The Wire Harp - 2019 by the Wire Harp

SPOKANE FALLS COMMUNITY COLLEGE CREATIVE ARTS MAGAZINE

DEDICATION For the last 20+ years Cyndy had dedicated her love for art and teaching to Spokane Falls Community College. She greatly enjoyed working with her students, teaching various art classes, including art history, print making, and figure drawing. Her art and teaching were her true joys and calling in life. Her dedication to students, her passion for art, and her calming presence in the department are truly missed.

Cyndy Wilsonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Venus of Willendorf

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, The Wire Harp staff selects what we consider the most artistic poem and piece of prose as the recipients of these awards. We also give an award to 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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Table of Contents poe try The Way I Held Him . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1 Kalli Herpin

High School Economics . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Brandi K. Maas

Fog On The Window . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Polina Plitchenko

This House . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Peyton Olson

The Tree I Saw While I Waited . . . . . . . . 24 Connie Schulz

Fishing For Bass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27 Connie Schulz

Leaving Egypt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Lynnea Gillen

Riding Clouds . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Richard Baldasty

Unkindness Of Ravens* . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Willow Johnson

Replay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48 Caroline Broadhurst

Shreds of the Deep South In the High North . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51

Being Seven And A Half Years Younger Has Taught Me So Much About You Being My Brother . . . .56 Heather Thomas

Accounting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 Trace Kerr

Realigion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Willow Johnson

Go All Out . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Olivia Matson

Valley Hospital, January 2019 . . . . . . . . . 76 Nicole Harris

My Escape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 Mckenzi Wingo

Kodak Slide Film . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 Davene Mitchell

That Feeling. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .86 Calven S Eldred

The Commute. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Samantha Kam

Sunless Afternoon. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 Brandi S. Moss

Brittan Hart

Ya-Ya Sisterhood of the Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Restroom at the Bar . . . . . . . . .54 Davene Mitchell

*Award Winner

Table of Contents nonfiction 3-4-6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Samantha Kam

Romanesque, or Another Way of Seeing You . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 Polina Plitchenko

In Gabon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Emalee Gruss Gillis

fiction A Manageable Condition* . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Calven S Eldred

Rock, Paper, Scissors! . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 J. J. Abbott

The Necronaut . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .59 Mitch Schiwal

*Award Winner

Table of Contents fine art Lars Of The Stars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

The Promise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

Stargazer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

Bird . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .38

Can You Believe What you Read . . . . . . . . 7

Botanical Basics Collection . . . . . . . . . . .39

Cad Red Ultra Marine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

ColecciĂłn De Playas De Arena . . . . . . . . .39

Phtalo Azo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

A Modern Momento Mori (Night) . . . . . . 40

Ultra Mars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Sedako (Acrylic) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .47

Orion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

SĂŠance (Linocut) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .49

Hell Cat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .22

Portrait* . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50

Mind Games . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Desert Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52

Temporary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25

Pink Bucket Blues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .53

Ezekiel 28:14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .26

Untitled (Intaglio) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .55

Galatians 4:26 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .58

Natural Soul . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

Succubus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .64

Smoke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .33

Morph . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .65

Aaron Kilgore Aaron Kilgore Aaron Kilgore Aimee Skaer Aimee Skaer Aimee Skaer

Alyssa Simpson

Brandon Johnson Brandon Johnson Brandon Johnson Chang Kim Hee Chang Kim Hee Chloe Poshusta Chloe Poshusta

Chloe Poshusta James Olsen Jodie Davis Jodie Davis Kiara Lime Kiara Lime Kiara Lime

Kira Edminster Kira Edminster Lydia Wallace Lydia Wallace

Madison Van Hoodt Mike Maloney Mike Maloney

*Award Winner

Table of Contents

Serendipity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .67

Ossiem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74

Dragonflly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71

Momentesimals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75

Natalya Chicks Rachel Ross

Van Parsons Seth Collier

The Unknown Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 Uyen Tran

photogr aphy The Cable Bridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46

Rathdrum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .89

Fire Trail . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .68

Coastal Musings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .92

Escape The Pattern . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77

Traces And Creases . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .93

Spider Lake . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .78

Autumn Stream . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95

Big Creek, Idaho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .82

Dancing Light . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .82

Snowberries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96

A Comfortable Silence* . . . . . . . . . . . . .85

Crossbill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97

Anna Mauth Dylan Ries

Ashley Gilson Chance Keso Chance Keso Chance Keso

Charlayna Adams

Cody Thomas

Frances Grace Mortel Frances Grace Mortel LaDonna Myers LaDonna Myers LaDonna Myers Vlad Kozlov

Birth of a Journey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .87 Charlayna Adams

Fall Asleep . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 Charlayna Adams

*Award Winner

vii

THE WAY I HELD HIM Kali Herpin

Offering to go first, I knelt and rolled blue jeans to my knees, not quite ready but needing to be and nearly falling into the river’s humming current. As my feet skimmed the algae-slick stones below, I caught myself and stood with the sun screaming red at my back. On shore, Ashley opened a box heavy as bricks. Lightly, she tipped a bag above the cup of my trembling hands and I held him. Not the way I held him, squirming in the front seat, waiting for liquor store doors to unlock. Nor the way I held him after he sent a bullet ripping through his brain. But there he was – reduced to flecks, all gritty and coarse like the sand I drained from fist to open palm, ten years old on a Texas beach when with cousins, I swapped giggling whispers through sticky air of a pumpkin bursting to stage coach, some future prince’s lips, an ending that would change my life. Then I spread my fingers into white waters and let go.

L ARS OF THE S TARS Aaron Kilgore

HIGH SCHOOL ECONOMICS

Brandi K. Maas

“Poor people choose to be poor,” he said to his high school Econ class. “They don’t budget or manage their expenses.” “They waste money on things they don’t need.” Recently, I chose to hurt my back. I chose to lose my job. I chose to burn through all my savings because the insurance company denied my claim. I chose to stop going to physical therapy because I ran out of money to pay for sessions. I chose to live with the constant pain and stiffness and the sporadic loss of sensation in my arms. One year, I chose to have my fridge burn out. I chose to be too broke to replace it right away. I chose to spend the few winter weeks between then and the time my family got our tax return, storing my food in a hole in the snow, having to break up the ice chunks in my cereal. One time, I chose to need medications that cost $320 every month. I chose to break down crying in the pre-Affordable Care Act era of denial of coverage over preexisting conditions. I chose to live in a state of shame as my mother shelled out hundreds to pay for the medicine I couldn’t buy on my own.

Nearly a decade ago, I chose to have a mental illness. I chose for my high school grades to suffer. I chose to lose my scholarship to a four-year college. I chose to switch schools three times before I dropped out entirely, eventually having to start over as a failure. I’ve chosen these struggles. I, and millions of others, have chosen a life in which no matter how fast we run, we still fall behind while people like that high school Econ teacher, born on second base, thinking they hit a double, tell us it’s our fault, that we’re foolish, that we’re lazy. Did people choose to starve in the streets during the Depression? Did the serfs of feudal Europe choose to toil for scraps while royalty and nobility lived in lavish castles and manors? Did we really choose this? “Poor people choose to be poor,” is what that teacher chose to tell his class who will be shaping the future of our world, some of whom can’t imagine how it might feel to live in poverty, many of whom can’t imagine how it might feel to escape it.

S TARGAZER Aaron Kilgore

FOG ON THE WINDOW Polina Plitchenko

It was so easy. Sitting in the back of my parents’ car, looking out the window – that barrier between my warm childhood filled with my parents’ caring and the cold snowy world that doesn’t know mercy. It was easy, the warmed up car, my parents talking about the grocery list and what we’ll do for Christmas. I felt cozy and loved and taken care of. The temperature difference between the car and outside was so great that my backseat window fogged up. I took my little girl’s finger and drew a person, smiling, right on the window. Another second and I am back in this cold city bus. My head throbs from lack of sleep and food. Last one on the bus at 9 pm, I feel the cold air pet my knees each time someone gets off. Leaning against the cold window, my cheek touches the freezing glass and my eyes get lost in the darkness beyond. I feel a little pain right where anatomists say my heart is supposed to be, it feels strange, like a whole daisy blossomed inside me and opened so widely it crowds out my other organs, which hurts. I miss that, my care, the care I used to be surrounded with. But I do not want it back. The daisy warms me.

