fudge onto a crystal glass dish in the afternoon.

A rusty cheese grater. Zucchini bread for lifting moods, mac-n-cheese or scallop potatoes were her comfort foods. A roaster, a coffee mug, a toaster, a hooked rug, and a gifted poster that says, “Grandma gives free hugs.” A vinyl card table with one leg bent, tattered from pinochle, gin rummy, or crazy eights is lined with Grandma’s things. An estate sale, items twenty-five cents.

Leah Thompson | Unity and Strength 56

Richard Baldasty Poetry Award Winner

Derek Annis | The Teapot Dusty old teapot made of bronze and silver sits on my mantle with more than one dent and a bent handle. The silver dragon on its side wants to make me believe it was made in China hundreds of years ago by thick calloused hands, red coals glowing hot, and a heavy hammer. He points out the tiny defects in elaborate patterns on silver plating, and offers them as evidence. But I know itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not true, because when I was a child that silver dragon told me there was a genie inside that teapot waiting for me to rub it with a cloth so he could grant me three wishes. I spent hours, maybe days, but no poof of smoke, no deep echo of a voice coming out from under the mustache of a man with no legs wearing a turban, floating. No magic at all, just a bright shine on the metal.

Seeing that I loved it so much, and had kept it sparkling clean, Grandpa gave it as a gift. Forty years ago it was offered as trade for defending a client who couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pay. Now, whenever Grandpa gives his wise advice, a proud pat on the shoulder, or a moment of his time, I put it in the teapot for safe keeping. That way when heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gone and I crash my car, lose my job or my wife, or have a child, I can set the teapot on the stove. All my fears will rise with the steam and disappear, the tea will trickle down my throat.

Jolynn Morse | Lady Beetles and Lace Wings at Tea

Cody Erickson | Hypotenuese 60

Hannah Koeske | Wallowas 2004

Cody Burns | Self Portrait 62

Hannah Koeske | Peanut Butter and Jelly

Aisha Marie | Applique Lotus

Cody Erickson | Cement Wings

Katrina Fisher | Solitary 66

Rodger Hartman | Untitled

Randall Schleufer | Self Portrait While Sleeping

Rodger Hartman | Untitled

Jonelle Campbell | Self In 2008 after “Self in 1958” by Anne Sexton I am a paper doll. Flat and falsely colored, sharp around my edges. My green eyes–stunned a deer in the life-lights, airbrushed lips and knee caps, Nude. My breasts no comparison to the plaster doll across the room. And I come with a change of moods– You can try them on me for size. I live in a paper house made with steel blades, held together loosely with bits of clear tape. (It’s not even the double stick kind). There’s the Origami door, opening to the matter world, steel-toed city. All the nature taken to make me and my paper friends all ripped and plastic. And that paper floor which I am on my back across– a dead bore.

Someone plays with me, force feeds me ground crackers, stale water. Floating off to the poorhouse. Puts me in bed under the thin and dry sheets or puts the bows in my hair slits, the heels on my feet. After 50 years I don’t even know their names. My perfect smile, drawn on keeps them calm enough– but I don’t dare break it until it’s lights out.

