Liminal Volume 2

L

Volume I

iminal

Spring 2006

Number 2

Roots by Martha Iserman

L

iminal

Volume I Number 2

The Wake Student Magazine University of Minnesota

Spring 2006

Editor-in-chief Kimberly Gengler senior editor Tom McNamara

executive Editor Kel Sangster Sales Executive Jacob Duellman Copy editor Elizabeth Aulwes

copy editor Mary Cummings

www.wakemag.org/liminal

LIMINAL

Contents Nathan Ness 1

Aaron Blum 2 Snezana Dzakovic 3 Jonathon Rusch 4 Donovan Roediger 5-6

John Macintosh 7 Conrad Wilson 8-10

James N. Porter 11 Rachel Canete 12 Christopher Matthew Jensen 13

Alla Ilushka 14-16 Ben Berning 17 Mark Andrews 18-19 Tess Ormseth 20-21 Sean Cudeck 22-26 Ben Berning 27 Kelly McNeil 28 JR Damien 29 Ahkillah Davis 30

Amanda Larson 31-32 Jacintha Roemer 33 Jeremy Keller 34 Kai Carlson-Wee 35 Robyn Hjermstad 36

Lauren Mulvey 37-38

Nicholas Loch 39 Kai Carlson-Wee 40 Ben Horvath 41-42

Mara Oikonamou 43

Dustin Savage-Rothmeier 44-46

II LIMINAL

Restoring Justice to the Universe An Incident With Desire A Room of My Own Collage 1 A Reminder to Those Who Try Too Hard Constellations Going Drag in Nagasaki Oslso Choosing Doves Everybody Writes Free Verse!

Apartment 55 We’re All the Same To Keats An Apple a Day Us Addiction ...21A Coming Down An Autumn for William B. Seamless Lessons Autumn Allurer Questioning Sketching Abbey Ode to the Sons of Charles Wilson Peale An Ice Cube Somewhere Has Died Goodbye Monkey Winter Solstice Problem Set #4 - There is No Spoon Swan Lake Off Rowland Road Dancing Mad

Contents Betsy Graca 47-52 Nick Bain 53 Erin Boe 54 Andrew Uzendoski 55

Martha Iserman 56 Britt Shernock 57-58 Rosemary Grunhard 59

Erin Boe 60 Andrew Uzendoski 61

Snezana Dzakovic 62 Jacob Steinbauer 63-67 Brennan Vance 68 Anonymous 69-71

Chasing the Devil (untitled) Heather And Even Now Sleep Calls My Name Jellyfish Peepers Reaction to Ray Gonzalez Tobasco Inspiration for the South American Handbook A Beauty in the Mirror Family Visionary Father’s New House Of Revolution

Letter from the Editor Liminal was conceived during the absence of a University of Minnesota undergraduate literary journal. Through The Wake Student Magazine the journal continues its mission to bring prose and poetry to the people. This mission would not be possible if it were not for the writers and artists who contributed their work. The quality of submissions and the talent that surrounds the University of Minnesota makes Liminal what it is today. I would like to thank everyone who submitted their work and I hope the journal fulfills its mission to the people who read it. Enjoy.

Editor-in-Chief Kimberly Gengler

LIMINAL III

Poetry Restoring Justice to the Universe by Nathan Ness Dear Illuminati, please give it all back to the American government, the power, the land, the money.

This way, we will know who we’re talking to.

This way, we can say to the American government: “Let’s convince the British government to give it all back to the Irish.

Then let’s convince the Israelis to give it all back to the Palestinians.

Then let’s convince the Palestinians to give it all back to the Israelis.

Then let’s convince the Israelis to give it all back to the Romans.

Then let’s convince the Romans to give it all back to the Israelis again.

Then, by virtue of practicing what we preach, the American government can give it all back to the Native Americans.

Then we can convince the Native Americans to give it all back to the North American Continent.

Then let’s convince the North American Continent to give it all back to Laurasia.

Then let’s convince Laurasia to give it all back to Gondwanaland.

Then let’s convince both to give themselves back to Pangea.

Once we’ve done that, let’s convince the first Homo Sapien primates to give it all back to their last common Hominid ancestors.

From there we can get them to give it back to them to give it back to them to give it back to them to give it back to them, until they are single-celled organisms swimming around in a in a tear drop sized mud puddle.

From there, we can truly give it all back, 4.6 billion years worth of it.

Let’s convince the sun to give it all back to hydrogen fusion.

Then let’s convince hydrogen fusion to give it all back to helium atoms.

Then let’s convince planetary accretion to give back its meteorites.

Then let’s convince the cosmos to give its big bang back to itself or back to God or back to nothingness… because then justice would be restored to the universe.

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PROSE An Incident With Desire by Aaron Blum Opened my eyes and saw the road fly by underneath, and my hands reached out for the wheel but it wasn’t there, and I realized I was a passenger not in control, and the driver was a tiger ferociously clawing his way down the highway. “Stop!” I said, but he didn’t understand English, and we turned left onto a road labeled – FLESH – with signs for the heart of the jungle saying – VERY SOON. I felt my heart beating faster, and the pulse of blood in my fingers raced as I grabbed for the wheel. His eyes were fiery and glowing, and his nails caught my arm and scared it back, leaving deep cuts that oozed blood. “You can’t do this,” I muttered bitterly, “it’s just not right.” A soft growl of disagreement came from under his tongue and the car accelerated. “At least let me roll down my window,” I said.

The doors of a temple were off in the distance, and I knew where we were headed, I’d been there before. The thick jungle forest lined the highway and I could see rhinoceros and gazelles laughing in disgust. “Good riddance,” they seemed to say. The night had fallen once before, after we’d reached the temple, and the walls started crumbling down – shivering in ecstasy. I won’t let it happen again, I told myself, and I took two eyeballs from my pocket, and hid them within my hand. The tiger focused hard on the road, existing only for the moment of entrance to the temple, then dying in a fit of passion, only to be reincarnated later.

I clawed one of his eyeballs to the floor and injected a new one, and the car spun out of control. The road turned gray underneath us, and I heard rubber scraping the concrete. “It’s time I took the wheel,” I said, and with that, forced the other eye into its socket while the jungle vanished and skyscrapers flew out of the ground. The temple became a government center and I took control of our course and set it for home. Now I’m bored again and the tiger sleeps to heal his wounded eyes.

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POETRY A Room of My Own by Snezana Dzakovic I’ve pitched a tent on top of my bed, underneath the raw silk curtains - maybe I’ll use them for flags to signal a coming of age, when a woman becomes a queen of the domain of her bed, when she no longer needs to be told that she is beautiful, though her mouth is crooked, though her eyes are small like her breasts, though she thinks too much and verbalizes everything which concerns only herself and which nobody cares to hear because all conversations in bed inevitably turn to be about her - her, the narcissist, the angel, who deserves to die, and I’d like to kill her, oh, it would be easy because I know what she dreads to hear, I know what makes her cry: I’ll tell her that grace has abandoned her, that grace cares not a whit for her or her poetry, that there is no god - only rain, sun and seeds under her tent, under her bed placed squarely on the floor as her sanctuary, with the edges blurring into space because she will be free at any cost, even if it’s only for the moment of death but, if she struggles, if the talk is not enough, I’ll suffocate her in the white down pillow, pushing her exquisite neck further into the soft oblivion of her last orgasm, or I might let her live, though I must keep her in the tent on top of my bed, and keep telling her the truth, but never allow her to become a cynic or bitter or fat, tear her down, and build myself up.

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FINE ART

Collage 1 by Jonathon Rusch

LIMINAL

POETRY A Reminder to Those Who Try too Hard

by Donovan Roediger On my way to work a saint stands on Broadway and North Washington holding HELP! scrawled on cardboard. In the generosity of winter I once extended my attempted consolation from the window as I passed by under a (rather poetic) streetlight glow and asked him just how long he’d been standing there.

Twenty years, son, take care. take

care.

(two blocks and 58 cents later) watching my breath

I pulled to the shoulder

narrowly escaping ahighspeedcerebralcrash

Hell!

It wasn’t intentional more like paralysis.

I had never reflected on these tiny words we exchanged!

Has common use stripped them of meaning?

Are we too busy to realize them? I need to try.

Now, I will hear your blessed instruction in each uttered goodnight.

And I will bend in joy when you’re doing alright

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POETRY and you’ll see me bending and try it yourself!

And at every whispered I love you you will all but cry in the bliss And the purity of thank you will hold your pulse in its grip.

And when I tell you to take care you will know I mean it – and I will mean it.

Pulling back onto the highway I turned the radio off and just listened,

damn John Cage would be proud.

