Rocinante Journal of Art & Literature 2016 by Warner Pacific University

Rocinante:

A Journal of Art and Literature

Rocinante: A Journal of Art and Literature

Volume XV Warner Pacific College Portland, Oregon

About the Journal Rocinante: A Journal of Art and Literature is a student publication with the intent of supporting and promoting the creative capabilities and talents of the Warner Pacific College community. Initially conceived as a student project for Dr. Pamela Plimptonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Creative Writing class in 2001, Rocinante has become a premiere venue for the college communityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s literary and artistic expression.

Letter from the Editor I’ve struggled a lot over the last year—with making peace with my past, finding motivation, and making some big life decisions. ‘Adulting’ is hard, and for the last three years I’ve looked toward my graduation date with the goal of just making it to the end. At times I’ve trudged on in pure survival mode, relying on coffee and adrenaline to stay awake in class. Most of the time I felt alone—and a little bit angry. I didn’t ask for help and I tried to hide what I was feeling. As we began to receive submissions, I read through them and I realized that feeling alone and lost was not unique to me. People have a tendency to hide their emotions. It’s easier to pretend that everything is fine, and to get into a survival mode in which everything whirls by. It’s easy to focus on the things that we have to do and to suppress our problems. I’ve learned that I can only suppress them for so long. Eventually, I had to face the problems in front of me, and it’s harder to do that after letting them build for so long. The pieces in this journal represent the struggles that we all face. F. Scott Fitzgerald once said: “That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.” We are all living unique lives, and our problems are different but we can relate to struggle, isolation, and oppression. This is what literature has always meant for me. Whether a piece was written last year, or a hundred years ago, there are themes to which I have been able to relate. Art and literature force us to stop and think. A well-written text or a great piece of art winds itself into our minds and our hearts. Even a single line or idea can put down roots into a being and stick with us for years. I hope that every reader finds something in this journal that sticks with them. Know that you are not alone, know that you are not the only one who is struggling, and know that Warner Pacific is a place where your unique thoughts and ideas matter. —Hannah Mierow, Editor-in-Chief

Contents Prose

7 14 32 45 63 79

Ease Should Have Been The Last War (excerpt) A Bit of Prudence (excerpt) A Star in the Window Titans and Gorgons

Naomi Fox Tarale Wolffe Zechariah Dirdak Deborah Landers Kay Hilman Kay Hilman

Poetry

1 2 3 4 6 12 22 25 27 29 37 41 42 55 56 59 62 66 68

To Create Silence! Twisted About the Sea Ursula Letting Go of What Never Was A War Rest The Berry Farmer March 21st Listen Pins and Needles A Letter to My Younger Self Nostalgia He Was a Skydiver Dignity A Cosmic Whisker Solitary Bird Procrastinatorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Poem

Rebecca Anna Glenn Linder Deborah Landers Caleb Switzer Allison Beisley Deborah Landers Rebecca Anna Nadia Nelson Forrest Nameniuk Nicole Worthington MaKenna Conley Kassi Strano Deborah Landers Hannah Mierow Forrest Nameniuk Steven Barry Susanna Lundgren Ruth Reno Nadia Nelson

Continued

Art

69 71 73 76 78 83 85

Lightning Rod The Prodigal Prayer Book World Building Teachers Passion Lily, write

Arthur Kelly Susanna Lundgren Forrest Nameniuk Deborah Landers Rachel Chamberlain Dean Ober Ruth Reno

5 13 24 26 31 40 44 53 54 58 61 70 72 75 77 82 84

Cloud and Wave Lost on Mars Mystic Endeavor Dew on Alaskan Wildflower Dead Pool Hell’s Rest Night in the North Woods Costa Rican Paradise Red Rocks of Sedona Salmon River Suburbanite Above the Sea of Fog Field of Bear Alaskan Fireweed Tulips at Night Horseshoe Bend Nature’s Wedding Dress Reflection

Sean Musaeus Blair Walsh Blair Walsh Kathy Covey Tim Jackson Tim Jackson Blair Walsh Blair Walsh Blair Walsh Sylvan Clark Tim Jackson Kathy Covey Kathy Covey Sean Musaeus Blair Walsh Tim Jackson Sean Musaeus

“Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.” — Thomas Merton

To Create By Rebecca Anna

My soul is crying out to create To conceive beauty and wander dreams To curve the lines once trapped straight And chase the butterflies in the streams But I’m entangled in the methodical And drowning in the daily tasks So my soul is hardly audible I cannot hear the thing it asks To write and make and form Compose for healing’s brought And oh I am so worn Just distanced from the thought Courage is somewhere inside Strength to find the will Myself I have denied A peace and calmer still For routine is where I’m lost Screaming inside my silence A numbness is the cost Anger as my guidance But creating comes from rubble And making from my scars It feels like so much trouble The grasping out toward stars But God you meet me in these

The places deep conceiving So I’m asking you, please Help me start believing.

Silence! By Glenn Linder

Did you not see The pain Cut into my being? Did you not see The work Of your hand? Did you not listen To the whimper In my voice? I told you How it felt. The splintering Of my soul. “It wasn’t that bad. A light poke of pain,” You say, As you nail my mouth shut!

Now you cover Your guilt With a layer Of earth. Burying The still, small Silent coffin.

Twisted By Deborah Landers

Maybe I am twisted Like the forestâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s crooked pine That bends upon itself Even as it reaches for the sky Maybe I am twisted Preferring tragedy to comedy And writing deaths with precision And prejudice Maybe I am twisted I wait in silence for nothing Abandon speech for observation Listening to heartbreak songs When I have never been in love

Maybe I am twisted I no longer search for love I no longer think of Prince Charming No longer spin the tales that end in love Instead I am an autobiographical tragedy An indifferent child of stone Instead I am twisted.

Maybe I am twisted For wanting words And finding stone Maybe I forgot why I came here And why love is so important

About the Sea By Caleb Switzer

There’s something blue About the sea, when Gaia quakes–an anger A waiting, It says I am here–will be here–will remain. What can you claim? Mere moment, says mortal. There’s something blue, About the sea, Passive rage in tears, upon the numbered grains.

Cloud and Wave By Sean Musaeus

Ursula By Allison Beisley

Words, Snatched out of the air By the cold hands of the wind. A cruel bandit Breaking my will. Entwined in a gust By a witch, greedy For a voice of her own. Long, icy fingers Curled around my neck, Blocking any attempt For my cords to resonate; Vibrate; Make any sound at all. Pleading eyes are My only voice.

Ease By Naomi Fox

Isaac met Dillon in a moment of serendipity. Dillon forgot his copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in his dorm across campus and the thought of trekking through the early autumn fog to retrieve it from his desk made his ears burn with a phantom wind chill. Isaac caught Dillon’s eyes, tilted his jaw down slowly with a held glance, and pushed his copy across the long table, pages wrinkled and bubbled on the edges as if the book had slipped into bath water. The book lay open in between them for the hour and forty minutes remaining of class, pages eventually left unturned as both spent more time playing tic-tac-toe on the edge of the desk and rubbing the remnants of a hangman game off with their fingers. The morning fog that rolled in every night from the coast had lifted from the streets, the air left crisp with the sun still shining from behind light clouds. The sun illuminated Isaac’s whisky-in-the-sunlight eyes that slowly drank in his surroundings as he walked with Dillon closely across the quad the month after they first shared the book in class. A habit now shared every class as Dillon had hidden his own copy between two pairs of old jeans under his bed, opting to show up at Isaac’s dorm for study sessions that led to two bodies lying side by side on a college-provided twin sized mattress, blankets wrapped around their feet. The study date they walked to wasn’t going to be a study date, but a date in a homey cafe just far enough away from campus that it wouldn’t be filled with students, but close enough that they managed to only fumble into hand holding for five minutes before reaching the entrance. It was drinking in each other each time they spoke over their potent apple cider. It was slowly getting intoxicated by the way Isaac tilted his head to the side when he was trying to focus on cutting his food while still giving attention to the conversation. It was 7

the way Dillon explained how he falls in love with the idea of a silent movie romance because he thought dialogue just makes things more complicated. It was their first kiss as they left the restaurant and Isaac pulled back and had on his teeth-showing smile, usually reserved for when he gets to his favorite part in a book he’s read six times or is waiting for a concert to start. Two months later, Isaac and Dillon were watching a sitcom with too much laugh track for a show that wasn’t funny before Isaac left for his first long weekend home since the start of the school year. The day before Thanksgiving, his mom would stay forty-five minutes after the church service to make sure every member of the congregation in attendance had somewhere to celebrate the holiday, while his father counted the tithe and placed it in the safe in the wall of the church office. His sister organized the children’s crafts—turkey hands that in years past involved Isaac’s artistic skills, a task he was not asked to assist with this year. Isaac’s mom planned on driving to his school to pick him up early in the morning so later that evening, the family could still attend the service. Isaac had shared this information with Dillon a few weeks before while the pair sat in the tables in the student union building nursing tea from the campus coffee shop that really only got business due to its placement across from the dorms and central location on campus. Setting the cup down, Isaac played with Dillon’s fingers, which were still warm from the cup of tea his hands had been wrapped around, while Isaac’s still had the after-effects of the autumn chill. Lying in Isaac’s bed in the last hour before he’d be leaving, the lingering silence was only disrupted by the neglected auto play feature. Tracing his fingers rhythmically up and down Isaac’s arm, Dillon kept glancing at Isaac’s face with no sign of acknowledgment other than the slight hardening of the wrinkles on Isaac’s forehead when Dillon temporarily stopped his movements. The sun shone through the window on Isaac’s face and appeared to deepen creases and elongate its contoured shadows. There was a knock on the door. It echoed through the room. Isaac closed his eyes tightly for just a moment. He hunched his shoulders inwards as a way to fit a bit closer for just a second

before sitting up and facing Dillon with eyes that looked stagnant, like a nightold bar drink. Isaac had known that when his mom met him in his dorm she would meet Dillon. He had known that by having Dillon stay over until his mom arrived that Dillon would meet his mom. But with the scenario no longer in his head, and rather about to play out in his room, Isaac’s stomach lurched like he’d missed the last step on a long staircase. There was a second knock. Isaac’s eyes blinked into focus. Dillon sat up as well, and waited for Isaac to begin getting off the bed before following. Isaac walked the few steps over