CAN YOU BELIE VE WHAT YOU RE AD Aaron Kilgore

*Baldasty Prose Award Winner

A MANAGE ABLE CONDITION

Calven S. Eldred

Jimmy’s Pot o’ Gold was not a high-end casino. It was a few miles from the Strip: a lonely building of flashing green and gold situated amongst near empty parking lots, convenience stores, and a strip club alarmingly named “Doubtful Consent.” Astrid kind of loved it. That was a surprise as she expected to hate Vegas. It wasn’t a bad gig though. Should be open and shut, then back home. She had finally awakened at around six in the evening, and the hangover wasn’t all that bad. She tamed her black hair some, and dressed according to her norm for the job, which included Doc Martens, fishnets that were essentially cobwebs at this point, her favorite little black dress, and a just-too-large black Edwardian coat. As an afterthought she pinned a Ouija board planchette to her lapel, that could possibly come in handy later. Her battered messenger bag held all the necessary tools, among them a pouch of fennel, tarot cards, a collapsible plastic chalice. It held lots of just-in-cases too, including a vibrator with mystic sigils on it. You truly never knew. Her most important talisman was of course her phone, and she played The Cramps through her headphones as she crossed the lobby. Jimmy’s had been built in the late 50s and had allegedly been a destination back in the day. Dean, Sammy, and Frank had no doubt picked up girls in the very bar in which she got her first gin and tonic of the evening. The place had gone through a major renovation in the 70s and seemed determined to hold on to those glory days. There was green felt everywhere, four leaf clovers, and “gold” friezes along all the ceilings. Jimmy the mascot had likely been looked at as a target for a lawsuit by a breakfast cereal company. In most depictions, Jimmy looked drunk. Astrid concluded that the founders of the casino got their idea of an Irish theme from watching movies about the south side of Boston. It was charmingly offensive. The problem she had been called in for would keep for a minute, so she sat down in front of a very old slot machine with an animatronic Betty Boop on top of it. Betty danced and shook when the arm was pulled. She put five dollar coins in the slot and started contributing to the din of the gaming room. Somebody’s watching you.

She sighed, lighting a cigarette. “Of course they are, it’s a casino you idiot.” No. Not that. “Shut up, you stupid bitch.” An old woman at the next machine gave her one of those “well I never” glares she was accustomed to. Astrid winked at her and took a drink. “Not you, sweetie.” She danced her fingertips along the planchette, and poked probability in the eye as she pulled the arm with the last dollar. Betty cried aloud “Boop doop de doop, DOOP!” and started to really shake it. She rotated around on top of the machine, wiggling and rising and descending. Silver coins clattered and rushed like rapids from the machine into her little plastic pot. “Hey.” She nudged the old lady. “Warmed her up for you, she’s pretty hot!” Astrid pinched Betty’s bottom as she turned to walk away. The lady’s voice was raspy as she barked laughter. “You go ahead and laugh, honey. I got me a system. These old bandits are looser than those fancy video game ones they got up on the Strip. You go talk to yourself someplace else, all right?” The lady slid over in front of Betty. That sassy lady would probably replace all the money Astrid just stole over the next couple of hours. That was stupid. She was waiting for the ancient elevator to descend. “Look, I’m about to get on the clock. I can’t have you disrupting my concentration, so I’m going to need you to shut. The. Fuck. Up.” The elevator operator caught that last part, so she gave him a sweet smile as she stepped inside. An operator? Fancy. When they reached the fourth floor and the doors glacially opened, she dropped her cigarette into the tumbler of ice with a lime wedge and handed it to him. She tipped him ten of the dollar coins and headed down the arched hallway past the steakhouse to the buffet. She bypassed the line and made eye contact with a man in a suit behind the counter. He looked like a supervisor type, so she pointed at herself, then inside. Gesturally, she said “I’m going in there, and I am not going to pay or wait.” The management must have described their recently hired consultant, as he let her get away with it. The Cramps gave way to Siouxsie and the Banshees on her playlist. She took a small plate and gathered romaine lettuce, blue cheese crumbles and a lemon wedge from the salad bar. She surveyed the dining room of the buffet and reflected on the dress codes places like this had before

she was born. American tourist regalia in all its splendor was on full display. Mom jeans, Toby Keith t-shirts, and Costco running shoes were the norm. A new family with an admittedly cute baby was having a good time, their tank-like stroller blocked an aisle. She wondered if they brought the baby for the shows or for the gambling. At least she could smoke inside here. She ordered another gin and tonic from the server, who was wringing her hands as she watched an Asian girl pile an unwarranted amount of food on her tray. She had a plate with shrimp stacked in a five-inch-high mound with a soup bowl full of tartar sauce. Another plate on the tray was for mashed potatoes and chicken fingers, there were around two pounds of each. The third plate on the tray held six thick slices of rare roast beef, and she was slathering horseradish on each one. A few people were watching this, so Astrid let her eyes rest on her. She wore only flip flops, daisy dukes, and a bikini top that barely restrained her cartoon breasts. She took a seat across from the family with the baby and set to work. She dipped a chicken finger in a paper cup of butter and gnashed on it. Breading and butter tumbled from her lips. Dancer at the strip club? Astrid started thumbing through the pentacle apps on her phone. She tapped on the one that was a triangle set inside a circle and waited while it synched with the camera. She leaned the phone against her salad plate, so the girl was at the center of the triangle in her viewfinder. At least, she should have been. The Wi-Fi in this place was even slower than the elevator; this could be a problem. Her great grandfather had adapted magic circles with new electric technology in the early 1900s, then Stantz, Venkman, and Spengler had further developed the tech back in the 1980s. Astrid had updated them into VR apps, it was not entirely unlike Pokemon Go. The man in the suit stood between her and the girl, interrupting the process. “Excuse me, Miss.” She took a sip of gin and gestured with her hand. “I’m going to need you to take two steps to the left, Slick. You’re blocking my view.” ‘Wh-what?” he looked at the Asian girl, and at Astrid’s phone. “Are you creepshotting?” “Sort of.” “We don’t allow photography of guests. I’m the restaurant manager.” She sighed and removed her earbuds. “Look. Your bosses hired me to check out your problem, and I think you may have a serious one.” The baby’s aura had resolved into a golden glow. The girl was still a void and her lack of presence in the viewfinder indicated trouble.

“I know. What I don’t know is why they contacted some sort of charlatan crazy person to investigate a stripper who eats too much food.” “Don’t point at her for God’s sake!” She’s looking at the baby. “I know!” She pulled the manager’s hand down to the table so he wouldn’t call the girl’s attention to them. “They called me in because someone involved in management is a little more aware of the world as it really is and the fucked up things most people are fortunate enough to never see. Tell me how long this has been going on.” “About a week. Do whatever it is you do and get out of here.” He shrugged off her hand and stalked away. Dick. “He really is. But please let me concentrate.” She took another drink. The girl had three slices of beef in her mouth. Horseradish smeared on her cheek as she gnawed. She skipped the fork and scooped some potatoes into her mouth. Someone put a tray down on Astrid’s table with a salmon fillet and asparagus tips. He slid into the chair across from her. “Astrid Carnacki?” He’s been following us. I told you. “Shut up.” He frowned, but his mouth curved into a smile quickly. “I’m sorry.” He adhered to the old dress code. Astrid very much liked his suit. He had blonde hair cut military short and wore round glasses. He even had a small rose in the lapel of the jacket and a handkerchief in the pocket. He wasn’t a steroid ridden giant, but his shoulders were broad and square. He might not be a cop, but he was something that occasionally wore a dress uniform that he would wear well. Close your mouth before you drool. She took a bite of salad to give herself time to think. “How do you know who I am?” “I hope you don’t find it too alarming, but I’ve been doing research on you. I’m hoping some things online in certain quarters about you are true and you can perhaps help me resolve an issue.” Oh. A potential client, that was okay. He had a faint accent she couldn’t immediately place. Like German, but not. “I’m sort of busy right this second, but we can talk in a bit. Could you scooch your chair