Megan Siebe | Hike 72

Makayla Cavanaugh | Untitled

Allen Stover | After Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: An Excerpt My beady blue eyes turned to the door as my elven friend entered my apartment. For a moment I watched as she removed her plum-colored fedora, revealing her slanted ears. When she turned to me, I greeted her with a warm smile. “Falfaren, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you here?” Ireniana Falfaren quickly placed her coat on the rack near the door and brushed the dust off of her studded leather tunic and then turned to me as I scratched my brown-bearded chin. “I am afraid, Watson,” she said in her soft voice. “I am afraid that I will have to go.” A loud whistle sounded off from the kitchen, alerting me that this morning’s tea was ready. “It’s all right, Watson,” Falfaren said as she gracefully walked over to the wooden rocking chair near the window. “Grab the tea and pour me a cup if there is enough.” I smiled once more then entered the kitchen, grabbed the teapot and two cups, then returned to the living room. “You know me too well Watson,” my guest said as I poured her cup. My shoulders rose in a humble shrug as I poured my own tea. “To the aspiring bards who studied and composed ballads of Ireniana Falfaren and her case, you are a benevolent crusader of justice.” I sat in the chair across from her and continued, “And yet in the three years I traveled with you and fought by your side, I have come to know your three vices: Tea, tobacco, and the sound of a halfling’s mini-flute.” “Good observation Watson, but you forget my fourth vice which is a half pint of Emeralian Merlot whenever the moon is full.” “Yes, the merlot,” I remarked quietly. After sipping my tea, I leaned back a little in my chair. “Where are you going?” “To Manatreese on Radamere Isle.” I was not surprised. For the past four years, both mine and Falfaren ‘s names had come up in various conversations and news publications regarding solving the mysteries of the Manatreese Ruins. The various disappearances of eager noblemen and ambitious treasure hunters. Creatures of demonic origin that travel along the ruins’ outer walls. All of this catered to my companion’s interest, and yet she had never spoken a word of actually preparing to journey there. 74

“I would be most happy in going with you to the ruins,” I said, breaking a moment of silence. “Providing you don’t think of me as a distraction.” Falfaren stood up and placed a warm hand on my shoulder. “My dear Watson, nothing would make me happier. I could use your healing spells and war hammer.” And so after finishing our tea, I packed my weapons and dressed in my lightweight mail armor. Once I packed the appropriate provisions, my partner and I headed down to the docks and boarded a small wooden vessel called Blue Shield. “We are making good progress,” said my elven companion in a calm tone as she and I stood on the Shield’s vast upper deck. I cast my eyes towards the gray sky, wondering if the ship would be hit with an onslaught of a storm as it moved out of the docks. A quick gust of cool wind blew past me, sending a shiver through my skin. “I guess now would be as good a time as ever to pray to your Anvilmother,” Falfaren commented, sending the uneasiness rising within me. I cast my friend a smirk and shook my head. Unlike most of the elves, or for that matter the many races of Airway, Falfaren was one of the small percentage of the world’s population who did not believe in the gods who resided in the skies above. This was just one of our few discrepancies. “I apologize, Watson,” the elf added. “I should not be jesting about religion.” “No, you shouldn’t,” I answered, shaking my head once more. “Especially if you’re lying on the ground bleeding to death because your leg has been ripped off by a shark.” My friend let out a smile as the sound of footsteps approached us. “The great Ireniana Falfaren on the same ship as me,” a familiar crisp masculine voice called from over our shoulders. “What a small world this is.” I let out a sigh and turned to face the tall human wearing dull chain mail underneath his dirty brown trench coat that lay over his white cotton shirt and muscular chest. Falfaren turned and regarded the human with a tip of her fedora. “Charlie Hawkshadow. It has been several days since our encounter at the Dark Mare where I saved you from the Mauertain guard.” 75