“Isaac’s stomach lurched like he’d missed the last step on a long staircase.” scattered pieces of clothes on the floor that he really should have picked up before leaving for the weekend, and slowly pulled the door open. His mom looked out of place in the bright hallway of a college dorm. Her smile spread too far, making her heavy makeup crack faintly in the wrinkles around her lips and rapidly blinking eyes. Her sweater was knitted too tightly and her chest looked flushed around the neckline where she must have been subconsciously rubbing it on the drive. Her hands lay flat against her thighs, fingers kneading the dark denim. Her shoulders were tense, only loosening up when her arms came up to loosely wrap around Isaac, whispering a greeting into his ear. He tucked his face into the shoulder of her sweater and could smell laundry detergent and floral perfume that reminded him of being wrapped in his mom’s arms after 9

he got lost on the family trip to the zoo when he was eight and refused to be soothed by the security guard who found him crying on the rock display by the lion exhibit. She tightened her arms, rubbing Isaac’s back until he could feel his shoulders loosen, and when Isaac pulled back, he tried to look into her eyes, wanting to see the same teary-eyed expression she’d worn as she’d walked hand in hand to meet Isaac’s dad, who was waiting with his little sister in the stroller outside the zoo security office. Isaac was met with her eyes fixed over his shoulder; her eyebrows raised and lips slightly opened, letting little puffs of sticky moisture onto Isaac’s cheek. She pulled back and stepped around Isaac, with a forced smile. Her body was edged towards Dillon, tense, but her eyes switched between Isaac’s rumpled hair, wrinkled bed sheets, and the raised sheet impression on Dillon’s cheek. Before his mom could say anything, Dillon quickly grabbed his bag from the floor next to the foot of the bed, walking towards the door. He lingered for a moment next to Isaac, busying himself with his bag strap. Isaac stepped out of the doorway, his back to his mom concealing the soft eye contact he made with Dillon before tilting his head towards the door. The door shut. Isaac listened to the dull thud of shoes on carpet become quieter and quieter before waiting for the echo of the metal stairwell door closing. Making himself busy with picking up the t-shirt and jeans he had stepped over when his mom arrived, shifting scraps of creased lined paper covered with doodles he and Dillon took turns drawing from one side of his desk to another, and pretending to check that his phone charger was in the front pocket of his messenger bag, Isaac glanced out the window. Two stories below, Isaac watched Dillon enter the campus coffee shop across the street and disappear from view. Isaac led his mom out of the room. Isaac put his bag in the back seat and opened the passenger door of the his mom’s SUV that was far too accommodating and new for her now that she only had one kid living in the house and hadn’t chauffeured around a soccer team since Isaac’s younger sister stopped playing in the fifth grade. The drive 10

took three hours, and his mom made feeble attempts at small talk by asking about Isaac’s classes, if he’d been able to join the writer’s club like he’d talked about over the summer, and if he was eating enough in the dining hall, avoiding the question Isaac knew she wanted to ask about Dillon. Isaac knew his mom wouldn’t say anything. She never did. Both of his parents never did. When he sat down at dinner last July, hands folded in his lap because they were leaving moisture prints on the table, Isaac had prepared himself for tears and screaming and bible verses. He expected there being talk of him not being able to go to church anymore. There’d even been a very small part of him that hoped for acceptance. His dad’s eyes had snapped from where they had been focused on serving mashed potatoes onto his otherwise empty off-white ceramic plate. His mom had dropped the tray of roasted chicken the remaining four inches to the table and stopped breathing. His sister walked into the dining room from washing her hands and asked who died. Isaac’s mom simply told his sister that it was nothing, but kept her eyes cast on him throughout dinner, even though he didn’t look up from the chicken he didn’t even bother pretending to eat. The last three months Isaac spent at home before leaving for college were spent with family dinners that Isaac’s parents would sit discussing what the other secretary in the church office’s kids got on their driver’s test, and how the guys were doing at the construction site Isaac’s dad pretended to still work on, even though he sat in a manufactured office pod organizing business meetings and signing paychecks. It was his sister asking why Isaac was quiet at the dinner table and if the three-hour drive to campus was possible to make every night. It was his parents still going to all the church events bragging about how Isaac was going off to college, but never saying it to his face, and never really saying anything to him at all. It was his mom speaking that made Isaac’s attention focus back to the car. She had given up on conversation about thirty minutes in, but broke the silence by announcing, “We’re home.” 11

Letting Go of What Never Was By Deborah Landers

I would fall like a redwood— Chainsaw biting into living timber— But the forest is gone. They tell me that deforestation is slow, That you notice it before the damage is done They tell me that no one clears a forest in a day So why is the forest gone? I hold the memory of trees Places where something used to be And nothing remains I would drown in this ocean— Succumb to the liquid in my lungs— But it has dried up Leaving a valley of salt Crystallized into an infinity of sharp angles I remember when walking here didn’t hurt, When there was water here, And not drying, dying coral. My heart would break like glass, Shatter into splinters upon impact with the floor. It would carry the heat of your fingers To the cold, unfeeling ground But underneath the bony bars 12

Of the cage that would hold a heart, Lies an empty swing which no desire haunts. No one told me when it died, When my heart became a ghost. I would find you, my someone, Tell you everything I love and fear But I am a walking lack of clichés. It hurts to feel more than it hurts to think of you So I may pass you on the street, Nod, and maybe smile, And never know what we are missing As we walk our separate ways.

Lost on Mars By Blair Walsh

Should Have Been By Tarale Wolffe

It is a cool afternoon, and the leaves in the surrounding trees are still damp from the sprinkling earlier this morning. The clouds still lightly cover the sky, but the sun is valiantly struggling to shine through them. I don’t know which side to wish for, or which one is more fitting. Evelyn loves both the sun and the rain equally. Perhaps the only fitting tribute to her is that they are both in attendance. This day, of all days, let everyone gathering know what they are missing. Looking at the others here, I wonder if anyone else has these thoughts. Likely not. No one else quite knows what they have lost. All they know is that this is her favorite spot; this clearing, surrounded by those trees. This specific tree, in particular, which grows proudly in the center of the clearing everyone is gathering in. Its leaves are turning red and yellow, preparing for its yearly hibernation. “It’s a hundred years old,” Evelyn always proudly shared, “perhaps older.” She always believed there was more to this tree than wood and leaves. “Regal,” she’d say, “sensitive.” She tells me this, among many other things. I was, am, and always will be her best friend. The only one who knows every single one of her secrets, the only one who listened to her. Or so she said. There are tears in those gathering, a heavy silence even I can feel. Not even her mother makes a sound as she cries. Every breath produces a white puff in front of them, barely visible, with each release. Truthfully, I’m surprised so many people turned out. Besides me, Evelyn never had many friends, not that she’d actively tried for them. “Why would I do that?” She’d asked me once. “Mankind is cruel and stupid. Not like trees. All trees have to do is stand, and grow, and be still. They don’t have to worry 14

about war, or being good, or desires. It’s so much simpler to be a tree. I wish I’d been born a tree.” She said that often. “I wish I’d been born a tree.” Always said with the same fervor and desire. Sometimes with desperation. She hated being human. Everything it was, everything it stood for, repulsed her. She much preferred being away from it, in this clearing, in this tree. We were always together, she and I, and we would talk for hours, sometimes without a word being said. “You can say more in silence than in a hundred words. Silence is where you learn someone’s true purpose.” How many of them know this, I wonder, watching the last stragglers approach the casket shadowed by the branches. They pause there, waiting, looking her over from right next to her. I never approach, unable to move from my spot to do it, but I can see her clearly from where I stand in my front row seat. She looks young, lying there, but then she’s never looked her age. Even at 21 she looks far younger. Now, she lies there with her eyes closed, her hair gently lying about her like a brown halo. She looks peaceful, like she’s found something in death she never had in life. They sit, and there is a long moment of deep, heavy, silence. Evelyn would have liked that, the silence. It would tell her more about them than any of their words will. Her father rises and approaches the casket. His short greying beard is something Evelyn often joked about. She loved it and thought it ridiculous in equal measure. He is tall, I suppose, though I am taller. Her father is one of the few people she thought highly of. “He took me in, him and mama. They didn’t have to. I was just some child on their property. But they did. I love him more, now that I know it.” “Evelyn,” he says, working to get his voice heard, “is…was…is my daughter. She might not have been mine by birth, but she was mine to raise and love. She was born here, under this Old Man in fact.” He turns to what he sees as just a tree. I know this. Everyone knows this. It’s a story he often shares with anyone who will listen to it. It’s only in Evelyn’s words that the tree becomes something more, something living, breathing, thinking. 15