just a bit to the right?” He did so, and the girl’s figure began resolving on her phone. “Is it true you are a descendant of Thomas Carnacki, the, ah…” “’Ghost-Finder’. Yes.” “And you are some sort of exorcist yourself?” “Exorcist? Hahahahahaaaa!” Hahahahahahaaaa! Astrid wiped a tear. “Ha, shit. No, that’s not quite it.” She stopped laughing as the image on her phone became a skeletally gaunt figure with patches of rot all over her body. Her tummy was not taut at all, it was distended with hunger. Her white eyes focused on the baby’s golden glow. She had been dead at least a week. Astrid had no idea how the management of the casino intuited to contact her, but it was a very good thing they had. “Holy shit.” She whispered, and swiped past several circles on her phone, then selected one. Layered above the circle in VR, she began drawing a snare around the girl. The dead girl sensed something wrong. She whipped her head back and forth to smell the danger. A piece of shrimp sailed across the table from her hair. “Look, what’s your name?” She didn’t look at him, concentrating on her phone. “Peter. Peter Aebischer. It’s good to finally meet you.” He offered his hand. She shook her head and tipped the glass to finish the gin and tonic. “Very definition of a bad time, Pete.” “Peter, please.” “Got it, Peter. Not now.” The girl stood on top of her table and crouched. She hissed at the baby’s mother, who would have found that even more alarming had she been able to see that face in Astrid’s phone. Time to go before she washed down all that shrimp with some tasty baby. Astrid clicked on the photo button. The snare drew taut around the girl’s ankle, and she began screaming. She rose into the air and started circling above the table. Slops of food spattered across the dining room as a funnel cloud erupted directly below her. On the phone, Astrid circled her finger, tightening the snare, then she pulled the girl down towards the circle. The server screamed as the dessert cart yielded cheesecake slices, cookies and burnt

cremes to the swirling winds. The circle glowed red on the table below the shrieking, pirouetting girl. A flip flop spiraled down, towards a mountain of knives. Astrid shook her head. Poor thing, but that’s the Hell she escaped from, so she was going back. The family with the baby were sensibly charging through the crowd running for the exit with the baby firmly ensconced in the depths of the stroller. Peter had tipped the table over and crouched behind it. A busboy cowered behind the manager, who was demanding something of Astrid she couldn’t hear. She drew her down, down, down. The girl disappeared into the glowing circle, which dilated shut. The winds abruptly ceased, and a platter of ceramic plates fell off a counter. Astrid struck a wooden match on her table and lit a smoke as she stood. She looked at the manager. “Well, okay. Unless there was anything else…” “What was? You! That! Who is going to clean all this up? What do I?” His phone rang. She held up her phone. “Hey, if you’re unsatisfied, I can just put her right back.” She couldn’t, but he wouldn’t know that. He nodded, on the phone. “Yes. Yes, sir.” He hung up. Peter stared up at her in awe. “Your fee is being processed into your account right now.” She smiled. “Excellent. Peter, it was nice to meet you.” Her heartrate was at least at 150 beats per minute. She had to get out of there. That was fucking awesome. “I’m getting tired of telling you to shush.” Astrid made her way outside into the cool night, so she could calm herself. I know you think Peter’s hot, but he’s dangerous. “I do not.” Come on, you can lie to most everyone, but not me. Astrid breathed, and focused on the moon. She let its glow into her mind, and let it seep everywhere, and banished the voice for a little while. She’d come back soon, she always did. She started walking down the middle of the street in the middle of the streetlight’s glow. Peter caught up and fell into stride next to her. “So…that was interesting.” “Peter. Please. I need a little while to decompress after something like that.

Whatever your problem is will keep awhile, won’t it? Please? It’s important.” “It has kept for some time, but I don’t want to let it get out of hand. Let me buy you a coffee. Or a drink, if you prefer. Really, I just have questions.” “Can we meet tomorrow night? I know that sounds like a brush off, but I promise that I-“ A phone booth on the corner that hadn’t been there a moment ago erupted a shrill ring. Peter stared at it. He wiped his glasses. Astrid lit another cigarette. It continued to ring. “Do you want to answer that?” he suggested. “Not particularly. I’ve found that the best response to a call to adventure is to hang up. Go ahead.” He lifted the headset. “Ahem. Hello?” He looked at her and frowned. “My mother sucks what, where?” His eyes widened. “Oh.” Astrid resisted the strong temptation to keep walking. “She’s right here. I don’t think she wants to. You don’t have to be so rude.” He held the receiver out to her. “She wants to talk to you. She…sounds just like you.” “Damn it.” She took it and stepped into the booth. “Hello?” “Don’t hang up on me, bitch!” her own voice sounded in her ear. She closed the door to the booth. “Fine. What is your problem?” “That you won’t acknowledge that your crush is going to try to kill us!” “He is not a crush! Zurie, I appreciate that you’re looking out, I really do, okay? But you got this one wrong, okay? You’re just worked up from the job, we both are…” Her voice trailed away as she looked through the glass to see Peter pointing a gun at her. “Did I not tell you? Astrid, let me take over!” Astrid opened the door, looking at Peter’s eyes. She saw regret. Damn it. “Let me try something first.” “Do not hang up, we can come up with a-” She set the receiver in the cradle. She stepped out of the booth. “Peter-” He pulled the trigger three times. She jolted, and her eyes turned red. Her fingernails extended into talons, and she grabbed

his throat. He choked and dropped the water gun. She pulled him in close. Her now hot pink hair dangled between them as he struggled. She opened her mouth as if to kiss him, then grazed his lips with many extra teeth, most of them sharp. Water ran down her cheeks. Her tongue darted out to lap a drop from her lip. Her eyebrows drew together, and the red eyes deepened in color. “What. The. Fuck? Is that holy water, Peter?” “Yes.” He croaked, patting at his jacket. “I’m, I’m from the Swiss Guard. Special Projects Division.” She took the real gun he was searching for from his shoulder holster and shoved him with one hand. He staggered back and fell against the streetlight. “Holy water. You know what, Peetie? An angel could come down here straight from heaven and beat off all over my face, and it would do nothing but piss. Me. Off.” She walked towards him, thumbing the safety and chambering a round. Zurie, stop. Astrid, now the one inside, echoed. Zurie held the gun inches from his face. “Tell me more about what you’re doing here on the last night of your life, Peetie.” His hands shook as he lifted them up. “There are records of an incident of possession twelve years ago, and I was sent to follow up.” “Swiss Guard? Aren’t you the Pope’s bodyguards or something?” “More than that. Protection of Vatican City, that sort of thing. Special Projects is funded as counter terrorism, but we look into…” the barrel of the gun was pressed into his forehead. “Weird shit. I get it. Tell me something about the Pope that you shouldn’t.” “What?” She pressed the gun harder. Zurie… “Shut the fuck up Astrid! There, how do you like that? This altar boy was out to kill us, and I kept warning you…” Tears leaked from her eyes. You did. I’m sorry. If you let me handle this, I promise to pay you back. “You’ve never apologized to me before.” Peter shook his head. “I don’t know-“ “Does it even seem like I’m talking to you Peetie? Your girlfriend is negotiating for your life. Pay me back how? What is your plan?” Astrid looked down. She felt Zurie slip away and knew her eyes and hair were back to

normal. She saw Peter’s eyes dart to the lowered gun, but he didn’t seize it. She offered a hand to help him up. He stood over her, and she took a deep breath. She reversed the gun in her hand, and held it out. “Act of faith here.” He took it, and a moment later, thumbed the safety back on and holstered it under his jacket. Her eyes were steady, meeting his. “There was an incident. Twelve years ago, when I was a high school freshman. There was an exorcism, but I guess it didn’t really take.” He stared at her. “It’s been inside you all this time?” “She has. Zurie. We’re a part of each other now. We reach accomodations with each other. Not going to lie, it gets a little rough. When I took up my Great Grandfather’s work, she’s proven to be an asset.” Thank you. “You’re welcome, Sweetie.” Peter frowned. “Sweetie?” “That was to her.” “So, what now?” She laughed. “You’re asking me that? You’re the one with the gun.” She looked up at the Moon. “She was really good; didn’t kill or hurt you, and stayed under control. So, I’m going to let her out for a while.” “Out?” “Yeah. Let her go to that strip club if she wants. She’ll probably get into some cocaine and play with the girls.” Really?!? “So, you’re both into girls?” “Peter. That’s your first question about all this? I’m mostly hetero-ish, Zurie can’t be pinned down at all. One time I came to and she was bringing us off on a fire hydrant.” That would have been even better if I had figured out how to make the water go. “That would have required reconstructive surgery, Zurie. So you’re not going to shoot us? Let me ask you: ‘what now?’” “I file a report that involves terms like ‘bipolar,’ and ‘schizophrenic tendencies.’” “Cool. Not the first time that’s happened.” “I know.” Astrid considered the implications of that while he continued, “I’m not entirely