I’m still driving now and from here on I’ll keep driving, with the windows down, and radio off until I get to my exit.

In the meantime, Take care.

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POETRY Constellations by John Macintosh There is the garden where we buried the thoughts of new beginnings, where we marked the ground with our naked feet.

Finally, you bent over and drew an analogy with your finger.

This is the spot where trees will grow after our deaths, this is where birds will bring their stolen goods, this is their kingdom.

We were standing together against the cold in the season of not yet winter.

Soon there was a quiet snow on the ground. * We set ceramic dwarves systematically around the yard to serve as sentries. Later, they befriended the squirrels and betrayed our orders with a silent spite.

When winter came faithfully, your joints ached.

I tried to point out the stars, how each one shines as a beacon, unaware of the existence of others.

How even if we were elsewhere in the universe, the sky would look entirely the same, with one exception.

And we would still be bored trying to learn the names of constellations, their constant silence.

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NONFICTION Going Drag in Nagasaki by Conrad Wilson

I had been in Nagasaki for less than a day and already made a friend. His name was Tom, or at least that’s how he introduced himself to me. He must have thought his Japanese name was too difficult for me to pronounce, or preferred not to have it butchered by an American. Tom worked for the United Nations in the areas of UNICEF and education. His current position was at the Nagasaki Medical School, but he kept his job description vague.

I met Tom the previous night when I had entered a Japanese pub looking lost and hungry. Seeing this, Tom and the owner invited me to join them for dinner and drinks. During the course of the meal, the duo invited me to a dinner meeting at the restaurant the following night. They said prominent members of the community gathered once a month for dinner and a talk, similar to a Rotary Club lunch. The talk was going to be about the difference between the American and Japanese education systems. I accepted and agreed to meet them at 5:30 the next night.

The following day I arrived at the restaurant at 5:35, not wanting to appear too eager. I presumed that the concept of being fashionably late had been adopted by the Japanese culture, along with McDonald’s and other Western influences. I was wrong. A server took me to the dining room; everyone was there, except for me. I slipped off my shoes, as was the custom, and put on the last pair of slippers, which were four sizes too small.

When I entered, fifty men and women eyed me. I felt out of place enough being the only “out-of-towner” and my shabby appearance only made things worse. Traveling light, I literally had nothing to wear except dirty shorts and a wrinkled blue buttondown shirt. I hadn’t shaved in over a week, and had clearly entered a culture where un-groomed facial hair was not in fashion.

My dress was in stark contrast to the locals, who had turned out for the event in their business best. The men wore either black or gray suits, with white shirts and ties. The women were the only people, other than I, sporting color, which was visible on their scarves and skirts.

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NONFICTION

There were three long dining tables, my seat being at the head of the center one. I walked the length of the room, my slippers slapping against my feet as they hit the tatami mat. The tables were low and everyone sat cross-legged on a cushion. The speaker had already started, and nodded to me as I sat down. Tom roughly translated for me. The little I understood, I enjoyed.

After the speech was over the feast began. Beer was the first thing to hit the table; followed by salads, noodles, rice, fish, chicken, and other dishes I never had seen before. During the course of the meal, I realized that my appearance didn’t bother anyone and I was treated with a great deal of respect. We ate, laughed at jokes, and told stories. I was surprised how many people spoke English. Many wanted to know what I thought of the speech and what it was like being a student in an American university.

During the dinner, people were allowed to get up and ask questions of the speaker or make a point of their own. Tom got up and decided to introduce me. He encouraged me to say a few words, which was seconded by many. Reluctantly, I stood up, sliding in my slippers.

In front of the room, I smiled weakly. After saying my name I began to talk about my experience in Nagasaki and about American universities. Not too far into the speech, someone started to laugh, which quickly spread throughout the room. I stopped and turned bright red, certain I had done something wrong. The place was cracking up. Sure that my dress was the issue, I began to apologize, explaining that I was traveling and had nothing else. Someone finally shouted, pointing down at my slippers. I was confused and blindly looked around the room. Everyone was wearing socks, no slippers anywhere. Crap. Everywhere I had stayed I was expected to take my shoes off and put slippers on.

Tom, bursting with laughter, told me that I was wearing someone else’s shoes I mistook for slippers. To make the matter worse, they were women’s shoes. I started to laugh, relieved I hadn’t offended my hosts. Embarrassed, I returned the shoes to their owner.

I managed to finish my speech, red faced and covered in perspiration.

I sat back down and laughed some more with the people sitting

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NONFICTION around me. Someone across the table offered me more beer. I smiled, gladly accepting the full glass.

The hospitality I received in Japan was unlike anything I had experienced before. Strangers treated me like I was a close friend and invited me into their lives. If an embarrassing experience is all it takes to make friends in an unfamiliar place, than it’s well worth a few laughs.

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PHOTOGRAPHY

Oslo by James N. Porter

11 LIMINAL

POETRY Choosing Doves by Rachel Canete That late February my father read us the Holocaust before bed.

He said it’s good to know world history, to hear the story of a man who loved doves, but sent them out above the smoking city, while on the ground others loved each other.

That night I lay thinking of the boy who found his lover lying in the street naked and lifeless, her skin fading into the snow, her open eyes already ash.

When the boy became a man he said If you can, choose to love doves.

Now, seeing lovers kissing on the streetI look away.

I’m glad it’s not me.

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POETRY Everybody Writes in Free Verse!

by Christopher Matthew Jensen I once unfurled Thirteen words free verse She thought I was a dullard So, I sang Sappy sonnets in scam pentameter Fugues of milieu Sonatas astute to absolute structure The loathe of my tongue, carnal from ambrosia It became a charge A Sioux: A Mulatto: A Gringo: From contrast came inertia She kissed me with a laugh A skin flap From a flayed interior mandible Salted and frayed And the pain that was so brilliant Became intolerable I gagged It was assault I ascended And my words stopped all together There was only mathematics Word choice Voice, metaphor, subject, verb Emotional shift Lift, hook, climax, Last line

13 LIMINAL

POETRY Apartment 55 by Alla Ilushka I am from a country that has been clenched in the Iron Fist for decades I am from a country that has struggled through the so-called miracles of Perestroika I am from a country that is so small, so insignificant that most people think its in South Africa I am from a place where the air is thick with the smell of Borsht From a place where the daily routine begins at 4 a.m.

When the women rush off to the market to get in line for some soft, brown tomatoes If you reach the market before sunrise, you’ll only have to stand in line for an hour or two Where the only means of transportation are city buses Every time it halts to a stop a pack of civilians attack it like hungry beasts Scratching, clawing, screaming for a piece, for a seat, a square to stand on Forget about breathing, that man’s cane is jammed into your foot That girl’s elbow is digging into your spleen, that women’s blue hair spinning in your nostrils Where I’m from cats and dogs and chickens parade across the streets They prostitute themselves for a crumb of dry rye bread, an empathetic glance in their direction

LIMINAL 14

POETRY I am from a place where babushkas sit on the stoop gossiping about the neighbors “Gospodi, Marina Feoderovna left hir hasbnd!”

“Ah, zats bekas Sergey lost hees job.”

From a place where there is no hot water Where mothers suffocate their stoves with water-filled pots Whistling, hissing, boiling over To prepare a warm bath when their detotchki come home from school Where people go to their kitchen before they call for a doctor Sore throat?

Boil cabbage leaves and spread them with honey, hold it under a hot towel on your chest From a place where all the women are beautiful Hair neatly curled, lipstick patiently smeared on, not a single wrinkle on their dresses, sky high heels Goddesses that never admit they are servants in disguise Servants to their husbands, their families, and V Periot K Pabedi Kammunisma Where I’m from clothes lines connect the buildings together White floss congested with socks, shirts, sheets, underwear blowing in the warm breeze I am from a place where the kids run with the gypsies They travel through each summer with their rich black hair and exotic dances I went to a gypsy fortuneteller

15 LIMINAL

POETRY She gave me a bundle of straws tied with a blood red ribbon Told me to put it under my pillow to chase nightmares away From a place where a party is a party I would have invited you if you were around Cheap red caviar spread generously over white bread and butter Loud, always singing, always dancing The celebrations last all night, until the last man passes out with his dry bottle of Vodka Where I’m from you don’t climb into bed until you double check your three bolt locks on the metal door If someone sneaked in to steal your last dime, the police would not come You have to bribe the authorities with that last dime that was filched I double checked my locks I stood on the stool to peer into the peephole I’d be safe I had my bundle of straw I am from Moldova I am from Chisinau I am from building number 37 I am from apartment number 55

LIMINAL 16

FINE ART

We’re All the Same by Ben Berning

17 LIMINAL

Poetry To Keats by Mark Andrews It seems only yesterday that we stood together on the Spanish Steps before Bernini’s father’s fountain and beside what remains of your short stay in Rome, where we stood waiting for you to call to us from your second story, imagining your history as golden, hearing nothing but the frail dash of water and the hidden whispers of Porphyro and Madeline.

