2016
2016 Wire Harp Staff
Graphic Arts Editor: Jeremy King Graphic Arts Advisor: Doug Crabtree Literary Editor: Zach Bartmess Literary Staff: Ryan Hatten Lindsy Kay Venessa Rowley Laura Stephenson Literary Advisors: Laura Read and Connie Wasem Scott Special Thanks: Richard Baldasty, Heather McKenzie, Shelli Cockle, Bonnie Brunt, Carl Richardson, Erik Sohner, Craig Rickett, Lloydeen Jensen, and Becky Turner. Cover Illustration: Christian Davenny
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Richard Baldasty Awards
Wire Harp 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 art by naming our poetry award for him. Each year, Wire Harp staff selects what we consider the most artistic poem as the recipient of this award. We also honor a work of prose, a photograph, and a work of fine art. Each of these four student artists receives a $100 prize, as a result of a generous gift from Richard. We appreciate Richard for supporting students in their creative arts.
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Contents Poetry Come Downstairs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
The Absent Table. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
1991. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Hangman Golf Course. . . . . . . . . . 92
Gotta Quick Second? Ten Haikus for your Pleasure From Tyler to You. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Because the Ice Still Haunts Your Dreams. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95
K.G. Brown
Luke Roe
Jonni Deakins
Tim Greenup
Nyirenda Ross
Tyler Pursch
Peach Wine and Fireworks. . . . . . . 96 Ryan Hatten
It Must Be Like This. . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Carol Harrington
Supernova. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 Haley Wiles
You Are Still By My Side. . . . . . . . . 19 Translated by Zian Chen
(Chinese Version) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
*
by Chang Dai
An Island in the Sky . . . . . . . . . . . 24
Fiction Clouds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Heather Johnson
Richard Baldasty
Blood Red Ruby. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Self-Reflection. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Stacie Gray
Montana Quartz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Jan Henrickson
Chernobyl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Haley Wiles
Old Lady . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Zach Bartmess
Housewife. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Ashley Morgan Sprague
Braless Wonder. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Taegan Louden
Positive. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 Colleen Tinch
Blades. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 Samantha Anderson
Kingdom Carrot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 Heather Johnson
Piñata-Related Injuries. . . . . . . . . . 78 Tyler Pursch
You Didn’t Answer . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Kyle Burgi
* Baldasty Award Winner
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Taegan Louden
All the Way to His Ears. . . . . . . . . . 43 Lindsy Kay
A Knight Most Valiant . . . . . . . . . . 74 Laura Stephenson
The Ballad of Big Dog and Jason Starr. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 David St.Clair
Non-Fiction Hey Dude . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Zach Bartmess 21
White Tiger on the Beams . . . . . . . 66 David Kennedy
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Contents Photography Glacier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
Pull. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
Dream Tree. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Manito. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
Falls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Oregon Coast. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
Gentle Water. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
Mission Mountain . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Jeff Gregory
Mike Busby
Sharaya Peterson
Diane Pippin
The letter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Marc Harvey
Nathan Gale
Jeff Gregory Jeff Gregory
Alicia Dunavan
* Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Christina Marie
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Pull. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Nathan Gale
Up Town Funk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Cody Koscheny
Dream Tree. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Mike Busby
Life’s Shapes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Tyler Bolen
Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Grace Blanchard
Bison Range . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Jeff Gregory
Bloody Mary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 Marc Harvey
Steam Plant 2015. . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Rhiana Whitehead
Delicate Arch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 Jeff Gregory
Nightlife . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 Tyler Bolen
Reflection Tires. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 penny morrison
Dogs Rule . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 Trina M Butler
Winter 2016 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 Rhiana Whitehead
Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Trina Butler
* Baldasty Award Winner
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Contents Fine Art
* Ram Skull. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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Contemplation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
MagPie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
Now Hold . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
Colored Sails. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
Searching for hope . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Indestructible . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
Combustion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Gazelles and Calla Lily. . . . . . . . . . 59
Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Grasping at pipe dreams. . . . . . . . 64
Danger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
Fog on the River. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
Half & Half . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
Drought and Smoke. . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Foo Dog Mug. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
Crush . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
Hanging Fruit. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
Peacock. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
Serial Squirrel Stalker . . . . . . . . . . 26
We go forward. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
Tempest in a Teapot. . . . . . . . . . . . 27
Blue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
Deer skull . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
Butterfly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
The Journey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Mental Strain. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
Deceptive Illumination. . . . . . . . . . 94
Cityscape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
Little White Fish. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
Laura Narak
Deanna DeYoung Desirae Knight
Deanna DeYoung Cody Murphy
Desirae Knight Chris Powers
Brittany Vans Nathan Gale
Jacob Hansen Katy Welte
Brittany Vens
Deanna DeYoung Deanna DeYoung Deanna DeYoung Laura Narak Nathan Gale
Brittany Vens
Desirae Knight
Hidden Paradise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Chris Powers
* Baldasty Award Winner
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Chris Powers
Katy Welte
Brielle Bishop Chris Powers
Brielle Bishop Laura Narak Leah Roper
Josh Hansen
Jesus Martinez
Cassidy Adams
Brittany Vens
Brielle Bishop
Katy Welte
Jesus Martinez Nathan Gale
Jesus Martinez
Desirae Knight Leah Roper
Cassidy Adams
Ram Skull
Baldasty Fine Art Award Winner
Laura Narak
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Glacier Jeff Gregory
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Come Downstairs Luke Roe
to where the matchstick ignites (smokes and smells of sulfur) to where the mycelium glows beneath the fog-tangled maples where the body stretches its roots through topsoil and into Aura do not possess the facts you find here the hidden truths buried in the asbestos behind the walls are not to be made into capital come on down into the cellar where the moon ignites and everything is lined with wet foliage (glistening) with the silvery tinsel of a trumpet trilling its Harlem tongue your mouth is a Kalashnikov Rifle use it accordingly
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MagPie Deanna DeYoung
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Colored Sails Desirae Knight
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1991 Tim Greenup
Inside the family house it was Christmas. Mother was shredding meat. Father and sister were asleep somewhere. I opened the Yellow Pages to locally owned toxic waste distributors. The vat arrived quickly and by helicopter. Using a garden hose, I filled the attic, thinking, ooze would run down the walls and make everything dangerous and more interesting. How surprising. Father had caulked every crack, sealed all windows and doors. From the kitchen, he screamed,  For years I have yearned to melt my son. Here! In my own house! Let’s celebrate!
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Dream Tree Mike Busby
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Searching for hope Deanna DeYoung
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Falls Sharaya Peterson
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Untitled Cody Murphy
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Gotta Quick Second? Ten Haikus for your Pleasure From Tyler to You Tyler Pursch Mad men make me write, they holler for cigarettes, and I’m huffing words.
Balancing atop Earth’s top hat, but the Earth’s a shitty magician.
He claims to be an open book, but any good book will leave questions.
Underneath your hot heels the Earth’s engorged throbbing beauty begs you on.
I’ve found a new way to kiss you under those stars, and that way is mine.
The silent lines of Uncle Walt’s lips are swelling in cavernous souls.
He covered her lips with his rusted father palms, broke her like daylight.
I’m strutting my stuff in khakis sewn from foreign fingers and needles.