convinced Zurie isn’t dangerous though.” “Oh, no shit? But I got this, Peter. She and I stopped Ghost Stripper from eating a baby right in front of you, and you had no idea what was going on.” “And I was impressed. So, we’ll talk again sometime soon when you’re feeling less skittish, and you can further convince me.” “Okay.” Her breath was quick. “Zurie, remember: no needles, no unprotected sex, and no unnecessary mayhem.” I promise. “But wait, how did this happen to you?” She flipped her pink bangs from over her red eyes. “Oh, you know. Puberty, a Ouija board, Metal albums. Vinyl, man. Not even once. She really does like you, Peetie.” She blew a kiss. She turned to walk away. The minidress fell into ribbons clinging to her body. Zurie! That was my favorite dress! We’re so slutty when we’re you. “Give us a call sometime, Peetie. I’ll make sure you get lucky.” Shut up, Zurie. Zurie laughed and opened her playlist on the phone to the Mamma Mia soundtrack as she walked down the middle of the street.

CAD RED ULTR A MARINE (TOP), PHTHALO AZO (BOT TOM) Aimee Skaer

ULTR A MARS Aimee Skaer

THIS HOUSE Peyton Olson

I like it here in this house sometimes it’s burning, sometimes it’s molding, flooding, broken I never want to leave this house the windows are shattered the doors are stuck, shut closed the fence made of bricks piled high in my dying yellow yard I feel safe here in this house it is where I belong whenever I wander the landlord calls me back an outstretched, bony finger beckons me standing on the front porch, the rusty screen door wide open I always find myself back in this house “We missed you” the ghosts say a homecoming party here is me crawling back to my soggy, sagging bed and sleeping I enjoy the loneliness it’s what I’m used to

ORION

Alyssa Simpson

HELL CAT Brandon Johnson

MIND GAMES Brandon Johnson

THE TREE I SAW WHILE I WAITED Connie Schulz

that tree keeps dancing with a slight breeze moving every single pine needle & who knew pine needles could look like they flow like they are sweet sugar ice stuck on a tree & I wish I could capture the look of that nature before it grows too dark

TEMPOR ARY Brandon Johnson

EZEK IEL 28:14 Chang Kim Hee

FISHING FOR BASS Connie Schulz

sunlight pushes behind the coulee wall belies the chilled air occasionally blinds after shadows bemoan spring & music thrums through fingers hours later in the blood it pounds it pounds & I can still feel the storm on the waters & calming ice snow rain

GAL ATIANS 4:26 Chang Kim Hee

ROCK , PAPER, SCISSORS!

J. J. Abbott

They both bend their elbows and raise their fist into the air, their shirt sleeves sullen from sweat and dirty water. The man narrows his eyes; judging by his five point lead as evidenced by the tally marks inscribed with a sharp rock into the wall, luck is more on his side than hers. The two stare each other down for a quick second, then the woman slowly raises her fist up further. He mimics her actions, and then they bring their hands down three times. Rock, paper, scissors. She tucks her third and fourth fingers into her palm. His fist trumps her scissors. The woman says something nasty under her breath--not toward him, he assumes, but toward her own loss. Before he can pick up the rock, she grabs it and scratches another tally on his side. Then she blows a lock of curly hair from her face. When it returns in front of her nose, she hooks a slender finger around it and tucks it behind her ear. The man wonders if she knows he finds her incredibly pretty. Her hair, colored a beautiful copper, reaches a bit farther than her shoulders. Unless it’s dyed, she’s one of the 2% of redheads. With hair like that, he occasionally checks her eyes to assure himself that they’re not green like he expected, but a shade of blue that matches the sky on a winter’s day. Her chin sticks out a bit, but he thinks that it gives her a bit of character. Combined with her broad shoulders, she looks like she could rule over an army of men in medieval times or a tribe of Amazonian women. In his head, he calls her Angie — that seems appropriate for such a stoic woman. They throw again. Rock, paper, scissors. His point. And again. And again, until he racks up nine points and she gets only four. Twelve games left to go before the fifty games are done. Both of them look at the tallies on the wall. The man bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. It seems that if his good fortune keeps up, she’ll lose. Sighing, the woman closes her eyes and tilts her head backward. The man copies her. They wait and listen. Neither of them can hear anything but the rhythmic dripping of water from the ceiling. The smell of sewage is horrifically apparent. He can’t wait to get out of here. 29

His eyes open. She’s still completely silent, probably busying herself with worrying whether she’ll survive once she loses. Or maybe she’s thinking of her family or friends or anybody else. He doesn’t think he’ll ever know. Once they ran into each other, they swore an unspoken vow of silence. No bringing up painful memories. No touching the other. Only those few words a few days ago that established the bet. The woman turns back to him and readies her arm. A certain fire burns in her eyes. She’s determined to win, even if it takes a miracle. He prepares to throw, suddenly remorseful that his luck was so good. Rock, paper, scissors. With every loss, she grits her teeth a little more. Soon, she’ll be the one to open the bunker door. The man imagines her body ripped away by the tornadoes. Suddenly, his winning streak doesn’t sit well. The tallies announce him as the victor. The woman nods to herself. Tears pool in her eyes. Clearly, she’s imagined the same thing. She wobbles to her feet, knees bent to avoid hitting her head against the ceiling, and pivots toward the bunker hatch, her stone-faced demeanor dissipating with every step. To him, she’s no longer Angie, but just another terrified victim of the storm--another human being who doesn’t want to die. “Best of 51?” She turns around at his sudden words. She sits again, her eyes boring into him. He simply smiles, confident that every ounce of fear is hidden by his nonchalant smile. She hesitantly raises her hand without speaking, but her eyes speak for themselves. Rock, paper, scissors. Her fist dominates his scissors. Without hesitation, he stands, hoping that his heartbeat isn’t loud enough for her to hear. The woman scrambles backward from the hatch, shielding her neck with her hands. “Good luck,” she whispers. He turns the metal wheel. The bunker opens. The man yelps, ready for the vicious wind to tear him apart, but his body stays where it is, intact and frozen with fear. The world is broken but unmoving. The silhouettes

he once recognized as distant buildings are no longer there. The trees in the fields have been ripped from the ground. Even the grass has uprooted in masses and drapes over the ground like a carpet with its corner turned upward. Everything is silent, deathly so. The woman stands beside him, slipping her hand into his. They share a look of grief and horror. He doesn’t dare speak; it might shatter the air and bring the entire world down around them. An uncertainty lingers in the atmosphere, which provokes him to squeeze the woman’s hand. She squeezes back. The woman takes a moment to remember her old world before it was wiped away. She remembers her brother’s hand, her father’s hand, and squeezes the one belonging to the timid man beside her, the one who frightfully kept his distance, perhaps the only one left. Even with his sheepish nature, he’d granted her peace by sacrificing himself to the door. He’s a good man, a good companion who deserves a rock. “It’ll be okay.” Her voice is no longer a whisper. “We’re still alive. We just need to keep moving.” He nods. With their hands still together, fingers interlaced, they step out of the bunker.

NATUR AL SOUL Chloe Poshusta

SMOK E (TOP), THE PROMISE (BOT TOM) Chloe Poshusta

LE AVING EGYP T Lynnea Gillen

In the desert I will wait among the dust, among all dead things, among the creatures of the sand. I turn around the same mountain as I did many times before. The manna comes from Heaven. It feeds my belly but does not satisfy my soul. The promised land is really not that far away, but I have such a long way to go.