His eyes turn to the hole dug between two large roots, pre-prepared to welcome his daughter forevermore. This would be her resting place, her favorite place in the world. It is a long moment before he can return his attention to those waiting. “Her birth mother brought Evelyn to us. We don’t know where she came from, or what the woman was running from, but she made it right here to this tree before she had Evelyn. She must have come a long way, because we couldn’t ever find any family for that young woman. But, I will always thank her for coming here that day. She brought Margaret and me our youngest child,” He stops speaking, turning to gaze at Evelyn again. His expression is tender, melancholy. He reaches into the casket, gently brushing his fingers down the side of her unresponsive face. Tears are glistening in his eyes. “I can honestly say that every one of my children was born on my property.” Those listening laughed softly, politely. Not me. Perhaps I just don’t get the joke. Her father turns back to those gathered, taking another moment to gaze back at them. My attention is on Evelyn, always on Evelyn. “Evelyn was a quiet girl. Always had been, even as a baby. If she cried, you knew there was a reason.” That was true. I remember one time she’d fallen, tumbled down this hill after an attempt to stand, and she still didn’t cry. Not even after her mother came to her. She’d just blinked around her surroundings, as though not understanding what the fuss was about. “She was a late talker too. Margaret and I were afraid there was something wrong, but the doctors said there wasn’t. They said that her vocal cords were fine, and that she’d talk when she was ready. Well, she might not have talked, but she was extremely bright. Margaret and I, we couldn’t keep her mind busy enough. She was always doing little puzzles and games. She…” he pauses, looking at the casket, “she didn’t speak until she was five.” That, I didn’t know. “It was just after one of those kid shows, the ones that teach them things,” he shook his head sharply. “Anyway, the episode had been about fighting. She 16

turned to me after. She was… frowning, I think. Then, she said, clear as day, ‘Daddy, why do people fight?’ If I hadn’t been sitting, I’d have fallen over.” That draws another soft laugh from the attendees. They think he’s joking, but I believe him. He had always been surprised by Evelyn, even years later. “Eventually, I told her that fighting happens when two people are angry, and their judgment becomes clouded, and sometimes, that leads to fighting. The physical sort, that is. Well, she told me, in no uncertain terms, that fighting was bad. Which I agreed with, of course. ‘People fight’, she told me. ‘Occasionally,’

“You can say more in silence than in a hundred words.” I said. Then, making a logical jump only a child can do, she said ‘So people are bad.” He shakes his head, a small, sad smile pulling at his lips. “I had to tell her that fighting didn’t make a person bad, but she was quite insistent. That was the day I realized she was going to be my most…” he pauses briefly as emotion clogs his voice. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes, gathering himself back together. “She was going to be my most unique child.” Unique is one way to put it. Fascinating is another. Brilliant, interesting, and special are all ways to describe her, and they all pale in comparison to what she really was. Her views and ideals were different than anyone else I have ever known. She had a unique way of looking at the world, at seeing all of nature’s creatures. She believed everything understood everything else, and knew that 17

eventually mankind would join in on the natural loop. They just had to learn how. Evelyn was a person unto herself, set apart from other people, born too early, or too late. No, she was born to the wrong race. She should have been born a tree, where she wouldn’t have been rejected or misunderstood, where she wouldn’t have had to deal with mankind’s shortcomings or their biases. He, Jonathan, her father, continues talking about Evelyn, but the more he talks, the more I realize he doesn’t know her. Not really, not like I do. This, I see, is why she stopped talking to him, why she pulled away from him, and let him see what he wanted to. Despite his obvious love for her, he doesn’t understand her. And now, he never will. The next person talking is a teacher of hers from high school. He says she was shy, and I stop listening. Despite his name being one I recognize as her favorite teacher, this one knows her less than her father does. Which, I suppose, is natural. Her father lived with her all her life. This teacher had her for a short time. Evelyn was not shy. She didn’t have a problem talking to others. She just didn’t see the point. People, especially the ones at her school, didn’t interest her. “Why would I want to talk to them? They prey on the weak, they’re mean and cruel, and they’re fake. I don’t care what they think. I don’t care what they want. I just want them to stay away from me. You’re the only friend I need.” Evelyn had no problems voicing her views, which got her into trouble several times over the years. There were times she came to me in a sling, or with bruises. She was always quiet after that. She disliked giving into that weakness of hers. “I’m weak,” she told me one day, guiltily. “Papa says words can stop a fight, but I’ve never found them. And I keep fighting. I’m no better than they are.” She tried hard to be a good person. She felt things down to her soul: love, anger, despair—all these and more. She felt them all to their fullest, and never did anything halfhearted. She was as empathic as any tree, with a true and honest desire to help. Evelyn could never leave a person in pain alone. She was drawn to it. Something in the very structure of her being made her need to fix 18

things, leave them a little better than they were, and never once did she look for anything in return. Despite this, she believed herself weak and unimportant, just as bad as everyone else around her. Eventually, several people later, something makes me tune back in. A girl, young woman, approaches the casket, an infant in her arms. The small person gazes around with wide, curious eyes, not understanding what was going on. One fragile hand clings to his mother’s grey shirt. It reminds me so much of Evelyn at that age. “I’m Sarah Walker,” she says after a moment’s hesitation. “I didn’t know Evelyn as well, or as long, as some you, and I thank you for letting me speak today.” That she addresses to Evelyn’s parents, who manage small smiles in return. “I’m sure some of you have more right to, but…” she trails off, looking quite out of her depth. I don’t think she does public speaking much. “I’ve been wondering what I wanted to say about her. What do you say about an angel?” she coughs, embarrassed, turning her head away. She hadn’t meant to say that. “I mean, she seemed like one. I don’t actually think she was an angel, or anything. I… I met her 18 months ago. I had… just found out I was pregnant. It was an accident. I was drunk. I don’t even— that doesn’t matter. The point is Evelyn found me that day. She knew, somehow, I don’t even know how, but she did, that I needed someone.” She shifts the baby to her other arm. “Evelyn gave me the courage to keep my baby, to tell my parents about him. She showed me I was strong enough, and— and when I wasn’t, she was there. She supported me through my pregnancy. When my parents couldn’t come, they couldn’t get time off work, she was there with me. She held my hand. I named him Evan, after her. Kind of. There isn’t really a male form of Evelyn.” She stops again, wiping away her tears with her free hand. “Afterward, Evelyn, she stayed. She helped me with the baby those first few months. She is, was, the most selfless person I have ever known. Now, I don’t know how she was before, but she didn’t seem shy, or reclusive. She just saw things differently. She cared. She…” Sarah smiles, and her next words are full of

fond sadness, “She was an angel. I would have loved to have known her longer. I wish she could see Evan grow up, but I think … I think it was too much for her. I think the world just grew too… heavy.” The word is said hesitantly; as though it’s not the word she wants but can’t seem to come up with one better. I understand her though. The world became too much of a burden. Her attention returns to Evelyn’s parents. “She wasn’t depressed, that wasn’t why she did this. If anything, she loved too much. She loved the good things: her classes, spring, you. There are times when she’d watch the news and then

“She loved life, but died a little more every day she lived.” she’d get sad. She said humanity was fighting more than ever. One of her greatest dreams was that it would stop. But she did love you. You and her family, and your home, and a clearing. This clearing, I think. She talked about it all the time. I just… I thought you should know.” Evelyn’s mother is crying again, and as Sarah starts back to her seat, she’s stopped. The two women embrace there in the aisle, the child caught between them, both mothers crying while others watch on. I would speak, if I could, add my words to hers; make them realize just how special Evelyn was. Even if I try, they won’t listen. They will never know Evelyn as I did, the true Evelyn. This girl, though, this Sarah, mother of Evan, comes close. Had their friendship continued, she might have known Evelyn as I did. Do. 20

There are two more people who speak before this farce comes to an end. They know Evelyn no better than anyone else here. Sarah sees it. In her seat, she’s frowning at them, wondering at this phantom they’re describing. But, end they do, and they begin preparing the casket for burial. The hole is already dug at the foot of this tree, between two large roots. This is where she will rest now. What would I say, if I had a chance? If they would allow me? I am ancient, I would say. I have seen seasons change, lives come and go, I have been witness to such wonders none of you could understand, and I know Evelyn better than any of you. She is kind and caring, as Sarah said, but she also hates her species. She is quiet, and doesn’t believe in talking unless she has something to say. She died under the same tree she was born, under the same tree you return her to. She was compassionate, loving, and empathic. She loved life, but died a little more every day she lived. She was a tree’s soul born to a human mother. Her best friend is a tree, and the only one who knows her completely. I was there for her birth, as I was there for her life, as I was there for her death, as I am there for her now. You believe you know her. You have spoken your words all day, and I have listened to you. And you’re wrong. But that’s okay, because now you’re lowering her into the ground between this tree’s roots, who knows her better than any other living being. You will cast the dirt over her, and she will be yours no longer. From today onward, she is mine and mine alone. You may visit her in days, months, years from now, but she is mine. I will stand over her as her ever-present guard, protecting her as the precious being she was, and still is, and as she decomposes, she will finally know what true peace is. She will nourish my soil, which will feed my roots. She will be the reason my fruits grow next year, or the year after. My leaves will be greener for her contribution. In time, she will join with me completely, her essence will be mine and I will be better for it, and she will finally be the tree she should have been. 21

A War By Rebecca Anna

“There is no battle” …Yes, there is a war For how many times Have we been here before? “I have changed” But again We are back to where we’ve been. A fight which shouldn’t exist A question of loyalties so easily dismissed Your casualties pressed to the lips of your kissed “I choose you” What a lie A well intentioned thought But the grasping again has revealed it as naught For it is them, and not I… “This will pass” Only echoes as they’re straining their grasp Through the meadows sustaining A curb to surpass “I have grown” And I have sanctioned each stride Alone you were not through your grief and your pride Belief from your one was hardly denied Yet each situation where you must decide I am deserted alone at my side 22

“There’s no battle” There’s a war As we’ve been here before And we’ll come here again Just after we mend For they’ll hold tight to the reigns Of these passive gripped chains Time passing remains a window Of the syndrome their conducts profess Of “you’ll never be any success” “Your incompetence is all we can see” And you choose these lies as truth to be I have been standing here at the edge Pushing and nudging a step off the ledge They’re crushing and grudging my call to fly free Why is it the cage is what you can’t see? A battle will come again my dear And your choices awaiting are my trembling fear.

Mystic Endeavor By Blair Walsh

Rest By Nadia Nelson

“I’ve got things to do,” I tell myself Grabbing my books off the shelf Life is short, Time is fleeting Rushing from meeting to meeting No time to stop Because it’s a waste Living life in the fastest pace Fast is efficient Fast is life No time to deal With emotions or strife Student, girlfriend, wife Mother, grandmother, that’s how it goes According to the world and Everyone knows There’s no time to take it slow But oh! The things we miss When we breeze through STOP!

life,

Take a little time to rest. I assure you will be incredibly blessed! 25

Dew on Alaskan Wildflower By Kathy Covey

The Berry Farmer By Forrest Nameniuk

I was a little boy when my town was a little town. In the shadow of the mountain. A sleeping giant behind a veil of clouds. We piddled about in the valley as it slumbered. My family were berry farmers. They came from back east during the war. Blueberries, blackberries, we picked them all and shipped them out. We sold enough to get by and saved enough to have pies in winter. Just blocks away, a parade of cottonwoods along the river brought blizzards in July. Across town, endless fields of daffodils brought sunshine on cloudy days. On the top of my dad’s woodshed I watched Comet Hale-Bopp streak across the sky. As the mountain in the moonlight watched me. Riding my bike through town I’d pass the usual characters. Ernie mowing someone’s lawn, the Cackle Lady, or Two Step Joe, as even he called himself. He’d walk everywhere and always two steps forward and one step back. Since the war or since birth, depending on who you’d talked to. There I lived, safe and young, in that old town where the clocks never ticked. A child of pioneers, I played in open spaces. Until an unwelcomed circus marched into town. Touting progress and trumpeting commerce. 27

Californians, who caught a whiff of a little town below a sleeping mountain. They came like locusts. Californian, what you call someone who goes as far west as he can. Until he has no place left to go but north. Unfamiliar faces that saw a buck to be made. And the familiar faces, friendly as they were, welcomed them, like friendly people do. And I watched my berry farm bulldozed to make way for cute little condominiums. And I watched my town change her look. Like that girl you grew up with, once pretty and shy. Then someone handed her makeup. And that new platinum blonde cut of hers became as authentic as her new personality. Didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t she know she was beautiful the way she was? And so my little town grew. Slowly but surely. Becoming but another speck in an endless sea of suburbs. And I grew with it. Mark Twain was wrong. There is a sadder sight than a young cynic. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a young nostalgic. Anyone who has seen daffodils trampled would agree. And now my once little town waits as the mountain sleeps. Until the day the giant wakes and roars to life, with fire and melted ice. And this town, once little, once mine, will be washed away. Down the river and into memory. 28

March 21st By Nicole Worthington

How could I express what it is like To be alone in your thoughts… When they are encased in a war zone.

It leaves me with nothing But the hollow skeletons Of what used to be.

Bullets and bombshells Flying over my small body

A bright and smiling girl, Now dirty and dying.

When they land they explode And rip away my armored skin Nowhere is safe, The fiery metal finds me wherever I hide. Sometimes it stops, Just for a moment, But only long enough To reload the verbal ammo. Bullets sting, Bombs destroy, It all burns.

It’s so cold here, Nothing to keep me warm But the flames… embers… and ashes Of my firewood soul. How can it be so cold? Everything around me is burning down. Where am I? What’s left? …Who am I? What am I… —Anymore I don’t know. 29

Everything inside me is gone. Destroyed. I want to run away, Far away But where would I go? Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all goneâ&#x20AC;Ś Why am I still here? I want to be gone. Every. Last. Piece of me. Forever.

Dead Pool By Tim Jackson

The Last War

(excerpt) By Zechariah Dirdak

“So no shit there I was, Panama City 2198.” It was 1st Lieutenant Oliver who spoke first. He always spoke first and always spoke the longest, even though he had the least to say. This was bullshit; all knew this was bullshit, except 1st Lt. Oliver, who we would now listen to for 20 Mikes elaborating on the experiences of his only deployment. I hated him. I hated that I used to be like him. I hated that, in accordance with AR142-2.6, I had been forced to attend 40 hours of this ‘group feel good’ session. At least this was the last 5 hour session. Thank God I wasn’t a medic like poor Captain Michael and moderating; this was his third 40-hour session and he probably still had five more to go. If any of us were going to blow our brains out, it would be him. The 1st Lt. began to retell how he felt, in excruciating detail, when his FOB took ID fire from the jungle. “The mortars just keep falling and falling and….” I tuned his nasally voice out. Major Raen gave an exasperated sigh. I knew what he was thinking: been there, done that. We were all career military men— were being the operative word. There was no military anymore; there was no war. There can be no war if there are no nations left to fight. The world was united under International Hegemony and we were now obsolete—the situational irony of a job well done. 1st Lt. Oliver’s dramatic retelling of his entire military career lasted for 45 minutes. Sure, we each pretended to sympathize with the idiot, but that was only because we were being monitored for compliance—wouldn’t want to slow the out-processing with a red flag on the psych-eval. Of course, now that the 1st Lt. was finished, it was someone else’s turn. 32

“Major Ramirez, would you like to say something?” said Cpt. Michael. No I would not. “I would,” I said with a smile. Blasted psych-eval, blasted Cpt. Michael for choosing me, blasted 1st Lt. Oliver for not taking up this entire bull session with his mindless chatter. “But, I’m afraid I don’t know where to begin,” I continued. It was a common enough phrase in this room. A ritual expression much like: “No shit, there I was,” which meant: war story that is mostly true with some embellishment to capture the emotion to follow. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything else,” meant “Fuck you pick someone else because....” “Just begin at the beginning,” came Cpt. Michael’s reply. The man was as dependable as the food dispenser in the D-fac—predictable, bland, and filled with some inedible meat product. Begin at the beginning. That I can do. I can tell the chronology easy enough. Perhaps even parts of the real story—not the important parts mind you, but enough to convince the evaluators. I might even tell them about the death of a friend or two, maybe let my voice break from emotion. But there were parts of the story that they would never hear, that I would never tell. “In fall of 2187, I was just beginning my last year of biomed school when I decided to drop everything and enlist in the NORAM army. They, of course, wanted to make me a medic, but I wouldn’t let them—armored infantry was what I wanted. My test scores were too high for that. A ‘waste of a good brain,’ my recruiter said. She did her best to make me go officer but my dad had served in the army before me, made SSG in 6 years but didn’t re-up, and his opinion of the commissioned officers was abysmally low. Eventually it was decided that I would be Military Intelligence, but not the desk jockey type. I was to be a 35M, Human Intelligence. For you non-com types that means I was, for all intents and purposes, a spy. It was my job to liaison with the local populous and gather what information I could from them.” There were of course other things but 1st Lt. Oliver and three fourths of the others probably didn’t have the clearance to know about interrogation, bribery, 33

and ‘negotiations from a position of power.’ The freedom-loving Hegemony could not be seen as morally grey—those were the tactics of the enemy and we were above them. “Basic was easy, so was Advanced Training. Augmentation school, however, was another matter entirely. I had to look normal in the field so I couldn’t get the standard issue bulky M77 external sensory, strength, and reflex augmentations like most of the other lower enlisted. Not only that, but I was MI with a Top Secret clearance so I also needed the clarity and surveillance suites. All of that meant a chip inserted directly into my brain and additional wiring along my central nervous system. When I woke up, I was a new person.” I didn’t bother to mention the built-in self-destruct to ensure the device couldn’t fall into enemy hands, so there was not need to explain how it would also destroy my brain stem and turn me into a vegetable. “What is it like?” It was Lt. Oliver. The poor bastard had never received internal augmentation. Sometimes I wonder if the unaugs were even a part of the same species, their lives were so very different. “It was like I had been color blind my entire life, and now I was a tetrachromat. Sensory overload was instantaneous. I was not physically stronger like the M77 augmentation would have made me, but my perception and reflexes were magnified to the nth degree. It took a total of seven months to acclimate to my new and improved body. I had to learn how to walk again, how to run. Once I relearned how to chew solid foods I discovered that my sense of taste was incredibly refined. The next day they tried to poison me with a non-lethal dose of arsenic. I spit the food out because I could taste it. I could call a coin in the air with 100% accuracy. I could actually perceive how fast it was rotating, the arc of its trajectory, and the other variables necessary to plug into the required equations all within a single second. “My mind was improved. It was impossible to increase my organic IQ, but, like my body, thoughts flowed with increased clarity and speed. Language was an imperative skill for my job. While in Aug School I learned Portuguese in two 34

days while recovering from surgery. That was easy. I grew up with Spanish. Farsi, German, and Russian took a few weeks of classes each. Mandarin was by far the most difficult, but I had it fully mastered in a month.” Lt. Oliver’s jaw was hanging open. He had no idea. What can you expect when you lead a bunch of Grunts in Power Armor and the only meaningful metric is the ability to smash things.

“If any of us were going to blow our brains out, it would be him.” Perhaps he could sell the rights to his story and get it turned into an action flick. The Last War, they could call it. Was I being unfair? Yes, of course I was. I sighed and carried on with my story. “The truly impressive thing about the entire process was that I still looked exactly the same as when it had first started. The only major indication of alteration was a light scar on the back of my head that even a tight military hair cut hid with ease. “My first station was with the 12th Armored Infantry Division at Fort Helix, Nevada and the 405th BSTB. I was still there on 22, June 2190. A few days later, I was one of the first boots on the ground in nice, sunny Egypt.” 35

That got some reactions from the rest of the group. “The first few months in Egypt had been a shit storm with casualty rates for most units around 15%. The Caliphate had established an electromagnetic disruption field throughout the entire Nile region in an effort to save civilians from the fighting. It took the EU and NORAM three months to convince them that was a very bad idea. It was during that time that the first of my friends, Spc. Villavicencio was killed in action.” Pause for dramatic effect; add a bit of a waver to the voice for the psych-eval. I really didn’t give a shit about Spc. Villavicencio; he was just some unlucky grunt who happened to catch a bullet while next to me. No, I’ll just take a shadow of a memory from a different time, from when she died and… and that did it. “It happened in an instant that lasted for hours.” Oh, this was real; once again I felt the scorching sun on my back, the percussive ringing in my ears, the smell of gunpowder. I wanted to stop this memory, but there was no stopping. “There was no bang, she just grabbed my hand as if she had just tripped and there was a terrible look in her eyes. She didn’t have time to speak, but her eyes—they spoke of such longing and regret and…” Love. That was the final thing to flicker through her eyes. I caught her before she hit the ground, but she was already dead in my arms. The others in the circle were quiet. I had broken the unspoken rule. We were not actually going to reveal the truth of our anguish. Now all of the others had to face their own past. Cpt. Michael clearly didn’t know what to do with the situation. He had no training on how to approach actual catharsis. Fortunately for him, the session would be over soon and we would no longer be his problem. At the end we filled out an exit survey. The final question asked what I planned on doing once I was fully discharged. In the given space, I scratched with the cheap ball-point pen a single word: colonist. 36

Listen By MaKenna Conley

I pray and I wait for someone to see me But your eyes, they just look right through me And my words unspoken will tear me apart ‘Cause I want to say something but I just can’t, get, them, out Every touch sends shivers down my spine Not a joyous gain, But the expectance of pain Because I remember someone else who touched me this way Not out of love or respect, But out of disdain, and I regret that I can’t tell you how I feel or how to help Because I don’t know myself I Am A Stranger So I lock it all away and put on a mask So you don’t have to see what I feel, It’s all just a mess. My pain is my own and I don’t want to share it, Don’t want you to hurt or to fear what may never come But I do... I do, though it makes no sense 37

That’s just how it is. So no longer will I wear my heart on my sleeve, But in a cage way down in the sea ‘Cause I already feel like I’m drowning And this just fits me And I’ll sit in the dark where the light never reaches Where the light never reaches And when I try to escape it only hurts me There are eyes in the dark that only I see And they chase me and hound me They close in around me I’ll turn to my left and to my right But the only way out is to turn round and fight So I reach for a sword, but find only a blade It won’t hurt them, but it might hurt me If I give it the power, if I just give in Maybe if I surrender I can finally win So I press the cold blade to skin And say to myself “So, this is how it begins…” Depression, It’s a special kind of pain The kind that drags us in while we push others away If my body was broken, then you’d rush to my side But because it’s my spirit, you just try to hide You don’t want to see something that you know you can’t fix

So you try to pretend that it doesn’t exist But it does! And I know it, and I feel it’s dark grip It’s a hand at my throat It’s a knife at my back It’s the thing that watches every single step I take Doesn’t let me go Doesn’t let me forget ‘Cause it’s there everyday Finding new ways to hurt me and pull me away So when I push you away, know that I need you to stay To stay and to fight with me I don’t care what you do, what you say Just stay, Stay You just have to sit Just have to be near me Hold my hand, and please don’t fear me Don’t fear my pain, Because I can do that on my own I need you to be strong, Need you to tell me to hold on ‘Cause I’m slipping away, and I’m crying out Won’t you stop for a second, and just hear me out!

Hellâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Rest By Tim Jackson

Pins and needles By Kassi Strano

Pins and needles. poking, prodding discomfort I only wish to cover my ears when I see the corners of your lips part to make a sound. I never understood how sound could be “ear-bleedingly loud” until I listened to the silence that often follows your sharp, cutting criticism. Like a wounded dog, your bark feels to me, more like a bite. You say I am too sensitive. that I overreact to words that you don’t actually mean. am I? Maybe. I may never really know. So like pins and needles stabbing into the soft fleshy skin of an old pin cushion I will inhale only before you speak, and just maybe I will exhale, when you finally stop piercing me. 41

A Letter to My Younger Self By Deborah Landers

I can’t remember a time when you were not afraid. We started young in our fear, didn’t we? And you wore it like an invisibility cloak. The same year you found your passion, You were damaged by heedless words And thoughtless actions. But you took everything that hurt you— Everything that tried to make you feel— And pushed it deep inside so no one else could see it. I understand better than anyone How easy it is to withdraw into that safe internal world And shut the door behind you. You were an expert in who to trust and who to avoid, A true savant in verbal deflection. I know you hate the day that “I’m fine” became a joke And the fear and self-loathing behind it the punchline. I hate the day that just going to your locker Was an act of courage. Looking back, I know that all the stories you dreamed— Where the library had a magic portal And you could disappear through it— They came from the moment that you realized it was safe there. When those doors held the monsters at bay, It became harder to leave that world behind 42

And re-enter the winter wasteland beyond. But doors were only safe until they were locked on you, And you looked back, Like some horror movie heroine, At the fear that you had to face. I remember the corners you hid in And the masks you put on. I remember how every pass from the insistent counselor Felt like a firebrand in your fingers And how that long empty hallway to her office Made you feel like a prisoner on Death Row. But I think those little green slips With their unwieldy summons Made all the difference in who I am today. What you couldn’t see in those hall passes, Which never quite lost the feeling of guilt every time they arrived, Was that someone cared enough to check up on you. Someone took time out of her day of dealing with a hundred other students To make sure you didn’t sink too deep. And you let her peek under your mask— Let her see the fragile thing that was you. Now you are my ashes, Burned by a fire I can’t quite remember, Broken down into the raw materials That have since made me. You wrote so many stories about someone getting stronger, About rising above the pain and heartbreak and saving themselves. I’m glad one of them was true.

Night in the North Woods By Blair Walsh

A Bit of Prudence (excerpt) By Deborah Landers

Prologue Scarlet O’Keefe was an outlaw. Legends abound as to how she came to be one. Some say she robbed every bank in Halifax County, others that she rustled cattle from Texas to Colorado; still others claimed that she had killed a hundred faithless men. But the stories were wrong. She only killed one man. Scarlet had been in love only once with a drifter, John, who came back every year to work on the Iversons’ ranch. When he was away, he wrote her long letters about his life on the road. About how all he was looking forward to were the weeks he spent in Galloway working with Todd Iverson to prepare for the cattle run. But Scarlet was a pretty young woman, one of the prettiest in Galloway. She was tall and slender, and she always dressed in blue to set off her eyes. Her bronze colored hair rippled down her back like wind in the trees. She turned every male head as she walked down the street, including Sheriff Mitchell’s. So when Scarlet’s drifter returned that year and started talking about settling down with her in Galloway, when Scarlet started wearing the red scarf John gave her for her birthday, Sheriff Mitchell let his temper take over. And Scarlet learned the hard way why men with power cannot be trusted. People said it was an accident when the cattle stampeded and crushed Scarlet’s lover. But some said that they had heard a gunshot that set them off. Everyone had their suspicions, but the sheriff confirmed them all while he was drinking one night. He complained about the fact that Scarlet still acted so frosty to everyone now that her lover was dead, that he “would’ve killed him sooner if I thought it would help.” 45

The sheriff outlawed Scarlet, effective immediately, throwing her out of the only community she had ever been a part of. No one in the town believed that it was legitimate, so they all covered for her when she came back in from the badlands to meet old friends. Sheriff Mitchell found out about her visits and lay in wait for her. For a couple weeks, she avoided him—and then she got caught. Sheriff Mitchell was found dead the next day, shot with his own gun in the jail, half-dressed and thoroughly compromised. Not that his reputation mattered much anymore.

“And Scarlet learned the hard way why men with power cannot be trusted.” Another sheriff was brought in from out of town, with no connection to Scarlet or the people. With the murder of the previous sheriff against her, Scarlet’s status as an outlaw stood. So Scarlet embraced it. She started working with the other outlaws living in the badlands, getting in on bank robberies, springing friends from jail when they got caught, using her outlaw status to help people when she could. But she never quite left Galloway. A lot of the mischief she got up to happened in or near town, plaguing Sheriff Bailey to no end. 46

Chapter One: A Different Perspective

I bet you thought this story was going to be about Scarlet. In another universe, it might have been. And technically that story is about her. But this one is about me: Sheriff Bailey. I have never been anywhere, never done anything. I was literally born yesterday when our author came up with the idea that is me. I am not a person—which raises the question in your minds as to what I am. I am a figment of Jonathan’s imagination, Jonathan being the aforementioned author. I am the sheriff of a small town called Galloway—which if it were a little bigger, it would actually take five minutes to walk from one end to the other. I wish I could describe myself to you, but I can’t see myself. It’s not for lack of a mirror—Lord knows there are enough puddles and ponds and glass around here for me to see my reflection. The problem is in my appearance itself. I don’t have any distinguishable features. When I see my reflection, it’s a bit like I’m half blind because my whole body is a fuzzy kind of blur. The only thing I know for sure about myself is that I am female. There’s some kind of unwritten clause that I’m not supposed to be susceptible to any of Scarlet’s tricks, most of which stem from her using her beauty and feminine wiles to the utmost, and so I am female. I saw Scarlet a few times—from a distance. But I can never get very close. Even though I can’t recognize myself when I see my reflection in the glass, she always can. And she always runs. I can’t tell you how much I actually want to meet her. I mean, she’s the hero of the story! And I’m… that makes me… wait… the villain? The antagonist? Sorry, I was just created, so I don’t quite understand all the roles yet. But story structure is something built into all of us figments. Even someone as important as Scarlet. This is the exposition, in which Scarlet is introduced as the principle character—the protagonist. And I’m the obstacle? That can’t be right….

Apparently I am the villain, which would explain why she is always running from me. But I didn’t do anything to her. I think I need to find a way to talk to Jonathan. Jonathan Reeves was having trouble writing his western. He had millions of great ideas for plot twists, but no way to implement them. He already had a plan for the climax. But how was he supposed to get there when he couldn’t even get past the first chapter? And why was the sheriff the villain—no, wait, the sheriff is supposed to be the villain in Scarlet’s eyes. “Yeah. Scarlet has a problem with authority figures now. She’s not just going to start listening to a new sheriff considering how bad the last one was.” Maybe I should write a little bit more about the new sheriff, Jonathan thought, putting pen to paper for the seventeenth time in the past five minutes. “No, it’s Scarlet’s story. Besides, the new sheriff has to be obscure so the reader doesn’t know what to make of Sheriff Bailey.” He wrote one word, crossed it out violently, then crumpled up the paper and tried again. Why was the damn thing so hard to write? Jonathan sighed at the pile of crumpled paper balls that were beginning to take over the corner with the trash can. “I think I need to call it a night.” Well, that didn’t work. Apparently being a figment in Jonathan’s head is just that. He won’t listen to me. He almost wrote about me, but almost isn’t enough. “I’m not evil,” I tell no one in particular. “I’m not a villain.” There’s never anyone around to hear when I say something. Since Jonathan wants to keep me a mystery, I guess it’s up to me to have something to show for it when I stop being one. I started with my appearance. Here, it’s adaptable and we have some control over it, like trying on clothes. But since Jonathan hadn’t written hardly anything about me, I can try on size and shape the way the other figments like Scarlet can experiment with their hair and clothes. 48

I tried being as tall as the doorway first, but I kept running into it every time I tried to use it. So I measured myself against the doors of the saloon, coming just high enough to be even with the topmost point of the swinging doors and just short enough that I could still hide behind them. I got a lot of funny looks from some of the figments while I was working on this. They don’t typically see people grow four inches in a few seconds then

“Okay, technically it is a dream world, but it’s the only one we have.” shrink down by a foot only a few moments later. I decided to do the rest of the experimentation in the jail house, which serves as my work, my place of residence, and the purpose of my existence. I have a cot in the back with the cells. I think it may have been for a deputy to keep an eye on any prisoners, or for the sheriff and deputy taking watch in shifts. But I don’t have a deputy or a designated place to stay or a solid back story. One of the only things that Jonathan has written into my part is how little I know the community. I don’t know anyone, and none of them actually trust me because they know Scarlet. It’s getting better, but it doesn’t change the fact that no one really cares that I sleep in the cells. 49

I’m sure if Scarlet got her way, I would get locked in “accidentally” one night and the keys would be “lost”. And no one in this whole damn town likes me enough to let me out right away. The previous sheriff must have been a vain person because he had three mirrors around the jail house: a hand mirror in his desk, a small one next to the gun cabinet, and another right above my cot. Considering he was slighted by the fact that Scarlet didn’t love him as much as he loved himself, I think my supposition is supported by canon. I start experimenting with hair color first, from the normal to the raucous. Though plain, it seems that brown hair suits me best. Blue and green would make me stand out too much, and I don’t want to reinforce any ideas about my villainy by adopting black into my already dark color palette. It’ll be a lot of tans and browns, but at least that will lend me more ambiguity than black. Next I try different lengths and styles. From hair so long I could use it as a blanket to so short it’s barely there. I finally settled on a style that was short, soft, fluffy, and framed my face. My appearance was starting to come together, but I was still only the memory of a person. My hands became thick and strong, a mouth and nose took shape on my face. The mouth was small which I approximated to be average lips. The nose, too, was some facsimile of the average, neither too wide to be memorable nor too small to be considered cute. The clothes remained the same because, to Jonathan, I was more of a costume than a character. I wore pants of softened leather because this was the West and, if anyone was going to get around on horseback as part of their living, pants were a good thing to have for riding. My boots, too, were made of leather, undecorated and comparable to any other man’s boots—which were made for work and comfort, not for style. I had a cotton weave shirt that might have been white once, but had since turned as tan as the dust that forever clung to it. To complete the outfit, I had a dark brown vest and a leather long coat that hung 50

around my calves. Add to that a wide brimmed hat that hides my face and I am a close substitute for the Old West that Jonathan wants so desperately to capture. Last detail of all is the silver, six-pointed sheriff’s star, battered with time and abuse, forever pinned to the vest, right above my heart. Now I could focus on my eyes. Somehow I know that they are the most important part of me—important because I see with them and because I am seen. I tried blue first, like Scarlet’s eyes, but it’s terrifying to see her staring back at me out of the mirror. A rich brown, though beautiful, forces me to melt into the background, and I am supposed to be distinct. At least, I think I am. Violet is too surreal, grey is too hard, black is practically demonic... And then there’s green. I wouldn’t say perfect or beautiful. Simply fitting. When I look in the mirror, it’s as if they were always there and I can only just see them now. And now I am whole. I started admiring how the fuzziness around my form was going away. I should really have watched where I was going. I didn’t know there were other stories until I ran into one. She was taller than me, wearing a pink tunic and wrapped in a white toga with gold trim. Her sun-bleached hair had been gathered at the crown of her head and hung down from it in ringlets. She didn’t seem to notice as I stammered an apology. While it looked like she was staring at me, I could feel her gaze going through me. “Uh, hi. I’m Sheriff Bailey.” “Yes, I know who you are. I know who you are there, too.” Her voice was far away, as if this was a dream world and she was grounded somewhere out in reality. Okay, technically it is a dream world, but it’s the only one we have. “What is your name?” I asked as politely as I could. Just being around this woman made me fight the urge to stammer or talk too fast. 51

“Ithaca. My story is sometimes a new Greek myth, sometimes a story of freedom in a world of confining structure. He hasn’t quite decided yet. Some days, I am praising the gods of Olympus, others I am hiding trinkets behind a false wall, hiding my best self behind a mask of indifference and separation from my fellow man.” No wonder she was a bit weird; I would be too if Jonathan kept changing my story. But I didn’t see why she couldn’t just talk normally instead of the artful language that Jonathan was always trying to use. “What is your full name?” she asked. “I told you. It’s Sheriff Bailey.” I was still so new; I only figured out what she was talking about in that moment. But she is a lady of quality and waited for me to reach the conclusion without belittling my intelligence. “I don’t have one,” I confessed. And that admission hurt; I wasn’t sure why, but it did. I had just spent a long time figuring out how I would look, but I didn’t even know who I was. I was just Sheriff Bailey, Scarlet O’Keefe’s antagonist. Ithaca patted my arm, more in the moment than she had been a few moments before. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Jonathan means well, he really does. He just doesn’t understand what we are here, hovering in between existence and nothingness. He doesn’t know that even the most perfect world is sad.” She was the first person I had really talked to, other than myself, so that idea took root in my head. This is a sad world, one where only sad things can happen, and here I was pretending that everything was fine! “Goodbye, Sheriff Bailey. I hope to see you again and learn your name.” I waved to her, lost in my own thoughts. Why could no one else see this, that our world is sad? Maybe... Maybe it wasn’t sad for them, maybe they could live their lives unburdened by those thoughts. And maybe they should. They were all too big or too small to be hurt. But I, for whatever reason, was the size of a human. Small enough to be missed and big enough to be hurt.

Costa Rican Paradise By Blair Walsh

Red Rocks of Sedona By Blair Walsh

Nostalgia By Hannah Mierow

He clung to his childhood like the thinning threads of the tetherball rope, hoping, maybe someday, someone would play with him again.

He Was A Skydiver By Forrest Nameniuk

A man out of time. You were fifty-seven when I was born. At that age I’m lucky to have been spawned. When you’d pick me up from school, smelling of cigarettes and cornhusker’s lotion, the other kids thought you were my grandpa. But never did I lie and say you were. You were sixty something when you gave up booze. After the heart attack. When you drove your dying self to the hospital, and after you snuck out to walk home from it alone a few days later. You tough bastard. Your hands were big and rough and never idle. The way a man’s hands should be I suppose. I don’t remember if you ever read me a story, but I’ve memorized hundreds of the yarns you’d spin. If only I could tell them as well as you. You were seventy-four when you died. There are times I wonder if God made Leukemia just for you ’cause he knew there was nothing else that could kill you. You were many men over many years. 56

If only I knew you when you were young. When you looked like Don Draper. When you were a skydiver. When you still had dreams. I only had you for a short while. But at least, thankfully, I had you.

Salmon River By Sylvan Clark

Dignity By Steven Barry

It’s hard to look like you are going somewhere when you are where you are going. The streets filled with others like you, grimy, proud, hopeless, hungry, and starved for a glance, a greeting, a buck, not a sneer or looks reminding you of your invisibility. Blind-sided by “get a job.” You scuzz not spoken but there on the tongue’s tip. Always hungry, not starving, but hungry for fresh, a leisurely meal without shouts and slamming of fists and jumbled talking to someone no one sees. Napkins of linen, not paper, white linen if you had any say, and starched, sans any stains as it lies unfolded on your lap. For the uncounted time the shuffler— you have names for the regulars— blocks your path, trolling for cigarettes, shuffling on when you remind him, once again, you don’t smoke.