She tugged a loose string on a Millennial’s scarf. “Hey, stop, that’s my beard.”
Hush, President Trump, we’re trying to sleep, and the end of days is loud.
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Combustion Desirae Knight
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Untitled Chris Powers
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It Must Be Like This Carol Harrington
She leans on the open refrigerator door debating whether to buy food, heat or meds. Campaign signs pierce the gold flesh of fall like needless acupuncture. The guy on the corner holds a cardboard sign “Will work for food.” The sudden crack of the old neighbor’s hip bone and the fall no one will hear. Long after the layoff, his hands still work the machinery in his sleep, Sunday’s job ads smeared on his fingers. Two fingers mean peace, one middle finger anger, five curled together fear and then there’s one on the safety. We do our best to appear shocked at the morning’s news, our eggs over easy.
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Danger Brittany Vans
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Untitled Nathan Gale
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Drought and Smoke Jacob Hansen
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Gentle Water Diane Pippin
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You Are Still By My Side Translated by Zian Chen Water falls upstream to the cliff, dandelion seeds drift back from a distance gathering like an umbrella, the sun rises from the west, goes down in the east. Bullets return to the gun bore, athletes race to the starting line, I hand back the college acceptance letter, and forget my hard-work. Tasty incense floats from the meals in the kitchen, you sign your name on my test paper, turn off the television, help me put on my heavy book bag. You are still by my side.
(Chinese Version) by Chang Dai 瀑布的水逆流而上 蒲公英的种子从远处飘回，聚成伞的模样 太阳从西边升起 落向东方 子弹退回枪膛 运动员回到起跑线上 我交回录取通知书 忘了十年寒窗 厨房里飘来饭菜的香 你把我的卷子签好名字 关掉电视 帮我把书包背上 你还在我身旁
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The letter Marc Harvey
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Hey Dude Zach Bartmess
Sometimes I stop and remember that day we had together. For some reason, the memory is brown, and hot as the inside of a broiler. Maybe it was something to do with the fine, brown sand we were walking on top of in the woods. You told me it wasn’t actually sand; it was just silt. Whatever. Looks like sand, feels like sand. It’s sand. You just smile, keep walking, and then proceed to argue with me for the better part of an hour. Maybe the brown had to do with the massive four-headed pine tree we found out there. I had never seen anything quite like it. It was dying, but it was so impressive that we just sat and looked at the long, sun-cured needles and gnarled knots and branches. You suddenly stood and gave me a crooked grin. You ran over and started climbing as quickly as you could. I decided that you wanted me to race you to the top. Once we had jumped back down to the ground, you told me never to climb underneath someone. I had sap and splinters of wood in my hair and eyes, and one of my fingers had been cut almost to the bone from the razor blade chunks of bark clinging to the old husk of a tree. You helped me brush some of the gunk off the top of my head and then proceeded to tell me why the tree had four heads. Something to do with moths, I think. You were so engaged in your trivia you were sharing with me that you didn’t seem to notice your hand was still on my head. Well, now you’ve gone and climbed so high that I can’t even see you anymore. You covered me with sap and needles at first. I’ve brushed most of it off, but there’s still a place right in the middle of my back that only you can reach. Every now and then, I’ll feel some more sap and grit hit the top of my head that you knocked down. No matter how much I yell up to you, it seems like you can never hear me.
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Crush Katy Welte
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Pull Nathan Gale
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An Island in the Sky
Baldasty Poetry Award Winner
Heather Johnson
Rocks cut tiny feet as I tread through waist-high water. My tummy slices the surface like a butcher etching his mark on tables made of pewter and that’s okay with me. My breath comes shallow like clementine-cut diamonds piercing foggy pine tree forests. The island in the sky moves farther away but that’s okay with me. My hair is longer now, trailing sunlight behind a train filled with fool’s gold. My feet are bigger than before, more room for cuts to bleed and I guess that’s okay with me. Utopia is out of reach. Its fireworks waltz along my eyelashes like goblins of lore that keel over on resolute tears wading in a bowl of salt. Whatever the sky people do is okay with me.
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Peacock Brittany Vens
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Serial Squirrel Stalker Deanna DeYoung
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Tempest in a Teapot Deanna DeYoung
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Blood Red Ruby Stacie Gray
I wandered slowly behind him past the old broken down barn where my grandfather with the mind of a child would keep the gems he carved for those he deemed worthy for those mature enough to understand as if it were a game. I was too young to notice the stumble in his step, the cologne he wore to mask the beer he drank. I felt the soft, unstable touch of his hand on my shoulder, innocence looking up, his blood shot eyes gazing down, the weight of the .22 placed in my grasp. The flame of my new red ruby burned a hole in my pocket. His deep, sharp tone stuttered, “Stand tall and shoot straight.” And I did. Ten years down the road, there was no stumble, for there was no step. There was no cologne to mask the absence of beer on his breath. My eyes looking down, the absence of bloodshot gazing back up until they finally close. The little red ruby he gave me is now perched in a little glass case above my window sill in the wooden box he carved by hand. I think to myself, “I understand.” Grasping the little red ruby in my hand, I see the color my eyes will never be. The lessons were clear in the words he rarely spoke, “Don’t follow me.”
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Montana Quartz Jan Henrickson
We climbed up through the back door of a mountain, steep, shaded, icy. There in the shadow of a billion tons of rock I could smell the moist earth already, and the gravel, and the sand that would in a moment slip beneath my boots like a grocery store conveyer belt. I climbed until my breaking point, until I was hanging on to a ledge, feeling the strain in my forearms, until the two hard straps that held the pack to my shoulders began to feel like piano wire, with the piano still attached. In that moment of difficulty, I saw something, a chunk of mountain, a bright gleam of forest gem, high, Montana quartz, shining, sparkling, like a wolf ’s teeth, or a miniature snowy peak. Behind my hand it sat, and behind it, the highest point of the Bitterroot Mountains. I reached for it, and I took it. And then eyes to the peak, I reached for it, and I took it.
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Up Town Funk Cody Koscheny
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Untitled Deanna DeYoung
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Dream Tree Mike Busby
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Clouds Richard Baldasty My name is Corlissa Norris. Corli to family and friends, Missy Lissie to readers of my online advice column. A badass big city woman with the tender heart of a small town girl. From my mother, I inherited expressive eyes. From Black Kat, my dad the famous wrangler, love of big hats. My usually hidden, never banished, capacity for fury is something all my own. Though I’ve sampled many lovers, no one compares to my imaginary beau V.Q. Botinsky, Jr. He’s heads above—clouds above—the rest. Sometimes I wish he were real, but why spoil a good thing? It’s that streak of practicality that makes me so adept at my job. Missy Lissie never flubs. I remember the time I got a desperate plea from a cupcake baker. He felt his job made women consider him unmanly. I advised him to get tiger tattoos. Frost some of his cupcakes bright red. Bingo! Had to hire a social scheduler just to sequence his hot dates. Now and then I get asked if I would ever take my own advice, if Lissie’s values, or dearth of, are really mine. Fair Warning: that is precisely the sort of churlish inquiry likely to unsheathe my secret dagger. As the wolf said to the unkempt goat, “Throat slit, even you’ll look cute.” Like I said, badass. Ditto, tender heart. But of a small town girl. We who hail from poky little places haven’t got time, on our climb to wealth and fame, for careless sentiment. It’s struggle all the way, and when we give, we give 125% or nothing. I gave everything to V.Q. Botinsky, Jr. What a guy! More or less a sky god, that’s how I see him. See him in the clouds, watch him in their alterations and progressions. Sometimes see myself with him rolling on the cumulonimbus, streaking naked through the cirrus, in flagrante on an altostratus chaise. My big hat shielding me from the ultraviolet best as it can. Not that I worry. You can’t miss the absolute, unyielding confidence in my expressive eyes. The eyes of a woman with her own special lethality in reserve. When you see me coming, do yourself a favor: get out of my way.