“It is a wonder he is still alive,” I added, trying not to look Hawkshadow in the eye. The human acknowledged my comment with a low whistle. “Watson Silverhammer,” he said putting emphasis on my surname. “Have you visited Geminshire lately? I hear Prince Homer’s wedding will be spectacular. Although I’m sure it won’t be as grand as elven weddings of course. Which reminds me, Ireni, when are you going to settle down?” Falfaren‘s eyes flickered my way, and already I knew her answer. “Men, whether they are elves or humans, are vicious animals whose only desires are lust, power, and glory. They expect their women to rear children, cook their meals, and clean their blood and shit stains out of their undergarments, something which I have no desire to do.” Hawkshadow ran his left hands through his crewcut-style, brown hair. Looking my way, he said, “You forgot to mention dwarves, my dear.” My elven colleague let out her high-pitched cackle that was her laughter as I felt the warmth rush to my reddening cheeks. Although he was a stalwart comrade both at arms and drinking, though not at the same time, I could rarely stand the presence of Charlie Hawkshadow for more than twenty minutes, mainly because I would somehow find myself the subject of his jokes. “Damn gossip queen,” I said in a bitter tone, oblivious to the fact that the Shield was leaving port. “Tell me this, Hawkshadow,” I began in a cold voice, “Why are YOU going to Radamere Isle?” Hawkshadow pulled a corncob pipe from his jacket, tapping the bottom to clean out the dry bits of tobacco. “The same reason Ireni and you are going to the island, Watson. The same reason many of these others are going to the island. Although the ruins of Manatreese have been the talk of legends where aspiring treasure hunters go to their doom, for the past two weeks there have been rumors going around that King Orok Stoneclaw has vanished in the ruins.” “King Orok Stoneclaw, the king of the Deadeye Marsh trolls?” I asked. Hawkshadow nodded as he struck a match and lit his pipe. “The very same.” I noticed his eyes look at the elf who was now lighting her own pipe. “This is why you made such a hasty decision to leave for Radamere,” I said, turning to Falfaren. “It has something to do with the troll king.” Smoke arose from Falfaren’s pipe as her eyes stared into the sea.

“Two nights ago I was approached by emissaries who asked if I could provide my services in helping find their king, or at least a piece of his corpse and some of the jewels he wore. They were particularly insistent I bring back Orok’s crown and his sword.” Both Hawkshadow and I watched in silence as the elf blew a perfectly shaped ring of smoke. “Unusual for trolls, even ones who are civilized, to ask elves for help,” she added. “More unusual for an elf to accept a proposition in a short amount of time,” I said as the echoes of waves hitting the ship filled the air. “Is that why you took the case?” asked the human. “To help find the missing king?” Falfaren smiled as she leaned her back up against the ship’s wall. “It is like I said before, Charlie. The emissaries sounded more concerned with the troll king’s crown being recovered than with his body.” I exchanged quick glances with Hawkshadow. “You think he had something to do with King Orok’s disappearance.” Hawkshadow puffed on his pipe once more, then said,” Do you think this was all a part of some kind of usurping of the throne?” “Not exactly how I would put it, my friend,” Falfaren said, walking away from the wall. “We will start searching for clues when we get to Radamere Isle. For all we know, Orok could have spent a night on the town and have gotten lost after drinking too much.” A confused look crossed the human’s face. “So now I’m involved with you two?” Ignoring Hawkshadow’s question, I looked at my elven friend. “Do you really think there is a chance Orok’s government will come to the island?” “Yes, Watson, I do,” she answered in a calm voice as she finished smoking her pipe. “But the question is, will they come to keep track of our progress, or to hinder it?”

Megan Siebe | Hike 78

Jeremiah Hatch | Winter Came Under Winter came under the eyelid of heaven. That eyelid was vanilla blue cake with some blotchy fluffed frosting. We were all eating it up. We wanted to devour space, and lick the bowl. We kept shoving more into our gullets. That was until Winter came under. Never thought the frozen storm would be this warm. Our hungry mouths were treated to burning bibles. Tears made ash spread like chocolate. I want to feast on the meat. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m tired of cake. Let a sea of salt and blood rise up to complete the cycle and nurture our gluttony.

Jordan Wood | Wise Hands 80

Tom Versteeg | Fashion Statement Why bother going naked when the light of the body shines through any garment? What shimmering there is to cell and tissue, what lucence to the contours of muscle, bone, and skin penetrate equally denim and cashmere, Vera Wang and Dickies, shapeless burqa and little black dress, infusing the warp and weft of each fabric they might pass into with a faint luminous ferment, a rippling of gentle sparks among the filaments, a haze of radiant vibration from seam to seam unceasing until the flashing heart goes dark.

Cody Erickson | Greenhouse

Judy Johnson | Are We Alone? They are everywhere, lurking in our shadows, leading their lives like nothing’s the matter. I feel a warm breath blown across my neck. The hairs stand up, but it’s not a threat A cold hand runs down my back. Goosebumps arrive. Gone, just like that. Whispers in the wind flutter in my ear. Shadows passing by, I hold my coat near. I will catch a glimpse of what is there. They can’t exist, no reason to be scared. My mind isn’t gone, but what is that? A shadow without an owner on my lawn.

Jordan Wood | Taking Life Home

Derek Annis | Missing Pieces Suppose that we are not, thoughts are nothing more than empty boxes floating through time transparent. All the most beautiful pain, and the pitch black love seeping out through your fingertips onto the floor, are just missing pieces. You were never there, neither were the ancient trees, or the electric orange sky they seemed to pierce.

Robert Chenault | Slewfoot The drunken preacher staggers as he digs deep into his ruffled trousers to pull out a crumpled dollar bill, which he overlooked while he was in the strip club. Slewfoot nods and smiles in gratitude; the dollar silently lands on red velvet. With the open guitar case at his feet, he growls through the final chorus of “St. James Infirmary.” The pie-eyed preacher pipes up, “You play howdry, I’m... kay?” Slewfoot stretches the final note in his haunting crescendo until finally he looks up and smiles through a crooked grin, saying, ”Yeah, you right!” The preacher’s undone tie has a gravy stain on it that matches the beer stain on his unbuttoned shirt. Overweight, he comes down hard on the bench next to his new best friend. The crooner begins a sad, heart-wrenching version of “How Dry I Am.” It seems designed to make even the Pope himself cry. With the emotions of several strong hurricanes swirling within him, Slewfoot settles into his serenade. After the tenth or twelfth chorus, Slewfoot is lost within himself but finally comes back from wherever he goes when he gets into playing and notices that his audience has slumped over into nocturnal bliss. A 16 oz. can of Dixie Beer inside of a perfectly tailored brown paper bag leans dangerously past the loosening grip of the preacher’s left hand. He watches as a string of drool connects a corner of the preacher’s mouth to his sweat- stained armpit and then gently eases the can from certain peril. “Waste not, want not,” Slewfoot toasts and then pours the foamy grog down his parched throat. Releasing a sound much like a bullfrog, he looks up at the west face of the Saint Louis Cathedral clock tower and notices that it is almost 3 a.m. Between three and five every morning, all of his fun-loving lady friends get off work and head to the bars. Knowing that his thirst is outweighing his patience, he leans down and grabs the several dollars and assorted change that have landed in his guitar case since before midnight. As he lays the worldweary guitar down to rest inside in its bed, he wonders why it’s been so dead out, so hard to make a buck here of late. Suddenly he remembers that Wendy had told him that all the girls were making bank because the annual Southern Baptist Convention is back in town for ten days. Slewfoot nods to himself as it all fits into place. “Good,” he thinks, “guess the girls are buying tonight.”

While he snaps the hasps closed on the case, he turns to his drunken guest who is slumped over next to him, snoring now. It appears to be just another night, but the mediocrity of what must look ridiculous to people not from New Orleans forces him to chuckle until he coughs. Regaining his composure, Slewfoot rises to leave. Just then the preacher rolls over sideways and into a fetal position, exposing a fat wallet that is barely hanging on to the outside lip of his back pocket. At that moment, like the inside of a vacuum, every outside force ceases to exist. All sounds and movement, all natural laws such as gravity, or those pertaining to right and wrong –everything hangs suspended. Slewfoot looks at the wallet and then around Jackson Square. He sees a couple strolling arm in arm, lost within the romance of the French Quarter as they meander towards Toulouse Street. A drunk is peeing in the shadows of Pirate’s Alley, straining to christen the side wall of the church. A huge black man is looking down to count his money as he makes his way towards a dark corner; a scantily-dressed white woman trails behind him. Slewfoot’s eyes make one last round house before turning their gaze upon the fateful luck of his patron. The wallet is now gone from where it was once perched and has fallen to the ground. This is the only sign that he needs to justify his actions. If he doesn’t accept this gift from God, then someone else will, someone far less worthy then he. Feeling the course of righteousness pulsing through his veins, Slewfoot can see at this moment that, indeed, he is one of the chosen ones. In one frictionless movement, he swoops down upon the wallet and brings it to rest in the front pocket of his lean, worn jeans. Calmly, yet rapidly, he makes his way from this miraculous sight, and up Saint Ann Street. In every clunk of his left foot echoes countless steps spent muffling the mocking of his Cajun siblings: “Slewfoot, Slewfoot, yer left foot is no good!” He bites his bottom lip until the threat of a tear brings him back to keeping up his upper lip. From street light to street light, Slewfoot marches to the cadence of his own private purpose. Up two blocks, at the Napoleon House, he takes a left, and ducks into a darkened doorway. Immediately he winces as the ammonia from years of drunken release violates his sense of smell. Propping his guitar against the alcove, and fishing the wallet from his pocket, he then opens it, spreading its leather vulva to reveal a stack of presidential portraits that is almost an inch thick. 87

Removing them with a pinch from his long, slender thumb and index finger, he feels that at last God has heard his prayers. Holding the now slender wallet in his armpit, he uses both weather-beaten hands to fan out what represents to him a lifetime of hard luck finally justified. 100s, 50s, and 20s. It would take years for him to get this kind of money on his own, saving more than he spent. Sizing up the bounty in a round amount, he hastily redresses the stack, and then folds it in half before putting it back in his front pocket. Slewfoot sticks his head out into the light and checks the street. No sign of life. He then returns to the wallet, opens it, and reveals a Texas driver’s license photo staring back at him. It reads: Dewayne W. Forthwright, blah,blah, Midland Texas. He wonders what the “W.” stands for as he notices all the assorted business and credit cards. A red sleeve holds the key to a swanky hotel room. He pulls the top business card from a stack containing several. The front reads: Maiden Voyage Gentleman’s Club, and written on the back in sloppy red ink: Lauralie Fontaine 525-6309. Slewfoot smirks as he notices her fake number, and lets the card fall to the ground. “Looks like you’re losin your touch, Lauralie honey. You done let that ole boy walk outta there wit some cash left yet to spend.” He reasons that tonight it would only be right for him to buy the girls a round. He continues to meander through the contents of a stranger’s life, and notices that the rest of the cards are all the same: Reverend Dewayne W. Forthwright, Gospel Crusade Ministries, First Church of the Second Coming, Midland, Texas, etc... Slewfoot’s missing tooth shines through as he smiles. “Why you ol rascal, you!” The feeling of justification enhances as he fancies himself the champion of underdogs. Lost within his own glory, and wanting nothing to do with the paper trail that the credit cards could leave, Slewfoot decides that returning the preacher’s wallet would be the Christian thing to do. A Good Samaritan wouldn’t leave his fellow passed out alone with no I.D. or way to get money. Locked out of his hotel room in this dangerously friendly city, the preacher was doomed to suffer any number of maladies. Among the worse things that could go wrong would be to wake up being one of the few white faces in the New Orleans Parish Prison, doing time for drunken vagrancy. He knows that there are far better places than that to find religion. His smile sinks. Dewayne’s I.D. with the used car salesman smile stares back at him. Removing a tattered red bandanna from his back 88

pocket, he carefully wipes down anything that he has touched. Then he wraps up the contents of some guy’s life and puts them back into his hungry pocket. Grabbing his guitar, Slewfoot knows what he must do. God is watching, after all. Heading out with new purpose, he starts back towards the square. Halfway down the block, he freezes mid-stride when a police cruiser comes into sight. Regaining his composure, he resets his gait to that of someone who is not in a hurry but is determined to get back to the respectable place that he belongs. The police slide by noiselessly as he makes his way up the darkened street, they eyeballing him, and he, pretending to be oblivious to their attention. He sees the red and blue lights well before he rounds the corner to find the poor slob fumbling through his pockets for identification that isn’t there. The cops are rousting him to his feet in order to haul him away when Slewfoot runs up to the scene, screaming, “ Dewayane, Dewayane, where the hell you been? Been lookin all over fer ya. What the hell happened? Where are you taking him?” He manages to convince the officers that the preacher is his charge and that he would personally escort his old friend to safety. As they stumble off away from the cops and towards a bar, Slewfoot has one arm around his disoriented benefactor in order to hold him up. With ease, he slips the fallen angel’s wallet back into its original pocket. “Come on, Ol Buddy, I’ll buy ya a drink.” As they set out for the bar, Slewfoot is feeling rather pleased with himself. He has done his good deed for the day.

Jolynn Morse | And I Laughed 90

Leona Brumitt | Words inspired by William Carlos Williams So much depends Upon The word How it Is spoken How it Is read Gay Happy and fun Gay Words Bashed into A face To hate

Julia Zurcher | Lady Marlboro I love to hold her paper thin fingers and watch the fire play across her red hair. Her kiss slips past my lips, and lingers, drips to my lungs, and she smiles, pretty face bare. I have her every morning and every night and pass her among my friends. Her slither sends sin, seduced in godly light. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a cowboy killer, a means to ends. I love her dearly, my lady lust. She kills me, nearly. A habitual must. Her pardon and embrace flow fast. No matter how I leave her, dropped on the curb, rubbed in the grass, sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll gladly take me back. My loyal, lady love.

Mikayla Davis | Ivory Legends A relic of a time long gone of a woman never met who traveled far across the lands to bring a small ring back Once a piece of a great gray beast strong white and living bone brought down by gun or spear or age now yellowed and brittle stone Lions prowled the Serengeti circling the tribal choirs as a young woman wearing a gleaming ring walked across a searing fire Smoke curled up like rising cobras into a leopard-print sky and the fires of a wild child winked out as embers died But the ring still lives up to this age more fragile than ever before to be passed with untamed stories of a woman whose tales are lore

Jonelle Campbell | Ecstasy after Stephen Dunn It’s the relationship you and your blanket create on cold mornings. Becoming your best friend and your enemy. Moving one inch can irk it– letting the chill in. Dancing with that thin line feels good And it’s talking under dark ceilings, sleepiness making voices mutable. The blankets hiding laughter from the quiet late night. I feel it coming the minute I’m done crying, eyes still dark with relief, breaths short going up with uncontrollable notches. Wet patches dissolving into thirsty, blotchy skin. It’s when my mom acts out ”Stairway to Heaven” with the radio. Becoming Rings of Smoke though the trees, and the wind, Can you hear it blow? Bobbing her head along with Bonham’s beats.

You smell it in the dirty sidewalks when the rain first collides into it. The early wet dew, airy aroma on summer mornings, hanging on to the trees, praying for a little more time. Piles of multicolored Autumn in the parks I pass. The wind grasping away at any soul they had left, painting the ground Red and Orange. The inside jokes our eyes tell each other when we both wear green shoes (walking opposite, soft and hard steps). Red light kisses, one eye in front of us. The Soft Musk smell of nostalgia. Head rising to awaking senses. As they explore each other hand in hand, playing video clips in my head in Fast Forward Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Simplicity, Simple as that.

Amanda McCormick | buddha of the wrist my own little talisman golden wooden prince far from authenticity powerful nonetheless he teaches patience he teaches compassion he often gets in the way persistent, inanimate he moves me to contemplate in self reverence to become potentially whole.

Laura Chang | Runway Venus 97

Hannah Koeske | Untitled 98

Kathleen Parr | Ode To Rauschenberg 99

Cleana Broman | Masked Stranger

100

Leah Thompson | Bike Light 101

Jordan Wood | Fingers Crossed (Dear Zooey) 102

Autumn Daneri | Mississippi 103

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 ©2009 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.

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