RIDING CLOUDS Richard Baldasty

*Baldasty Poetry Award Winner

UNK INDNESS OF R AVENS Willow Johnson

Funerals are shaped like black birds, my sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dress shaped like a pyre, dripping black wax and rose petals on the polished marble floor. Later that week, somewhere, folded between too-white walls, we learned about the end of the world. Through summer my sister dreamed of a seam under the moon and during the night angels broke free and stitched her into patchwork. Inside our house footprints wore race tracks into the hardwood as the black shadows of birds darkened our windows. At dawn my sister crawled up and took the sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beams in her hands, a ray of light turned her fingernails golden, a soft bolt of lightning down her arm. 36

She was marked by hope, but could not obtain it. In August my sister wilted under the weight of ebony feathers forming on her back. We sat on the porch in only our dresses, throwing pebbles at the shadows in the trees, an ocean trapped inside our eyes. Despite her blood, her hair was black, withered heart floating in the stained glass jar my mother dusted every Saturday. In mid-September, the black birds came quietly to gouge her eyes out, sea water seeping from the holes under her eyebrows. And all the while along the horizon, the clouds stumbled home, drunk with rain and dreadful autumn thunder rolling in their bellies. In their late night dreams, our funerals looked like black birds. 37

BIRD

James Olsen 38

BOTANICAL BASICS COLLECTION (TOP), COLECCIÃ&#x201C;N DE PL AYAS DE ARENA (BOT TOM) 39

Jodie Davis

A MODERN MEMENTO MORI (NIGHT) Kiara Lime

3 - 4 -6

Samantha Kam I am three. Soundless. I have been told in loud words I do not always understand I am NOT to be where I am. No one knows yet. Not the bespectacled, pink, round, lady who sneaks caramels to me and milk-bones to my sister-dog through the Northern fence slats.

Not Joanne, from the East, who soon will pin me to the zigzag metal siding of her parents’ single-wide with a safety pin in one hand and my earlobe in the other, while I squirm. There is nothing safe about Joanne. Not Mother, who isn’t embarrassed. Yet. Scuttling beneath the cool belly of the tin-can house, I have emerged to wedge myself out of sight between the double-wide and a stretch of barbed wire. Finding warmth radiating off the riveted panels, I’ve paused here. Face raised to the South sun, triumphant. Eyes blissfully closed, self-absorbed in light. I have found the perfect Hideaway. And I am not alone. There is an army advancing, and I am unaware of the occupation, until it’s far too late. Hundreds of warriors have come to defend the homeland. Through the sandy loam, they have unearthed their legion upon me, a red and black unified wave of thorax, exoskeleton, and mandibles.

I am eclipsed in a swarm of investigative pinching. They test flesh, and it gives answers I can’t translate. Ears roaring with motion. Eyes, dilated in shock, eyelids tickled by thousands of Formica obscuripes. My mouth opens to howl, the ants all rush in, soundless.

I am four. Insolent. I have been told in exactly 5 words I do not believe, I am NOT to do, what I am. It hasn’t quite registered yet, the battle of wills unfolding. Not to my Grandfather, who has stretched the expanse of the cartoon section from a slightly sweating, jaundiced Tupperware pitcher of apple juice, past the Corelle in ‘Butterfly Gold’, to the butter-cup stamped plastic tub of Oleo. Not to my Father, busy claiming Sunday’s biggest thrill, the Want-Ad section of the paper. Dutifully scouring black print for Toy-Ota Corollas, Lincoln-Mercury and Mazda Bee Two Tens. Ringing the ads in centrifugal force, a rosy-red ink that bleeds through to the tablecloth, he is dreaming of the tinkering tik-tok of engines, body work in Bondo, while constructing a literary lesson plan. He taught me the haiku of car ads, long before I ever saw Dick and Jane run. Not Mother, who isn’t embarrassed. Yet. I am transfixed by chrome and cord and a bright ruby-red light.

“Don’t touch it. It’s HOT!” says The Wicked Witch of the West. She is mine and I have melted her a thousand times, every water-less bucket, she plays possum then phoenix. She has no broom,

instead there is the Wooden Spoon, and upon threat alone she wields its power to coax me into submission. But not today. She’s tuned into my fascination. “I mean it, DON’T YOU DARE.” Not focused on her, I’m fixated by the steaming waffle iron, bits of batter are desperately seeking escape, sizzling down its side, into a stalactite. It doesn’t look hot. Not hot at all. Tom and Jerry logic dictates a red glow. In fact, it looks as cold as the chrome on the fridge. I look up to her, Grand Matriarch. Dead in the eye. One, defiant index finger extended. I hold her gaze, as I press the tip to the chrome iron. hold. Hold. HOLD. Her green sparks burst out, “It hurts, doesn’t it?” she smirks, turning for the freezer door breaking the spell. I silently pull a hazy hot ash white blister from the iron. Insolent.

I am six. Screaming. I have been told in soothing tones, words I do not trust, I am to STAY where I am. Everyone is watching. The extended family of the petrified patient in the bed next to mine are covertly catching glimpses of my spectacle from behind a flimsy curtain as they mummify her, to bind her in health with a

homey crocheted expanse of tired emerald yarn stitched and knotted up to her eyeballs. My Father who is thin-white lipped, his hand to a temple wriggling with pressurized wormy veins, gun-metal-blue bullet eyes glaring his rapid fire frustration at his daughter the toe headed tempest in a teapot. Riddled with his leaden looks, this wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be the last time he unloads a round at me. Mother, who is beyond embarrassed. I am kneeling atop a wheeled chrome railed gurney, vibrating in rage, increasing in volume, Einstein gossamer hair on point as if generating a charge. They, the white masked hospital henchmen, have come for my Blankie, AND my tonsils. I am not surrendering. Balled up, under this ill fitting frock, I am smuggling the beloved remains of a satin trimmed, threadbare, rumpled, polyester blanket. Merry olâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Soul, Old King Cole and his entire entourage once festooned this biological hazard, but after 5 years of absentminded bedraggling, across grocery store floors, caught in shopping cart wheels, tangled on jungle gyms and abraded by shag rugs, only his pipe and a single fiddler remain. I will not let it go. I design to sabotage the surgery. Resorting to restraints, I find myself bound under an incandescent halo of Bandits. They want blood, tissue, and MY Blankie.

A rubbery mask is lowered, as if I’m going SCUBA diving, they are taking me under telling me to breathe. But I do not. I do NOT breathe. hold. Hold. HOLD. “Honey, you’re going to have to breathe eventually…,” coos the closest angel-thief. A darkening twister of a whirlpool swirls me around, around, around down to the deep. I awake to the jostling chrome railed gurney. Woozy. Blankie is gone. My voice left at the bottom of the sea, my eyes rippling into focus. There on the arctic-starched sterile expanse, just beyond the tip of my nose, are three bloody baby-teeth. They took teeth I was firmly intent on losing myself. AND my Blankie. My rage is mighty and brief, before surrendering again to the next wave of mutilation. I stealthily, angrily, flick each primary incisor violently off into hospital hallway oblivion. I drift off as all the color goes out of my world, silently screaming.

THE CABLE BRIDGE Anna Mauth

SEDAKO ( ACRYLIC) Kiara Lime

REPL AY

Caroline Broadhurst I remember that night, the police officers, us, and that man. And the gunshot. The slowing of my brain, of my heart, of time itself. The loss grew into a cross on my back that I couldn’t remove, no matter how hard I tried. Eventually, everything dulled to nothingness. I couldn’t feel. I couldn’t think. I wouldn’t have noticed if I had lost my own hand. You know, I can go back to that night anytime and play it all again. But I can’t edit the footage. I rewind and watch you leave me, then I stop and replay the footage over and over again, until the tape unwinds and I can’t handle anymore. But after a glass of wine (or two, or ten), I rewind the tape and the replay begins again.

SÃ&#x2030; ANCE (LINOCUT) Kiara Lime

*Art Award Winner

POR TR AIT Kira Edminster

SHREDS OF THE DEEP SOUTH IN THE HIGH NORTH Brittan Hart

At 2 in the morning Billy Graham speaks the word of God If you tarry till you’re better you won’t make it goddamn Hangman’s creek somehow the bible-belt of this need-a-haircut town The gulch remembers George Wright lynching Qualchan and his disciples A Native more christlike than our fair-eyed Christ and Kennedy Forgive them for they know not what they do they killed him goddamn In the Grand Ole American Church LLC the crucifixion would’ve never happened not our son of God and man at least not in the sanctuary For what we do is pour foundation in sand at the gulch’s edge We’re not bothered to dig to the bedrock why remind us goddamn All day Sunday William Walmart Faulkner in his chair admires plastic honeysuckle and glass stained from the potluck

DESERT LIFE Kira Edminster

PINK BUCK E T BLUES Lydia Wallace

YA-YA SIS TERHOOD OF THE WOMEN’S RES TROOM AT THE BAR Davene Mitchell Attention Ladies, if ever you need a place to go searching deep trenches through the snow, no women’s march or rally to be found, step into the nearest crowded bar in town, go deep into the very back, ask the barkeep where the bathroom is at, and between those papier-mâché walls you will find a camaraderie in the stalls. Mascara and lipstick laid askew on counter tops, this is not where the party stops. This is the ya-ya sisterhood of the women’s restroom. Here, we will lift away any gloom with a simple initiation, a step through the door. Here, you will find anything can be in store. “Your hair is so shiny, and smooth, You are a goddess, so why the bad mood?” We will lift your spirits up higher and higher. Trust us, you don’t need a man to light your fire. Sway and dip to the music getting louder. A brush, a clip, and you find your power. Tears well in our chests as you finish your tasks. Don’t ever forget where we are, our beacon is a woman in a triangle dress. If ever you find yourself in doubt or distress, come find us. Near leaky faucets and soap dispensers, the pressure of the world lightens and we speak with no censors. Strangers, but only for the moment before you enter.

UNTITLED (INTAGLIO) Lydia Wallace

BEING SE VEN AND A HALF YE ARS YOUNGER HAS TAUGHT ME SO MUCH ABOUT YOU BEING MY BROTHER Heather Thomas

you slept in the basement. i always hated the basement, the ugly half fuzzy, half furry, but not shag yellow brown carpeting that was disgusting, but the carpet wasn’t the same in your room. i don’t remember the color — i was never looking at the floor. my eyes always seemed to be fixated on something more than likely the tv sometimes, not just the one in your room sometimes, the giant one in the basement living room where the goonies played on the screen that time i didn’t pay attention. one of the characters scared me i covered my eyes with the blanket — the giant one the christmas one that when i use it now it still smells like the basement, like that scene like my fear. my fear of basements has never gone away. i remember that time our cousins came over, when our parents went to the casino and and one of our cousins drank coca-cola for the first time. i’m pretty sure that was the first time she drank anything with caffeine because she was acting crazy. i can’t recall specific things she was saying because her words weren’t coherent enough for me to remember, and to be fair i was quite young when this happened: too young to remember specific sayings, not too young to not have any memories, but i’ll never forget that time i was watching you play that ps2 racing game and you leaned back in your gaming chair, the one my wrist was underneath, and yes that crescent moon scar is still there. i don’t remember what happened to the red and black steering wheel i would play with when you were done with your game. i too would pretend to drive. i remember the weird tile of the navy blue bathroom with the sun and the moon all over the place — i never understood why you liked space so much, but as the two of us got older i realized it wasn’t just a “you” thing, but more of a “millennial” teen thing unlike your generation, you showed me good, great, the best music i have heard. i’m sorry i stole queen’s greatest hits volume two and after you assumed you lost it. i returned it to you scratched

to all hell — i played that thing over and over and over their music still reminds me of you — that’s why this year i saw bohemian rhapsody three times in theaters. if i’m being honest i still don’t know all the words to ac dc’s rock and roll ain’t noise pollution- it was hard for me to really tell what angus young was saying when i was younger. i remember the occasional time you would go upstairs and once to gross me out you ate oreos and salsa: who the hell eats salsa? i’m sure that’s why i hate it now, but also the taste is bad. i remember when mom paid us $1 to eat tomatoes and cottage cheese, but i can still see the tomatoes that grew outside your bedroom window: the giant one with the holes in the back, and when we looked inside we could see so many bugs in their newfound tomato home. it was disgusting. i remember telling you it looked like james and the giant peach and you said let’s go inside and watch it on vhs. maybe that’s why i hate tomatoes, yet i am obsessed with the smell of peach. i guess rotting fruits remind me of growing up with you.

UNTITLED

Madison Van Hoodt

THE NECRONAUT Mitch Schiwal Jenny Stratham is dead. Long live the ISP Jennifer Stratham. I awoke with my mind in a box fighting a sneeze I was holding back predeath. Absently, I tried to rub my nose, despite lacking hands or offending nostrils. Okay, they had warned me about that, but it’s going to get annoying quickly. I reminded myself that I didn’t have to sneeze and it was just a phantom sensation, which didn’t erase the feeling so much as let me move around it. I heard(?) a ping and accepted the request immediately before I was able to question my awareness of it. “Ms. Stratham? Can you hear me.” “Yes… is that my voice now? I- I can’t see anything.” “I’ll be bringing up your systems one at a time Ms. Stratham. We find its best to start with auditory and go from there. How are you feeling?” “I need to sneeze.” “Well, if you figure out a way to pull that off you’ll have to let me know.” I heard their fingers tapping on a tablet. “Everything looks good mentally, I’m gonna go ahead and start up visual.” My eyes came into existence. I could hear apertures whirring inside me as the world began to come to focus and then stopped. Everything was hazy as though I was viewing it through plastic gauze. I had the sudden and visceral image of my body wrapped in a burial tarp and tried to calm my breathing. Then I remembered I couldn’t breathe. “Ms. Stratham, I am going to need you to calm down. Your mental state is spiking.” “Get me the hell out of this thing. It’s too tight! I can’t breathe in here!” A button clicked and everything went black. ------ So we fucked up the planet. Shocking, I know. I would love to say this brought us together, but instead, we gambled on a dozen different solutions. After a decade it became clear we were too late to fix anything. All the goodwill and progress we made exploded before our eyes and became a mad scramble

to salvage what we could to survive. Finally, united behind a common goal we achieved neural digitization. Hit control-x and throw your mind into a server bank. Suddenly, we had a new digital world before us. Naturally, we fucked that one up too. I was young, but I remember when my grandpa was uploaded. We couldn’t watch the process but I remember the green light turning on and the technician saying “Look, he’s safe now.” My parents took a picture of me hugging the black tower. They had thought it was so precious. I just remember crying on the ride home because grandpa could’t hug me back. Eventually, our visits dropped off, as visits to relatives often do. We knew we would all be together in the end. But the exponential growth devoured what was left of free resources. We shouldn’t have been surprised when companies began demanding rent for the digital afterlife. That cut out a great many people as families were unable or unwilling to support them. However, plenty of work doesn’t require a body. Nothing about being an accountant or author requires you to have hands or heartbeat. Any job that could be done from inside a digital space caught a wave of applications from the deceased. Watch out, great-grandma is rejoining the workforce. After that, it didn’t take long for public opinion to shift. For them to go from honored ancestors to entitled competition. I’d love to say I was above the sentiment. But I was pretty salty when I lost my first job as a grocery clerk. It wasn’t the last time I got replaced by a stiff, but it was when I picked up smoking. It’s funny how things come full circle. Not like laugh out loud funny, not to me anyway. God’s probably laughing though. Asshole. ------ “Ms. Stratham, I’m bringing you back online.” And suddenly there I was. It wasn’t like waking up; that gradual coming to myself. Instead, it was just like I was here when I didn’t exist a second ago. My existence tied to a light switch. I knew I was disturbed by this but I didn’t feel disturbed. It was like a wall my emotions couldn’t quite leap. I looked at the technician accusingly. Wait. I looked at the technician. “I can see!” The tech looked sheepishly at me, and I realized he towered over me,

“Yeah, that was my bad. There was still a protective piece of plastic on the lens to keep it from getting scratched. But I’ve got you fully unwrapped now.” “Hooray! I’m naked.” The technician looked uncomfortable and glanced around. Nice, still got the ability to make grown men blush with a few words. Glad to know it wasn’t all physical. “Alright then, Jennifer. Ready to go into space?” “Fuck yeah.” ------ As with most things, a status quo was established and what was once the cutting edge of science became blasé. Rather than any of the grand names marketed to us, our final upload simply became retirement. We would save up and work towards it. People started signing work contracts that promised an equal amount of retirement to what people worked as a bonus. We ate that shit up. People started talking about the over/under of their current work-life balance in terms of what it would get them in the future. “Sure I am working 12 hour days but when I retire I have 50 years off and then I’ll only be working 4-hour shifts. You gotta keep the big picture in mind.” Not that everyone bought into it. There were plenty of people who saw us working ourselves into early graves that would continue to work us. But their concerns were drowned out by the alt-lifers and their suicide spectacles. Disaffected youth bringing back the idea of burning out before fading away. Killing yourself was now a political statement being shouted out at the world. I still miss my first love. They will never get that stain off the Empire State Building. They would never forgive me for abandoning my riotous roots, but as soon as the doctors said cancer I couldn’t get out of my body soon enough. I still had some time to shop around and I gladly took a year of sifting through corporate contracts over sitting around doing chemo. That’s when the initiative was announced and crashed servers with applicants. I mean, who the fuck didn’t want to be an astronaut when they were a kid? ------ Getting past the screening wasn’t too hard, thousands of people did. It was the testing that really culled the numbers. I was placed into an isolation

cell for a month to see how well I could manage the loneliness. People would bring food, but it was impossible to tell the time of day. At odd intervals, a panel would light up and we would have to touch it. Halfway through my time there, the panel broke and just kept beeping at me for a few days. I was able to tune it out and kept staring at the round, white walls. I don’t know why, but it really didn’t get to me. The solitude and strangeness. I honestly thought it was silly. But when all was said and done 95% had washed out of the program. ‘ They couldn’t handle it. ------“Can I just say how disappointed I am with this design?” They had just unveiled the black canister in a series of tubes. It was not really the badass chariot to the stars I was hoping to ride through the cosmos. “Were you hoping for something different miss? “Personally, I had the image of like a skull floating in a glass sphere with all kinds of antennae coming off it? The kind of shit you would see on a prog rock album or someone’s van.” The scientist took a second for his brain to reboot. “That… No. That will not be happening.” “Well I’ll be inside and I can imagine myself however I want. Body image is important, ya know.” “Yes, Ms. Stratham. Feel free to imagine yourself however you like, but if you could please pay attention to the briefing so this afternoon isn’t a complete waste of time.” Cut to a half an hour of “Jargon jargon electromagnetic rail.” “Physics science renewable” “Shit that would have been cut from Star Trek — if at all possible.” Wait — “Wait back up. You’ll recover us if at all possible?!” “Yes Ms. Stratham. Providing everything goes smoothly.” “How smoothly?” They sighed. But not out of annoyance for once. It was the same sigh the doctor had given me before my diagnosis. “Providing we calculated everything correctly. Providing you aren’t knocked off course by debris. Providing your booster array piggy-backs your signal correctly. And most of all, providing you are able to scan BRN-1206 and

find that it is, in fact, habitable. Then we can send a team to recover and rendezvous on the planet.” “So… any of those things go wrong —” “Or you miss BRN-1206 entirely.” “Shit, yeah, or that happens. I will just be floating through space forever?” The silence accused in a way I couldn’t verbalize. “Do you have any other questions, Ms. Stratham?” “Are you certain we can’t hook this thing up to blast Astro Zombies while I’m flying out there?” ------ I should be scared. Claustrophobic and spiralling into anxiety. Mostly, I just felt indignant. I had god knows what strapped to my ass and was being loaded into a tube. Then again maybe it was my ass that was strapped to me? The boosters and equipment and everything pretty much made up my new body, even though I was contained in the central unit. I could see outside the barrel of the gun they’d loaded me into. They had calculated patterns for the exact right moment for me to make my destination while not smashing into any of the debris in Earth’s trash ring. There would be a countdown soonWait, I just launched. I missed the countdown. Oh hell, I was on the wrong audio channel. Shit, that’s embarrassing. I’m sure no one noticed, probably. I wish I could have said something profound, some great truth the cosmos showed me. But I was so scared. Some part of my animal brain was just screaming “YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE!” Everything was black and I realized I had closed my ‘eyes’. I was always the worst on roller coasters. Instinctively. I had just shut the world out as I rushed forward. But this ride never let up and eventually I realized this was my new normal, so I opened my eyes. And just, wow, you guys. I don’t know when you will hear this or if I will talk to anyone again, but this was worth it. I would never have gotten to see this view. And I’m gonna be alone for a long, long time. But this sure as hell beats dying of cancer on Earth. So let’s see, this log will be attached to booster 1 of 19, so I’ve still got some ways to go. I hope whoever is listening to these and following my breadcrumbs enjoys what comes next. I can’t wait to see whatever it will be. Inter-Stellar Probe Jennifer Statham Signing off.

SUCCUBUS Mike Maloney

MORPH

Mike Maloney 65

ACCOUNTING Trace Kerr

3, 4, 5, 6, 7. I count with my fingers, ticking off years while lying in bed. My three-year-old son is sticky with sweat against my back. He’ll be seven when my father is sixty. 8, 9, 10, 11, 12. Count again, thumb to pinky. Sixty-five. 13, 14, 15, 16, 17. I count off my father’s life and wonder if my son will ever greet his grandfather man to man. Tiny elbows jab against my shoulder, uncomfortable comfort like before he was born. If we’re lucky, we may get fifteen years or twenty. 18, 19, 20, 21, 22 Four times I’ve counted round my fingers, logging time.

SERENDIPIT Y Natalya Chicks

FIRE TR AIL Dylan Ries

ROMANESQUE, OR ANOTHER WAY OF SEEING YOU Polina Plitchenko

I have been thinking for a long time. My bare feet feel the cold floor of my bedroom. All it took was one glance, and you got me. I never liked the people that get everything so easily and now my mind belongs to you. And all that was needed was your eyes, our cups of coffee with milk, and five seconds. When I think of you I remember the moment only, not your face or personality that match with the ones the Cosmopolitan test told me to look for. But your sparkly hazel eyes. Someone told me once that blue eyes are the most appealing; apparently they have never seen yours. I stand up from my bed into the cold air that filled my room. My headache tells me to make some tea with honey. The sweet golden syrup slowly glides down the spoon into the cup full of mint leaves swimming in hot water and steam. I wrap my left hand around the ceramic mug so I can get this slight warmth of the cup moving through the palm of my hand and into the rest of the body. My rouged lips touch the cold circle of the cup, which my hand tilts so the healing liquid flows through my mouth. The contrast between the cup that didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fully warm up and the hot tea inside makes me think of kissing you. In winter, your lips are a little dry from the cold air. One more step, the snow crumbles beneath your leg; you shorten the distance. You lean forward and so do I. Another second and our cold lips unite and your warm breath brings me back to life, in cold winter when the temperature drops below freezing.

RE ALIGION Willow Johnson

I suppose the rain always falls after youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve dried your rinsed hair. I suppose my mother knew me before birth, held my hand in her thoughts, heard my dreams as she slept. I suppose the stars leave holes in the sky so our eyes could see the emptiness if they were to disappear. And I suppose the earth memorizes every step we take that scars it and feels every tree that burns; I suppose it created rivers to stop our own selfishness. I suppose the universe knew it all before it brought us down in little bundles. I suppose if there is a god he is not laughing and he is weeping into our dried hair, and swollen wombs, and sweltering fires, and tenderly patching holes in the sky our eyes see when we are missing something but I do not think he hears our dreams as we sleep, and our hands are not marked with his fingerprints when we die or when the breath of truth breathes its life into us.

DR AGONFLY Rachel Ross

GO ALL OUT Olivia Matson

I see myself in the mirror, the black lingerie hanging off my body, I think of leaving but I’m scared. The spark of the soft rain falls down my face. I remember being a child and stomping around in the muddy water. Now I stand there, rain dripping down my body as I cry about what my life has become. I suppose you can do whatever you want with your life, but this doesn’t feel real, this isn’t happy, it sucks the life out of me like a sponge. As I walk, I see the blurred streetlights and the glistening road, cars whistling up and down. I’m standing there in all black, not knowing, all I want is to go back. I try to turn but my legs won’t budge, I look away but my head doesn’t. The light from wishing is like a dying candle. It takes a great deal of sorrow to feel. My life is constantly blurred by the snow and overflowing glasses. I put my head on my pillow and travel to the garden, the place where greenery runs wild and the moss climbs up the trees and the rock and the sun peeks through the trees as it rises. And then I see it, the deer.