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Self-Reflection Taegan Louden This isn’t her usual M.O., but here she is, lying on the bed. Her dress is shoved up to her belly button and her panties crumpled around her ankles. A fair-haired boy pumps away between her legs, only taking momentary breaks to sip his PBR. She doesn’t feel bad that she can’t remember his name. She isn’t into this, and it isn’t his fault. With every grunt and gasp, she finds she is falling further and further into herself. Self-exploration is more than she can handle at this moment, so it is a relief when the boy rolls off and lights a cigarette. He holds it out to her in a sharing gesture. Although she doesn’t smoke, she accepts and proceeds to draw long on the sickly, sweet vapor. Her lungs protest and warn her no more by sending her into a coughing fit. Her inability to maintain her composure is funny to fair-haired boy, and he guffaws loudly, waggling his pale, almost non-existent eyebrows. His laughter hurts her ears. She can’t stand it, and she can’t stand him. She gets up from the bed and tugs her underwear up around her hips. It snaps into her flesh with a satisfying thwump. Blondie looks stunned when she flicks the cigarette back in his direction, and she makes her exit. She closes the door to the sound of expletives she’s sure are aimed at her. Outside the room, a large crowd of teenagers is illuminated by flashing strobe lights. The group writhes and pulsates in a bass- and substance-induced haze. She carefully picks her way through the throng of screaming children and feels pity. She fumbles her way to the back door and launches into the cold autumn night. She shivers delightedly against the chill. With fingers already frozen, she fishes her keys out of her pocket. When she approaches her vehicle, she catches a glimpse of her reflection in the driver’s side window. A young girl with matted hair and smeared eyeliner grins devilishly back at her. She touches the corners of her upturned mouth, somewhat surprised by the expression. A sense of panic rises in her, and she opens the door wide and positions herself at the wheel of the car. She turns the keys in the ignition and peels out of the driveway, dirt and gravel crunching beneath her tires. The headlights illuminate the yellow-dashed line of the road as she passes them by. She begins to count them, but is prone to swerving out of her lane when she tries. Somewhere in between the sixtieth and seventieth dash count, her strange smile fades. She studies herself in the rearview mirror. She sighs and throws her right blinker on. Her car careens to a small dirt patch on the side of the road. Here she adjusts her bra strap and plucks some stray lint from her dress. She gently lays her head on the steering wheel. Her body begins to shake violently as she begins to cry. 34
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Deer skull Laura Narak
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Chernobyl Haley Wiles
Vines are growing into the halls and stairs, over the railings and into the doors. The building lies untouched, slowly rotting. The rooms are coated in dust, forgotten belongings and coffee mugs, and even little girls’ dolls that they forgot to pack. The beds are stripped and the coiled springs out and exposed. Clothes that never made it into bags, that shouldn’t have been in bags, lie strewn over the floor in grimy piles, next to the windows looking over the city, the empty city, that’s dark. The nuclear leak pushed the life from the town, while it, and the people never returned.
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Untitled Nathan Gale
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Old Lady Zach Bartmess Grey room, grey sheets, brown humors and black stains, my splayed-out hair on the pillow, binding me to my lonely thoughts. Wake up, put on the two-tone uniform and pin the cheery, pastel name tag to your flesh. Listen to the whispers in the endless cavities of human life before you. Intricate and beautiful, yet showing only one of their more ugly sides. The cavern that has no jewels, only dull, useless rock. One of the most unlikely among us reached out to him, a dumpy, diabetes-stricken, old woman, her face was the kindest he had seen that day. She took one look at the “strapping young man� and asked him to take out her groceries. He glanced at his withered arms, hollow chest, and bird-bone legs and obliged her request. After he finished the chore, she gave him a sagging, unexpected, yet fully welcome hug. A shaking red hand, crippled with arthritis, reached up and stroked the back of a curly brown head. The pain was apparent and ugly, the wound was not stapled shut. He had almost reached his breaking point, all that grey, clammy sorrow shot through with black and red slamming against its barrier. The sun glanced through for only a moment before winking back into non-existence. I was finally falling back into myself I leaned into the hug, feeling the hot, prickly grief building at the corners of my eyes.
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Life's Shapes Tyler Bolen
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Untitled Grace Blanchard
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Housewife Ashley Morgan Sprague
Sweep up the glass shards from the vase your sister gave you as a wedding gift. Clean the cuts on your arms and hands with the leftover vodka from last night. Pin your wavy blonde hair neatly off your neck. Poke in the small pearl earrings he gave you as a birthday present. Apply your makeup, taking special care to cover the red scratches. Slip into the soft blue dress he likes. Trade your worn brown slippers for tall black pinching heels. Begin cooking dinner and drink enough red wine to numb the pain when you move. Greet him at the door with a gentle kiss. Notice if you smell perfume on his starched white collar. Sit down to eat rare steak and mashed potatoes with remnants of skin. Ask obligatory questions about his day at work. Smile sweetly during the anecdotes and refrain from probing further. Refill your wine glass one too many times. Clear the china dishes and run the warm sink water. Try not to flinch as the soap and bloody steak sting your cut fingers. Try to relax when you feel him behind you handling your zipper. Quietly reach in front of you for something cold and breakable. Make a mental note to purchase another vase.
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Mental Strain Brittany Vens
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All the Way to His Ears
Baldasty Prose Award Winner
Lindsy Kay I’m half way to New Mexico when my stomach starts to earnestly demand something, anything, other than gas station cashews and cans of diet root beer. I pull into a tiny drive-through town made up of combination fast-food restaurant convenience stores and Motel 6s, whose parking lots are composed less of asphalt and more of dirt. Bart pulls to a cringe-worthy stop, his sad little engine stuttering on the break. I give his steering wheel a solidary pat and make a promise to never take him on a road trip again. I should probably get a new car altogether, since I can kind of afford it now, but Bart is family, ya know? Full of character with his mismatched doors and lack of anything but a cassette player and all that. I slide out of the driver’s seat and stretch myself as vertical as I can go, my stiff and neglected joints giving odd-sounding pops. Even my sternum protests pop pop pop at the last six hours I’ve spent hunched over the wheel. I want to tell my bones to shut up, because I’m not enjoying this trip any more than my body is, but I’m in public and talking to yourself in public is a no-no. Instead I make my way past a cigarettelittered walkway and into the gas station I’m hoping sells those suspicious cellophane wrapped sandwiches. You know the ones, where the turkey should be fine if it’s the right color, but you’ve got to have a death wish if you’re buying the tuna salad. Or the egg salad for that matter. Really, you just shouldn’t be buying anything with the word “salad” in it
from a gas station. I find the sandwiches, cut into triangles and stacked in an open faced cooler, and pick the one that’s labeled “Turkey and White American,” delighting in a couple of packets of mustard that sit in a glass bowl next to them. I toss my breakfast onto the counter with a bottle of orange juice and a grumpy-looking lady with band aids on her fingers greets me with a nod. “How long you been drivin’?” she asks. “Six hours,” I say, “can’t believe it’s only noon.” “How far you goin’?” “New Mexico. Not too much longer.” “Tha’s not too bad, not too bad at all,” she nods in agreement, and totals me for, “five whole dollars and thirteen cents.” All I have are twenties from the ATM yesterday, so I hand one over sheepishly. She checks it in the light with a constipated squint. “You dropped this,” says a voice behind me, and I jump, because I didn’t hear anyone else come in. When I spin around, a man, about as young as me, is holding out a receipt that must have fallen out when I took out my wallet with an apologetic smile. He’s kind of muscly and has a pack of unsalted almonds and one of those “fresh” pressed bottled juices in his other hand, and I judge him silently. I take the receipt, which turns out to be for a double cheeseburger and a strawberry milkshake from Zip’s, and cough up a “thanks.”