-2You plan no further than that day, tomorrow brings you knots of despair, of uselessness, of more grime, of being a throwaway, of how fucking tired you feel and how much your damn feet hurt. The shoes, they were free but cheap is cheap and you took them anyway without pause, stuffed under your coat and walked out, ready to sprint away with the first hint they were on to you. You stink. You don’t smell it as it’s you. You can get accustomed to anything if you have to, but you stink. People scoot clear of you, frowning, noses scrunched in disgust. It’s not like you pee on yourself there are those, but sweat on sweat on more sweat gets rank and a daily shower is a pipe dream, what with that interminable wait for tokens, then the line for a washer and dryer, 59

and what are you supposed to do when you wear the only clothes you have? No shirt off your back from you, not when it’s your only one. -3It’s the old ones that really get to you. Tiny, barely smelly arm pit high to you, arms weighed down by bags filled with who knows what. Unnaturally wide, she wears her three coats, dressed for a blizzard in August. She doesn’t speak, but scowls and growls her warning if you come too close. She stares with fear, with distrust, unaware of the curb she tumbles off, bags scattering, revealing her books, an orange, folded plastic and paper bags, some not-so-clean socks, empty pop cans, tiny pencils held by a green rubber band. 60

You stop and offer your hand, her sand-papery paw in yours, boosting her upright as she checks her knees—for blood? You gather her things, holding them before her like an offering as she grumbles her thanks and skitters on, where to only she knows.

Suburbanite Above the Sea of Fog By Tim Jackson

A Cosmic Whisker By Susanna Lundgren

“A team of Caltech astronomers (has) reported two black holes spiraling together in a distant galaxy...”

The apocalypse is still on: the cataclysm may have happened already three billion years ago, although the flash from the explosion will not reach us for another one hundred thousand years.

They are spiraling together in a fatal mating dance, a forced marriage rhythmically flickering violent ripples through the fabric of space-time, radiating lost energy as gravitational waves surge through their vast disks of surrounding gas.

In the galaxy of quasar PG-1320, three-and-a-half billion light years away, two black holes dwell, swallowing matter and energy at a fearsome rate, (while burping sparks of half-eaten stars and gas)– their twin digestions so dense that even light cannot escape.

What can come of this pas de deux of destruction? Only a cataclysmic collision of the power of one hundred million supernovae, blowing stars out of the center like leaves off a roof– the denouement, the final scene of an eternal drama: the life of one hapless host galaxy.

Italicized phrases from “A Pas de Deux of Destruction” by Dennis Overbye, New York Times, September 22, 2015

A Star in the Window By Kay Hilman

I remember when the last star turned gold. It was a hard blow to us, maybe even harder than when it happened to my cousin. Nine young men had left our town when they heard the call from the president; a call to war. I had been so proud of them, and wished I was old enough to go too. Then the first blue star changed; Tom Fuller was dead. Then John Phillips and Nat Albright were killed on the same day. Gary Thompson, Randy Rowlandson, Dave Kingman, my own cousin Harry; one by one each star in the window was covered with gold until only one remained. It was Willy Price, the same one who helped us build a snow fort the day before the world changed. He had been the first to leave after the attack in Hawaii, and he was all that was left out there fighting for our town. That was why everyone stopped when they saw they saw the black car pulling up to the Price house. Some women started to cry, but us boys just stood silent. We knew we were next. It was three weeks later that the first letter arrived. It was addressed to Mrs. Price, but it wasn’t long before everyone left in town read it. It told of Willy’s bravery, saving a friend from a German grenade. It was just something Willy would do, and we were grateful that we could get some closure. I don’t know why Mrs. Price wrote back, but some weeks later she got a reply and we found out just who Willy had saved. His name was Ben York and he wasn’t much older than Willy had been. He had no family, not even a hometown to speak of, and had joined the war rather than keep riding the rails. Ben claimed not to be brave or strong, just fighting to keep himself alive. Not someone worthy of Willy’s sacrifice. 63

It was Mrs. Miller that wrote next, telling Ben not to lose heart, that what he was doing mattered. Ben wrote back and thanked her, saying her words helped. That was when the floodgates opened. Every mother who lost a son sent Ben a letter or package. Mrs. Wallace must have sent him enough socks to outfit the whole army. After the mothers came the widows from the Great War; they sent Ben scriptures and tokens of their affection. He wrote back to each and every one of them. I remember wondering how he could handle a gun after wearing out his hand with a pen.

“Ben claimed not to be brave or strong, just fighting to keep himself alive. Not someone worthy of Willy’s sacrifice.” Soon everyone in town was writing to Ben, telling him not to give up as the war dragged on. I wrote my letter on the Fourth of July, telling him how the picnic went and the fireworks looked. I also told him how scared I was, since I was just a few years away from being old enough to enlist. What was going to happen when I heard the call? I got my reply just before school started and Ben promised to finish the war for me so I could go to college. Ben was more than just Willy’s friend during those days. He was the son of every parent, the brother of every child. He must have sent letters to everyone in town over that year, and we kept every single one of them. But then one day, the mayor received a different letter and called a town meeting to read it. We all crowded in the skating rink, the only building big enough to hold everyone 64

at once, and listened. I can still hear his voice waver when he said those words: missing in action. I think I stopped listening because I can’t remember the condolences, just those three words, and that Ben was gone. The town could not accept it and blue stars went up in every window: blue for a soldier still living. I attended the vigils at the church and the bake sales to raise money for the army, but did it with half a heart. No one else had come back, why would Ben? Then, the war in Europe ended and we heard of prisoners being released. Suddenly there was hope. What if Ben was one of the men the Germans had captured? What if he was still alive? Two months passed without a word and hope was starting to die. The eyes of the world were now on the Pacific, but the hearts of our town stayed in Europe. Even if the world forgot about Ben, we never would. The blue stars remained in the window for our solider, still living. Always living. It was the Fourth of July, 1945, when the black car returned. The band fell silent and the town held its breath as the soldier climbed out of the car and walked right up to the stage. He said something to the mayor and was brought to the podium. This was it. His voice was quiet, even with the microphone, but it wouldn’t have mattered that day because even the birds were listening. He spoke of Ben and how much our letters had changed him. He became stronger, braver, a better soldier. We found out what had happened when Ben went missing; how he had stayed back to offer cover fire so his men could escape a German platoon, how they had got away and he didn’t. The soldier spoke of how Ben had spent months in a prison camp and how hard it was for the Germans to break his spirit. Sickness, hunger, injury; he had been forced to face them all, but he had known that he wasn’t alone. “Every night in that camp, he whispered the names of the people in this town. They gave him hope,” the soldier said, his voice cracking a little. “He knew he had to live so that he could stand before you … at this fourth of July picnic, to say thank you all for giving me something to fight for.” And that was when we welcomed Ben York home.

Solitary Bird By Ruth Reno

Handsome Great Blue Heron perched on a far reaching branch bridging a murky green pond layered with sunken tires and discarded asphalt unworthy of your presence People travel the winding country road past your camouflaged roost but I see you posed like a general in your distinguished plumage, a blue-grey feathered uniform, staring into your private sanctuary I want to ease down the bank and join you in silence but as I draw near you open your wide spanned wings Ee ee ee and fly through the trees leaving me, the intruder

I will watch for your return and respect your distance, waiting with a Nikon eye Solitary bird, You like it like that

Procrastinator’s Poem By Nadia Nelson

Life is full of happiness and sorrow I think that’s good I’ll write more tomorrow.

Lightning Rod By Arthur Kelly

At the peak of an old weathered and sagging house, separate, standing still, iron straight, ready, it spikes upward calling attention to itself by its attention, tension It is purposeful though often forgotten, not thought about. (As obvious and as ignored as a cross until Good Friday when we suddenly remember to say thanks before averting our eyes.) Maybe once a year we check to make sure it is attached, wired, grounded.

Suddenly important vital: a grace that reminds us that without or with grace, the place is dangerousâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; and also that with grace even danger can be lovely.

Usually forgotten until the storm; remembered because of the storm. For one moment beautiful as great blue arcs of energy absorbed, diverted from more vulnerable targets, transferred to the ground (at what grace for house and tree and others; at what cost for iron). 69

Field of Bear By Kathy Covey

The Prodigal By Susanna Lundgren “Never seek to tell thy love, love that never told can be For the gentle wind does move silently, invisibly. I told my love…all my heart, trembling cold in ghastly fears– Ah, she doth depart.” –William Blake

Like magic, like an answer to vain prayer, you appear at the sliding glass door – furry stripéd tumbleweed, you roll in, whining your appropriation of the tuna bowl.

Oh, Beatrice, where have you been these four weeks? Eating well at another’s table? By this vanishing act, you have indulged your antipathy for the feline INTERLOPERS Simone and Céline with no regard for my feelings and fears. Did you not for one minute think of me, picturing you in some fatal FACE > < OFF with a coyote in the canyon?

O fickle Bea! One bite of tuna, one swallow of crunchy kibble, then it’s off again, but not before, on your way out the door, I’ve captured you in my iPhone to prove your momentary presence. One day soon, will you not re-appear (oh please, oh please) to stay, stay, stay – O faithless one.

Alaskan Fireweed By Kathy Covey

Prayer Book By Forrest Nameniuk

In the chapel of Good Samaritan Hospital there is a prayer book. A weary black journal placed to record the ongoing psalms of imprisoned patients and those poor in spirit. Its bed a table, beside the Bible and below the cross. Its home a quiet room, small and dimly lit. A cathedral of humility. I pick it up and let my fingers fumble through pages once crisp and chaste, now frayed and forlorn with reverent howls. My tired eyes trample through, lingering on some lines while giving mere glances to most. Fervent cries of desperate authors seeking a higher and far less helpless audience than I. Flipping farther, a jagged stump amidst the huddled mass of pages. A page ripped away. A prayer taken back. As if it were a coin reclaimed from the wishing well. As if it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t enough to regret the wasted ink. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re all here. Praises. Pleas. Demands. Shards of hope hanging by a thread, pleading with the thread holder, screaming devotion. An unsettling solace to the hollow smiles of fatigued nurses. 73

I return the book, open. Its twin blank pages like arms eager to embrace. I see my way out. Surrendering the sanctuary to the next stranger to stumble upon and consecrate its humble altar. My thoughts wander down the hall and I follow. Midnight draws close in the ICU. The clock ticks and the fluid drips. I kneel beside her bed, the stain of ink on my hands. Blessed is he who is content with the time he has, the rest of us have our prayers.

Tulips at Night By Sean Musaeus

World Building By Deborah Landers

If I should build a story I’d fill it full of mirrors So that frame by frame, As each reflection walks by, I could see the monster in my glass. I would do more than spin straw into gold For though I’d populate a land with tragedies Both great and small, I would embroider laughter on every lip, Carve understanding into every heart, Build stone by stone a kingdom Where difference does not create an alien, For my monsters are made of pain. If I should write a fairy tale, I’d ink redemption on the villain’s skin, Give the hero a gift of surpassing compassion Because fairy tales should not be tragedies For the people on the other side.

I would plant a forest of forgotten dreams, Turn wishes into herb gardens And water them with tears. But love I would make last of all and every day For love is young And falls too soon To be created only once.

Horseshoe Bend By Blair Walsh

Teachers By Rachel Chamberlain

They stand there and teach Dreaming of vacation on the beach Telling us our history They perceive students a mystery Wondering at their audacity While rocking to Bohemian Rhapsody Grading papers throughout the day They encounter headaches along the way Yelling at kids they pop a vein Questioning themselves how theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re still sane Passing on their knowledge to others While trying to control relations like their mothers Signing passes to go to the nurse or bathroom They watch us waiting for the bell signaling lunch soon Acting like crowd control in the halls Wincing whenever they hear cat calls Loving the students as their own Smiling while hearing the familiar moan Looking at the different faces that walk through their door They can only hope the students seek to learn more

Titans and Gorgons By Kay Hilman

Martin looked over his spreadsheets, trying to tune out the sounds coming from the other room. Becoming the widowed father of five rambunctious boys had endowed him with certain skills, not the least of which was deciphering an I’m-having-fun scream from an I’m-gonna-die scream. While this was something Christine could do with ease, it had taken nearly two years for him to master it. Currently all the yelling and shouting coming from the living room was safe. “Die Jason!” “You first, Tyler!” Very annoying, but safe. Still, if he didn’t get this paperwork done today he was going to have to work the weekend, the same weekend he promised to take the boys camping. But the question remained, was it worth the time and effort to tell them to keep quiet, or should he just try and tough it out? A shrill scream made up his mind for him and Martin put down his pen. Someone had crossed the line and got little Joey hurt, mad, or scared. Not that it mattered which, it still meant the end of whatever game they were playing. Though what game that was, Martin couldn’t help but wonder what had possessed them to play it. Entering the living room, he found two barricades, made up of overturned tables and chairs, creating battle lines between the older and younger boys. That alone might have been okay, if their weapons of choice had not been paint and water. Standing near the outer door, Sam and Tyler held squirt guns and the hose, respectively, with buckets and bowls holding more of their “ammo.” Both were thoroughly soaked. Across the room, Matt and Jason were hunkered down with jars of paint and armed with brushes; both smeared with colorful warpaint. On 79

top of that, Jason was sitting on his youngest brother, smearing paint on his face as the four-year-old screamed in protest. It was quite a sight, but the most accurate word he could come up with was “chaos.” Tyler saw him first, which quickly got Sam’s attention and caused a ceasefire on the water side. Matt took advantage of the break and popped up ready to strike, but he followed his brother’s line of sight and dropped his brush at his

“Martin took a deep, calming breath, as a small voice in the back of his head reminded him of his promise to Christine to be an understanding father.” feet. Jason looked up from his attack, probably to see why everyone stopped, and froze when he saw Martin. Joey either didn’t notice or didn’t care what was happening around him and continued to wail. Time seemed to stand still for several seconds before Matt seemed to realized Jason was still on top of Joey and yanked him back. Upon his release, the youngest brother jumped up and shoved his former captor before turning tearing eyes on Martin. “Daddy!” he cried, running to grab onto his pant leg with one hand while the other pointed accusingly at his paint covered brothers. “I wanna be a titan 80

but Jason made me be a gorgon and I don’t wanna be a gorgon, but Matt said if I don’t be a gorgon they’ll throw me in the lava and I don’t wanna be in the lava. I wanna be a titan with Sammy but they made me a gorgon!” Martin took a deep, calming breath, as a small voice in the back of his head reminded him of his promise to Christine to be an understanding father. However, the splotches of color on the walls, floor, furniture, and children made it pretty hard. Still, he was determined not to yell. No promises beyond that, but he was not going to yell. Instead, Martin took hold of his youngest son’s wrist, the only part of him that didn’t seem to be smeared in paint or soaked in water, and spoke in a low voice. “I am going to clean up Joey. What happens after that depends on what this room looks like when I get back.” With that, he ushered his son out of the room, hoping that the flurry of activity he left in his wake would be productive. As he scrubbed the paint off Joey, the little boy explained the game and how everything would have been fine if he had not been taken by the gorgons. However, in doing so he admitted how Jason had come up with the idea and drew the battle lines, Tyler had come up with the team names and had brought in the hose, Sam had designed and built the barriers, Matt supplied the ammo for both sides, and he had been running back and forth from the kitchen to bring his team bowls of water. That is, until his capture and transformation. “But I wouldn’t fight Sammy and Tyler. No sir,” Joey declared. “Would have just let ‘em spray me so all the paint went away. Then I would be a titan again and those gorgons would have been sorry. We would’ve gotten them, Daddy, ‘cause titans rule!” How do you like that? Up to his ears in trouble with the lot of them, and he continues to incriminate himself, as well as the rest of his brothers, in hopes that only one or two would get punished. Ah, the mind of a four-year-old; there was nothing else like it. 81

Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Wedding Dress By Tim Jackson

Passion By Dean Ober

humble hospitality for fervent malicious mockery unveiling unprecedented divinity

Reflection By Sean Musaeus

Lily, write By Ruth Reno

Lily, your reporterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s notebook long and narrow with pages of green wide lines is empty Is the truth of the pen too heavy? Is it the glare of the unused paper? What holds you back, Lily? Stories wait for you: The man on the corner holds a scribbled plea for help with a blessing; bodies lie in a compressed car while a drunk teeters on the arms of police; teens pace streets and keep night watch; Human Beings live under a bridge among strewn belongings; pain of abuse seen through eyes blackened by a parent and trapped within silent walls; food lines bend around city blocks; head to toe sleepers stretch along sidewalks huddled in cardboard against cold buildings or pressed into a car; 85

houses sit empty and families cry for a home; unrest souls seek meaning; unspoken goodness and unknown heroes are lost in mire and violence of life; hate hides in ignorance; the beauty of nature at risk by manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s carelessness and greed, and the unexpected rears its head daily; seniors sink into â&#x20AC;&#x153;donut holesâ&#x20AC;? and medical care lost in stacks of forms and high cost; the employable unemployed; safety, food and shelter sought by many; what should be done? From sea to sea pole to pole the stories should be told again and again. Roust us! Lily, write!

“It takes a great deal of courage to see the world in all its tainted glory, and still to love it.”

—Oscar Wilde

Index of Images Cover art: “ingravidos” by monchoohcnom Illustrations: “Aierbazzi” by Roberto Cecchi

Acknowledgments ASWPC Dr. Pamela Plimpton Shawna Downes Windy-Ayers Wray Minuteman Press WPC Copy Center Kathy Covey Melody Burton Humanities Department Grace Kim Derek Bradford Otto F. Linn Library Dr. Luke Goble WPC IT Department Sodexo

Staff Editor-in-Chief

Hannah Mierow Design Editor

Allison Beisley Copy Editor

Deborah Landers Media Coordinator

Naomi Fox Editorial Assistants

Kay Hilman Regina Bell Tarale Wolffe

Selena Montoya Emily Wright

Design Assistants

â&#x20AC;&#x2DC; Miguel Simon Julianna Edwardson

Naomi Fox

Volumes Volume I, 2002 Volume II, 2003 Volume III, 2004 Volume IV, 2005 Volume V, 2006 Volume VI, 2007 Volume VII, 2008 Volume VIII, 2009 Volume IX, 2010 Volume X, 2011 Volume XI, 2012 Volume XII, 2013 Volume XIII, 2014 Volume XIV, 2015

Submission Guidelines Submissions are accepted year round at WPRocinante@gmail.com. Although reading periods are subject to change depending upon the editors, expect responses during mid-Spring semester. Please attach submissions to an email containing your name, contact information (email, phone number, and mailing address), and the genre of your submissions. Do not attach your name or identifying information to your submission except in your email. Contributors may also include a short biography of 50 words or less. Poetry – limit five pieces per person. Prose – no more than 3000 words, or twelve pages double-spaced. Artwork/photography – limit ten per person. Any digital photographs must be 300 DPI and submitted without watermarks. If you are unable to submit a digital copy of your work, contact the staff via email. Any submissions without proper contact information or not adhering to the guidelines will be subject to automatic exclusion. Submissions must be the original work of the author or artist. Those submitting hard copies are responsible to claim their submissions within 30 days of the journal release party.