THE UNK NOWN MAN Uyen Tran

OSSIUM Van Parsons

MOMENTESIMALS Seth Collier

VALLE Y HOSPITAL , JANUARY 2019 Nicole Harris

My dad looks at each of us, his eyes begging for someone to speak. Say something. All I can do is grit my teeth in an effort not to cry. I search for a way to memorize every part of this moment. The TV is off, the lights are on. His hair perfectly kept, his body in shambles, missing pieces. It’s a small room; quaint. It’s Thursday. Talk about anything, talk about everything. Talk of tomorrow, talk of next week, as if he would remember, as if he’d be here to see it. Say something. My dad talks about model airplanes, paints, colors, and brushes. He describes the difficulties, the discoveries, the little victories. Say something. I wish I could get on an airplane. I’d fly straight into tomorrow.

ESCAPE THE PAT TERN Ashley Gilson

SPIDER L AK E - OLYMPIC NATIONAL FORES T Chance Keso

MY ESCAPE Mckenzi Wingo

Adventure awaits within the pages before me. Begging, it seems, to be turned, to be read. No, they are begging to be consumed by any who may dare escape into the world of faeries and assassins and evil creatures black as night. Gore laces the tale, when the heroine rises up to protect her birthright and the people she holds dear. I feel as though I have journeyed with her, kingdom to kingdom, land to land, constantly fighting to keep her people safe. Never surrendering, she is always occupied fending off persistent monsters and evil queens and crossed lovers who have no qualms about seeing the heroine dead. If that means turning on her after swearing their allegiance, so be it. I have laughed and I have cried, felt every emotion woven throughout. Unfailingly, each addition touches my heart. Though Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m vexed when impossible situations arise, wounding or killing the warriors Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve come to love, I know they will someday overcome the evil that has befallen their world. Yielding to my need for the next addition, I begin my zealous descent into the pages, awaiting what comes next. 79

KODAK SLIDE FILM Davene Mitchell

click. A sliver of a memory that wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t first mine held up to the sun click. The tiny image appears and nostalgia as thick as the Douglas fir in the tiny living room click. This hard slide more durable and lasting than the ideas of the people who pose inside click. Acquired through young death a box of belongings everyone felt guilty for keeping too long click. The sun shining through onto the woman sitting down with her child

creates a whole new vibrant hope click. Joy for the unknown future the motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s forced smile if only she knew her baby would grow up without her click.

BIG CREEK , IDAHO (TOP), UNTITLED (BOT TOM) Chance Keso

IN GABON Emalee Gruss Gillis

The hospital in Mekambo is a hospital in name only. The room has no equipment, nothing beeps or clicks, just a bare cot in the middle of the floor. The infant looks diminished in the cot, her dehydrated skin on her face lay in folds and wrinkles giving her the look of an old woman with piercing eyes. The child’s eyes look at me, connect, look away. Somehow, she knows I can’t help her either. No IV’s here. Ten or twenty relatives in the room, all on their haunches. Two hours later, I hear a roar of moans rise up when the child dies. One out of every five children dies before the age of five in Gabon, Africa. Every six or seventh village in Gabon has a village nursing station. A mud hut with a tin roof and a single long shelf with a few basic first aid supplies and a stack of cans of formula. One free can from Nestle for every new birth in the village. Only one poster decorates the wall covered with small openings of sunlight where the mud has cracked. The bright poster promotes the use of formula, poster made and given free by Nestle. One out of every five children dies before the age of five in Gabon, Africa. When I visit a village, sometimes a woman will come out and proudly show me, the white woman, her baby bottle to show her modern ways. I can tell by the color she has mixed the formula with the same river water that they use to bathe in, wash their clothes, and defecate near. I can tell she only added a little formula to the bottle because she has no money for a second can after the free one runs out. Gently, I say, “breast is best.” One out of every five children dies before the age of five in Gabon, Africa.

One morning, sitting by the fire near my hut, I watch Yeontille’s daughter dance just beyond the circle of stumps for sitting that surround the fire. She is three years old and naked, grinning as she dances. The child moves her hips, digs her bare feet into the red dirt as the jungle birds and insects just beyond the hut cry and call. I ask Yeontille, “Why did you name her Meena Beeta?” Yeontille pokes at the fire, blows a little on it, then says, “The two babies before her both died. We named this one, ‘We will see.’” She looks up at her dancing daughter, begins to clap to her daughter’s rhythm. “We saw,” she says and smiles. Her daughter raises her arms in the air and continues her dance. Yeontille says, again, “Meena Beeta, Meena Beeta.”

*Photography Award Winner

A COMFORTABLE SILENCE Charlayna Adams

THAT FEELING… Calven S. Eldred

It’s the fifth volume of that doorstopper epic fantasy series that you can’t remember the name of and it’s years out of print, but the cover was blue and may have had a dog on it. Maybe it’s in this secondhand shop, waiting. or That bar in Sag Harbor with the whaling motif and vaulted cathedral of bottles. It may take 10 minutes to get a drink while the bartender zests the orange, but it’s worth all 600 seconds. or The security check with no shoes on took a little longer because you forgot the lighter was in your pocket and your seating group was last to board and you taxied to a long line on the runway but then you vault into the sky. or To see her again, in that dress.

BIRTH OF A JOURNE Y Charlayna Adams

FALL ASLEEP Charlayna Adams

R ATHDRUM Cody Thomas

THE COMMUTE Samantha Kam

Through distance I hear you, I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help but hear you. You fill up any moment of silence and peace with your words, words that mean nothing, yet you push them forth. Compulsively. Repetitively. Filling that void that surrounds you You fell off your bike again. I wonder how you do it, How you brave those treacherous streets again and again. Riding as you do, the bruises not upon your knuckles, knees or elbows, but on your face. Your swollen lip. The puff below your left eye. The chip in your tooth. Schwinn, the wife-beating bicycle. I know when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve fallen, your voice carries farther on those days. I know you are dying to be heard, From the dinette counter,

all the way to the back booth and through my raised newspaper. You talk so fast, you gasp for breath Desperate. For. Air. All those words will never distract me from the evidence. The rumor. The belief. When you fall, I wonder if you scream. I wish you would scream. I wish you would retire your means of transportation. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re getting nowhere on that bicycle of yours.

COAS TAL MUSINGS Frances Grace Mortel

TR ACES AND CRE ASES Frances Grace Mortel

SUNLESS AF TERNOON Brandi K. Maas

The half-blind dog snuffles the air, strolling along behind his master, his poofy coat beaded with raindrops, one eye sewn forever closed, the other squinting, blinking, peering through the dimness and drizzle. He follows the footsteps of the man leading him down the empty street. He needs no leash, only trust in his leader, his wide paws padding through puddles, scuffling through piles of leaves, tongue flopping out of his dozy smile. He lists to one side of the damp sidewalk, startled when his nose bumps my knee. He glances up, snuffles again, smiles at me. I gently brush a few droplets from his coat, the layers beneath still dry and fluffy. He nods his thanks and takes his leave. The man never notices the dog and me sharing a tranquil moment in the rain. They walk on, beneath the dripping trees. He trusts the half-blind dog to follow as the dog trusts his friend to lead through the mist, into the sunless afternoon. 94

AUTUMN S TRE AM LaDonna Myers

DANCING LIGHT (TOP), SNOWBERRIES (BOT TOM) LaDonna Myers

CROSSBILL Vlad Kozlov

Credits 2019 WIRE HARP S TAFF

PRODUCTION NOTES

GRAPHIC ARTS EDITOR Matthew McArdle

PRINT PRODUCTION Printed on HP 10000 digital printer

LITERARY EDITOR: Brittan Hart

PAPER Cover: White 100# Blazer Gloss Cover Text: White 100# Accent 3 Star Smooth Text

LITERARY STAFF: Veda Bradley Calven S. Eldred Samantha Kam Brandi K. Maas Madison Seipp GRAPHIC ARTS ADVISORS: John Mujica and June Roys LITERARY ADVISORS: Laura Read and Connie Wasem Scott SPECIAL THANKS: Richard Baldasty, Heather McKenzie, Shelli Cockle, Linda Beane-Boose, Carl Richardson, Becky Turner, Anna Gonzales, Zach Bankston

INK COLOR & TREATMENT Cover: 4/4 color process plus soft touch aqueous coating Text: 4/4 color process throughout HP Indigo Liquid ElectroInk technology BINDERY Perfect TYPEFACES Oswald Bodoni 72 Oldstyle PRINTER Lawton Printing 4111 E Mission Ave. Spokane, WA 99202 lawtonprinting.com

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