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Cityscape Desirae Knight
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He just smiles a little more and nods, and I end up staring at him until the lady behind the counter clears her throat. I turn around again to find her patiently holding my change out. I offer up my hand to take it, shove all of it into my wallet, and quickly leave so that Muscles can buy his almonds. Not before, of course, tripping on the threshold on my way out. When I get back into my car, I groan at my in-public self for staring at a stranger long enough to make the cashier uncomfortable. I hate in-public me. I drop my head into the middle of Bart’s steering wheel, and the horn that almost never works gives a defiant beep and I jump in my seat, just fast enough to see Muscles chuckling at me next to his arguably much nicer car. I drive away as fast as I can, and devour my sandwich dry on the highway, mustard packets forgotten somewhere on the floor of my car. I’m sure they’ve joined the army of condiments collected there from the past couple of years. ~ The funeral’s okay. The preacher makes us say, like, three prayers in her honor, and plays her favorite hymn (not that she had one), and after she’s nice and buried, there’s food. Lydia, my crying sister, goes on and on about things we should have done, and how we should have been better children, and all of the stuff that you’re supposed to regret at your mother’s funeral when you haven’t talked to her in three
years. Eventually, I get fed up with her, and I say, “What should we have done then? Gone to the doctor and asked them to reverse your abortion and shock my gay away? It wouldn’t have mattered. We’d still be disowned, and she’d still be dead.” When I leave, I leave with her mad at me. I was never a very good brother. ~ Phoenix feels like it’s much farther away now that I’m driving back. I’m five hours into my drive, and apparently Bart feels the same, because he starts smoking up a storm. I pull into another one of those drivethrough towns that I’m lucky enough to be passing, and settle in the parking lot of the closest diner. When I open him up, a cloud of dark, emphysema-inducing smoke pillows around my face, and I have to wave my arms around frantically for a good thirty seconds before I can even see. The engine looks. . .like it’s there? I know nothing about cars. I groan because I wanted to be home by at least one a.m. so I can sleep, and getting Bart fixed, if that’s even possible at this point in the night, kind of nixes my chances of that happening. My cellphone tells me in a robotic English accent that the closest car repair shop is a good hour and a half away, and that there are no open towing companies nearby. I kick Bart’s tire, for stranding me at a diner. “Bad Car,” I say. “Really, really bad car,” I say. –continued on page 47 –
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Hidden Paradise Chris Powers
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“Do you need a jump?” a voice from behind me asks, and I spin around really fast because I didn’t notice anyone come out of the diner. Low and behold, Muscles stands behind me with his hands shoved into his pockets, his car parked behind him. “Woah, hi,” I say dumbly. He grins. He has straight white teeth. He looks like he probably flosses every day instead of two days before his dentist appointment like everyone else. “Hi,” he says, “sorry to startle you twice in one day.” “No it’s cool, everyone startles me. Sorry for, um, who I am as a person.” He laughs. I hope he doesn’t know I stole that line from the internet. “I have jumper cables in my car, if you want,” he offers again. “Oh yeah,” I look back at Bart, “um, but the engine was smoking, are you supposed to- I mean is that safe?” He purses his lips and thinks for a minute, his eyes squinting. “You know, I don’t know? I have a feeling it’s not safe though.” I sigh, moderately disappointed. “Why don’t I take a look under the hood though? I’m not a mechanic, but I’ve worked with cars a little bit, maybe I can help?” “That would be very awesome and cool,” I say, resisting the urge to tack on a “totally rad” or “sick.” I bring him over to Bart’s propped-open hood, and turn the flashlight on my phone on so that he can see, because it’s already kind of dark out. He looks and looks at it, tinkering
around with things, and directing me to shine the light in certain places so that he can get a better look. After several minutes of this, he gets this half-frustrated, half-amused look on his face and turns to me. “What even is your car?” I wince. “A Toyota Corolla? From, like, 1991.” “Jesus Christ, that’s the year I was born. How are you still driving this thing?” I want to laugh, because if he thinks being born the same year as Bart is bad. I wasn’t even a fertilized egg until two years after my car was made. “I have no idea,” I say. “I don’t even know if all of the things in here are actually meant to be in a car,” he says, and points to the various car parts he’s been looking at. “Well shit,” I say. “Well shit,” he affirms. He looks back at Bart and regains his focus, seemingly determined to find a solution to my mess. His face is darkened with stubble that’s probably only a day old. I can grow like, maybe two decent-sized hairs on my whole face, so I find myself enamored with the idea of what a full jaw of stubble feels like. I realize I’ve never had a boyfriend with any kind of facial hair either. I want to reach out and touch it. I think that maybe I’m imagining my fingers ghosting over his cheeks, but he flinches away from me, his eyebrows threatening to breach his hairline, and I realize that it was not my –continued on page 49 –
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Contemplation Chris Powers
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imagination at all that I touched his face. He looks incredulous. Like he can’t wrap his brain around the idea that a stranger he’s known all of seven minutes just decided to, you know, touch his face without asking. That an actual person, a human being, did that. I also cannot believe that I, an actual person and human being, just did that. “Holy shit. I hate myself,” I blurt. I am the worst human being. He stays still for a couple seconds after I say it, and in those seconds, I both decide to hop in my car and drive away like at the convenience store, and remember that my car is not drive-awayable. And then he laughs, full and hearty, and with what appears to be sincere amusement. It takes him a good minute to calm down, and I just stand there and stare at him, red in the face. “No no, sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I promise,” he says still trying to calm himself down. The humiliation must be apparent on my face. “It’s just,” he shakes his head, “I was just thinking that I have to be creeping you out a little, and that I should tell you I’m not a serial killer or something, and then you just….” He touches his face instead of finishing his sentence. He laughs a little more. I feel my face getting hotter and hotter. “And then you said that, and I just couldn’t help myself, you know?” I shake my head. I did not know. If I were him, I’d be high-tailing my ass out of here in
my nice car, trying very hard to forget about the weirdo who just touched my face for no reason. “I mean why would you touch a stranger’s face?” He shakes his head again, but he still looks incredibly amused by it, if not also bewildered. I feel like I am obligated to answer, but I can’t look at him when I do it, so I hide my face in my hands. “I dunno, ok, I just kinda imagined myself doing it and then I was doing it I didn’t mean to actually do it I just thought hey must be nice to have facial hair wonder what that’s like and—“ He’s laughing again. I wanna die. “I’m really sorry,” I manage, despite how mortified I am. He grins through his laughter, and reaches out his hand, and cups his palm around my cheek. I nearly choke on my own spit. “There, we’re even,” he says once he’s dropped his hand, his laughter having settled into a smile. I think that if I smiled as much as he does, my cheeks would hurt. I am justifiably at a loss for words. “I think your car might have traveled into the afterlife, or if it hasn’t yet, it should. I can’t imagine this is at all safe to drive.” I snap out of my stupor, and my face contorts into panic. “What! No!” “I mean, like I said, I’m not a mechanic but,” he wrinkles his nose at Bart, “this is a fucking mess.” “But Phoenix is still like three hours away!” His eyebrows shoot up. “You live in –continued on page 51 –
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Now Hold Katy Welte
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Phoenix? I live in Tucson!” I stare at him. “I could give you a ride.” “Uh.” “I was heading there anyway, so it wouldn’t even be out of the way.” “Uh.” “Or I could leave you here?” “Uh!” I can’t just leave Bart here and jump into a potential serial killer’s car, but I also definitely can’t stay here, is what I’m trying to convey, but I have a feeling my “Uhs” aren’t doing it. Despite this, he waits with a patient smile on his face. “I don’t really know you,” I mumble. “That’s fair. I don’t really know you either.” “Well yeah, but you’re all muscly and like a foot taller than me, I can’t imagine I’m a threat.” “You could be a psychopath who seduces young men into giving him rides only to poison their coffee at the first pit stop. How do I know you’re not on your way back from killing someone right now?” “Actually I’m coming back from my mom’s funeral.” “Oh god I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-” “No it’s okay, I kind of hated her,” I assure and give a non-committal wave of my hand. “Okay, well you’re really not helping your case for not being a psychopath,” he deadpans. “Never said I wasn’t.” He grins, and I grin back, and – this is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had. “Do you want to eat with me at this diner
and figure out if either of us are psychopath murderers?” I look up at the diner we’re in front of and decide that all of this being a humiliating waste of a human being has made me hungry. I can’t help that I’m shy when I nod. This feels like a date. ~ The diner is almost completely empty, and we are seated at a booth next to the window. It reminds me of every diner I have ever been in. Plush-ish booth seats that are upholstered with that kind of leathery material that sticks to your skin, but that must be really easy to clean. A laminated wooden tabletop decorated in little scratches and crayon marks that mysteriously never come out. A condiment caddy stocked with single jellies, sugar and creamer packets, ketchup and Tabasco. Salt and pepper shakers that almost don’t match. Yellowed menu’s separated by breakfast, lunch, and dinner, where nearly everything on the lunch menu is a sandwich with soup or salad. I feel like I grew up here. A waitress who probably did grow up here brings us ice water in brown plastic cups, and asks us if she can get us anything else to drink. “Coffee,” says Muscles. “Hot chocolate,” I say. It’s not even nearly cold enough to have hot chocolate, but I can never help myself from ordering it at places like this. It’s probably SwissMiss or Nesquik that they dissolve into hot water and top with canned whipped cream, but it will be delicious all the same. –continued on page 53 –
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Untitled Brielle Bishop
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“What the hell is your name?” I say as soon as she is gone, because it is ridiculous that we are having dinner together when we’re not even on a first name basis. “It’s Linden. Christ, what’s yours? I didn’t even think to ask.” “Conner,” I say, and a reach out my hand for a shake, because I’ve already touched his face I might as well hold his hand too. He shakes my hand with a grin that’s much more blinding here in the light of the restaurant. “I can’t believe I offered to sit in a car with you for three hours without even knowing your name, Conner.” “Yeah, you are kind of crazy, what’s wrong with you?” “I was dropped on my head as a child.” “That’s a little cliché.” “Then I was bitten by a radioactive something-or-other.” “Also cliché.” “I’m a superhero and you’re calling me cliché?” “It’s a bird. It’s a plane. It’s something-orother man.” “That’s the spirit.” The waitress comes back with his coffee and my hot chocolate, and takes our orders. I get the cheeseburger and steak fries I’ve been decided on since the moment we sat down. He takes a couple extra seconds to decide to order the vegetable club and soup of the day, which happens to be tomato. “So,” I say. “So,” he repeats.
“Are you a serial killer?” “Nope, just a programmer.” “A programmer?” “For video games.” “You do not look like a video game programmer.” “What does a video game programmer look like?” “Like they’ve lived off an I.V. drip of Mountain Dew their whole life.” He barks a laugh and wrinkles his nose. “Gross.” “You look more like a personal trainer or professional vegetarian.” “Is there such a thing as a professional vegetarian?” “Probably.” “Well I’m definitely not a vegetarian. Very fond of meat,” he gives me a wink and I almost spill my hot chocolate. “Anyway, what do you do? Or should I guess?” “I kill people, serially,” I say with a grin, in an attempt to regain my composure. “Well, I think you look more like a--,” he pauses and thinks for a moment, “barista?” “Nope.” “Dental assistant?” “Nope.” “Preschool teacher.” “God no.” “It’d be really funny if you were a mechanic.” I snort. “I’m a masseuse.” “Are you kidding?” “Nope, I work in a spa and everything.” “If only I lived in Phoenix, I’d love a –continued on page 55 –
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Bison Range Jeff Gregory
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massage.” “You could always drive two hours for your next backrub.” “I could. Give me a chance to visit my brother.” “Is that why you’re going there now?” “Yeah. Sort of. I picked up this bed frame thing for him today, for our birthday, and I’m going to drop it off on my way back home.” “Did you say ‘our’?” “Yep. Twins.” “That must be insanely cool. My sister’s six years older than me and it’s like she’s an entire generation away.” “It is pretty cool. We’re not identical, but we’re practically the same person.” “Why would you drive all the way out here for a bed frame?” “It was cheaper than having it shipped. And we always get each other weird furniture – it’s kind of a tradition – and this was the weirdest thing I could find.” The waitress appears suddenly and gives us our food. It’s served on colorful ceramic dishware that’s so well worn I’m almost convinced it was purchased at a yard sale. It almost makes me hungrier than the food itself. Linden reaches over and steals a fry before I can even get the ketchup out of the caddy. I guffaw at him and take his pickle in retaliation. He decides wordlessly that the pickle was worth at least three more fries, and takes them. It’s kind of a big pickle so I let it slide at first, but then I bite into it and it’s sweet and I
feel like I’ve just been robbed. “Hey, this pickle is gross. Give me my fries back,” I say after I cheek the bite I took. “All deals are final. No give backs.” “That’s not fair. You knew the fries would be good no matter what. How was I supposed to know the pickle would be gross?” “I’ll totally give you half of this sandwich and all of your fries back if you give me half of your burger.” “And what am I supposed to do with this?” I shake the pickle in my hand. “Leave it on the plate uneaten so they know what they did wrong.” We trade food and spend the rest of the meal like that, talking about nothing and arguing over everything. He pays with a credit card before I can even get my wallet out of my pocket, and ok, this is definitely a date. He helps me get all of the stuff that I don’t want to leave in Bart into his car, and I only blush a little when he points out how many packets of ketchup are on the floor of the backseat. “I’ll miss you, buddy,” I say and tap Bart’s passenger seat rear view mirror. I cannot fucking believe I am leaving my car in the parking lot of this diner, but at least I got a date out of it. “Two funerals in one day, that must suck.” “At least I liked Bart.” ~ I sleep almost all the way to my house, passing out promptly after I entered my address into Linden’s GPS. I can’t help myself. –continued on page 57 –
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Indestructible Chris Powers
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His arguably much nicer car, is also arguably much more comfortable. True to his word, Linden does not kill me in my sleep and bury my body in the desert. I am very relieved to wake up alive, parked in front of my house. “Let me give you my number,” he says, and I hand over my phone after I stretch. He punches in his name and number and then says, “I know I live two hours away, but would you want to go on a second date?” “Yes, holy shit, I can’t believe you’re asking some rando who touched your face out on a second date.” “But yes nonetheless?” “Yes yes,” I say enthusiastically, and he gives me an equally enthusiastic grin. He helps me get all of my stuff out of his car, and right before he gets back in to leave, I say, “Happy birthday, by the way.” “It’s not for another week, but thank you.” “Tell your brother I said happy birthday in a week then.” He laughs. “Okay.” “Bye Linden.” “Bye Conner.” I kiss his rough stubbly cheek and start
walking back to my apartment before I can regret it, but not before I see his face turn pink. He blushes all the way to his ears. I find myself satisfied with that.
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Untitled Brielle Bishop
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Gazelles and Calla Lily Laura Narak
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Braless Wonder Taegan Louden My bra is a traitor. Earlier today it went completely AWOL, then full-on attack mode. Underwire stabbed right into my left ta-ta. Entry point bled way more than you might expect, and the smell of iron— absolutely overpowering. Dammit. That was my cute come-hither wear, too! Part of a matching set bought at Target. Guess I’m not wearing those anymore. The girls may be sad to see them go, but I certainly won’t miss the Benedict Arnold of lingerie. Dishonorable discharge isn’t enough. I’m torching the fucker, suffragette style! I’ll stand over the flames cackling, fist raised to the sky, tits defiantly swaying, joyously triumphant, reunited at last with gravity. Take me now, oh sweet laws of science! A sacrifice to god, Sir Isaac Newton, on high: protect us against snapped straps potentially fatal stabbings and unsightly tension lines. Amen.
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Bloody Mary Marc Harvey
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Positive Colleen Tinch We were at Walmart late one evening, buying some vodka for shots. I told him I need to take a test first. He acted annoyed, assumed I was overthinking. We agreed I’d drink with him if the test was negative. We bought the test. We bought the vodka. We went home, where I put our frozen poppers in the oven and told him to take them out when the timer goes off. I took the test. Just as the second line began to appear, the smoke detector began to wail.
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Blades Samantha Anderson I look at the blades of grass littering the concrete. Why is it that, as children, we are compelled to tear these fleshy green blades from their nesting soil, to rip and shred the strands breaking in our tiny hands? And now, as an adult, I have the same compulsion, same desire for that tearing sensation, the final release of grass from its earthly hold. Is it that, at the hands of Fate, I feel I am the grass under its muddy boot, its spiked cleat, pulled up beneath its weight? Perhaps it is that I can hold in the palm of my tanned, sweaty hand, the power of those three withered crones snipping away at life-strings, merciless, emotionless, ending with a pinch of my fingertips and a slight tug of my wrist, controlling the grass the way I cannot control my life.
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Grasping at pipe dreams Leah Roper
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Fog on the River Josh Hansen
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White Tiger on the Beams David Kennedy How must I appear to the creature looking at me through four eyes, and with a body smaller than my fingernail? A spider, the lovely crisp white of mountain snow with black stripes as deep as the pits of the ocean, like the rare white tiger of the insect realm. She returns my gaze as I peer into those beady black eyes that have coldly stared down countless insects in their dying moments. Her web, a flower in the style of noir, is a tender, wispy murder scene floating between the coarse wood beams and the cold cement wall. Billowing in the slightest breeze like sheets on a clothesline, the silk hides a hidden strength, a resolute purpose, which is to trap and never let go. Isolated in a concrete box of basement territory, I wonder what her prey of choice is, whether she prefers the sleek muscle tone of a cricket fresh from leaping, or the wiry grit of a fly caught in her trap directly after his foray to the cat box for a romantic evening on the piss clumps with his missus. Maybe she can’t even tell the difference once she has liquefied her kill with her acid venom, swinging her executioner’s axes down into its most tender, exposed areas. Though I can’t see the fangs now, I know how my Tiger likes to appear helpless until the opportune moment, when it is too late to back out again. She ropes them in and binds them down, anesthetizing the poor unfortunate she’s claimed with her own special medicine, with her own distinctive syringe, like the extraordinary little phlebotomist she is. She sits in the middle of her palace, alone except for her charge. She clutches a mass
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of her fine white silk as if she were a soccer coach with his bag, ready to begin practice, the black smudges a hint of what’s inside. She has no need for practice though, this White Tiger. She’s already in the throes of a game. She defends this clump of silk, protecting the gentle clutch of eggs hidden inside a suitcase of her own flesh. She has stroked this satchel for days. How much longer until the fresh spawn of this arachnid pour forth like a waterfall of writhing limbs, cleaning away bugs as they go, like a river combs away last season’s refuse once the snow melts? Does she wonder if this is the end, if I have come, looming in the shadows with a face like death, to take her and her many children away from this world? Does she see my face in multiple, with her kaleidoscope eyes, and question if it is the last thing she will ever ponder? As she peers back, I imagine her praying. For what else could I be to such a small and powerless creature but a god? With a whim I could undo all her work, destroy the silk that is exceptionally strong, and yet would feel like a wisp of hair in my grip. What else is a god but power in the presence of weakness? With no hesitation or remorse, I could flatten her prize, bursting the eggs inside like pimples. It would take nothing, a passing thought and a short gesture of destruction. With an effort equivalent to cracking my knuckles, or maybe less, I could just as easily reward her perseverance with an eviction notice and a new frontier to conquer, one filled with snow and ice, and which is hostile to insiders like my White Tiger. Even then there would be no
promise of her survival. So she prays, looking into the eyes of her new god. She pleads with me to ignore her for one more day, for one more hour in which she can clutch her bundle with a mother’s caress; one more day with which to hunt in her own lazy, patient way, twisting up those too clumsy to avoid her in a satin sarcophagus, a butcher saran-wrapping his fresh cuts. Experimentally, I send a breath of air her way that must feel like a stormy gale, a humid wash of air not unlike what I imagine a tropical storm at the end of spring feels like, a muggy tempest that clings to whatever it touches. It vibrates her outstretched apartment on its foundations, flapping like a plastic bag caught in the wind, but its mounts are secure and sturdy. She does not stir, or even fidget, sure of her handiwork even as it is distorted and flung into shapes it was never meant to hold. The Tiger continues to glower at me, almost daring me to come just a little closer so she can take me on head-to-head. I extend my finger and with a quick swipe obliterate a corner of her home, the thread wrapping around my digit; again my Tiger is unflinching. What pride must she possess that she does not even look away from me as I toy with her? Maybe I am indeed a god, trifling with things that should have been left alone, mucking about with this creature’s existence for my own amusement. So I recede inside my godliness, and spare this sad little creature with no hope of anything other than eating and birthing, and possibly eating the birthed. I leave her with
the only assurance I can give, which is that she is still alive, for now. For even a god needs subjects, and what better as a pawn than my beautiful Tiger of White, a perfect creation with no power to overthrow whatsoever. I turn from my new subject, naming the White Tiger high priestess, wondering what must be running through her efficient, streamlined little brain. Was she grateful I left her to herself for however long, or furious at the devastation of her favorite corner of web? The scratchy-itchy feeling of leaves digging against my toes as they tumble in my shoe distracts me from my train of thought as I retire into my own personal web of drywall and carpet, polyester blankets and cotton sheets. I bare my flesh as the Tiger has always done, and mimic her unmoving resoluteness, relishing the stillness as the light fades out of another day, and night closes in on my suburban savannah once again.
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Half & Half Jesus Martinez
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Foo Dog Mug Cassidy Adams
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Hanging Fruit Brittany Vens
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Kingdom Carrot after Iain Haley Pollock Heather Johnson Today a woman carried a screaming child down aisles full of things she hates. Cans of carrots, cans of peas filled with things we shouldn’t eat. She was a frail thing, with arms that couldn’t support that fat baby. She’ll probably go home, take off her nice clothes and get something to eat. Maybe a can of peas but god she needs a steak. I knock something over but don’t spare a glance. My eyes are glued to the woman who can’t carry a baby so fat.
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Steam Plant 2015 Rhiana Whitehead
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Untitled Brielle Bishop
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A Knight Most Valiant Laura Stephenson “Start with this,” the knight says: “‘He began in his quest to rescue the princess by scaling the unscalable wall.’ Do you have that?” “Yes, Sir,” the squire says. “Shall I pull the rope up, now?” “Yes, very good. Follow that up with the line, ‘The sun shone brilliantly off his armor, shining like a beacon for miles around.’” “It better; I polished it an entire day.” “What’s that?” “Nothing. My quill needs ink, Sir.” “Then ink it, Squire; we haven’t got all day. Now this, ‘He then slayed the unslayable dragon, his highly-polished armor reflecting the heat of its breath, giving him just enough time to thrust up with his sword, in through the lower jaw, thus scrambling its brain. He watched the fire in its eyes die.’” “Very good visual, Sir. Much better than what actually happened.” “Write, ‘He solved the unsolvable riddle, opening the tower doors, then strode up the endless stairs with nary a false step.’” “Would you like a hand, Sir? I can carry your sword up if you’re getting tired.” “Yes, take it, and my helmet, too, but no need to write that down. Instead say, ‘Once in her room, his heart almost burst at the sight of her—skin like porcelain, lips like wine, and the most perfectly sculpted body.’” “She’s really quite plain, isn’t she, Sir?” “The important thing is that she is a princess. It’s not really her looks I’m after. Now take down, ‘Little was known about the princess in her eternal slumber. Why had she
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been imprisoned? All that was known was her presence, and the foretelling that someday, someone who was worthy would waken her with a kiss.’” “The exact wording was ‘Someone who deserves her,’ but I appreciate the touch of alliteration, Sir.” “That was pretty artful, wasn’t it? Ahem. Write, ‘The injustice of it had spurred him thus far, lending him the strength he required to right this great wrong. He approached her with the awe due a goddess, for truly that is what she was. Surely Earth had never created a more lovely creature.’” “Isn’t that laying it on a bit thick, though, Sir?” “Hush! Just write, ‘He knelt by her side, almost too reverent to bestow upon her the needed kiss.’” “It’s the mole, isn’t it?” “I said hush, damn you; you aren’t making this any easier! Write, ‘But gazing on her lush lips, a need arose in him—was it Love?—and he leaned forward; their lips met.’ Ugh, there. Now have it say, ‘She stirred beneath him, and he respectfully drew back.’” The princess blinks her eyes open and says to the knight, “Alack, but you’re sweaty! Are you narrating yourself?” “I’m having my squire record my valiant deeds.” “Then shouldn’t he just watch you?” “He can be quite...critical when left to his own devices. At any rate—here, can you write this?— ‘My Lady, I have overcome all odds
to rescue you. My life, my heart, my soul I pledge to you.’” “Aren’t you rather large about the middle for an unwed prince?” “My Lady, you do me great honor! But I am no prince, only a knight.” “Oh, so you’re rescuing me for a prince. Good. You had me worried for a moment.” “I...that is... Squire, what are you writing? Stop it! Just end with this, ‘And they lived happily ever after.’” “You want me to live with you?!”
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We go forward Katy Welte
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Blue Jesus Martinez
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Piñata-Related Injuries Tyler Pursch -lights onI was born without vocal chords. So when the others told me after my birth that I’d be killed with a bat, crippled over and over, splintered, my innards dripping into the frothing open mouths of toddlers, I could not scream in horror. I was born without vocal chords. More of my comrades were purchased for their deaths. I slept in episodes, cried harder than hollow. Nobody heard. I was born without vocal chords. And came the day when he hobbled in, a man whale, in patriotic apparel, an American Constitution printed over his diabetic chest. Had I been flesh and bone, traded a beating heart for a body to beat, perhaps I’d be found in an adoption clinic that day, rather than Party Animal To Go. Braces rung me up by the tag on my toe. Would you like one of our bats as well?
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Oh, no thanks, I’m sure we’ve got a stick somewhere. I was born without vocal chords. He dangled my paralyzed hide over a tree branch, swaying in the easy breeze when they came, animal diseases with their crippling sticks, tripping, hollering alpha executioner leading the procession. No English parlay came out. No whimpers no please no let’s talk about this no please stop no don’t it hurts The father’s greasy Budweiser grin washed over his blinded son. Higher. Harder. Get it, Rusty, when on the upswing at crayon miles per hour the home run was struck against the fruit that spawned him. I could not howl with delight. I was born without vocal chords.
Delicate Arch Jeff Gregory
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Untitled Nathan Gale
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Butterfly Jesus Martinez
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Nightlife Tyler Bolen
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You Didn’t Answer Kyle Burgi And I’m sure you fell asleep on the couch, covered in chip crumbs, wearing that outfit you just bought at Walmart because you weren’t expecting anyone else to see you. And if you saw yourself, you would probably wake up, put yourself back together into your own version of normalcy. And that little snort you just did was the most beautiful thing in the world with your bed head that looks so much better than any hairdresser could ever do. And your smudged makeup stained my pillows as you apologize for weeks about them but little do you know that the character they add is leagues above the curry stains I put there years ago. And every flaw that you see now I see as a trait that shouldn’t be fixed. Every knocked-over cup as a story you can share later (if you remember). And I will be there in the morning to help you pick up those pieces and regain what you seemingly lost in this dark room, with quiet sounds.
