Writers Magazine 2006

University of Portland Writers

Moments

Spring 2006

University of Portland Writers

Moments Senior Editor: Maureen Inouye Editors: Ingrid McVanner Kat Berg Stacy Dahl Magazine Advisor: Dr. Louis Masson Published Spring 2006 COVER PHOTO BY JOHN TURNER

‘To the complaint, ‘There are no people in these photographs,’ I respond, ‘There are always two people: the photographer and the viewer.’

Ansel Adams If writers stopped writing about what happened to them, then there would be a lot of empty pages.

Elaine Liner This is the twelfth edition of Writers in all its artistic glory. It has been published to showcase the talent of writers and photographers of the University of Portland. The literary magazine has been organized by a group of editors in the English Society, a group founded in support of all literary endeavors.

The theme for this year’s journal is “Moments” because many of the pieces capture events, feelings, and joys of single instances in the lives of the writers. It is important to remember that these small moments are special – and the authors have created exceptional pieces to show this.

Enjoy, The Editors

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Table of Contents My Versions by Anne Richards . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .7 So Come on Tucson (Orion) by Caitlin Busch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .9 Getting Off at Embankment by Valerie Silliman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10 Italian Riviera by Kristin Simpson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .11 Photograph by C.J. Graves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .12 Dinner at the Commons by C.K. Egbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13 The Taste by Eric Porter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .14 A Customary Answer by Caitlin Busch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .15 Untitled by Aaron Byer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .16 Les Chimeneés Endormies by Beth Watje . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .21 This Morning by Kelly Brown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .22 From Dawn Until Dusk by Rachel Morenz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .23 Rooftop Garden by Anna Sandgren . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .24 It Reads Like a Rap Song by Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25 Vibrant Polynesian by Thomas Le Ngo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .26 Castanet Sound by Beth Watje . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27 Last Christmas as a Kid by Rachel Morenz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .28 Untitled by John Turner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29 Pigeon Boy by Valerie Silliman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30 Repair by C.K. Egbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .33 A Quiet Protest by Anna Sandgren . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34 Restrained by C.J. Graves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .35 We Are the Dead by C.K. Egbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .36 Teratogen by Julius Calasicas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .39 Overcoming Darkness by Thomas Le Ngo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .40 A Very Long Rest by Rachel Morenz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .41 Steal Away to Bed by Amie Dahnke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .42 To Give by Anne Richards . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .43 Le Ciel Délavé by Beth Watje . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .44 Stranger by Amanda Mosher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .45 The Well by Anna Sandgren . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .49 Untitled by Bob Insley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .50 Dimples by Christine Pineda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .51 Ireland Boats and Houses by Kristin Simpson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52 The Fly by Kelly Brown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .53 Winter Sonnet by Caitlin Busch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .54 Untitled by John Turner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .55 Bear by Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .56 Love Unrequited by Eric Porter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .58 The Porcelain Doll by Kristin Simpson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .59 Gripping by Amanda Mosher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .61 ‘She’ as a Memory by Stacy Dahl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .65 Redemption by Christine Pineda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .67 Untitled by Amie Dahnke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .68 Infantry Memorial by Mackenzie Reed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .71 Without a Choice by Joseph Ritter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .72 A Lonely World by Julius Calasicas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .74 Remnants of the Lawrence Tree by Thomas Le Ngo . . . . . . . . . . . . . .76 Moonbeams by Holly Westerfield . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .77 Incandescence by Eric Porter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .80 M – by C.J. Graves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .81 Paralysis by Christine Pineda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .82 Ireland Black Kettle by Kristin Simpson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .83 Greetings by Andrew Smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .84 Crumbs of Fabio by Julius Calasicas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .86 Open by Amanda Mosher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .87

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Whoever you are holding me now in hand, Without one thing all will be useless, I give you fair warning before you attempt me further, I am not what you supposed, but far different. — Whitman

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My Versions

By Anne Richards Spontaneous. I think out of all of the words I can will to recall at this very moment, this is the one that jumps out when I think about what really irks me in life. Very few times a word and I seem to wrestle, because often when reading a book I obtain joy from being able to understand a word in context and then go on, happily comprehending. But there are these specific words that I can’t seem to put into context, because they just irk me! And spontaneity always tears me symmetrically down the middle. So I get irked in two directions because I can only seem to believe in a “verted” world.

Introverted. I’ve been studying in Europe for two months now, and I keep recalling my parents’ breeding experiment. It is creepy yet brilliant. My mother, the right-brained fiber artist with a thousand projects resting lightly on every windowsill and cupboard in our house, met my father, the left-brained chemist with buttoned-up collar shirts, sneakers, paint on his pants, and silly songs from outer space in his heart. When I prod them about something, usually stupid, that I did and am trying to pinpoint as a result of my lineage, the hybridization process surfaces every time. One half of everything mathematical, logical, and living outside the earth combined with one half of everything pumping with the creativity of several past lives that are manifesting themselves all in one single person. And that means I am now in the picture, and things should be perfect, or at least complete, but they aren’t. Now that I’m traveling, all I’ve been wanting to do for the last two months is ride silently on the bus, observe how light plays on every possible surface, keep reading books with a ferocious will of being away from it all, paint quietly along the Salzach, get up at 7 like my friend Val to take walks every day and pray, find my own corner in the center, and retreat to analyzing something inner as the day progresses. So it’s 2 months in introversion, and since I am supposedly the completed whole of two complete opposites, introversion should encompass me wholly. So when I’m in the ring with Spontaneity, I’d like to think I can leave the tracks of my dirtied traveling Newbalance sneakers on its back.

Extroverted. I’ve been studying in Europe for two months now, and my parents have created another being who is going to split. Rather than be a whole from two parts, I myself am cracked. Because I have been irked to fight spontaneity. It doesn’t seem in my nature. But then I notice that Spontaneity is wearing sneakers too, and won’t stop traveling with me, whispering sweet pushes into my ear that I have every opportunity to completely turn my life around. I can still see myself in Chartres, leaving the cathedral after passing the beauties in handkerchiefs politely holding out a cup for my extra….what, though, is what I ask myself. I have a 2 euro coin burning a hole in my pocket, and I can’t even enjoy my crisp apple on the bench outside because there’s a pressure digging into the side of my thigh. What is the worth of 2 euro, to someone needing to ask for money, but also to the Voice in my head?

Luckily a bunch of people went off to a plastic souvenir shop, because I got shoved into the ring again. Okay, so I wanted to pray in the small adoration chapel they have anyway, because I have no spiritual routine when I travel. So naturally, as the introverted person I am, I found my solitude, my corner, in the cathedral. But like the shredded shroud of Mary a few days ago that prompted me to silently, privately light a candle, I find cracks in what’s supposed to be whole. I can feel the stare of silver in my pocket again, the gem-like orbs of les femmes jolie behind me greeting tourists with the singsong bonjour piercing my back. I’m cracked and because of that there is always an abyss where I’m lost, so I cave in, shove the 2 euro into the box in front of St. Anthony, and ask for help to find the way. Ha! I have nothing left to give! Spontaneity, 7

you have not triumphed my friend, for I have acted in silence. That’s when I turned and saw what separated me from my exit. The cracked smiles accompanying wrinkled handkerchiefs on the heads of les femmes jolie. They have cracks too. And that fact swings around the money box, punching me in the face with the intensity of the light beams swirling around St. Anthony’s feet. With the nervous energy of a child asking an adult a question about the greater mystery of life forever beyond her grasp, I stood in the nave and watched my lips forming the words as les belles turn their heads toward me, “Vous etes jolie,” you are pretty, and I can’t stop, “Je vous embrace?” Can I hug you? What am I doing? I am hugging to make up for the coin echoing in the brass box, and receiving gentle words and kisses, “Vous etes gentile,” you are nice, “bonne journee,” have a great journey. 1 euro for each woman. My own currency. Spontaneous currency.

I don’t believe I can be both introverted and extroverted. Last year I was overboard in extroversion. The year before, I instinctively escaped in introversion. It’s not enough to be split. Just like my parents were sick of being a half of a whole, I don’t want to suffice with symmetry. I’m going to work on being verted. Because that’s the day I’ll finally be able to enjoy finishing an apple.

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So come on Tucson (Orion)

By Caitlin Busch So come on Tucson Let’s roll on in and let it out Let’s forget this roundabout So come on Tucson Let’s roll on out and let it in Smoky sigh with a toothy grin Feed me cactus water Paint a desert Goudin Or leave a Degas swirled in the sand These pictures like life Sing the spaces between Like Kass herself said, we’re truly mean We hold our fishbowl souls Close to our breasts And firmly enclosed in concreted chests But we lack the good lust And we fake the good life With a silenced hush-hush to some beaten wife The stigmas socially lacking Are left ever winged lip-smacking Proposals to off and to up and to Merry go round-round avoid the name Of God if to you it’s all the same No thanks to who?

Pointing fingers and shoes With whispered “you-know-who’s” Elitists put to protect and preserve But reject when conserved and fit And fight and tantrum all night Clean not be seen Easy take it easy With flashfloods and breezy Hot weather where the wind isn’t warm It’s hot and painting men Keep me off topic not Where ’tis meant to be But that’s the mystery!

How easily lost How quickly moved Like one speck of sand Upon which you blew So come on Tucson Let’s roll on in and let it out Let’s forget this roundabout So come on Tucson Let’s roll on out and let it in Where Page and Plant and Peyote Jim All come together and revel in sin No trains and no tracks There’s no looking back Welcome to Anywhere Here’s the lifestyle you lack

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Getting Off At Embankment

By Valerie Silliman The English rain has finally got me. It soaked through my coat, and my two T-shirts , American t-shirts. I’m not the only one. The floor of the tube-car is wet. I have been the girl in the American t-shirts for several days now. I’ve been riding the tube alone. First day on the tube, riding from Marble Arch to Tottenham I started naming the people in my car. Not with names. Just with the thing I could actually know about each individual. Just to find the individuals in the mass. Man with Ipod. Man with newspaper from yesterday. Loud teenage boys. Child with blue eyes. Woman with grocery sack. Girl with red hair. Man with a red book. Indian woman with nosering. Man discussing stops and line changes with his pre-teen daughters—not from London. I’ve been playing this game for days now. My eyes scan each new car full of people, and I don’t know what I’m trying to name. What it is I think I’m seeing.

What individual means, when not known individually. I’ve started to name myself, in the list of namable persons in a car. I have become one of the people in the crowd. I am anonymous, I have no context, no back story. Right now I am simply another person who got on at Tottenham and might get off at Embankment.

I’m lost. Not the sort of lost that usually happens when I try to follow a map. I know where I am. Valerie Silliman. Charing Cross, next stop Embankment. London. England. The World. The Universe. I can name myself with descriptor: American t-shirt. Red hair. Wet. Black nose stud.

Rosary in pocket. Passport, valid for another 9 years. But I don’t know what this means. I just keep riding the tube. Embankment. Switch here for the Circle Line.

I’m reading The Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man. Stephen Bloom tries to name himself. I’m not trying to name myself, I’m trying to find out what it could mean to be me. Somehow traveling, college, life right now, is a search to sort out who I am, where I belong, what I have to offer, who I offer it to. I’ve left, (but what does it mean to leave?) and I’ve gone off alone (but what does it mean to be not-alone?) and somehow expected this to help the finding of self. I talk about finding myself as if I’m Waldo. When I realize this, I’m in a crowded tube car, and I laugh aloud. People who laugh aloud in tube cars when they are alone are creepy. You’re supposed to occupy yourself with something solitary and pretend that you are not. I scan the faces to see if I missed Waldo.

I wonder if he rides the tube. He’s not in my car. Across from me is a man with very brown speckled eyes, and a grocery sack. His hands are wrinkled, and very large. One hand is resting on his left knee. I wonder if he knows who he is. If he does, I wonder if he knows what it means.

And if he knows what it means, if he knows what difference it makes.

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Italian Riviera

By Kristin Simpson

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Photograph

By C.J. Graves It was on the deck That he and I sat And ate our lunches At a table smoothed By the sanding of The salt soaked air.

I remember the salt More than anything Else about that moment It was in the stinging As we breathed it in.

It was in the grated Rasping of his laugh, The one that was felt Comforting, old, firm; As if it belonged there.

The salt and the sea Burrowed into our Skin, preserving his And polishing mine.

Rolling over me like Waves tossing glass Until it feels brushed.

This moment was once Mine, from a place I Still cling too, shared By two people I no Longer know, over A lunch I am not sure That I ever tasted.

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Dinner at the Commons

By C.K. Egbert The mutilated corpse of some vacant-eyed animal exudes its odor while wallowing in the coagulated crimson sauce on my plate, once part of a pig (I’m not sure which part exactly) that no doubt lived without comprehension of its life-purpose, now fulfilled with a side of potatoes and broccoli. Such is life — As women are meant to serve and produce children and they are called blessed that God ordained to suffer.

I’ve heard that human flesh tastes much like the flesh of a pig. But I’ve never heard of humans being farmed for consumption since we kill each other for more noble motives than mere hunger, humans the only ones capable of the higher faculties of hatred and pride.

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The Taste

By Eric Porter sink your Teeth in fast set my blood freedrink down deeply as the Taste of bitter frustration, rage and rejection rushes over your Tongue

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A Customary Answer

By Caitlin Busch A woman in Somalia had a better chance of feeding herself today.

At least there, she relied only on herself and the land she wrenched nourishment from.

The city is a far angrier creature.

After her people are spread across the globe, the woman is left without a home.

“Could you spare some leftovers?”

The dust on the street is the only carpet for her feet and her core could be unraveled with one tug at her threadbare sweater.

A familiar feeling to an unfamiliar degree. What a barren place to be.

“Are you going to eat that?” She calls and you know it is for you.

Laughter pours from lips which stand behind you. It cracks her open.

There is surrender in each thick drop, a misery greater than the soul of a whole people.

Despair croaks and shakes itself when she next cries out.

“It’s bad enough being hungry without getting laughed at. Y’all could just say no.”

Step forward with outstretched box in your hand. “Here. Have this.”

Plop of tears and quiver of lips.

She waves her cigarette in dismissal. “Nah, it’s fine.”

“Are you sure you don’t want it?”

Weaving back and forth in awkward airspace.

“No, I can’t take that; you haven’t even started eating it.”

“I already ate the other half.” Hope it helps to be honest.

Her eyes are wide and glassy. “I can’t take your food.”

“Can I leave it anyway?”

Hesitance. “Yes. Thank you. Your friends have no heart.”

Stomach like a fish being gutted, faith like knees being bashed.

Ache and embarrassment cinches muscle and bone together in your jaw.

Maybe it was nervous laughter. Still most incorrect.

Everyone has leftovers once they have a source.

‘No’ is acceptable to her. It’s a most customary answer.

You hope today wasn’t part of the end.

You did what you could do?

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Untitled

By Aaron Byer The most distinct changes are the hardest to recognize, often because when such a profound change occurs its limits stretch beyond the tertiary. Instead of simply changing emotions, often mannerisms and habits change to keep steady with emotional transformations. So it was with me; both profoundly changed and completely unaware. My life resumed precisely where I had left it. I returned to school and to the baseball team, to friends and teammates, without incident. No words were exchanged, no questions and no demands, in short: my life seemed unaltered.

Extra poles were run, extra bullpens were thrown, sit-ups, workouts, film sessions: all were made-up without questions. I showered, dressed, and walked a desolate hall to my locker; it seemed that in a week the entire student body had disappeared. Books, binders, and spikes re-assumed their places with apathetic ease. … “…surrounded by zillions of blades of grass, chalks lines, and towering beacons of light I sat without sound. Stricken by the searing realization of the utter desolation man can create through the cultivation of nature.

Taking something once the haven of field mice, ground squirrels, pine, and oak, and creating instead a literal field of dreams. For it was built, and people came: into this otherwise unappealing neighborhood, known if not for its soccer than for its crime, its poverty, its death.

Though, none of those around us can do more than dream of being in our shoes. Is this some ominous consequence for the desolation we’ve wrought? What other creature could turn such a pristine location into a machine of fiscal accruement? What other creature troubles itself with the fiscal? Yet, even as ‘our fair institution’ continues its dominance (evidenced by the purchase of property west of campus along the river) the surrounding area continues its stagnance. “Teaching, faith, and service,” what are we teaching, while we faithfully assume our righteousness, serving nothing other than our own needs. Those who run this university claim we are a beacon of light to this area; something to be proud of, I claim we are only a mark of heresy; an abnormality which reminds those around us only of what they can not attain.”

Applause, a smile, the professor checks his watch, class dismissed.

Congratulations in the hall, praise for such a “fine speech,” it means nothing, I feel nothing because of it, but I return each with a modest “thank you.” I too check my watch, though I never see the time. Around me, students zip coats, or put on gloves, and nearly every one wields a cell phone as they walk down the stairs. No books, no gloves, no phone; sun-glassed and rigid I exit.

This time of year, when the air bites and the wind stings, the sky loses it color and becomes instead a mesh of black, white, and blue.

Clouds envelop clouds, while the sun fades from memory. Early morning no longer brings sunrise, instead day is signaled by a slowly growing sense of light. Though it takes no definite form; day emerges from night as black becomes gray becomes the white of the day’s sky.

Campus assumes a foreboding calm as animals disappear, sensing the air’s stinging bite. Trees retract their foliage, attempting to shelter their trunks in otherwise expansive limbs. We too change; lips tighten, conversation shortens, even while steps quicken. There is a sensation of ominous acknowledgement: summer is gone, and winter is swift approaching. It will take months for leaves to fade, wither, and fall, yet it takes only an evening to change every creature. …

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Dark and pervasive, jazz hung in the air, swirling away the eddies of faint conversation. Our backs to the music, Emily and I sat, calmly. An observer would have taken us for cordial—gracious and permissive in our demeanor—though our words betrayed a trite and tenuous relationship. A summer of passion had faded into a fall of resentment and reproach. We, like our food, had cooled, now sitting, useless and neglected.

Obsession had faded to obligation, fascination into frustration. Around us, waiters served dishes fresh from the kitchen, still flaming in the remnants of their alcoholic preparation. Couples interlocked fingers, exchanged kisses, and moved closer to one another in gluttonous anticipation. My gaze wandered, table-to-table, though nothing seemed appetizing, nothing seemed as appealing as it once was.

Lightning crashed again, closer this time, stealing my interest. As is always the case in early November along the Willamette River, a torrential rain enveloped the city this past week. Drowning away the radiance of fall’s splendor, the rich reds and browns muddied into a saturated mass of gray, wet earth. Color faded as quickly as it ripened, gone without a moment to savor its brilliance. The same richness which signaled the late autumn harvest, and the fruition of a summer’s labor, now cast down among the cold, steel grating, which we all skip across in haste.

I glanced again at my dish, but no interest endured. Bored, apathetic, and thoroughly disillusioned, I raised a glass, more an homage than honor, and began my explanation in earnest.

“It’s hard to say when I became aware, though it’s hard to remember how I felt before. When a person realizes their life is their own; to be used as they choose, they except nothing less than autonomy. My life has become a revolution of events, from stable to chaotic, inescapable.

And so I was, to a point, asleep (at least dozing): complacent and content with my security. Ascending and descending with equal apathy.

Perhaps not really ascending, progressing steadily towards co-dependence, powerless and reliant.”

“What are you even saying? Who talks like that?” A soft ringing echoed her anxiety, as she ran her lip along the rim of her glass, mixing Syrah and crystal into a mellow opus of nervous tension.

“Simply, unequivocally, I’ve changed.” Silence, a missed beat, a sudden breath…and as quickly, her timorous desire was gone—passion replaced by abrupt anger. She rose, swiftly though without haste, swung, and left the table without a parting glance.

I remember storms of my youth as powerful, dynamic, and more than a bit terrifying. Our towering malamute hiding her head beneath her paws even as I dug further into her mass of matted fur, cowering beneath the table together. I remember lightning illuminating the kitchen, though I pressed my eyes shut hoping to escape the day-nightlight. Waiting, palms sweating with tension, anxious for the thunder’s break: the storm’s fury bellowing rain, thunder, lightning without recess, one, two…how long till the thunder was close enough for there to be no pause? It seems storms have lost their power. The simultaneous fury of thunder and lightning I remember from my youth has been replaced by a methodic beat of raindrops. While the earth is no less wet, I’ve not since sought the shelter of a sturdy kitchen table. And I wonder: has the storm lost its fervor, or have I rather lost my awe?

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I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable.

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. — Whitman

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Les ChimeneĂŠs Endormies

By Beth Watje

21

This Morning

By Kelly Brown I watched you sleep this morning Between the hours of nine and eleven.

I touched your face just to watch your eyelashes flutter— Your long, transparent eyelashes— And to hear you sigh, that soft, childlike murmur that I’d sell my soul to hear.

Maybe I already have.

There was a thin seam of spittle that sealed your closed mouth, And it would bubble as you exhaled, Emitting a faint pop!

This is what held my attention for so long, The frothy spit between your perfect lips.

It’s funny how something like saliva can make me realize you’re human.

It’s strange how I can love you so much for drooling in your sleep.

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From Dawn until Dusk

By Rachel Morenz I. Feeling withered by the day.

Fingers ache from playing too much e-mail tag.

Butt is numb from sitting in rigid desk chair for 10.78 hours.

Feet are blue because forgot to wear sheepskin boots to office air conditioned to 32 degrees F. Heart is beating as rapidly as the steady stream of negative thoughts in head.

Soul is not there.

Soul is not there.

But night must come and evening precedes it.

II. Feeling nourished by the evening.

Fingers fly over ivory piano keys tinted gold by stream of light shooting through west window.

Butt shakes as body dances in house on wooden floor waxed by the amber sun.

Feet are a fleshy pink because are bathing in the warmth of 6:23 pm luminosity.

Heart is still as mind is still.

Soul is present.

Soul is present.

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Rooftop Garden

By Anna Sandgren

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it reads like a rap song

By Anonymous

I may be an artist. I may be an activist. I may be the hardest working pacifist in the shape of a masochist.

I may lamely walk about a world that ignores the poor unfortunate boys and girls who drive bores into their open sores.

I may aimlessly flux, shifting with the wind.

I may buckle under the weight of a crux stapled to a savior’s shins.

I may partake in the breaking of Protestant bread. I may press the weight of my heel onto the supple flesh of a child’s head.

I can do anything.

The crest grows eternal as an ingested drug’s burning heat sears the face of some maternal Image…

That I never acknowledged as a mother.

I may be a poet. I may be the other.

I may be smothered under the tensions of the world that found me drunk on the bottom bunk on a mattress stuffed with stolen bounty.

But now that I rise to face the brighter day’s last reflection I realize that maybe I’m an image of my introspection.

And so, if I break my legs to stop my dancing then go with bloody stumps into a crowd of lovers freely prancing, what will I be? What will I have become?

Another huffing puffing nothing remembering when I could run.

And all the things I may be crash, flashboiled by reality. I am nothing but my vanity And nothing And nothing.

25

Vibrant Polynesian

By Thomas L. Ngo

26

Castanet Sound

By Beth Watje As the yolk sun warmed the El Camino, I recognized Gonzales in the smell of young onion skins seeping through slats of air conditioning.

Mid-morning sent yellow shafts through his hospital window.

Grandpa smiled, a cautious mover robed in light cotton wired to unsynchronized machines, a beeping chorus of frogs. no pretense, no embarrassment, no wasted fill We pass a tree with castanet leaves fluttering with irregular faint clicks like the numbers by Grandpa’s bed: 85, 120, 175, 103, 90, 134 and on and on.

Gnarled oak trunks peppered San Miguel.

Smudging the window pane— there is a desert below a hawk whose wing catches the air and trembles.

We leave horse head pumps thirsting for dark oil, each rising and dipping on its dark fulcrum.

Halved and whole, I am in the black road between amber hills.

I am in the words parting between my Nani’s trembling lips.

I am fragile like her fingers that once held her castanets coaxed from their wooden box, chattering near the edge of my memory.

27

Last Christmas as a Kid

By Rachel Morenz January 1.

10 AM. Groan.

Eyes barely open, two slits like tiny cuts inflicted on construction paper by my little sister’s hands.

Yawn.

Suck in too much of the sugary sunlit air and practically choke on the aroma of stale Christmas tree.

Miniscule flecks of deep brown dust from the decaying bark hang like ornaments in the cavern of my nose.

Sneeze.

Mechanically pluck the glistening silver and red bulbs from the tree’s branches and toss into cardboard box crafted before Christ. ting, clunk, ting, clunk.

Rapidly unravel string of lights, stripping the tree of its most prized accessory.

Sigh.

Grab tree at the waist and lift.

It panics, shedding nearly all its needles.

Proceed to deposit tree in trashcan, a manmade coffin.

Cry. Sweep needles slowly into cheap metal dustpan.

Memories accompany each flick of my wrists, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

28

Untitled

By John Turner

29

Pigeon Boy

By Valerie Silliman The pigeons fill Trafalgar square like cobblestones. The mist today was light, and the pigeons, good English pigeons, had accepted it as the basic substance of air and were pecking about. A little boy stood at the edge of square of pigeons, with his father. He stopped to watch, and his father stopped beside him. The little boy was still, very still for a moment, and then let go of his father’s hand, and then charged off through the square, flailing his arms. A pigeon or two fluttered aside to let him pass. He stopped, and looked back and forth, confused at the birds, who had learned to ignore people as well as rain. The path between the boy and his father closed as the pigeons scuttled around. He looked down, and couldn’t see his feet. He lifted his right foot, and shook it. Then he lifted his left, shaking it in turn. He stood still again, and the people of the square stopped to watch him.

Couples, chatting and smoking on the balcony of The National Gallery stopped smoking, their cigarettes paused in air for a moment. An Asian man let his camera arm fall to his side, his wife standing, poised for a picture, but her head turned toward the boy. Above the boy the mist gathered into drops on the Lord Nelson statue. An English businessman—well trained to ignore the birds, the people, and the rain,— bumped into a tourist, American apparently (by the rain coat.) The little boy ran back to his father, in a careening zigzag, yelping with cackles of power at the pigeons in his path.

30

The moment of change is the only poem. — Adrienne Rich

31

Repair

By C.K. Egbert I barely touched it going from one place to another and then the bite of splintered wood and the perverse grinding of twisted metal and the cabinet door with an unpretentious bang on the floor.

No way to repair the bloody thing — “I’m not surprised,” mom shook her head.

“It’s one your dad ripped off.”

All these years and now the hinges give — of course it wasn’t the only one. After the battle and the capitulation (as always) we’d be left to clean up the mess before he came home (he hated a dirty house): the amputated door the slivered glass that had once been our dishware (the pieces hid in the fibers of carpet to sting when least expected) then mom would put her face on applying makeup heavily.

Now we lay the door aside another casualty long in coming and I wonder, how do things stay so broken?

33

A Quiet Protest

By Anna Sandgren

34

Restrained

By C.J. Graves With black hair, one curl swirling over her forehead, she reclines by the fountain, her weight pressing on the palm of her right hand she is at ease with the world, letting a cigarette rest alternately between her lips and her fingers, without a care for the little specks of water that dance upon her back only, she doesn’t seem to realize the danger she is causing by merely sitting, without moving, without caring, her still presence in a place that vibrates with energy causes the earth around her to tremble the solid concrete shatters cracks and rifts racing out from the points of her finger nails as they tap upon the stone surface and a thin trail of smoke rises, from the fissured earth the cracks whip outward around her, trembling, the concrete breaks down and buildings split open exposing the private screams, the kind voiced in anger or some other ecstasy, intense sounds that play tingling notes along the skin.

In its exposure the city smolders, Dripping its revealed sweetness, the honey that comes from too active a life. through all this, beneath the fountain, she sits, but now, she rubs the ashes from her cigarette and forces out its flame, leaving one more scar of hope for something more than concrete and restrained passions

35

We are the Dead

By C.K. Egbert The doctor’s office was cold, as always. It was the type of antiseptic, unnatural cold that comes from an overactive air conditioner on a hot summer’s day. The air felt like ice that had been left in the refrigerator too long. There must have been something in this glacial atmosphere that permeated human flesh, for I felt it in the marrow of my bones, sterilizing my life away. Or perhaps it wasn’t the cold — perhaps it was the somber face of the doctor, or the disease that was gnawing slowly at the cells of my body.

I knew it was bad news when the doctor gave me that I’m-very-sorry face that they learn in medical school. It is a clichéd prelude to the cemetery, as any of the dead can tell you. He spoke in a tone that was meant to be soothing, calm, and earnest, but only succeeded in being annoying. The outlook, he conceded, was rather bleak. He stated it as if disease were a punishment for my low intelligence. A rigorous treatment, enacted at the soonest possible time, would be required to prolong my life. Scalpels slicing through my gut and pounds of white, bitter drugs might preserve my poor, vapid self for a short while. When one is in such a situation, one never speaks of living, only of not dying. They are not the same thing.

I listened calmly to his grim monologue, waiting until the droning, tape-recorded voice stopped and there was no noise but the buzz of the ice box air as it sifted through the metal vents.

“How long do I have if I don’t receive treatment?” I inquired. I must say that he did a good job of concealing his surprise through his mask of objectivity. He wouldn’t get the paycheck he does if he wasn’t practiced in the art of being not quite human.

“A few months, at the very most,” he replied. He sounded a little hurt, as if I were saying that his precious medicine wasn’t good enough for my illness. “But, you can’t go without treatment,” he added.

I shook my head. “I don’t want any treatment. I don’t want to prolong my life.” I thanked him, carefully picked up my coat, and left him with a bewildered and wounded expression on his face. His eyes were like the pupils of a bloodless, butchered fish as he stared after me.

The truth is that I really don’t mind the fact that I’m dying. There is no more pain than there used to be, and after awhile it becomes so familiar that I wouldn’t know what I would do without it. It’s a dull pain, the pain of a rock in the desert as the wind grinds it into dust. It’s a pain that is always there, like the sun. Clouds and rain may hide it for a time, and you may even forget it, but it’s simply waiting to burn through and remind you what things are really like.

I suppose that I’ve gotten so used to not living that dying doesn’t seem to make that much of a difference. I used to be afraid to die because I thought that I might lose some great opportunity. I was never certain of exactly what I was looking for, only an opportunity for something to lift me above the desolation. The future was wrapped in mist and alluring with its enigmas. What if I could just write that novel, or meet that person, or earn that much money? What if, by giving up tomorrow, I’m giving up all those things? For that is what death really is; giving up on tomorrow, because tomorrow doesn’t matter anymore.

The past is as useless as a memory, and the present is water flowing down the drain into the void. Time means nothing and everything when you’re facing no future at all.

Hope must have been that something that made me fear the end.

Then I learned the truth. The coming of a new sun does not miraculously change the world and the way things are and they way they have always been. Expectations are fragile flowers that wither whenever reality appears again. They are like my mother’s china, too beautiful to 36

endure when life comes rampaging through. Disappointment is the shattering of white plates on the floor until there is nothing left but their memory written in streaks of porcelain. Before long, you realize that all you can expect is more disappointment and so you stop expecting all together.

I’ve never been close to anything or anyone, so I don’t feel any regret about leaving my obligations behind. There is no lover or spouse that I will not grow old with, or children that I won’t see grow up. There are only my books that I leave behind, and of course they don’t care whose shelf they sit on. I thought, then, that my death would be a relatively easy affair without too much of a disturbance.

I don’t like anything which will upset my routine, and for a time I went about as usual, working, sleeping, eating when I could bear it.

I gave my two weeks notice when I felt that it was appropriate, since I didn’t want to die and force my employers into a frantic search for a replacement. Not that I expect to be replaced anyway, since my job wasn’t important, but it seemed like the courteous thing to do. I didn’t tell my family immediately because I dislike emotional scenes. I announced it only after I had left my job, and then in a manner which would cause the least agitation. It was after dinner on a quiet evening, once everyone had a chance to properly digest their meal but were not so lethargic as to be totally unprepared for the bomb I was about to drop.

“I’m dying,” I stated. There were the gasps, the half-smothered shrieks, the pale shock. I decided to continue before the deluge of questions and futile protests. “I have a few weeks to live. There’s nothing they could do.” Their tears didn’t seem to bother me as I left to go home and go to bed.

What does bother me is that they insist upon lavishing attention on me. It’s not that I didn’t think they would be sad, but I wish they wouldn’t make such a fuss. They appear to be frantically declaring a lifetime of love for me in my last days. I simply can’t understand why they are so upset. They never got excited over me before, but now they want nothing more than to shower me with their incessant devotion. It makes me weary, since I have done just fine on my own for most of my life. Now their solicitude is smothering me like a heavy and uncomfortable blanket. This is not my hour of need. Their affection can do absolutely nothing for me. It can’t save my life or take back all those dreary mornings when the world murdered my dreams, and so it is useless.

The inevitability of my decease appears to be hardest for my mother, who has been invading my privacy ever since she learned of my unfortunate circumstances. It must be that instinctive resistance to the death of a child before the parent. It is a reversal of the acceptable course of events, and somehow that makes it doubly tragic. Personally, I can’t see why it seems to provoke such indignation. If I were a soldier killed in one of our endless wars, then I would be given a medal. However, because I’m dying from a simple disease and not to preserve any national principles, there is no pride involved.

I sigh as I hear my mother’s footsteps on the stairs. Her eyes seem to be hungry for my face and her ears ravenous for the sound of my voice.

Every time she stands by my bedside I feel as if I’m being devoured. It isn’t bad enough that I have to rot from the inside out, but my relations have to feast upon my presence like a hoard of maggots.

“Hello, dear,” she says, her words strangely querulous and unsure.

We are a strange breed, the dying. It makes us strangers to those we have known our whole lives. No one wants to admit that they will stand there someday because no one wants to admit that life does not always go on. They can’t imagine how we think and feel, and so they tiptoe around us wearing shoes of crystal. My mother stoops over my bed to begin chewing on the expression of my eyes. “How are you feeling today?”

“Fine,” I reply.

37

“No pain, dear? Is there anything I can get for you? Is there anything I can do?” she inquires. There is an unpleasant, grating edge to her voice, like old rusty nails in a house about to fall down. She sounds positively desperate to be given a task, as if by doing nothing she is speeding my way to eternity.

“Nothing,” I say. She takes this as forgiveness for her indolence and sits gently upon my bed, believing that this sickness has turned me into glass and I might break if she moves too much.

“You’ve always taken care of yourself,” she says with a little smile, remembering me before I’m gone. “Which is why I don’t understand how it could have happened so suddenly, and the doctors not know…” Her eyes drifted to a dark corner of the room, dully contemplating the alacrity with which my health has deteriorated.

“They did know,” I commented. There was an electric current running through her face.

“What did you say?”

“I knew months ago. I refused treatment.” I think that her mouth must have been attempting to form words. Otherwise, I’m not quite sure what the awkward, twisted movements of her lips might have been.

“How could you do this to us, to me? How could you….If they could have saved your life…”

“I would have died anyway. If not in a month, then a year, or two, or ten. What’s the difference? Would I have meant anything more to you?

Would you have loved me more in that time?” I stared at her, in her first-born innocent silence, waiting for a response. I said, quietly to give a little more cushioning to the fall; “You never shed tears for me before.

Why are you crying now?”

Her lips suddenly stopped and became a thin line. The walls were starting to crumble. I could feel the strings holding her together begin to snap.

“Please go away now,” I requested without a hint of resentment or anger. She was going to cry, and I didn’t want to see her cry. It wasn’t that her sorrow bothered me, as it was only natural, but that I don’t like scenes and loathed the thought of being forced into one of those melodramatic and disgustingly intimate moments. She rose unsteadily to her feet and staggered away, as if she was made of soft rubber barely able to keep its shape. The door closed, shutting up my indifference so that it wouldn’t leak out to the rest of the world.

I yawned and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the dusty silence of my room. I should be planning my funeral, like what sort of flowers to buy and how much to spend on the invitations, but I just don’t feel up to it. Funerals are for the living and not the dead, so I’ll let them decide. It doesn’t matter much to me, so I’m just going to lie here and let myself decay. I think of nothing, because dead people don’t think, and I am the dead.

38

Teratogen

By Julius Calasicas I.

Of 200 million troops, Just one will do.

Yet they all begin.

Light up, light up.

II.

A zygote makes her Crave, vomit …crazy (The embryo will do worse).

Take it all in. Calm down.

III.

Do you smell that? It’s mint, Love, coffee, and the sky!

Inhale for yourself…

Exhale bliss like breath…

IV.

She dreams up names like Josephine, Moses, Angel.

But she wakes alone.

And only lonely vice accompanies her.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

Potbellied Incubator Shops for Bottles while Fancying breast milk— Naïve lips drinking, Mouth watering for nonsense, Engulfing galaxies and odder things Drooling over last night’s binge, Her spine is arching under the Placenta.

She’s a bow aimed at God. She shoots up again.

The walls Are painted with Clouds. A mobile Spins Birds, Ready to entertain.

Euphoria.

Broken water and Contractions… push!... leads to… push!...

The birth of a corpse.

She had it coming.

Coda: Light up, light up.

Take it all in. Calm down.

Exhale bliss like breath…

And only lonely vice accompanies her.

Naïve lips drinking, Drooling over last night’s binge, She shoots up again.

Euphoria.

She had it coming.

39

Overcoming Darkness

By Thomas L. Ngo

40

A Very Long Rest

By Rachel Morenz Nose, sharp like a perfect icicle, penetrated Henrieta’s forearm, three millimeters above the misshapen pebble of her wrist bone, depositing a heavy dose of its poison and leaving only a pen tip red dot on her sahara gold tanned skin The sleeping bug had bit…bzzz, shhh.

Henrieta’s wrist drooped, her hand hanging like a heavy rag on a clothesline tortured by stagnant air.

The rest of her body followed the wrist, lackadaisically curling into a smooth oval on the large leather couch.

Her eyelids covered amber irises, smooth cotton curtains drawn shut on a Saturday afternoon.

The bug watched the deterioration of its prey from a miniscule ridge in the interior of the floor lamp towering over the couch.

Its little heart, the size of a speck of dust, beat increasingly faster as it observed the limbed creature below, observed as Henrieta moved through stages 1 2 3 4 and finally, REM, a spastic trance she would stay in for two weeks.

As Henrieta’s eyelids flickered like flamboyant flames, the bug, a crispy chunk of black with heart now still, plummeted from the lamp, landing on the pulsating lids and bouncing to the ground. bzz, shh.

41

Steal Away to Bed

By Amie Dahnke I am off to steal away to my bed where my mind can host a festivity of illogical and fantastical events. I can relax my stiff muscled body and overworked mind as I curl up gaily with my protective shield. Under my favorite blanket, I am impervious to worry or stress or fear. Evil cannot pierce or penetrate its way through the dual layers of whisper soft fleece. I am not trapped cautiously under my shield though. No, I am a liberated little burrower who can wander and wonder as free as a bird who explores the sky with her proud breast and open wings. Where will my wings take me tonight? It is the question of uncertainty that usually curls my toes in a shudder of fear. With the wings of my released mind, I have the freedom to explore without anxiety and second thoughts holding me back. My heart leads me…yet she never lets me know her path despite the vain attempts of my brain to peek into the torn corner of the gift which lies in my dreams. Perhaps when I untie the gold ribbon that seals my heart’s desires, I will find myself imprinting the water-saturated beach with my hardened feet. The sun would be timidly hiding beneath its own fleece blanket of clouds. Clumps of crystallized sand cling to my worn jeans. The breeze permeating off of the rolling waves send the wisps of my ponytail into cyclical dances.

Perchance I am with him, shyly feeling the butterflies in my stomach muster up their own dance as he walks next to me. His own feet press indents into the sand next to my own. His shoulder brushes mine and the butterflies begin to tango. Do we swirl into our own dance amongst the breeze? His hands lead my body into twirls and fruitful dips. He kisses me and the butterflies erupt into bursting flight. Maybe I am simply on my own, drunk with a lost solitude of my own seductive thoughts.

There is the lurking possibility that my heart’s desires will reveal nothing of the sort. Perhaps, hiding inside is a Pandora’s Box for my life.

Conceivably, the box could be filled with love and a first kiss…or a rotating carnival of fear in which love only twinkles around the carousel. At any rate, the box never fully remains open. It wraps itself back up and stows its secrets away into the depths of my soul for another night. I wish dearly I had the ability to grasp even the decorative ribbon with my fingertips and tie it in my hair as a keepsake. Alas, every attempt is futile. The acrid sea breeze gives that ribbon wings to fly away from me.

It flees from me like Herrick’s virgins. It escapes like Santa’s magical sleigh bell through a hole in my pocket. One day, one day it will be returned. I anticipate that day when I can open my wings up and let my swollen heart guide my wings.

42

To Give.

By Anne Richards She tries to forget the self.

She sleeps with C.S. Lewis folded up and over, one, two, three times, creased and twisted within the folds of the sheets.

No one buys her the books. Everyone photocopies during a crisis.

Because then they get to keep the cover, thinking they are really giving her the inside.

Through some print.

As if they were Andy Warhol, so of course the prints’ll be worth millions.

He told her to ever truly be free, she must forget the Self.

But his pages are thin. Or maybe her eyes are slits. She wonders if they make her better.

So she looks to the mirror for answers, and two shiny slivers respond in parallel lines. One for her, the other for him.

But they’re not going to intersect.

“Maybe I’ll go cross-eyed,” she wonders. She really does want to meet him. She’d love to pry the lids open with a stick.

She contemplates the slits in her Self.

People always use C.S. Lewis in a spiritual crisis.

It’s easy, they say. Just look up any ol’ passage—you see?

Sacrifice!

“Why won’t you give me your book?”

43

Le Ciel Délavé

By Beth Watje

44

Stranger

By Amanda Mosher Above on the overhead, a man with a deep voice was singing his version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” as I and a few other patrons waited in line. Before me there were the normal strangers, all aggravated, stuck behind the man at the counter who was haggling a return policy with the customer service lady. All around the store there are bright oranges posters announcing sales, and shiny greens and reds publicizing the upcoming-and-too-close holidays. Trying to avoid the impatience of my fellow line-standers, I entertained myself by studying the contents in the woman’s cart in front of me.

I proudly held my own plastic bag, which contained a white sweater I had gotten on sale a few weeks ago. After wearing it a few times, it seemed to fit funny, and I don’t have a lot of clothes, so the ones I do have I want to like. Even though I had ripped the tags off already, and even worse had washed it, those tags can be reattached if you have the plastic thingy they came with. With just a little heat, it melts right back together, ready to be returned. I mentally smile at my sneaky accomplishment, however juvenile it seemed.

The jingle of a little bell buzzed gleefully from outside, rang by the old man who monitored the red bucket asking for donations for the less fortunate. As I looked around the huge store with mile high ceilings, there were numerous strategically placed bins, tubs, and cardboard setups put out just in time for Christmas. While it is supposed to be the most cheerful time, interestingly enough most people end up dreading it.

My “complex” thoughts about Christmas were interrupted by the squeaky sound of a shopping cart pulling up to my side. I glanced over at the driver, a stout little lady leaning on the cart’s bar, complete with a worn out expression on her round face. The woman seemed nervous, as she inched forward rather than behind me in line, so I suspiciously eyed her cart, mentally becoming defensive of my spot. But she just sighed, and stared at those other people before us with annoyance.

Deep creases sank around her features; her sharp nose complimented crooked ruby red lips. I distinctively remember how tired she looked.

Not just her face, but just her presence seemed tired. A heavy flannel sweatshirt fell down her body, meeting thin grey sweatpants that gripped her ankles. I felt about a foot taller than her, as she was hunched over her shopping cart which was filled with numerous cans of chicken soup, a pair of green slippers and other random finds.

As we stood, I kept my eyes to my own business, gently fingering the white sweater I planned to exchange. I became content watching a little boy in Spiderman pajamas scream at his mom over in the snack aisle, who apparently wouldn’t buy him the hyper-fueling cookies he wanted.

My mother, from the stories she tells, dealt with the same kind of brat with myself when I was a little girl. But then from beside me, the tired woman in the flannel let out a heavy and noticeable sigh, still staring forward as in a daze. As the mom and boy wheeled away, I began to study the various and somewhat humorously old CDs on the $6.99 rack.

Then the woman released another loud breathe of despair, begging for attention.

“Are they ever going to get to us?” her raspy voice took me by surprise, as it was a mixture of a lighthearted joke and deep and furious frustration. It was a comment of irritation in a chitchat disguise.

I quickly looked over to her with a smile, and blurted out “Hopefully” in a naïve and optimistic way. I wasn’t sure what to say next, as my imagination painted the rest of her life, so I turned back forward and drifted ahead with the line.

She let out another sigh.

“God, I hate this time of year,” she mumbled; her voice sounding 45

worn out. “Those lines at the bank are even worse.”

“Oh yea, the crowds can get pretty nasty,” I replied, after a brief pause, even though my toes were tingling with discomfort. It always seems hard to respond to people with a discrepantly negative attitude.

I faced her, her eyes frozen ahead in a dead stare.

“This time of year…” she paused, her voice lingering in midair. “Last year my grandson died on Christmas day.”

I don’t know if my eyes actually got wide, but in my mind they were as wide as they could get. Surprisingly, I somehow managed to turn to her in sincere sorrow and sympathy and say “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry. That is horrible.” My line of sight did not leave her face.

“Yea, he and his cousins were out shooting at cans. Brought his gun up to his head, and the damn thing blasted off somehow,” she said with a shaky tone, and a spark of sorrow glinted in her eyes, bringing some life to them.

“Wow…That is so horrible…” I stammered, eyebrows raised and mouth hung open slightly.

“It is just so hard, but… God I need to stop,” she said. “I mean, and then in the last four years I have lost a son, a sister, an aunt and cousins.

It is so goddamn much, and it’s so much during these times, these damn holidays.” The crack in her voice and wet slip in her aged eyes begged her to regroup herself. She didn’t look at me in the eyes, as if she wouldn’t have cared if I had been a scarecrow. Just someone, anyone.

She swallowed hard as she gathering herself back together to her previous state of an exhausted posture and weary eyes.

“I am so sorry…” I quietly said, not sure what else I could say as a response. “Maybe you should go buy yourself something nice…” I offered her a meager smile, a meager-I-pity-you smile, unsure of anything else I could do or say to help.

That brutal honesty, and I was a perfect stranger. I felt a rush of naivety at the loss and pain of this woman compared to my own, and yet I was confused by her indiscreet openness regarding her personal life.

I had almost forgotten why I was at the store at all, until the customer service lady became available, and called out “Next” beckoning me forward.

A rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” began to float throughout the store, a song that suddenly seemed to have lost something. I looked at the weary woman in flannel, and softly, yet sincerely told her “Merry Christmas.” Then I stepped forward to exchange my sweater. Later, I felt stupid for not letting her go first.

On the way out, I emptied my purse of all change into the red bucket.

I smiled warmly at the sort of crazy-seeming yet extremely kind looking man who tended the bucket, who humbly sang along with the Christmas song drifting out of the store, making white breathe escape his mouth as he rang his bell.

46

Most things in life are moments of pleasure and a lifetime of embarrassment; Photography is a moment of embarrassment and a lifetime of pleasure. — Tony Benn

47

The Well

By Anna Sandgren

49

Untitled

By Bob Insley Raindrops strike the asphalt in curious rhythm, It turns black, a rough reflection of the night sky.

Green leaves glisten under the golden glow of street lamps, My shoes drift noiselessly along the sidewalk, Tiny droplets spray back on the rubber.

The vision of you standing under the trees, Watching my approach as the wind chills the air.

You are only standing there in my imagination But I still enjoy the play of light and glistening water On your somehow perfectly tousled hair.

50

Dimples

By Christine Pineda Had dimples the cadence to leave in their audience a more permanent mark, the mere memory of yours would force this door open and loosen the screws from the hinges of my silence.

My hands, renouncing their embrace, my feet, relaxing from their coils, would lose the prudence to resist, so that I’m straying, spinning and twirling into the room.

But dimples always lose their music box magic.

The impressions they make, more hollow than deep, keep me tethered to my apathy.

Only their contours remain, blurred sketches of caves and whirlpools on faces I’m not prepared to meet.

At the beach this weekend I thought of you.

On the verge of catharsis, I hurled a Frisbee at the wind and felt residual sand retaliating like pellets, staining my pink eyes crimson.

Then in the clamor of laughter that followed I heard the waves bellow their approval.

I turned to face them: marathon-runners racing to the shore as if refusing its touch would deny them their purpose.

The sand had so much power then‌ And for a second I wanted an end to my chains, run the length of our distance and watch the sand in my shoes hurl a flurry of dust at your eyes.

But in the end I retreated. I put my hands in my pockets and traced the shoreline, each step a dimple in the sand.

51

Ireland Boats and Houses

By Kristin Simpson

52

The Fly

By Kelly Brown There’s a voyeuristic fly on the wall of the shower.

It watches me every morning and its wings grow sticky with steam.

Even so, it moves when I move, Making sure my back is never to it (this fly likes to take the world head on) He seems to appear at whichever corner I’m looking And we dance, An odd sort of pornographic polka.

The music in our heads is the same, I think.

All’s fair in love and tile, But I think he should know That what he’s doing is illegal.

53

Winter Sonnet

By Caitlin Busch When December wind hath soothed these hot tears, Love will naught but leave this pain abated.

For to keep thee, would I face my worst fears, Battle so scar-filled though anticipated.

When December sun clears cold morning showers, Love will keep the blood behind tearful eyes.

For to keep thee, I wile away hard hours, Alone with heavy head and deep long sighs.

When days so long too quick turn to leave, Let no rage-covered ice my spirit break; Let not pure winter sky lose its cool reprieve, Nor light snowflake return to dull pained ache.

So I shall release when comes December; Cries unrestrained shall strike with shrill timbre.

54

Untitled

By John Turner

55

Bear

By Anonymous I sat in darkness, the only light I was afforded came from a small window from the far side of the garage. I wrote in my journal, today I chose to write in green ink—yes, it was definitely a green ink day.

The blanket’s soft blue cotton was a comforting contrast to the cold cement and metal that surrounded me. **** Maybe we should stop for some coffee or something. It’s 2 in the morning, Brian, and we still have an hour till we get home.

Na. Don’t worry about it. We’ll just turn the music up, like so, and the noise will keep me awake.

Alright. But at least pull over and let me drive awhile, you’ve been driving for four hours.

Yea! That makes me feel MUCH better, a girl with your driving skills behind the wheel of my graduation present.

Just pull over… **** Gradually the darkness was replaced with white light. I blinked a couple of times, willing familiar images to materialize. Cold moisture, forced its way into my nose and mouth, creating an unnatural breath.

Deep muted tones echoed, slowly turning into words—coma, broken ribs, collapsed lungs—mixed with words of comfort—pain-free, lucky, recovering.

Images poured into my mind and just as quickly as they left, memories returned. I remembered. Inhaling deeply a muffled shriek made its way past the oxygen mask. It was removed…

Briaaaaaaaan!! Where is he? I need to see him. Is he okay?

The weight of my body wouldn’t allow me to sit up, but the anxiety burned every inch of my body and tears turned the images, ones that I had just willed to materialize, back into a blur.

I felt a prick on my left arm.

Darkness. **** The funeral was beautiful. He would have boasted about the turnout, the high school gym that once made him a basketball god was packed with all his greatest fans, and how, even in death, his hair looked perfect. There was a small open-casket service before the funeral took place. I went up to say goodbye, but he wasn’t there; instead there was an emotionless likeness dressed in his clothes that stilled smell of his cologne. His skin was no longer an olive color, but a washed out green; his smile, one that had produced an addictive laughter, was gone; I couldn’t even see his amazing green eyes that had meant so much to me. I tried to touch his knotty and callused hand; it made me shiver it was so cold. I said a few words and placed a platinum ring inside his palm, turned, and didn’t look back.

Brian’s mother appeared, her face, once warm and relaxed, now looked tight and unforgiving.

You did this.

Excuse me?

You heard me.

I… I know you were driving. This should have never happened. You killed my baby I…I…I’m Soorrr…

Doesn’t bring him back.

And she was gone. ****

56

I tried staying at home. I tried to go back to school. I moved to my sister’s for a while. I thought a new setting would take him away. It didn’t.

It rained for the next two months. I went to therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists, took drugs that would take the pain away, drugs that would make me sleep, drugs that would make me happy, drugs that would make me less anxious.

I was told to write everything down. So I did. Everyday in the morning and evening I documented my emotions, put into word what others couldn’t understand… what I didn’t understand. Each new entry I would write in a different color. Pages got filled, yet I couldn’t return to whatever life I was supposed to be living. **** Closing up my journal, I looked around me. I surrounded myself with strength: pictures of my family, friends, Brian’s letterman jacket, my baby blanket beneath me, and my bear, the one that my mom was given as a child, the one I was named after. I sealed up each letter, placed them in alphabetical order and so that each name was visible.

Picking up Brian’s picture I felt the air become thicker, my grip grew tighter. Maybe I didn’t want this. Dizzy I started to stand up, but my weight pulled me down.

Darkness. **** Dear _______, I am sorry that I am not a stronger person. Please don’t worry about me. I am with Brian. Thank you for all that you have given to me and I wish you all the happiness that I once knew…and will know.

Love Always, Bear

57

Love Unrequited

By Eric Porter Where, do those with love unrequited hide their bitter shame and sorrowlocked up in homes away from the world; drowned in bottles and smoke; behind smiling, laughing masks; or buried within souls so that it is only visible in the depths of their devastated, tormented, and empty eyes.

58

The Porcelain Doll

By Kristin Simpson “Wait for me” were the words that rang in Brooklyn’s head after her boyfriend left her. She should call him her ex-boyfriend, but after 3 years of spending every moment together, it was too hard for her to admit that they were finally over. He claimed that he needed to experience new people, but in actuality he was just too scared to commit to one person so soon. But Brooklyn knew she loved him and that he was the man she was going to marry, so when he asked her to wait for him, she knew she had to. He said he wanted to date other people and then come back and marry her. Brooklyn’s love for him was so strong that she didn’t even think of dating other people too; she would simply wait.

As the months passed Brooklyn became a professional “wait-er”. Her friends tried to convince her to go out, have fun, and meet new people, but Brooklyn only wanted to wait. “He might call tonight,” she would tell her friends with pleading eyes. They could only sadly shake their heads at her and leave her alone in her room, covered wall to wall with pictures of him. Sometimes he would come to her between new girls and take some of the love she had been waiting to give. Each time he came she thought they would finally be together, but then he would tell her that he still needed more time and for her to wait. So she waited.

Her friends noticed the change first. Living a life of waiting had done damage to Brooklyn’s body and soul. Every year she waited had an effect on her in a different way. First her skin turned pale and her lips became tight, pursed, and almost painted red. Then her lashes grew longer as her eyes turned to glass. Her toes tightened and almost seemed glued together. Her arms and legs became stiff and her whole body seemed to shrink. Her hair fixated itself in tight curls surrounding her face. This last year was the biggest change; her soft flesh became as hard and delicate as porcelain and she stared out into the world with a blank look on her face. Her only emotion was a look of longing in her eyes. And she waited and waited.

He came for her one day and as if he didn’t notice the change, he simply picked her up and sat her on his shelf at home. Some days he needed her to love him, so he would take her down from the shelf.

Other times she sat there for months and years on end, waiting to be noticed. But he didn’t need her; she would always be there waiting for him. So the years and new girls came and went, while Brooklyn sat waiting patiently on his shelf.

He looked in the mirror one day and wondered what he had done with his life. Was that a gray hair and were those crow’s feet when he smiled? Where had the time gone? He was finally tired of his games. He was ready to be committed to the one girl he knew loved him. He couldn’t remember what it was like to be loved so naturally and completely. He wanted that love again. He thought of Brooklyn and wanted her to love him like she used to; like the first time they made love and she gave herself so openly and willingly. He was ready to marry her and give her all the love she had been waiting for.

That night he went back to his room and stared at Brooklyn sitting on his shelf. Dust had gathered on her soft porcelain frame. She was so beautiful and quiet sitting, waiting for him. He couldn’t wait to tell her that he was ready to love her completely. As he drew nearer to her, he saw a frozen tear on her face. “Had that always been there?” he wondered to himself. He would breathe the life back into her and bring the smile back on her face. He was so thrilled to finally love her the way she was meant to be loved. But when he reached for her, she slipped out of his hands and her porcelain body shattered all over the wooden floor. There she was, broken in a million pieces on his floor. How could he fix this? How could he tell her that he was sorry he made her wait?

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He should have married her long ago, but now he was too late. He made her wait too long. Brooklyn’s friends had told her to move on, but she couldn’t. They had told her she was wasting her life on him and she knew it. They said she couldn’t wait forever on him, but she proved them wrong. He stared through watery eyes at the pieces of broken Brooklyn on the floor.

As he reached for his broom to sweep her away, he felt an uneasy flutter in his stomach as his world grew darker; he shook back his tears and his self-pity arose as he thought: “Now who will love me?” With the last piece of Brooklyn forgotten in the cold, metal garbage can, he turned to his cupboard. A miniature fair, blond in a CHS cheerleader outfit sat, waiting, with a blank stare coming from her marble eyes. He read the tag attached to her, “Ah yes, ‘Molly’”, as he (this time) carefully took the doll down from the shelf. “I told you I would come back to you.”

60

Gripping

By Amanda Mosher

61

All my possessions for a moment of time. — Elizabeth I

63

‘She’ As a Memory

By Stacy Dahl The water was cold. A broad river surrounded me, smooth and shallow; it drifted, untouched by anything artificial, giving life to the web of undergrowth it passed. The sun beat down, shattering against the water, as if it were reflecting off broken glass. My essence, roused by a new awareness, witnessed, for the first time, a raw beauty. Each sound, smell, taste, and color consumed me, creating a warped environment that transcended beyond anything I had ever witnessed.

I wandered in and out of consciousness, interrupted consistently by the unfamiliar surroundings; slowly, one image after another penetrated my mind: her terry cloth robe against my skin as she rocked me to sleep. My feet and legs burned from the cold water, growing red, until they turned numb. The way her ‘R’s would roll off her tongue and push out her lips when singing the word ‘slumber.’ Sand, soft on the bottom of my feet, copied each footstep as I walked. Her aroma, a hint of Amarige perfume and Bounce dryer sheets, as well as her breath, a trace of Altoids or coffee, created a smell of familiarity—always constant and unchanging. I looked back, the water’s current had erased all progress that I had made—my existence was being washed away with every step. Memories weighed me down and each step became heavier and heavier.

Detaching from my thoughts, I became aware of the others. Each face was distorted, making it impossible to identify anyone specifically, yet emotional and physical trait could still be distinguished. The others didn’t seem as distraught; walking in a serene manner, they didn’t appear hesitant of their new circumstance. Not only did they seem to accept their situation, but they seemed to appreciate it as some sort of release—I envied them.

The delta appeared, all the distorted faces were gathering along the banks—what were they waiting for and where were we going? Questions poured through my mind; I would not be as accepting as the others.

I stepped out of the cold water and saw a dozen old wooden railcars lining the banks. