The Wire Harp - 2011 by the Wire Harp

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The Wire Harp

The Wire Harp 2011 – Creative Arts Magazine

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The Wire Harp Spokane Falls Community College – 2011 – Creative Arts Magazine

Early by Tom Duncan

2010-11 Wire Harp Staff Literary Editor

Ryan Miller

Art Director

Karena Kliefoth

Graphic Advisor

Doug Crabtree

Literary Advisors

Laura Read Connie Wasem

Literary Staff

Nick Binford Megan Briggs Karie Cooper Crystal Dunaway Michelle Ferguson Aly McInnis Sarah Suksdorf-Reiner Matt Wright

Special Thanks

Richard Baldasty Glen Cosby Connie Johnson Heather McKenzie Neil Nedrow Carl Richardson Derek Annis Tammy Santana

The Wire Harp

Richard Baldasty Awards Richard Baldasty taught philosophy and history at SFCC from 1984-2007, and during his tenure, he was regularly published in this journal and contributed significantly to the arts on our campus. Upon his retirement, The Wire Harp honored the spotlight he shone on poetry by naming this award for him. Each year, The Wire Harp staff selects what we consider the most artistic poem, written by a student and published in this issue, as the literary recipient of the award. And the Graphic Arts staff likewise chooses a student visual artist to honor. Each of these students will receive a $100 prize, as a result of a generous gift from Richard.

2011

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Wire Harp – Table of Contents by Genre Poetry

Immigration by Craig Rickett. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 The Perfect Last Words by Mark Doerr. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 The Talented by Louis Gravely. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Crossing Lines in July, 2006 by Derek Annis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Arm Yourself by Olivia Cadwell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 glass slipper by Spencer Vaughn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 In the Summer of 1989 by Derek Annis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Bad Girl by Michele Burkey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 jukebox by Danielle Holbrook. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Some Moments I’d Rather Forget by Michele Burkey Baldasty Award. . . . . . . . 44 Frida Kahlo Talks to God by Karie Cooper. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 When They Tell Me It’s Alzheimer’s by Robin Golke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Listing Her Life: A Bomb Theory by Marissa Taylor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 The Intersection by Yukihiro Furusho. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 Pleasure by Ashley Startin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 Crepuscular Meditation on the Occasion of Clipping the Lopped Sections of Our Champagne Smoke into Compost-Sized Pieces by Tom Versteeg . . . . . . 86

Fiction

Apprehension in a Blender by Courtney Taylor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 How to Be in Love by Crystal Dunaway. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 No Man’s Land by Sarah Suksdorf-Reiner. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Lasagna by Neal Peters. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 Monsignor de Vio by Richard Baldasty. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82

Nonfiction

I Have Met God, and He Was Schizophrenic by Ashlie Fischer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56

Visual Art

Early by Tom Duncan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i Tulips by Brynne Boltjes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 The Bitch is Back by Hannah Cwiek. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Dreams and Promises by Loretta Surma. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Valley of Death by Aaron Atkins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Freelance Blues by Clint Hubbard Jr.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Clock Face by Melissa Cooper. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Untitled by Jim Ehrhardt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

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Wire Harp – Table of Contents by Genre The Ballerina by Rilee Yandt. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Kyle’s Guitar by Chris Thompson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Sky Building by Delaney Hicks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Frog by Jacquie Masterson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Underneath by Jessica Mercer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 In Memoriam by Frank Knapp. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Skull by Christine Bennett. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Complement by Chris Thompson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Guitar Noise by Mary Weisenburger. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Self Portrait by Greta Herlin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 His Last Song by Amanda Burr. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 The Whale by Spencer Vaughn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Still Standing by Brendan Biele. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Balloons by Hannah Olson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Unlucky Lollipop by Hirohisa Ogawa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Out of Your Element by Erin Mielcarek. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Space Ship by Ali Blackwood. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Untitled by Teresa Asbury Baldasty Award . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Sunset by Carrie Kunasek. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Nico Eyes Tuscen by Greg Summers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Icy Blue River by Paula Siok. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Rainy Days by Loretta Surma . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Some Moments I’d Rather Forget by Michele Burkey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Richard Baldasty Award Winner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Tunnel by Andrée Anderson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Untitled by Chelsea Schurr. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Freedom by Lindsey Wells. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Woman by Andrée Anderson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Frida Kahlo Talks to God by Karie Cooper. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 The Spotted Stallion by Karena Kliefoth. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 Peace Out by Elizabeth Reichenberger. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Willingness by Sophia Xue. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Hands On by Ethan Leitner. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 Country Living by Tricia Lowe. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Imax Moon by Stephen Lucas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

2011

Wire Harp – Table of Contents by Genre Racer by Tom Duncan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 Untitled by Ryan Longmeier. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 Longboarding Secrets by Brynne Boltjes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 Candy Canes in Complementary Colors by Mary Weisenburger. . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Untitled by Delaney Hicks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 Windmill by Delaney Hicks. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Before Going to be Sushi by Hirohisa Ogawa. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 Listing Her Life: A Bomb Theory by Marissa Taylor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 Dutch Centrum by Kenneth Johnson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 De Fer Énormes Flaques by Kenneth Johnson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 Palouse Light by Jim Ehrhardt. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Summer by Tom Duncan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 Floating Island by Chris Thompson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Octopus by Hannah Cwiek . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 Chicago by Erin Mielcarek. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 Tree in Fog by Frank Knapp . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 Don’t Look at Me by Brynne Boltjes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 Bending the Lines by Patt Duff. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 3 Eyes by Carrie Kunasek. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Kaleidoscope in Snow by Angela Barnes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 Fire by Greg Summers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92 Ms. Hann, Self Portrait by Hannah Olson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 Owl by Jacquie Masterson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 Ganesh by Jennifer Baxter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 The Pray Time by Sophia Xue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 Untitled by Hannah Cwiek . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 Stippled Hannah by Lindsey Wells. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98 Musaad by Summer Almohanna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 Steel Horse by Paula Siok. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 Take Off by Loretta Surma. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 Meow Cow by Chris Thompson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102

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Tulips by Brynne Boltjes

2011

The Bitch is Back by Hannah Cwiek

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Dreams and Promises by Loretta Surma

2011

Immigration by Craig Rickett

Jesus sways into the promised land on the back of his fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s brown burro. He hums a high wordless tune beneath a low grey sky, the place, his father said, where the dead go if they were good. So Jesus rocks and sings below clouds bloated with death and good deeds. He believes if he stops singing it will rain corpses.

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Valley of Death by Aaron Atkins

2011

Freelance Blues by Clint Hubbard Jr.

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Clock Face by Melissa Cooper

2011

The Perfect Last Words by Mark Doerr

Bedridden with only six weeks to live. Ha! The doc doesn’t know diddly about death. I’m going to go any minute now. I betcha. It’ll be better than cousin Harry’s final breath. Get your pen because my last words will be profound. Not like Harry’s. His wife was fluffing his pillow. And he said her breath smelled like rancid cow dung. Then, bang, he was dead. Humph. That’s no way to go. Get this: in the course of . . . ah, damn, my butt, my butt. My underpants are all stuffed into my ass. Wait, wait. Don’t write that down. That’s not it. I want to end up saying something with class. Erase that. Right now. Blot out that stupid crap. Hold it. Don’t copy what I just said, for God’s sake. Stop. Stop writing. Brains like a tire gone flat. No no. Not that either you ignorant flake. Hold it. Just hold it. O damn. I think I peed. Ah, now you’re not putting that on paper? I hope your writing fingers blister ‘til they bleed. Aw. That can’t be the last words I say forever.

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I’m thinking here. Just thinking. Don’t write anything yet. Let’s see. The angels may take my body, but not my legacy. Hey, you’re not writing. You incompetent idiot. You didn’t catch that fantastic last thought? Are you spacey? Lean in next to me with your pencil ready to jot, And listen up because this, this is the one. Closer, closer. I have it now . . . ah, hack, cough. Oh God, your breath . . . ack . . . it stinks like rancid . . . cow . . . dung . . .

2011

Untitled by Jim Ehrhardt

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The Ballerina by Rilee Yandt

2011

Kyleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Guitar by Chris Thompson

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Sky Building by Delaney Hicks

2011

Frog by Jacquie Masterson

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Underneath by Jessica Mercer

2011

In Memoriam by Frank Knapp

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The Talented by Louis Gravely

A pearl-green backdrop rests heavily against a maturing cigarette while it dwindles on the verge of that simple question— and a nervous gesture makes a silver top spin into a blur of people walking along the boardwalk engaged in flickering neon-lights that manipulate the words blood and flesh have yearned so much to feel— throbbing, glowing. Somewhere there’s a Hamlet pondering the skull of Yorick. Yet, I know many more Ophelias being dragged into another alley of some avant-garde night, kitsch knuckles turning bone-white as they drag across the landscape, grasping for a faultline...a failure: swallowed into the naked earth. What demigod holds together this unrivaled moment? Whose doll demands answers from their namesake? Reaching into crooked corridors, stairwells soon to be claimed... I remember this worm, crawling into a bathtub begging, pleading for any ineffable: Sono Io! Lorca of dreams writhing in harassed waters. On distant nights can you hear the dead Washington sky, prying itself open crying “Ayuda! That should have been mine”? “Ayuda! Will no one forgive?”

2011

Crossing Lines in July, 2006 by Derek Annis

There are dead dogs all over the road today. The steering wheel is sticky with sweat. Richard is in the passenger seat, picking at a purple scab on his elbow, he says Nice set of tits on that waitress today, and after a drink, Those towers, they were brought down by strategically placed explosive charges. Look it up. But I won’t look it up, and I can hardly hear what he’s saying before his words drift out the open window. Nancy’s lying in the back seat—hair spilling onto the floor mat, feet out the window—wearing nothing but flesh colored undergarments and pink nail polish, don’t ask me what color her eyes are. She pulls a strand of gum from her mouth and twirls it around her finger. She says Bullshit. And something something cocksucker. Richard takes another pull from the bottle of Black Velvet, and passes it to me. I pry my hand from the wheel to grab it. The speedometer points to the right, and I can’t read the road signs. I try praying for the double vision to go away. I’m not surprised when nothing happens. I take a drink and pass the bottle back to Nancy, who spits a chewed bit of pink fingernail onto the seat and says I don’t care what something something fucking guys say, next time we’re getting vodka. In this heat

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the road on the horizon ahead is the same color and consistency as sky. I say Looks like thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nothing in front of us. Nancy pours the last of the bottle down her throat.

2011

Arm Yourself by Olivia Cadwell

Under a ruby throw and wool blanket, she rested, trapped inside a room pigmented in pain. As I enter, the darkness shifts my eyes like a dial rotating a dimmer. Behind me, the broad door clunks closed. Warm sunlight falls down the slanted shades and shadows the walls, making gold slashes on her mouth. The soft hips that I remember are now precise like the sights on a gun. The chest that had comforted me is gone. Her eyes open to a tunnel leading nowhere; the pretty chain around my throat sinks through my chest, lumping into a cauldron. A fan churns the air, dizzying me with a harsher stench that I cannot smell. Heavy steps from a light body halt their percussion in front of me. I feel like I should salute as the black dots connect, smoothing the staggering image into a sharp grey line. I cannot remember when she wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t all alone, or when I listened to her singing Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. Or when we last read Goodnight Moon in her chair, turning the soiled pages of my favorite book.

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Skull by Christine Bennett

2011

Complement by Chris Thompson

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glass slipper by Spencer Vaughn

I lost my foot, she cut it off to fit it inside a glass orifice that would break with the slightest expansion. Oh, she said it was good. She said it was grand. With the smuggest glance I’d be gone, to a beggar’s dream with the comfort every man could imagine. Yet I’m doubling over in pain as the blood runs outs the slipper. I can’t walk to the door.

2011

In the Summer of 1989 by Derek Annis

Dried maple leaves crack beneath Nancy’s blistered feet for three miles, after Father failed to pick her up, left her standing alone on hot asphalt. It takes four boilermakers and one bowl to forget about ballet lessons. She comes through the door, dark with dust, salt, and sun, wearing a pink tutu—property of West Central Community Center. Where the fuck have you been all day? He screeches from behind stacks of cans. Saturday, the lake offers its apologies for Father’s mistakes, while schools of sunfish ignore the yellow marshmallow on Nancy’s hook. They stare and float and float and stare. Father pats Nancy on the head, the way a vagrant

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pats a stray dog, he says, The problem with you is you have no luck, and throws another empty overboard, sends sunfish scattering.

2011

Apprehension in a Blender by Courtney Taylor

From outside the snow globe, anxiety is just bits of snow, falling slowly, awaiting their time to rise into the air once more. It’s that look on your face when you’re anticipating a punch to the jaw. Anxiety looks like a half-empty pack of cigarettes: enough missing inside to be concerned about the inevitable emptiness. Would you believe how loud anxiety is? Sharp and unrelenting, it’s the jolt to your heart when you turn on your car and the radio is still on. Full volume: it scares the calm out. It’s like the first piercing note when the phone rings, the other line holding a voice you’ve waited days, almost months, to hear. The sound of railroad tracks being worn and torn until the screech is almost enough to make you taste the metal in your mouth. You think you might be allergic to anxiety. This weakness is comparable to that of seafood and nut sensitivities. Swallowing this is impossible; your throat is closing quicker than the air is leaving your body. Anxiety tastes like impending danger, need, and uncertainty. When the scent hits your nostrils, like an ancient from-the-attic candle, it consumes the space. It is said one can almost taste things when smell is strong enough. You choke, reel back, and spit, ridding yourself of the intruder. Anxiety lingers like the stench of raw meat. Perhaps a meat you’ve never tried, your own meat? The sting of stink is familiar; it is the stink of self-consumption. Your mind is eating you from the inside out. Similar to the edge of a knife, anxiety wields pain when pressure from the outside bears itself inside. This cut is not smooth and quick but rather rough and uneven. There is the texture of dry skin and graying hair; your stomach churns with the feeling of butterflies being cycled through a blender. Like pulling apart a butterfly, you start at the fragile wing tips, slowly tearing down the abdomen, and then release the pieces into their new form. The body of the butterfly continues to squirm.

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Guitar Noise by Mary Weisenburger

2011

Self Portrait by Greta Herlin

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His Last Song by Amanda Burr

2011

The Whale by Spencer Vaughn

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Still Standing by Brendan Biele

2011

Balloons by Hannah Olson

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Unlucky Lollipop by Hirohisa Ogawa

2011

Out of Your Element by Erin Mielcarek

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Space Ship by Ali Blackwood

2011

Bad Girl by Michele Burkey

One doesn’t become a runaway by accident It’s not like tripping on a hole When I was 15 I asked a police officer if it was legal to run away? I was free he replied, when I was 16 Filled with a seed of desire to escape to avoid to deny I was propelled forward like a paper boat on a crooked stream I tried to tell her My mother’s ears were deaf to my voice I slipped away in the dark of night like a one night stand.

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Untitled by Teresa Asbury Richard Baldasty Award Winner

2011

How to Be in Love by Crystal Dunaway

Wake up late at night, it doesn’t matter why. Turn on your side to look at him, and place your hand on the sparsely-haired chest. Do it because you need to feel his heartbeat, don’t wake him. Move closer and be careful not to lie on the arm outstretched – as if he were reaching for you – placing your head on his chest to listen. He shifts, but doesn’t wake; you find this comforting and fall asleep. Wake up early and feel like treating him with bacon, eggs, coffee, and one of the muffins you bought and hid yesterday. Kiss him awake and when he asks with a smile “Why don’t you do this more often?” get just a little irritated but save it for a particularly stressful Monday. As always he spends college football Monday with his friends in the apartment and later goes out with them for drinks at the local bar, their treat. So you should not feel shocked to come home to a mess. You do. Each dirty dish, spill, and rogue Dorito feels like a personal assault on so stressful a Monday. Argue when he comes back, be irrational about it – you both know it has nothing to do with the mess or the comment he barely remembers – you’re worse than he is, it’s your stress and his lack thereof which puts you over. At night when you’re struggling to fall asleep, regret telling him he doesn’t contribute – every day spent looking at ads in the paper and online, and calling random numbers in the book, every week spent attending interviews, and every second spent berating himself for never making it past a face-to-face – you may as well have castrated him then and there. This time when you roll over, wake him gently with kisses. Let him know you’re sorry the only way you know how, and when he holds you back for a few seconds to look into your eyes, know he forgives you.

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Sunset by Carrie Kunasek

2011

Nico Eyes Tuscen by Greg Summers

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Icy Blue River by Paula Siok

2011

Rainy Days by Loretta Surma

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jukebox by Danielle Holbrook

He gazes at her from across the room. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s leaning against the jukebox. He slowly puffs on his pipe as he watches her, her eyes sea green with mascara, melting down her cheek, her lips clothed in cheap red lipstick. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s imagining grabbing her by the throat. She gasps. So malicious, he handcuffs her naked to the chair. It feels mossy, moist, grotesque. She is fixated on his grease-stained tie as she tries to slither her wrists from the cuffs. He puffs his pipe again, wiping the sweat from his brow.

2011

Some Moments Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d Rather Forget by Michele Burkey Richard Baldasty Award Winner

Sometimes I think if I shout loud enough someone will feel what I felt when I lived in a tent My plastic smile adjusted just right for three children to find an adventure in the tent Tears choked back when I told my grandmother I was staying in a tent Pride bombed from underneath my blow-up mattress because I was living in a tent Pain dripped out the corners of my (darker-by-the-day) blue eyes in the evenings when I headed for my tent My pillow flooded one night when I was numb from the cold and rain that attacked my tent I tried to find the peace people have when sleeping under the stars in a tent The fabric held up by poles and stakes looked like an underworld to me a terrifyingly, lonely, miserable, not fucking-good-enough, tent. Left exposed to the elements, alone like I was, it molded up. My plastic smile was replaced by a real one, when the garbage opened its mouth to the tent.

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Tunnel by AndrĂŠe Anderson

2011

Untitled by Chelsea Schurr

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Freedom by Lindsey Wells

2011

Woman by AndrĂŠe Anderson

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Frida Kahlo Talks to God by Karie Cooper

I hope the exit is joyful, and I hope never to return. -Frida Kahlo (1907 – 1954) God, thank you for letting me paint. I don’t want to sound ungrateful; the art you gave me was a gift. I had to paint with blood and tears – coaxing the colors from my pain. Were the accidents you sent me necessary to create an artist? I’m sure you’re wise, but did I need my spine and womb crushed in order to smear oil on canvas? Did I have to love a man who would sleep with my own sister? Were my tears the potion to temper paint? I know your ways are mysterious, Lord, but did I need to be sliced and sutured, sliced and sutured, as part of your master plan? I held happiness in a brush while living squeezed into a cast. I thank you for the moments I soared and for the eyes you gave me to see the vibrant hues of my Mexico. But God, can I ask you something, por favor? If pain made the painter, could you please leave me to rest alone on the side of heaven that has no color?

2011

The Spotted Stallion by Karena Kliefoth

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Peace Out by Elizabeth Reichenberger

2011

Willingness by Sophia Xue

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Hands On by Ethan Leitner

2011

Country Living by Tricia Lowe

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When They Tell Me It’s Alzheimer’s by Robin Golke

The drill bit is breaking & i have to make words of it Your wedding band is cut from your delicate finger; they give you pills that make you shuffle & i have to make words of it. i’m searching with a seething rage that’s male, hopeless, bare to the waist. i’m as lost as you were when you kissed my dead father in his casket. i’ve smashed every photo, burned everything i’ve ever written, spat at my graceful prose. My confused tears fall on memories of you bathing me in the sink. Gratefully, i would remove my own entrails & read their pearly scroll if only for an answer: why you, mother? You are vacuous, you leave me with clenched muscles. My two brothers fall away.

2011

I Have Met God, and He Was Schizophrenic by Ashlie Fischer

January 2009 It looks like a cartoon outside. Snowflakes the size of fifty cent pieces are falling slowly against the night sky to a ground already covered three feet deep. The piles from the shovels and the snow blowers and the plows are as tall as I am. Maybe taller. Spokane is still, families at home, bundled warm with their loved ones. But I am here, sitting in a chair next to a med cart in a quiet adult family home. The only noise comes from the room in front of me. Rattling, labored breathing, coughs that wrack his whole body, as well as my soul. I am ticking the hours by, helpless, listening to the fluid in his lungs drown him. I have never been so weary. March 2008 “I love your shoes. You look like a ballerina.” The man in front of me is 40 years my senior and if I didn’t know better, I would have pegged him as homeless. His chestnut hair is in need of a cut and streaked with the same grey that dominates his beard. The holes in his candy red cable knit sweater look chewed through. I keep expecting to see a mouse pop through one to say hello. But it’s his eyes that hold my attention. The blue orbs are big and bright, beautiful and inviting. I immediately feel as if this is a person I can trust. “You must be the new girl. I am the Alpha and the Omega, God. But you may call me Lyle.” My new boss has warned me about him. An anti-social schizophrenic, Lyle has been living in the White House for 26 years. His family dropped him off when they could no longer care for him and they had not been back to visit since. Lyle has a penchant for making things difficult for staff. He enjoys pulling childish pranks and blaming them on the other residents. He tends to keep to himself. But I’m having a difficult time seeing him in that light. I want to believe he’s as sweet as he appears.

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January 2009 As I have every four hours, I get up, my entire body stiff from the hours I’ve been in one position. I walk robotically to the kitchen and pour a small glass of juice: grape, his favorite. Back out into the hall. Unlock and open the middle drawer. Fill out the narcotic record. Pull out the brown bottle. Measure 30 milliliters into a small cup. Put everything away. Lock the med cart. Turn and walk into Lyle’s room. Shake the robot off. Paint on a smile. Lyle hates to see my heart breaking. June 2008 Lyle smiles at me and invitingly pats the chair next to him. “You know, plasma is the most abundant matter in the universe. It is in everything and it is everywhere. When I decided to create this planet, plasma was so readily available, I was inspired. With all my great strength, I pulled it all together. I had no idea what I was doing, what my outcome would be. But I pulled and I pushed and I mashed. And then I looked down and I had this perfect sphere in my hands. I knew what I would do with it. I made this planet for you, Ashlie. You are my favorite child.” I can’t help but laugh. “It’s not nice to play favorites, Lyle.” Scoff. “When the one that is called I Am calls you his favorite and the mere idea of you his muse, you don’t laugh!” January 2009 I walk over to Lyle’s bed and set the two cups down before I go about the business of waking him. Even before, Lyle slept like a rock. And now he sleeps like a very noisy mountain. If a chainsaw makes noise when it sleeps, Lyle is probably louder. He finally stirs. “Hey, pretty lady.” “Hey , handsome,” I smile as genuinely as I can. “I brought you some hydrocodone.”

2011

“Delightful.” He struggles to sit up. I move to the bed to help him, but he refuses. I stand watching as he fights himself to a sitting position, winded. I hand him the hydrocodone, then the juice. “I’m pretty sure my butt tastes better than this,” he grimaces. “Do you have to go to the bathroom, Sugar?” After he agrees, I have to help him to stand and walk the 30 feet. I have to stay in the bathroom to make sure he doesn’t fall. Giving him as much privacy as possible, I turn my back and hum a song. When he is finished, I help him wash his hands. A week ago, he could do this himself. August 2008 “Ashlie, you’re breaking my heart.” I turn around to find Lyle, his face set in a determined line. “Lyle? What did I do?” “I love you so much, it’s as if I were blind!” He turns and stalks away before I can respond. Five steps down the hall, he turns his head to throw “Like Helen Keller!” over his shoulder. January 2009 “Dying is the pits, Fisch.” I smile at him. “If you’re really God, why don’t you die quickly? Or not assume human form at all?” “Heaven is boring,” he shrugs. His tone is incredulous, as if he cannot believe this wasn’t obvious. “Even dying is more fun than hanging out with angels all day.” When he grins at me like that, I think more of Satan than I do God. Once Lyle is tucked back in bed, I try for a quick escape. Lyle grabs my hand, stopping my retreat. “Ashlie, I love you.” The dam breaks and waves of an unidentified emotion run down my cheeks. Before I can choke it back, a volcano of sobs erupts from my chest, and my knees give way underneath me. He lets me cry for several minutes in silence, gently holding my hand.

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“I love you too, Lyle.” Patting Lyle’s hand, I leave the room and resume my post outside his door. For the hundredth time in the last month, I pull out his chart and review it, praying to whatever deity will listen that he has added a Do Not Resuscitate order. He has not. My mood falls impossibly as I hope he doesn’t pass during my shift. I will have to perform CPR and if I am successful, eventually do it all over again. The prospect makes my heart curl into a ball in the corner of my chest. October 2008 Leaves are changing color. The air is crisp, and the world smells like autumn. Somehow, I have never felt more alive as I walk into the monthly staff meeting. I expect the usual drill, an in-service taught by a nurse that will bore me and that I can probably do a better job teaching myself. Instead, my boss delivers a death sentence. “Lyle went to the oncologist yesterday. He has been diagnosed with small cell lung cancer.” I have been kicked in the stomach, surely. That is how this feels. I don’t hear anything else Zoe says. My brain goes into overdrive. Every experience I have with this type of cancer tells me I need to say my goodbyes to Lyle, and soon. I’m vowing to make sure he knows how much I adore him every day when Zoe says something that re-catches my attention. “Excuse me?” She looks at me sympathetically, knowing how much Lyle and I have bonded. “We are not staffed to meet Lyle’s needs as he nears the end of his life. Vince and I have decided to set him up with hospice care.” I won’t remember later the string of curses that come out of my mouth or the points I made or the names I called my bosses. I will remember that my coworkers had my back, my boss didn’t send Lyle to hospice, and that I wasn’t fired. Ripping Lyle from the only family he had known for 26 years is unacceptable to me, and the rest of the staff agrees; we will work harder for a few months. Don’t make Lyle die alone.

2011

January 2009 At some point, I drift to sleep in my chair. When Denia comes in, my chin is resting against my chest. The look on her face is compassionate and her tone gentle when she wakes me up with a coffee. I thank her and only manage a sip when I notice Lyle’s breathing. It’s impossibly shallow. With a speed I didn’t realize I possessed, I am at his side. His pulse is slow, but his skin is what scares me. It’s mottling, turning black and purple slowly before our eyes as his life is slipping away from us. I turn to Denia, tears in my eyes. A quick conversation later, and we have decided to send him to the hospital. We’ve had four months to prepare for this, and here we are, prolonging his life for our comfort more than for his. I’m not ready to say this goodbye; no amount of time could have prepared me. She is getting the paperwork together when he gasps for breath once, and his heart stops. The robot takes over. Denia is dialing 911, screaming our location into a phone that is sitting on the floor as we lift him and place a backboard underneath him. I give rescue breaths and Denia does compressions. When her arms are jello, we switch. Why aren’t they here? Up. Down. Up. Down. I can’t see what I’m doing through the tears. It’s pure muscle memory. Automatic motions learned from endless CPR classes and years at a nursing home where this was a weekly occurrence. I don’t notice when the paramedics arrive. Denia has to pull me off of him. I stay where I land, crumpled in a heap. My chest is heaving. Up. Down. Up. Down. I feel guilty breathing. December 2008 I’m filling out paperwork at the dining room table when I feel two arms wrap around my shoulders. I can smell the cancer; it permeates everything around him. “You know, Ash, I can’t paint to save my life.” “Neither can I, Lyle.” “But if you teach me to sing, I swear to you, my soul will fly.”

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Imax Moon by Stephen Lucas

2011

Racer by Tom Duncan

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Untitled by Ryan Longmeier

2011

Longboarding Secrets by Brynne Boltjes

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Candy Canes in Complementary Colors by Mary Weisenburger

2011

Untitled by Delaney Hicks

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Windmill by Delaney Hicks

2011

Before Going to be Sushi by Hirohisa Ogawa

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Listing Her Life: A Bomb Theory by Marissa Taylor

1 I was born in the sun I was pushed into what everyone does and I tried to be everyone I wasn’t very good at being everyone I was not a chameleon And who I am The person I can’t run from Stands out 2 I had different sets of twin friends for each year Each alike, each different They left in twos Only two remain When their mom died 3 bombs were made for 3 places One bomb blows – that place is in ashes Rummaging through the rubble The other bomb blows and That place is gone too 3 Everyday wondering if I’ll see tomorrow Everyday wondering how I made it through yesterday Everyday wanting everyday to end Now I’m in fog, I don’t know sun Sun is a myth to me All I know is terror – The impending explosion

2011

No Man’s Land by Sarah Suksdorf-Reiner

Step-breathe-step-breathe-step-breathe. Every second of my life feels like slow motion as I walk through TC Grocer’s. It’s too hot in here, babies are crying, and no one gives a shit about me. The only thing to look forward to is petting my pup, Old Rover, when I get home. I’m forty-seven and working a dead-end job. Every movement I make is like a computer file that is a copy of a file that is a copy of a file. I take all the Fuji apples off the display, check for rotten ones, and put the good ones in a box; then I stack the good ones right back on the display in a pyramid shape, and repeat over and over and over again. I don’t know what day it is. The days get lost here, like that ambiguous place in the dryer where all your single socks end up. I hate my fucking life. “Hey, have you checked No Man’s Land lately?” Sample Girl asks, her smile becoming a blur in the bright lights of the store. “Yeah sure,” I mumble. I walk over to the deserted round-about near the meat department, a few yards from the rest of the fresh-from-Mexico produce. The waist-high display is filled with garlic, onions, avocados, tomatoes, cans of refried beans, and tortilla shells. God’s own Taco Island. You know the kind of genius supermarket placing that seems to make things more convenient for the buyer, in the hopes of sucking more money out of them. Now when you and your dear sweet wife who won’t put out anymore are standing here picking out the least bloody of all the pounds of ground beef, the old ball-and-chain and you can marvel over the clever placing of the onions and decide that maybe tacos would be good for dinner, little Jimmy’s favorite. You throw your fucking onions in a bag and prance up to check out, all pregnant with pride over your smart dinner choice, never thinking about how it affects me. We call it No Man’s Land because it is so far away from the rest of the fruits and vegetables that we often forget it exists, until a customer with a polo shirt and sunglasses comes to alert me with a tap on the shoulder, and a glance at my name tag: “Ted, is it? Well, I just thought I would let you know that the avocados over there are moldy.” So I put on my shocked face and apologize in excess, while I picture smacking the person’s basket of fresh fruit up in the air and watching the apples fall.

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But today, thanks to that brown-haired brat, I’ll examine the deserted tomatoes and onions before a snotty customer gets the chance to tell me how lousy our store is. So here I stand on the vomit-pink floor, looking down at the avocados. I take one green specimen and fondle it in my hand, still firm, unlike Veronica’s breasts now, after she gave birth to the last of our three ungrateful kids. The avocados seem fine, then, oh wait, of course: towards the bottom there are a few mushy ones, white mold growing on them. I check the garlic, and a couple have green spots, and I find some mushy tomatoes. Time to do my job, my-nine-dollar-an-hour job, my didn’t-finish-college job, my slowly-turningmy-hair-white job. In the back I load up the cart with bulbous vegetables of disgusting colors. I can’t wait for this day to end, so I can jump in my shitty two-door car and drive home to my family that does nothing but complain. Can’t fucking wait. Maybe today I won’t go home. Yeah sure, I laugh to myself, the first thing I have found amusing all week. I could just not go home, but I don’t have enough money in my bank account to get me far. Maybe I could find me a nice perky young girl and rent out a cheap motel room for the night. Maybe Sample Girl has a friend. Then suppose we get there, and I couldn’t get it up. Then I get to watch her laugh, fucking laugh at me. But maybe it would be okay, because then I could take her skinny little pale white neck between my chapped fingers and give it a little crack. Just strong enough to cut her high school experience short. “Hey Ted, lunchtime!” I snap my head up, realizing I was staring off into space and crushing a clove of garlic in my hand. “Lunchtime, okay, see you in 30.” I start walking across the produce department, towards the door out of the store, and the lunch in my car, some boring bologna and cheese sandwich concoction I’ve had every day for the past two weeks; maybe get a little creative, Veronica. On the way there, I stop by the pineapple display, waiting for Sample Girl to hand me a taste, and I say warmly, like an interested uncle, “Hey, what are you up to after work today?”

2011

Dutch Centrum by Kenneth Johnson

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The Intersection by Yukihiro Furusho

I didn’t know until a certain age how lucky I am that I was born in a country not troubled by war, hunger, plague My family and my friends gave me nicely wrapped gifts at my birthday and Christmas every year until a certain age Until a certain age I didn’t know the meaning of the past Until a certain age I didn’t know the meaning of the future When I went to Hiroshima for the first time I saw a fragment of my country’s past When I was a kid my friend disappeared My teacher told me that he went to heaven That’s when I found out about the future

2011

De Fer Ã&#x2030;normes Flaques by Kenneth Johnson

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Palouse Light by Jim Ehrhardt

2011

Lasagna by Neal Peters

After my third deployment in Afghanistan, I visit my parents at their Bothell apartment, just north of Seattle. I bring them store-bought lasagna on a paper plate and tell them that Margaret made it. My parents think Margaret’s my girlfriend. The truth is I don’t have a girlfriend. Never even dated somebody named Margaret. My parents are also completely unaware that I joined the Marines over ten years ago. I sit on the sofa next to my father’s La-Z-Boy. He looks my way and gestures toward the TV. One of those daytime news shows is on. A group of political pundits argues with the mediator. Yell over each other’s voices. Something about the right to burn the Quran and how gays were responsible for inciting the 9/11 attacks. I search the coffee table for the remote. I sift through unorganized piles of TV Guides and prescription medicine bottles and crumpled tissues and open cigarette packs and an ashtray. I find the remote and reduce the volume. “How you?” he says, wheezing. He’s been a chain-smoker for decades. He lightly fingers the oxygen tube at his nose, reaches for a pack of Camel Menthols on the coffee table. “I’m good, Pops.” I slump deep into the sofa and prop a foot on the coffee table. He coughs deeply. Then coughs again, the start of a coughing fit that abruptly stops as quickly as it started. He reaches for the knob on his oxygen tank. “How’s Margaret?” “She’s fine.” I tongue a popcorn kernel lodged between two molars. I look at him and he turns back to the TV. “Mmm-hmm,” he says, still looking at the TV. In 1991 my father fought alongside coalition ground forces as a Marine during the battle of Khafji. Lost three fingers on his right hand from misdirected friendly machinegun fire. The first Gulf War was barely underway. They awarded him the Purple Heart and gave him a slap on the ass and six months R and R in Subic Bay, Germany. The way he tells it, he chose Subic Bay instead of going home. Says he had a thing for twenty-something German women. Subic Bay had plenty of ripe revolutionary pussy that could understand little bits of broken

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English. His words: “Revolutionary pussy.” He’d say that and wait with an open grin for people to acknowledge the pun. They’d usually reply with an awkward, wry smile and repeatedly nod until the conversation changed course. At least that’s the way he tells it. I don’t know how much of it is true. I’ve heard the story too many times to count. Little details always change. Two things remain constant: how he loses his fingers and the part about the Purple Heart. I’ve seen the medal. Held it in my hand. In person it looks cheap, like a child’s toy. Produced in large numbers and boxed for easy gifting. Some of my first memories are sitting in Mass with my father, tracing with a toy car the stumps on his hand where fingers should be. He doesn’t know I’m a decorated sharpshooter. A veteran like him. My parents think I sell blazers and sports coats at a local Men’s Wearhouse for $11.40 an hour plus commission, which I assure them is more than enough to live on. My father lights a cigarette and gestures toward me with the pack. I decline with a raised palm. The truth is this: I do smoke. It’s ten-thirty in the morning and I’ve already smoked half a pack. By the end of the day I will have smoked two packs. I’m not sure why I keep this fact from them. They both smoke. I point to the oxygen tank. “Did the doc say you should smoke near the oxygen tank? You could blow us all to meet Jesus.” He turns and stares at me. Holds the cigarette between his thumb and index finger, like a joint. Everything my father does is deliberately masculine. It is painful to see him waft in and out of early dementia. To see him tethered to an oxygen tank. His once slim, muscular build is now draped with loose folds of translucent skin. It also feels good to see him emasculated like this. He rests an elbow on the armrest, points at me severely with his cigarette as if he were aiming a dart. “You had brains and ability,” he says. “You could have done something. Been somebody. Could have joined the service or gone to school.” I ignore him, look straight ahead at the TV. An infomercial has replaced the political pundits. An attractive, athletic couple explains to the audience the benefits of a new exercise aid. Something meant to tone your entire body. You only need to use it for twenty minutes, three times a week. I know that ignoring

2011

my father hurts him the most. I reach for the remote and change the station. He leans forward and extinguishes a spent cigarette on the ashtray. “Every night it’s the same thing,” he says. “I dream I’m a Roman soldier at Christ’s crucifixion. I didn’t actually help nail him to the cross. I was a helper guy—crowd control.” “Okay,” I say, and nod. “Right before they nail his arms, Jesus hikes up his robe. A .38 is strapped to his leg.” “Come on, dad,” I say. “Christ would never carry a .38.” He raises an open palm, then continues. “Jesus smiles at me and says, ‘See, I never used it. That’s real power.’ Then his arms go limp and they nail him to the cross.” I nod again. “Now tell me what that means,” he says. “I don’t know,” I say. I never know what dreams mean. “Do you even know what a .38 is? Have you ever held a gun?” I point the remote and turn up the TV. My mother enters the room. She hands me a slice of pumpkin pie on a plate and squeezes my shoulder. I enjoy eating it. The pie is spicy. The crust is moist. The only thing it lacks is whipped cream. My father begins recounting another dream, and my mother saunters off into the small kitchen, her mismatched wool socks gliding across the worn linoleum, her blue apron tied behind her in a gnarl of greasy knots. “You attend Mass anymore?” my father asks. I push aside a pile of TV Guides and set the empty plate on the coffee table. “Well?” he says. “No,” I say, and ask him the same question, which he doesn’t answer. The truth is that I attend Mass on a weekly basis, when I can. I feel the sudden urge to tell him the truth about Margaret, about Afghanistan, about certified kills from one thousand meters. My mother returns to the living room with a slice of pie covered in Saran Wrap. “For Margaret,” she says. I stand to accept the pie and thank her. She clasps my free hand with

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both of hers. Our eyes lock. She gives me a toothy smile. Her head shivers and shakes in that way old people get sometimes. “When will we get to meet that lovely girlfriend of yours?” she says. My mother: always hopeful. Loyal and loving in a way many people will never know, or comprehend. A feeling of hollow regret sinks into me. The back of my neck buzzes with guilt. I never meant to hurt my mother, only my father. I stand and kiss her forehead. “Soon, Ma. Margaret’s real busy these days.” “Okay then, Dear.” She turns and glides back into the kitchen, happy as I’ve ever seen her, humming a tune I’m not familiar with. I stand behind my father’s La-Z-Boy and lightly pat his bald spot. “I’ll see you next time, Pops.” He starts recounting another dream as I close the door behind me. Descending the concrete stairs from their second story apartment, I finger the .357 tucked into the waist of my jeans. I drop the slice of pie into a nearby garbage can. In one motion I remove the handgun from my waist as I slump into the driver’s seat of my two-door Civic. I pull back the action and chamber a live cartridge. The parking lot is void of people. I aim at a few parked cars and then release the magazine from the grip. I pull back the action again to cycle the live cartridge out of the chamber and toss the gun onto the passenger’s seat. I burp as I pull out of the driveway. I’m reminded of the pumpkin pie. I accelerate my aging Honda through the first light, speeding into the rest of my life, knowing that withholding the very thing that would make my father proud of me hurts him the most. My mother: humming tunes lost to the world and smoking, carrying in her heart hidden treasures and hopes, waiting for the great unknown to take her away.

2011

Summer by Tom Duncan

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Pleasure by Ashley Startin

A nap in the afternoon, the light filtering through sheer curtains, crisp sheets cool on my bare skin, hefting my nephewâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s weight and feeling his hot hands on my neck, his candy breath on my cheek, the effervescent citrus-scented spray released by an orange peel, its juicy cells crushed between my teeth, placing the scotch tape on the aqua and plum damask paper, the origami folds enclosed by organza ribbon. Secret moments, tucked away like perfume samples in my underwear drawer.

2011

Monsignor de Vio by Richard Baldasty

Monsignor de Vio awakes, dresses with care, admires the magenta piping that refines his soutane. He goes downstairs. Walls dissolve, sunlight beckons. He walks out to the corner, turns, walks on, turns again. The sidewalk ends at the black gleaming door of a limousine, its driver in gray uniform ready to speed monsignor away. The door opens. Monsignor bows his head, doffs his biretta, to enter; then, shyly, he wavers. He wants to hurry back to write an explanation, to say goodbye, to forgive and be forgiven: so much that he never has spoken. But the big car will not idle. Monsignor must choose yet cannot, can only watch himself as though from afar. Off, almost in silence, the limo glides. Between regret and relief, stunned by heat and chance, Monsignor de Vio sits down at the curb. In the gutter, winged pods from maple trees, fed by spring rain, have rooted amid lawn debris and litter. Tiny green umbrellas open, make a bonsai thicket. Absently he notes it; reflexively he checks his watch. Its dial becomes a mirror showing him shrinking, shrinking, dropping very small. Elfin, monsignor slips into the grove. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a miniature world and temperate Eden, a rivulet running through, nothing he must resist. Monsignor de Vio feels lighter, detached from fluster, less burdened by rules. Within his body, spirit relaxes, makes not so tight a fit. He takes off his shoes, wades into the water, comes to a smooth rock midstream, climbs. He stretches out upon it: an elegant sort of beetle in ecclesial garb. Monsignor de Vio gazes up at the underside of pale translucent leaves, lets his attention wander the darker tracery of their veining. Now and then, he glimpses through to blue in endlessness above. Vast and distant, thinks monsignor, remote and infinite, perfect and eternal, the heavenly empty sea.

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Floating Island by Chris Thompson

2011

Octopus by Hannah Cwiek

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Chicago by Erin Mielcarek

2011

Crepuscular Meditation on the Occasion of Clipping the Lopped Sections of Our Champagne Smoke into Compost-Sized Pieces by Tom Versteeg Easy enough if a little creepy here in the twilight to say this chore is like processing the severed appendages of gigantic insects with a pair of Craftsman pruning shears, but where would that get me save farther from these sprawled twiggy lengths of limb and branch and deeper into the primordial brainstem, the pit far back in the night? And no point denying the humid thrills to be had down here among the unbridled hatchings, the sheer imminence of surfaces, the sticky hankerings both cardinal and venialâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;such a bounty to live through for as long as it takes the scent of these fresh cuts to pull me back to the gray tingling of dusk and the weight of the cutting tool in my hand.

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Tree in Fog by Frank Knapp

2011

Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Look at Me by Brynne Boltjes

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Bending the Lines by Patt Duff

2011

3 Eyes by Carrie Kunasek

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Kaleidoscope in Snow by Angela Barnes

2011

Fire by Greg Summers

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Ms. Hann, Self Portrait by Hannah Olson

2011

Owl by Jacquie Masterson

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Ganesh by Jennifer Baxter

2011

The Pray Time by Sophia Xue

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Untitled by Hannah Cwiek

2011

Stippled Hannah by Lindsey Wells

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Musaad by Summer Almohanna

2011

Steel Horse by Paula Siok

100

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Take Off by Loretta Surma

2011

101

The Wire Harp is a nonprofit annual publication of Spokane Falls Community College, presenting the creative works of students, alumni, faculty and staff. Manuscripts and inquiries, accompanied by a selfaddressed 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 ÂŠ 2011 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 â&#x20AC;&#x201D; graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the publishers.

Meow Cow by Chris Thompson