We felt your ghost, John, and in your bedroom window we could see the daylight dance upon the movement of shadows – were you watching us then, just as Angela watched them?

Could you hear each drop of water, could you see us as we saw nothing, as we – like them – lifted our minds and hearts and souls up to the gods?

Were you watching us then, just as Angela watched them, when, not far from Ann’s holiday,

LIMINAL 18

Poetry Porphyro winked at you as Madeline held out her hands to greet us? I’m sure you could see us then, but now, though I’ve left the seven hills of five days – a life – do you keep lit the lamp-light?

Do you look for me from the empty street, do you follow my foot falls in this quiet city? Or do you sit with St. Agnes on the lap of Bernini’s rivers, watching in the stair-well windows for a silhouette of her fair form, waiting for her to cross the night-lit piazza?

Will you linger for us?

Will you immortalize our fidelity as you did for them? Will you sing of us in heaven?

And shall I call you Mr. Keats, or can I call you John?

19 LIMINAL

Poetry An Apple a Day by Tess Ormseth When my mother comes over, she will not look at my apples.

She will not see my meticulously created shape, or imply that my food choices are awful.

I will lock up my kitchen.

But she will notice my newly painted radiator that serves only as a place to put my burnt-out candles.

She will look at my comforter folded neatly at the end of my stained mattress lying in the middle of the floor and my new clothes arranged by color hanging from the curtain rod.

I put them there to distract her.

When my mother comes over, she will not see any Doritos in my cupboard or chocolate in my freezer.

She will not feel my pulse when she touches my hand.

I will not let her into that space.

My mother will hear the neighbors in their afternoon writhing and the noise from the store down below.

She will see the December light filtered through city air and sprawled across the linoleum floor.

That’s easy for us, but not the apples.

My mother will not realize that the color of my sink matches

LIMINAL 20

Poetry the doctor’s scrubs when he touched my angular hipbone and my protruding ribs.

She will not see his name on the little orange prescription bottles stowed away behind my vent, not touched since word of her arrival.

I can’t let her know.

My mother will wonder what I’ve been up to these years.

She will try to get back into my kitchen to see my apples or some other rotting morsel that she can pick at like she always did.

I will not let her into my kitchen.

When my mother comes over, she will not look at my apples.

21 LIMINAL

PROSE Us by Sean Cudeck

You wake up after being dead for a while, and of course it’s not what you were expecting. But the strangeness of the situation doesn’t really sink in until the first time you’ve eaten somebody’s face.

It’s been about a week since the beginning, and by now we’re all over the city. Everyone I’ve spoken to agrees that the initial rampage went quite well, and the mood is generally optimistic concerning the upcoming phase of aimless shambling through the deserted, wreckage covered streets of our new home. Of course, things aren’t all fun and games. Several bands of survivors fought their way out of the city before we could stop them, and in the hubbub they managed to put a few of us back in the ground. And while many of my colleagues are understandably perturbed by this, we haven’t let it get us down. If a few enterprising souls manage to effect an escape despite their awkward circumstances, then I say good for them. They remind me of my own days as a person; breathing, circulating blood, and all the other frivolous pursuits of the living.

But, you might say, as me and my friends begin to gnaw your legs, surely you can’t be happy about them getting away. Surely you can’t be happy about them exploding your heads with shotguns and running you over with commandeered buses in a mad dash for safety. Aren’t you in the least bit angry?

Lighten up, I might respond, after chewing and swallowing.

We’ve all been dead once this week.

I pass a department store in which a number of us have gathered, and I decide to drop in and see what they’re up to. The city hasn’t had electricity since the third day, when some of our more enthusiastic members took over the power plant. But the automatic sliding doors have long since been smashed open, and I avail myself of the gaping hole that has taken their place. Glass crunches under my feet as I approach, but the group is absorbed in their discussion and nobody turns to see who has joined them. To avoid being rude, I remain silent as I peer over their shoulders.

It appears that the mannequins have confused some of my

LIMINAL 22

PROSE less intelligent peers. Some of us have been dead longer than others.

Seen from outdoors, through the shadows and glass and smoke, the mannequins were thought to be alive, and out on the street it was quickly decided that they should be killed and eaten, not necessarily in that order. The store, of course, had already been cleared of people, and my peers had become badly confused by the mannequins’ lackluster reaction to being bitten. So an impromptu lecture had been organized by someone with a relatively unrotten brain to refresh everyone’s memories. It looks like things have mostly been cleared up by the time I arrive, most of the group not only remembering what mannequins are, but also that they portray a rather unrealistic and sexist female stereotype and deciding to smash them on principle.

After they leave, I decide to wander the store for a bit.

Dragging myself back through the aisles of overturned racks and scattered boxes, I come across one of us. I’ve always been terrible at guessing children’s ages, but this one couldn’t have been more than ten when he died. He has found himself a lone mannequin standing off to the side, and is poking at it curiously. He turns as I approach, and with that endearing lack of preamble so peculiar to children he asks, “What’s this?”

“Didn’t you hear the others talking?” I ask, crouching down beside him.

“No.”

“I see. It’s a mannequin.”

“Yeah,” he prompts impatiently, “but is it one of us, or one of them?”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“Well, look,” he says, turning to the mannequin and poking it, as if to illustrate how confusing it is. His finger leaves a bloody smear across its molded plastic thigh. Patiently, I ask him to be more specific.

“It’s not alive, right? ‘Cause it doesn’t breathe, and you can’t eat it. I tried.”

“Right,” I say.

But it’s not dead either, is it? It doesn’t walk or talk or anything.”

23 LIMINAL

PROSE

“Right,” I say again.

“So what is it then? Alive, or dead?”

I smile reassuringly. “Ah. I see. I’m afraid it isn’t either.”

He looks puzzled. “What? But look. It’s got arms and legs.

And a head. Just like us, and them.”

“I see how that could be confusing,” I say sympathetically.

“But not everything is what it seems to be.”

“What do you mean?” he asks warily.

“Well…” I think for a moment, looking around, before a good example comes to me. “You see these clothes lying all over the place?”

“Yeah.”

“Are they skin?”

He looks at me like I’m slow, and says, “No.”

“But people wear them like skin. They cover their bodies with these things, just like they cover their bodies with skin. So why aren’t they the same as skin?”

He only has to think about it for a moment. He’s pretty bright. “Because they’re only on the surface. They’re not really part of you when you put them on.”

“That’s right. They’re just like this mannequin. It looks like one thing on the surface, but underneath it’s different. It’s not one of us or one of them.”

“What is it then?”

“I don’t know. It just is.”

He pauses for a moment, thinking. Then he looks up at me and says, “Okay.” And with that, he moves on.

I watch him wander out of the store and down the street, glad to have solved the boy’s problem. Then I take to the streets myself. Weaving past the overturned wreckage of cars, my arm snags on a piece of jagged metal. A chunk of my bicep falls off, which isn’t as annoying as you might expect. A dead dog shambles after a dead cat, and I wonder why the silly creatures engage in such pointless behavior. I continue on my way, not going anywhere in particular.

There is a commotion up ahead, and I make my way over to see what all the fuss is about. I see angry yellow bursts of gunfire

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PROSE pealing out from the overturned ruin of a semi truck as I amble closer. It appears that one of the few remaining bands of survivors has attempted to flee our city, and failed.

Understandable, I think silently in their direction. It must be dreadfully boring, walled up in your bunkers with your guns and canned peas. Watching the clock. Although my memory of the event is a little hazy, I imagine you left your box for the same reason I left mine.

A rather large number of us have apparently been following the group’s progress up to this point, and are eagerly overtaking the wreck. Several humans poke out of its windows, shooting their guns, yelling, and generally getting worked up about the whole situation.

As me and my colleagues draw closer, the guns one by one fall silent, until all that remains are the panicky voices of the survivors shouting out at us from their tattered metal hiding place. After a quick conference, which seems to consist primarily of crying and swearing at no one in particular, the disheveled survivors think it best to run screaming towards our approaching ranks. One of them has even brought a baseball bat with him in a rather optimistic attempt to keep himself safe. Good luck, I say to myself. It’s too late now, but ‘A’ for effort and all that. The holes in our line which the runners have aimed for are apparently not as wide as they had initially hoped, because seconds after I lose sight of them, their screaming abruptly stops. My attention, however, is distracted by the sight of a haggard looking young lady running blindly in my direction. She doesn’t slow her pace as she nears me, and I don’t slow mine, but I open my arms out in welcome. I have seen her darting back and forth between several groups of us, each time recoiling, and she has apparently decided to aim her final dash through me. I reach out and embrace her as she passes.