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The Journey Desirae Knight
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Reflection Tires penny morrison
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Dogs Rule Trina M Butler
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The Ballad of Big Dog and Jason Starr David St.Clair Jason Starr. The sound of his name was generally enough to get crowds of schoolgirl screaming praises and, in his presence, offering their undergarments to the famous stranger. Jason wasn’t keen on accepting, because he was secretly into men. He first discovered this about himself in the summer of ‘07, at the Clear Mountain Music Festival in Colorado. Worried that his comedy rock act would go about as well as Bob Dylan’s 1965 Newport set, he called upon a friend of his to be an audience plant. The conversation went as follows. Jason dialed a number into his cellular telephone. A deep voice on the other side answered quickly, yet casually. “’Sup bro?” “Hey, Big Dog,” Jason started.“I’m worried those guys won’t like my act.” “You thinking full Bob Dylan, bro?” Big Dog always had a way of knowing what Jason needed to hear. “Well, yeah.” “You see, bro, here’s the thing.” Big Dog always said things simply and slowly, so that Jason could understand. “Bob Dylan got crazy backlash from that one time, yeah? But here’s the thing, he was doing what he really wanted to do. Nobody was gonna tell him no, you see. Sure his fans didn’t like it, but all sorts of other fans took their place and accepted him for who he was. You know what I mean?” “I think so. Thank you.” “You gonna be cool to go on?” “Yeah, but do you think you could, like, go into the audience and, like, laugh at all my jokes?”
“Sure bro. Just get me a blowjob and a beer and we’re even.” Jason, who had a supermodel on each arm and was higher than a hot air balloon, mistook Big Dog’s intent and merely said,“Sure, dude.” Jason went on with his performance, which netted him a standing ovation, an encore performance, the aforementioned undergarments of schoolgirls, and a bicycle that one severely drunk man threw on stage. Jason was especially proud of this bicycle (red, with a kickstand and no brakes), so he kept it framed in the living room of his mansion, next to his 70-inch flat-screen television. Later that evening, however, Big Dog came to collect. Upon retiring to his room, Jason found that Big Dog was already laying, half nude, in his California King sized bed. “’Sup, bro?” Big Dog said in his usual suaveness. Instantly, Jason fell for this large, black beauty of a man. After a glass of champagne, they engaged in unspeakably sweet, nonsexual forms of intimacy, being sure to respect each other and their space. Jason Starr and Big Dog are still together to this day. They share the occasional drink to commemorate that fateful festival where they first discovered their feelings for each other. They also chuckle about that guy who threw the bicycle. That guy was a riot.
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The Absent Table K.G. Brown The coffee table was gone. The first sign that something was amiss. Its vacancy took up the whole room, spilling its secrets over until the house shook with the weight. I looked at the two of them, sitting on the couch, neither one wanting to look in my eyes. Their explanations washed over me, but all I could see was the hole where the coffee table, the beautiful blonde oak, hand-carved, should be, the table that had made its way to Washington, pulled by a team of oxen and a dream. But it wasn’t. I begged, pleaded, and ran away, vowing to never come back until they worked it out, for me, for us.
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Some time later, when I was found and brought home, it was back in our living room, tying together the room ever so quietly as it had done for generations, the memory of its absence all but forgotten.
Winter 2016 Rhiana Whitehead
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Untitled Trina Butler
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Pull Nathan Gale
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Hangman Golf Course Jonni Deakins The creek cuts through the sea of bright green grass, each strand perfectly groomed. The waves go on for miles. We rolled down those hills, lay at the bottom, trying to breathe again. You were so close, your presence distracting me from seeing the sharp plastic grass or that uneasy feeling deep in my gut that something wasn’t right. It seemed peaceful, but it’s always too bright. I couldn’t see the stains on my body, the scars that wouldn’t wash away. Once called Latah Creek before the orders were given to hang the men of the Palouse, to kill their horses. That memory is all but forgotten, the balls and putters distracting from the horrors that made it Hangman. Peaceful to passersby, too busy to see it’s too bright. Its true colors only show covered in snow, leaves, or darkness.
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You can feel the trapped memories tucked beneath that lumpy blanket of plastic grass that stays sewn down with the surrounding trees. That creek is the only way out. Sometimes I think it’s beautiful, but then I stop and remember how those green blades slit down the side of me.
Manito Jeff Gregory
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Deceptive Illumination Leah Roper
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Because the Ice Still Haunts Your Dreams Nyirenda Ross Your mind is like Brooklyn, it never sleeps but shuts up when someone drops the “f ” bomb. Fire sparks while being blown on, heat flushing numb cheeks, and crackles then pops before it roars. Plumes of cedar and sweet grass billow in your nose, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. Ice feels like death kissing your lips blue and dead, death in the form of your best friend James reaching from Arlington Cemetery to drag you down. And sometimes your head isn’t Brooklyn at all. Birds croak on a feather and spread their wings. And sometimes you miss being called a punk, better a punk than a twink, you think. Because you’re a soldier and soldiers have hardened hearts. “I had ‘em on the ropes” is what you uttered, defeated. The sharp chisel of abyss and glacial home chip away at your beautiful blue eyes, as warm as a glacier would ever be. You bare your teeth and roar your challenge and the renegade would sit and watch it all, hoping that maybe tomorrow or every day, you would raise your head and fake resilience. Hoping that crosses would dull and weaken your heart, but your heart would need to shatter before it grows cold. On va voir. As winter beckons with her cold and cruel fingers, more alluring than summer’s cries. Even Brooklyn would stand silent for your cruelty.
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Peach Wine and Fireworks Ryan Hatten Our summer was filled with the likes of peach wine and fireworks. We were happy to sit idly in each other’s company, knowing adventures were never out of the question. We’d take that old Chevy up and down these city streets, wandering every inch our little home had to offer. Though the greatest of times were those spent in an aging book store, pulling our idols off those dusty shelves, Steinbeck, Wolfe and certainly Kerouac. Our heads filled with dreams of the future, nothing would stop us from seeing this world. You cried when I left, said this wasn’t how things were meant to be. Now you’re walking these same city streets, your hand in another man’s grasp. As bright as you can smile, it now shines in his eyes. As you walk by, I see you’ve moved on. But I am still here in that Chevy, dreaming of a summer filled with fireworks and peach wine.
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Oregon Coast Jeff Gregory
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Little White Fish Cassidy Adams
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Mission Mountain Alicia Dunavan
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Supernova Haley Wiles The car keeps driving down the road by the old barn, by the fence that the horses used to jump over in rebellion, past the cows grazing quietly, as trucks blared by in their cross country travels, past the house where we used to live, where we used to run through the fields out back, smiling as the stars began to rain down on our finite oblivion. We gazed upon them from the scratchy Pendleton blanket where I would shiver, and you would force me back inside, back to the real world, away from the stars. Away from the moon shining on the rotting panes of wood making up the barrier between us, between the world, rotting away, just like us. The car feels heavy with the bag I packed, knowing I will never return. But then again, neither do falling stars.
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Untitled
Baldasty Photography Award Winner
Christina Marie
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The Wire Harp is a nonprofit annual publication of Spokane Falls Community College, presenting the creative works of students, alumni, faculty, and staff. Send manuscripts and inquiries to: connie.scott@sfcc.spokane.edu laura.read@sfcc.spokane.edu or mail 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 Š 2016 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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