“Pardon me”, I say, although it seems to sound more like, “Mwraaaaahhh.”

She replies by screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Don’t mind me,” I say. “I just need your brain, is all.” This comes out rather discouragingly as “…Braaaains…,” to which she replies by screaming again.

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PROSE

“Listen,” I sigh, as she writhes against me, “there’s no need to be melodramatic. If you’d just…” My request is cut off by her arm flailing against my face, which, to say the least, is a little annoying.

“Look,” I say peevishly, “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. You probably aren’t even using it.”

At this point, her screams have degenerated into hysterical sobbing, and her struggling has become weary and erratic.

I sigh again and just dig my fingers in to her eye sockets.

People can be such whiners.

By now several more of us have arrived, and the newcomers all start on her as well. I raise my reddened face from her head and see that a circle has formed around us, bored and curious, watching us eat. When we are finished, they go their separate ways, all except one.

The boy I spoke to earlier stands and regards me, his eyes calm. I let what’s left of the body drop to the ground. We are alone.

“It isn’t one of them anymore,” he says.

“No,” I say. “Not anymore.”

“Then is it one of us?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“But we used to be them, before we died. And it’s dead now.”

“Yes. But it is not one of us.”

He stands for a moment, looking at it, as do I.

“It’s a mannequin, then,” he says. “It’s not one of them or one of us.”

“No,” I say. “No mannequin was ever one of them, and no mannequin ever became one of us.”

“What is it then?”

I pause, and bring back my own words from before. “I don’t know. It just is.”

The silence grows, reaching outwards and downwards and engulfing us. Then he looks up.

“So are we,” he says. “So are all of us.”

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FINE ART

Addiction by Ben Berning

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Poetry …21A by Kelly McNeil Stiff fingers, cold ass toes, frozen in the union worker’s suit Waiting, still and lonely for the reliable machine they call the 21A. Every ten minutes, it’s been over 20 here at the corner of Lake and 32nd, I wait, wait for strange man wrapped in the Sunday Times, dated Oct. 05.

Wait for the man in the wheelchair with no left index Wait for the street jammers, one on sax, guitar, and “Huggies” diaper bin.

Every ten minutes, it’s been 30, opposite the Army Surplus, Waiting.

The stench of food makes my suitemate salivate like a hound, hours since she’s eaten a morsel, Exhaling fumes of stale coke and rum, she hovers over me whimsical and anxious.

Every ten minutes, an hour approaches now; I’ve been here, On this miserable curb dreaming of better places, Places that don’t reek of gasoline, I dream of people that don’t smell like Friday night, Sunday morning.

I dream of transportation without wasted minutes, hunched beside wasted neighbors.

Every ten, from Selby to Lake, the disreputable 21A…

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PROSE Poetry Coming Down by JR Damien This last week, or maybe it’s been two, long in days and lost in distress, my girl leaves, once and for all, I watch the cops beat on a brother at my back door, throwing him down and kicking him, the thud of boots against a man punctuated by pleas, the first time I’ve seen it for real and felt the terror of fascism like a slap in the face and thanked my roll of the dice that I am who I am and not the other and will never be beaten by the man, by his boots or his stick or his authority over me like king over serf, or so I cross my fingers, and I remember some dark things about myself after a long lull, and I realize I’m not good enough for one person in particular, and how far does that go? or maybe it’s just mismatch, or the temper of time, the drawing apart of two things as two things are bound to change, and that makes perfect sense when the sun is out and the street welcomes your stroll and the neighbors say hi with a smile, pet the dog, the coffee bought is hot and bitter and stings the tongue in that perfect way, and at that time it makes perfect sense, but the sun goes down, the streets get cold, faces smiling or not are shadowed and sinister, the coffee chills and disappears and then there are only questions, and again how did I manage to banish her? and how many things are wrong with me or did I do wrong in the recent and distant past and can I learn from my mistakes despite all evidence to the contrary? and this is the roll and the wind of a mind on no sleep and less food and a distraught heart or at least an ache where it is rumored the heart resides, though I have my doubts this thirtieth year into love and loss dominated by the latter, and all the days and all the drama, the tears and the years put to death, the memories pushed deep down and ancient feelings brought out like old photos are drugs in me, pushing me high and low, to extremes, to extremes, until I fade and here I am coming down, all at once, into the crash, faster it seems than before, until it a l l j u s t s u d d e n l y stops.

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Poetry An Autumn for William B. by Ahkillah Davis I frequent this avenue many a year circling back to the root of my origin embedded in the sod of autumn afternoons— crisp fleeting tales which mirror the falling leaves blanketing the streets and I wonder what would it be like to be among the leaves a falling sun unrivaled of questionable destiny but then a pause kisses these thoughts goodnight I sigh deeply glimpsing the incessant changes along the avenue the deep veins of the pavement it is autumn once again and I remember‌ I remember the bough of the willow opening her branching door to receive her fallen son

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NONFICTION Seamless Lessons by Amanda Larson

The yarn shop is a brilliant array of possibilities - fibers in every color, texture, thickness, and material. Hanging over the counter is a merlot colored sweater exhibiting a complicated overlapping cabled twist. There are brightly striped socks patiently knit with toothpick-sized needles. Winter hats with sequins, sparkles, pom-poms, and tentacle-like boas warm the heads of mannequin dolls wrapped in woolen scarves. These, and other sample projects created by the masters of the store, stand proudly against the wall. The workers peer at us from behind the counter; they, too, keep time by the clicking of their needles.

I am introducing three of my roommates to the world of knitting - a place where only the ignorant, or the determined, will enter, because what lies ahead is an endless trap that pulls new visitors into the seams of addiction. Not knowing what lays ahead, four friends piled into a little Toyota in hopes of discovering the perfect yarn for our new projects.

Beyond the simplicity of giving into a fad, knitting has seeped into my system; at one time I had wanted to learn the trade to have bragging rights to all my scarves, but that has all been forgotten, and it has now embedded itself much deeper into my senses as I have surrendered to the rhythm of my hands. For years, I longed to have the ability to turn a bundle of twine into my own unique piece of art.

I fully remember the moment I achieved the long-held dream. My mom, eager to pass on her knowledge, sat with me patiently ripping out each mistake as I went, knowing that the torment of solving the mysteries within the mangled yarn would keep me from completing my project - keep me from learning her craft. Without her steady hand by my side, waiting to align my stitches, I would never have completed that first scarf.

We had carefully selected a yarn that would prove practical; it was a brown that goes with everything. The color resembled coffee with cream and sugar, and I envisioned it adding a slightly more sophisticated look to my plaid winter-woolen jacket. As we sat working together, my shoulders strained and tightened with the effort

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NONFICTION to maintain constant tension in the yarn. The activity weaved knots into my back as each stitch proved more difficult to catch than the last one. By the time I bound off the ends, I had not yet formulated a constant pull on the thread - the asymmetrical pattern of my stitches is on display each time I wear my first creation. There are a few spots in the scarf where an extra inch of thread loops apart from the rest of the stitches, and there are rows spaced double the distance apart from the preceding rows where I could not keep the tension; but I still wear it. I am proud that I made it; mom encouraged me by saying that it is useless to make a perfect product - you might as well let people know that you made it. Her words cycled through my head and kept my hands moving, the practice of the once tedious and stressful task has become an unconscious motion; my hands move synonymously with my heartbeat.

My mom was taught to feel that heartbeat at a very young age; she tells me how she used to make doll clothes for all of her teaparty friends - a tradition passed on from her mother and aunts. Deep within our treasure trunks, my cousins and I all have Barbie clothes and sleeping bags knit by our great aunt, Martha. Every Christmas we eagerly ripped off the packaging to discover tiny dresses which would soon adorn our favorite dolls as we took Barbie on yet another date. They are stored with our other keepsakes - waiting for our own daughters to feel the soft knots between their fingers.

Returning from the store, I sit between my roommates and demonstrate how their projects will be started for years to come. As I hand the needles back to the rightful owner, I sit back and wait patiently for the moment when I will need to pick up lost stitches, answer any questions, and assure each one of them that their projects are looking just right. I should feel guilty for aiding this process - I know that because of my knitting lesson, these women will now click away hours instead of studying for a big exam, and they might stay up all night starring bug-eyed at the rows of stitches in hopes of completing the project instead of getting the well-needed sleep. Their hands will soon move unconsciously with each breath, and instead of feeling guilt, I slowly smile with the realization that I have just taught them the heartbeat of their hands.

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PHOTOGRAPHY

Autumn Allurer by Jacintha Roemer

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Poetry Questioning by Jeremy Keller I was young and my mother explained how God was everywhere and in everything and lived in each and every one of us. I asked if that meant that God was the same shape as me, only slightly smaller: His hands fitting inside my hands; His feet inside my feet; wearing me. She laughed.

It wasn’t what she meant.

Every time I ask again she’s wearing a different blouse, a different skirt, and I’m still the same blond bowl-cut boy.

She laughs. So I arm myself with scissors threatening to subtract God from everywhere except for where and when he is in me.

Decades. And I keep forgetting to ask the next question: if not God inside me, whispering to me at night – pinching me from inside –

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Poetry Sketching Abbey by Kai Carlson-Wee Her name tag said Abbey.

She was leaning on her hip the way a mother waits for answers—

thin fingered,

bum lipped.

Good-gone, long gone gaze.

The stare of an orphan.

The blank eyes of morning.

She was plain.

And vaguely tanned.

Nothing was common or natural about her.

Nothing was beautiful, nothing was easy.

Her hair was the color of cedar veneer.

Her lips were fire.

Her shirt was gray.

She made no effort and gave no warning, standing there, all by herself, in her uniform, waiting by the pickup in the parking lot for someone to drive her from the party, too drunk, and too far gone to remember the miles and miles it took to get home

with the headlights out

and her breath making clouds in the light of a near perfect moon.

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Poetry Ode to the Sons of Charles Wilson Peale

by Robyn Hjermstad There are angels planted all along the fields outside the Peale family estate.

It is the job of the sons, Rembrandt, Raphaelle, Titan Ramsay, to dig them up and restore them, while a stern father straightens his hat preens his beard, and the mastodon’s bones preserve. As the youngest watches his brothers speak to God with a perfectly placed hand, a bronze brush to make caskets for all of this, the angels deepened themselves in the prestige soil; sent chords to all of their ends.

The two dimensional preservation stuck to all the walls of Philadelphia.

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Poetry An Ice Cube Somewhere has Died by Lauren Mulvey And guess, then, what is behind me in my chair

covering my mouth Blues and whites on my hospital pants patterns are what goes on upstairs: the noises,

the sweet little couple with a dog

that barks while they fuck. that I might fall asleep! and in dreaming she humped an inner tube in the shower

and got off on someone else’s futon I’ve analyzed it and cure me, will you?

I’ll change not

the pants that match my tie-dyed T-shirt when I don’t sleep Did you think I did?

So you think I sleep with clothes on? (My persona is

lame!)

I gave it away. maybe not long term

why greetings are so hard. won’t you hug me before they leave? even Drunk Pimp/Construction worker who lives near me nearly

compliments in slurs Blow back when he comes by or you’ll

regurgitate

his soul!

What will you say about ME when you figure out

we’re out of time,

but be glad in: If I were deathless,

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Poetry

and you,

life would be a lot of ambitionless teens putting off ‘til tomorrow plant life dying in the park where we never had picnics but watched people screw around a lot. Like we were to judge,

to interrupt, the reporter annunciates, “This just in: An ice cube somewhere has died.”

I need to clip my nails.

Mom would be angry if I were to play piano

right now she’s not here, so I do it because I can’t imagine how long-nailed-girls can possibly

themselves properly

clean

Can you read this out loud when you do, so it sounds like you wrote it Oh…I’ll play YOUR part:

“The Labeler” of that which is not right or wrong.

Bedevilers bedevil and I joined them in that Therapy is

Handing out

Christian, ARE-YOU GOING-TO-HELL? fliers

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PROSE Goodbye Monkey by Nicholas Loch February 8, 2005 - The eve of Chinese New Year, and the last day in the year of the monkey. Twelve years hence and twelve years thus.

Monkey, You were very kind to me on your visit. The last time around I was not aware of your arrival, which means we have not walked together since the year of my birth. The cycle of the universe spinning the wheel of time to my reawakening. You’ve taught me to swing from the trees again, and use my invisible tail. I admit it comes in handy, stabilizing my posture, and providing a third arm when the next tree branch is ever so elusive.

Your primordial nature compliments the nature boy as instincts take over. Looking closely, I see our resemblance. May I have the strength and courage of our cousin the gorilla when needed, and the intelligence of our brother the chimp. You’ve raised me in the wild until the discovery of the royal crown. As you move on through the galaxy I eagerly await your return. There are eleven other Nicks out there that need you. You have filled me up with an energy to last a lifetime. In your absence, I will walk with the other animals and continue to develop with their guidance. Though really, you remain in me for all my days.

When you return, what will I have become? February 9, 2016. What new lessons will you teach me? Will I shine with a radiance bright and gleaming? Or will a dark shadow have crept back into my heart? Should I not live to see your return, carry me with you on your voyages to distant stars. What better way to spend the rest of eternity? A monkey swinging with a man.

Your Friend, Nicholas Locholas

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PHOTOGRAPHY

Winter Solstice by Kai Carlson-Wee

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PROSE Problem set #4 – There Is No Spoon by Ben Horvath Disneyland’s new ride is “Homeless of the City You Be In;” a thrill ride through the streets, annals, and abandoned subway systems that are their homes. However, this is not representation, but a simulation (a fantasy of the real, if you will) of what it is like to be homeless. Since the reality of this does not sell tickets (not to mention you can find it in abundance for the cost of transportation) it is infused with the hyperreal (based on the real but has no actual representation of the reality outside the confines of the theme park). The places found in this ride are nonspecific; they could be anywhere and everywhere, just not in the reality of the situation.

In the ride bums, hobos, undesirables, and the financially inept belt out jolly tunes and exhibit light-hearted drunken tomfoolery for the wondrous delight of the spectator. The patron starts out boarding a junked automobile (on a magnetic track for safety) and enters a darkened alleyway, full of litter (a combination of various papers, syringes, and smiley face graffiti) and that familiar smell of apple pie. Unrecognizable masses (bums) cower behind dumpsters and lean against concrete walls. We are then introduced to the entirety of the ride; our narrator is a filthy homeless man, Jerry Garcia in appearance. “Welcome to the land of the Homeless, where we are not tethered by the responsibilities of life and the world is a vast ocean of endless possibilities! I welcome you, the responsible American, to the world of the HOMELESS!” Next comes a journey through a typical highway system in the modern America. In the endless blue sky, the concrete slab appears to disappear into the horizon. What vision awaits us, why it’s a congregation of the financially inept, enjoying a hearty drink of vodka and anti-freeze; all the while singing the joy of not having to get up every Monday through Friday at 6 a.m. to slave away in the confines of the cubical. Finally we enter the dwelling that is the abandoned subway system. Junked out streetcars of the 1950’s era dot the restricted space of the tunnel; electricity provided by taping into the electrical grid. The homeless are dressed in discarded tuxedos and top hats (smeared with grime, ripped and tattered) and ballroom dance to the croons provided by an old phonograph

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PROSE machine. What’s this? A surprise. A crack addict and his nonsensical ravings predicting the apocalypse stop the patron in their tracks. A button is provided to proceed on, but every time it is pressed, the addict threatens to cut “ya” and the automobile comes to a sudden halt. After ten to thirty minutes (time is set at random intervals), our trusty narrator provides the patron with a monologue at the end of the subway track. “Oh now you have seen, what it has been, to be a member of the not-so-clean!” (sung in a nostalgic croon). The junked car emerges into the fictional reality that he/she has never left; the magic of Disneyland.

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Poetry Swan Lake Off Rowland Road by Mara Oikonomov Out of sight of the sorcerer’s castle, I fly west down the narrow, ill-paved road, leap over the yellow peel-paint gate and breach the over-lush suburban forest.

Treetops rife with restless susurration, air shallow as the dying mid-March sun, the undergrowth cinches tightly round me, grasps my legs with serpent limbs now you know what it is to wait for him in dusk perpetual?

I must press on before the sunlight fails entirely, before the moon obscures my way, for I follow the keening cries of the swan that turns man at the end of the day.

Off the root-strewn path, though the evening damp where last year’s leaves and bottle glass hold sway, upon the forest’s netherlips lies the glistening shore of the secret lake.

I’ll peer through the knee-high, hollow reeds; slim as a birch, keep safely out of sight.

The waves absorb the lingering traffic noise, the trees drink up all artificial light, the first few stars pierce through the ragged sky.

And he won’t even turn his sleek, black head back towards the sighing reeds in which I lie.

He’ll just glide by like a satellite, cool and somulent and white.

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POETRY Dancing Mad by Dustin Savage-Rothmeier -Tier 1And so it begins, at last, The final clash of the Titans.

Who is to win?

Aphrodite’s cursing brood?

Or the black hole of a soul?

They each can appeal in many different ways.

Yet both can only lead to one destination.

As the world gnaws at your will, Nothing to do but bite it back.

-Tier 2The Sorrow of ages does nothing to appease me.

I need more. I need blood.

It will be spilled whether by my hand or yours.

I am all, and I will know.

When the end comes, one alone will walk.

Who is to resist? Not you.

I will win.

And I will lose.

-Tier 3Slow down.

You’re sure to crash.

As well to burn Do what you wish, yet don’t.

It does not good.

It bodes not well.

Rehearse it in your head.

What could happen?

What will happen?

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Poetry Who will win?

Is it me?

I will win.

And I will lose.

-Tier 4Showtime.

Do your best.

Go now.

Breathe.

Look in the eyes.

See what you will.

Do not back down.

Stand your ground.

Withstand.

Withstand.

Ignore it, do as you should.

Do as you will.

Do not stop; go now.

Time.

Pause.

Silence.

Can’t see.

Can’t hear.

Can’t breathe.

Judgment Day is now.

What to do?

What can I do?

What is there to do at all?

Regroup.

Can not.

Reassemble.

Will not.

Instead, tremble.

Quiver in fear.

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Poetry Say something.

Silence.

Say anything.

Silence Who am I? What to do?

What can I do?

How to succeed?

How can I succeed?

Will I ever succeed at all?

Not in death.

----------Fall down now.

Into reverie.

I have won.

And I have lost.

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PROSE Chasing the Devil by Betsy Graca

All twenty-six girls lost their lives that night. Both instructors were killed as well. The murders were heartless and brutal, as murders always are. Some were gassed. Others were hung.

Ms. Tate was electrocuted. The devil had made a visit during those hours of pure darkness.

The school had been built on a small island not far off the coast of Seattle. Because of its isolation, it was nearly three days before the bodies were even discovered. Bodies were strewn on every floor and even the staircases. It was not a pleasant sight in the least and the thought of girls, as young as six years old, being tortured and executed was beyond sickening.

My grandfather was assigned this case not long before his retirement. It was often argued that this event was the very cause of his death.

My brother and I were too young to fully understand the horrors that took place and we were naïve and confused during the time of the investigation.

Mike, my brother, and I would often spend weekends at Grandpa Lou’s where we would spend hours exploring his sea-side home. The shores were cold and the raging ocean sputtered at our toes. We enjoyed running up and down the beach, avoiding sharp rocks and finding bizarre and outlandish shells.

The murders took place during the fall of 1976. The air that November month was crisp, yet heavy with moisture. Leaves decorated the sidewalks and the streetlights began to flicker earlier and earlier each night.

On a Saturday afternoon, Mike and I were drinking mugs of apple cider on Grandpa’s porch while my parents visited with the white-haired man inside.

“It’s so awful,” my mother said. “Most of the girls weren’t any older than CeeCee.”

My father questioned, “Dad, are you sure you can handle this right now?”

Grandpa was silent. I could not see the stress in the old

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PROSE man’s eyes, but my parents’ words were enough to hint the severity of the situation.

Mike and I quickly became bored with the seriousness of adults and we snuck up the wooden staircase to raid the off-limit rooms that would most likely provoke scolding and frustration from my parents. We loved these opportunities.

“CeeCee…,” Mike whispered, “we’ve never been in this one, let’s go.”

“But Mike, that’s…,” I trailed off once I realized we were sneaking into Grandpa’s personal office. This was going to be interesting.

Looming and intimidating bookshelves lined three of the walls. The fourth contained a large window overlooking the Pacific.

His desk was almost as tall as my petite shoulders and strewn with papers and 8x10 glossy black and white photos. I picked one up.

Mike had already made himself welcome in Grandpa’s maroon, leather chair and was admiring a framed picture of our grandmother who had passed away the previous winter. Lung cancer was her killer. The house no longer reeked of cigarette smoke and pumpkin pie. Instead, a potent stale scent reached my nostrils at every corner.

I turned the picture in my hands over to reveal a sleeping girl with thick brown braids swept across her face. Though, she was not sleeping. And the braids were not hair, as I had thought, but rather a bulky rope. Her bloated corpse stared back at me, reflecting my own newfound fear. The girl was heavyset and sad. Her face troubled my young mentality, but I was forced to move on.

In the next print, a girl was wearing a red polka-dot dress, just like one I had at home. Though this girl would not twirl and dance and skip in her dress as I would after Christmas mass this winter.

There was another girl with closed eyes and knife in her back. The dark blood stained her dress, and dripped across her neck.

“Shit…” I heard Mike swear for the first time ever. He was already indulging in the guilty curiosity of the deceased. My current frozen state melted with the realization that footsteps were leisurely creaking up the stairs.

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PROSE

“Mikey, let’s go. They’re coming!” He was halfway through the door and we were able to slip into dad’s childhood bedroom before being noticed.

Dad’s room was a much happier place. The dark floors were cold and the cream walls were faded like in Grandpa’s office. There was even a similar window letting in the same sad light. However, instead of death and despair, the room was plastered with posters and scattered records. Marilyn Monroe smiled sexily from the surrounding walls and Robert Johnson waited with his guitar in his paper case.

Mike and I wordlessly waited, big-eyed and red in the cheeks. My long hair felt thick on my back and my wool dress was scratching my thighs. Although, such worries seemed pointless right then. Even as a nine-year-old, I was able to appreciate the dreadfulness I had so recently witnessed.

Mike slowly, very gradually, pushed open the heavy door to expose Grandpa solemnly smiling in return. His warm eyes were always a comfort, even during a never-ending nightmare.

“You should never have seen those,” he said as he walked toward us. Grandpa never yelled. It was our own father we feared.

Grandpa Lou entered his son’s room and sat with us on the bed. We said nothing.

“I thought I had seen the worst in the war. But no, the war was easy. Working as a cop has been the real challenge,” he began.

“Though, I do this so nothing will happen to you…,” he stopped.

“You’re good kids, ya know.” * * *

Grandpa passed away two years later. His chase after the devil ended in failure and the stresses brought with the search were far too much for his fragile heart.

As the years passed, the haunting images of tortured school girls continued to stalk my thoughts. I’d wake up each night to their terrified screams and miserable whimperings. The knowledge that their merciless executer still might roam the streets twisted and

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PROSE tangled my emotions in thousands of directions.

After finishing law school, I worked on dozens of cases, but none as horrendous as the killings of the school girls. I fought against rapists, murderers, and many other sick fucks. At one point in my career, I was prosecuting a man who murdered his victim after being released from only a six-month sentence for raping the very same woman he would later kill.

“You may review Mrs. Novak’s home now. We’re finished collecting evidence for now. Just try not to touch anything…that’s important,” a nice police officer informed me the day after the murder. He was new. His grieving eyes told me how horrified he was with his recent choice of profession.

“Thank you. I’ll leave everything as is,” I told him politely.

He stayed outside to smoke a cigarette as I stepped through the front door, thankful for my privacy.

The house was clean and cold. The murder had not taken place at Mrs. Novak’s home, but rather in the parking lot of the local Cub Foods. The woman’s husband and two daughters were already staying at Mrs. Novak’s mother’s place.

I approached the staircase to review the victim’s bedroom.

As a prosecuting attorney, I hoped to understand and learn who Mrs. Novak was before her death. I had known she was a mother and a wife, but nothing more.

Mrs. Novak’s bedroom was stale and unwelcoming. All was pieced together so delicately, I felt as though my own presence would ruin the extreme perfection of it all.

The room held several framed photographs of Mrs. Novak with her daughters and with her husband, but it was another picture that so violently caught my eye.

I picked up the black and white picture for a closer look, a confirmation of my revulsion.

Two young girls sheepishly smiled back at me, though these were not the daughters of the recently deceased victim. One girl was no doubt Mrs. Novak herself as a child. The other…the other girl held that face that brought such overwhelming terror and dread to my sleepless nights. I vividly recalled that afternoon in my

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PROSE late grandfather’s office when my brother and I discovered those appalling 8x10 photos.

I was staring back at the departed. The glass framed slipped through my fingers, sweating with fear.

“Fuck!” I muttered as the glass shattered on the flawlessly white carpet. I peeked out the window to check on the rookie cop.

He was busy lighting a second Marlboro.

I quickly turned to my mess, considering the options, before my thoughts were interrupted with the sight of a hand-written letter that must have been hidden in the frame.

My mind fluttered with words of a very sick and convoluted child. The mystery girl was Mrs. Novak’s older sister and the very same girl whose lifeless eyes I had met so many years ago.

They’re all fucking bitches…I want them dead…I will do it when they’re asleep…I will hang myself, too…I can no longer live such a cruel life… when you get this, we will all be dead…”

I had found the confessions of the devil. * * *

The girl who signed her name Ophelia expressed stories of her own torture. The overweight, acne-covered teenager was harboring the sufferings of severe depression.

It seemed her classmates and roommates developed a great joy out of ridiculing and mocking the socially exiled girl, causing immense anger and resentment. Ophelia deeply desired revenge.

This young school girl somehow had the ability to brutally murder twenty five girls and two grown women. For a fourteenyear-old, she had an extremely large build and, with the help of the sleeping pills she had placed in the schools’ dinner, she had the capability of creating such malice. Afterward, she took her own life, deceiving the entire world that she was just another innocent victim.

Mrs. Novak knew all of this, but told no one.

The devil had been resting in her own grave all those years.

My grandpa killed himself over this maddening hunt, not knowing she was in front of him the entire time.

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PROSE

My heart sunk with the recognition that I was so easily able to uncover this enormous mystery by way of a fluke.

Deciding what’s done is done, I came to the conclusion that it was best to keep this newly exposed information to myself. I would tell no one, just as Mrs. Novak did.

The following week, I dropped my case as well as my entire profession as a prosecutor. I could not continue down the same path that caused my grandfather such extreme pain. I could no longer chase and punish the devil. Such ambitions proved impossible. I was drained with the attempt.

I retired at thirty-six years old to finish my life at my grandfather’s beloved seaside home. I spent my days enjoying the beach, avoiding sharp objects, and far away from the devil.

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PROSE (untitled) by Nick Bain Too much coffee, actually espresso or americano, french press, better than ice cream. have another cucumber sandwich. How did i hear that now through the grace through the wall? There’s icicles on the dining room floor, snowed 85 inches yesterday, biked through it because that hummer ate everything, right up. Because he’s with him now, that son of a bitch, but not really. Another senseless act of immaturity. On whose part? Who knew. Thought i’d buy a playboy, and jack off. forgot. I’m queer. I told you so. Can’t think with all that sunshine in my face, listen to that morrison character. I just looked at his t-shirt instead. Where is your meter sir? It’s lost with my transcripts. I thought we figured that out some 85 years ago, anyway.

Too many cigarettes, ran 67 miles today, smoking, cleaned the house then, too. Thought i’d call my mother, too many emotions roll through, talking about kids on methamphetamines and such, video games, I got some from my doctor. We’re trying to make sense of all this, old rhetoric, like atomic bombs, gone yesterday, like baking soda.

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PHOTOGRAPHY

Heather by Erin Boe

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POETRY And Even Now Sleep Calls My Name

by Andrew Uzendoski Mr. Gonzalez fell asleep on his backyard hammock yesterday.

He hadn’t read the weather forecast— and Mr. Gonzalez doesn’t own a TV. How could he know about the frost that would freeze him to death?

His daughter blamed herself: She kept him up late the night before, planning her wedding.

Some students later admitted their poems had become exhausting— they stretched descriptions two, three, four pages long and Professor Gonzalez always read each word three times.

The leaves were also accused: Colors are laziest after they have eaten the summer, and autumn leaves are fat with lazy color.

They hang without curfew, as do their observers.

Even the cat was suspect; no one can find it and it’s fur is black.

On the last day of the summer—the real last day, when the dusk must choose the sinking ship sun— he wanted to be outside. But he was tired.

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FINE ART

Jellyfish by Martha Iserman

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NONFICTION Peepers by Britta Shernock Cyrus Wilder, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, bends over the pool table to line up his next shot. The cue jolts through his hand, and the red solid flies into the side pocket. My best friend and I are losing. We might have won if we’d put our quarters on the other table, but we didn’t know the people playing there and Cyrus had already called out to us, “Hey, it’s the Ladies!”

“Hey the Mans,” we said back to him. It’s an inside joke the three of us have shared since high school, when my best friend and I were inseparable and Cyrus would run into us in the halls before he dropped out.

The Rustic hasn’t changed at all since my last visit home.

The giant moose head is still mounted on the wall. Through glass eyes, it watches the tables of families eating pizza and drinking cheap beer. The liquor bottles sparkle on the shelves behind the bar, illuminated by expensive track lighting. Cigarette smoke hovers above the pool tables. During the lonely winter in Minneapolis, I dreamed of summer at home in rural Vermont. I wanted to buy a chocolate crème with rainbow sprinkles from the Falls General Store, and eat on the short walk through the three covered bridges, spitting out each of their windows for good luck.

A few weeks before leaving Minneapolis, my mom left a strange message on my answering machine, “Do you hear that?” A long pause. “I sure hope you can hear that.” More silence. “Those are the peepers, honey,” another long string of silence and then she hung up. I called her back, “It didn’t work, Mom.” I pictured her holding the phone out into our dark backyard, the peepers singing like crickets, but I only heard more silence.

In third grade, I had a pet tadpole, Frightful, named after the bird in the book My Side of the Mountain. I kept it in an old fish bowl, fascinated by the tadpole’s slow transformation into a tiny frog, a peeper. When it sprouted back legs, I added a few more tadpoles to be Frightful’s friends. Suddenly, several of the new tadpoles died, their shiny, black bodies floating on the surface of the fishbowl. I was heartbroken. In some way, I knew I was responsible and

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NONFICTION definitely a bad person. My mom convinced me to let Frightful and the rest of the tadpoles go free, in the still water a short walk from our house. When I heard the peepers singing that spring, I thought it was Frightful and her relatives, telling me they were alright.

While my best friend takes her pool shot, Cyrus engages me in a conversation that starts out, “What’ve you been up to?” I remind him that I’ve lived in Minneapolis for over two years and that I’m in school at the University of Minnesota.

“You’ve always been smart.” He smiles at me and I hope he’s not trying to flirt. “I was going to go to college once, but I don’t know.” He tells me about how he’s finally getting his life together and I wonder if he’s referring to the times he stole stuff from his own friends or the relationship with an overweight girl that he pretended never happened. He tells me how he’s a reliable worker and learning carpentry. “I can build a person anything and they like my work, and want to hire me again and again. But college, that’s great.”

“It’s not any better than what you do. You can build yourself a house if you want to. I can’t do that shit.” I don’t want to have this conversation.

“I still want to go to college. Who knows, maybe I’ll be an English major, too.” He smiles and elbows me in the ribs, definitely flirting.

“Yeah, you should,” I mutter, taking the pool cue from my best friend after she misses her shot.

Cyrus takes his turn and sinks the eight ball. “Better luck next time, the Ladies.”

Later, after I have said goodnight to my best friend and watched her tail lights disappear down the road, the sound of the peepers comes through the open windows of the kitchen. I catch myself imagining it is Frightful and her friends still singing for me.

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POETRY Reaction to Ray Gonzalez by Rosemary Grunhard I blow my nose and Ray Gonzalez walks by.

He looks at me with slight observation.

I remember his words, There is no such thing as inspiration.

Well, inspiration sits perched atop my shoulder fluttering green wings.

Dust falls from her delicate feet onto my page.

We breathe giving life.

Tree becomes 20 foot evergreen sprouting from the page Red fat feathers beat with song as white flecks silently melt.

Hair twirls about my neck as the wintry air whispers my name.

Face glows with delight as a world is born.

Inspiration flutters upward growing brightness with fading colors.

I blink and she is gone.

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PHOTOGRAPHY

Tobasco by Erin Boe

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POETRY Inspiration for the South American Handbook

by Andrew Uzendoski The boat ride back to Gran Rouqe was bumpy: it proved that the Caribbean sea is the middle of the giant blue sea.

It proved that not all rocks are solid— some are men drowning in water with blue skin and one thousand year old lungs.

The ride was bumpy and the boat insisted that the captain drive slower— the sea does not want to stay in the sea.

But the captain did not slow down and when we arrived at the dock in a washing machine, my girlfriend insisted she was going to write a comprehensive award winning South American travel guide just to include one review, on page 1,298: Jose Ramirez Boat Tours: zero stars; do not call; do not hire; if all other tours are full, the recommendation is to swim.

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POETRY A Beauty in the Mirror by Snezana Dzakovic Rigid, perfect orbs of skin, taut across her chest. Hard nipples cast a shadow on her midriff, erect above the pudgy belly.

A quarter turn to the mirror side touch, hands on hips, large and round, round and cushioned.

Nothing like her rigid implants.

She wonders if they taste like ice cream cones, crisp and smooth, or like jelly beans - hard to bite into, but once you do, would they bleed?

Silly thought, they are HER even more beautiful, double D, perfect match to her round hips, buttocks bubbling behind another quarter turn, now looking back at a perfect orb of her butt cheek, still larger then her breast in profile.

The erect nipple on top of her full-breast side view, sumptuous curving line of her butt crack beauty.

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POETRY Family Visionary by Jacob Steinbauer speaking so, the kids are alone in the park again i imagine the tension of a big, black bird wandering closer and closer until finally. . . i had a dream i was laughing when you found me waking my arms were asleep behind my neck, i couldn’t move nothing’s more terrifying— being unable to move—in the dark anywhere your lighter and cola need refills? or was it you, with your list of degenerates waiting in our living room. . . our friends aren’t so bad hey, winter isn’t cold from under the covers even here, where the sun vacations twice a day your face blue as my lips buried in an ocean we’ll have to walk, you and i, no other transportation but stiff legs with your shoes, we’ll need the little wash tub hot water sleepwalking and reading over a double whisky and you’re still not ready? alone in the park i’ll take what you can’t finish

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POETRY lucky for you, you don’t realize the worst luck haunts those in their sleep let’s go you’re times sit together like ant heaps and you’ll need to let me take care of everything the car needs a wash and the toilet paper unrolled like the cat got at it, but aren’t you glad the sofa’s only eight and a quarter feet away from the tv? the kids are asleep this life’s all to ourselves and the light’s spinning around our eyes like alligators while we’re our own prey our boy with asthma could be in danger violet blood drifting in and out muscles so thin with oxygen he couldn’t dress himself the doctor knows you smoke i’m not accusing, but he couldn’t move in the dark anywhere and i fall asleep to the crickets purring he can’t scream when he looses his breath in the night here, they’d be by the swings but i don’t see them i wish we had the stomach the money to drink like our friends the wind would be nothing my lungs savor it like smoke maybe the park’s too cold for play, imagine

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POETRY if our kids weren’t just cats? a sick day, with the sun where it is now? and we don’t get mail on days like this because the hours are silent and the minutes gray spelled e or a? all afternoon to think of such things i’m sinking you’re an angel, but tea doesn’t help the cough i can never shake it off even vitamin b-12 won’t remind me, what did you say when you found me? a tree swaying on my wall through the shades trying to get in from the cold

in the dream the curtains drawn clear of the open window, a draft gathering underneath me like a deepening breath and darkness closing in like a whisper asking me to let go of the sheets, to look down from the ceiling cold flesh and an irregular pulse and should you be able to wake up, to rub your eyes the light would push all to silent corners, you try, you try against the soft lips blowing on your face like this nap offers eternal life there’s no reason why not or how long and you don’t feel the frost on the grass digging into the earth outside the window

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POETRY because the darkness you came from was never that cold. the lips are hands in shadows pulling you up to the view from above in winter’s nightscape all the water’s frozen a dry mouth can’t move or consent and you will wake up in the morning like nothing happened you saw me waiting the cold pours out in silence like a boy crying wolf (or frostbite as the case may be) quick moments and my voice out of tune just speaking like having an angel looking up at you after a dream how’d you get here and should you let yourself out before i am arms up hands out under all the nights walking home alone downtown a white flurry of twitching lights and dirty palms up like they still can’t believe what the fortune teller said “i can help you” and i meant it here, your asking where people pray anyway is an excuse like, oh, you can’t cook a thing but frozen pizza

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POETRY i’ll take care of it after a nap the alarm clock radio’s in tender hands your command of beginnings and each day is a test after and before our lids flutter in the dark under a collapsing basement ceiling and if we actually had pets? there might be a reason i buy these coloring books if i didn’t pretend i was lonely, which as you know, will never end

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PHOTOGRAPHY

Father’s New House by Brennan Vance

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PROSE Of Revolution by Anonymous If one cannot revolt then what does one have? A perfect state? A perfect life? Equality? Perhaps, in revolution-less societies life is more pure and consequently more perfect because there is less death, and the lack of death causes people to know what life is really about. In such societies life would be seen as the ultimate goal, the ultimate reality, and thus would not then openly invite death to their door. However, with that written a question lay unanswered; namely, can such a society actually exist? Many have written books, articles, and screenplays about these societies, but as of late as I stare blankly at my T.V. screen, I am not convinced of their existence. Therefore, as many of us stand on the pinnacle of our young person lives we wonder what can be done, or yet perchance more importantly, what can we do to make this, our collective world, a better place to live in. The answer, in the most revolutionary terminology I can think of, is to stay home and write letters.

Now, writing letters in this age of e-mail and mobile phones may sound like an antiquated idea at best, yet through the written language is a power which lay untapped in the modern world, and thus with it castles of villainy and mountains of woe can be conquered. No longer will we, the innocent persons of this world, be forced to labor under the yoke and chain of our oppressors. For, with paper and pen as our allies, nothing shall be able to deter us from creating a Universe of free ideas. It has been said that in order to free the person, the mind must first be liberated; writing letters then presents the quintessential outlet for such a task. However, letters of such social magnitude cannot be written in any old fashion, and there enters the question of exactly how should one go about writing a revolutionary letter.

Letters of the revolutionary variety should always be addressed to our oppressors, so when taking the time to write, always make certain to address the letter to the following:

Oppressors (Wherever we may find them) 7 Continents of Earth Milky Way Galaxy, Universe

Much the same way Santa Claus and or any other ‘celebrity’ of the

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PROSE sort receives mail is the same fashion our oppressors shall get their letters as well.

As to the content of the letters, it is always best if they follow a revolutionary format. One in which the problem is stated in such a way as to relieve all doubt from the oppressor’s mind as to what is to follow, but also in which the problem is set apart from the rest of the letter by writing it in ink. The reason being, problems are always taken much more seriously if they are written in ink then if they were, perhaps, written in crayon. Therefore, it is to the benefit of the letter and humankind at large to ‘ink’ the problem.

The body of the letter can be rather tricky because one must back up the problem with facts about why; in fact, there is a problem, but perhaps more importantly, what should be done. For this, it is imperative to remember that you are just a writer, and because of this you cannot be expected to be responsible for all the facts of the case. Thus, a good way to go about writing the body of a letter is to remove or just not include all of the facts. Ever writer knows that the purpose of writing is to be creative, and factual information is seldom, if ever, creative. Thus, it is strongly recommended that allusions, rhetorical phrases, metaphors, and heightened language be utilized instead. In this way, your letter can get results and not be hard to read at the same time.

Though the body of such letters can be hard sometimes, the real trouble always occurs at the end or conclusion of the letter. This is not surprising, as the author of the letter almost always has used all the wit they can muster for the body, and now are without wordplay for the end. Yet, all that needs to be done is for the author to find a poem of any length and insert it at the end. Oppressors hat poetry so much that they will oft times re-read the letter, so as to escape from having to tax their minds on other literary form. In consequence, a well written revolutionary letter can have twice the effect an ordinary atypical letter has.

Finally, when ending a letter it is always important to sign your name as anonymous because then you can live to write another day. Too often young people feel the need to sign their names in an attempt to gain immortality and stardom, when in reality all they receive in return is a firing squad. Thus, heroes become martyrs, but revolutionary writers become heads of state, which is what makes writing so enjoyable. No risk, with all the rewards.

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PROSE

Thus, if you feel the world needs to be changed for the better right away, there can be no better outlet than that of the writer. A champion of truth and righteousness, who looks for nothing but the betterment of humankind. Writers everywhere then should take up their pens and paper against their oppressors everywhere and take glory for today and save death for tomorrow.

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Supporters

TheWake

Student Magazine

www.wakemag.org

Generous grants from Coca-Cola made a portion of this

publication’s

funding possble.

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Supporters

The creation of Liminal would have been impossible without the friendship, help, and support from the following people: Kay Steiger, Andy Tyra, Cassie Benson, Eric Price, Cameron Sorden, Tamara Swanson, Lane Trisko, Peggy Pohot of Sexton Printing, the University of Minnesota Art, English and Journalism departments, Emily Mraz, Z. Cody Lee Carlsen, Scott Wertsch, Margaret Cahill and caffeine

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Liminal was founded by Z. Cody Lee Carlsen.

Univeristy of Minnesota students exclusively produced, edited, and published the journal.

The Wake Student Magazine www.wakemag.org/liminal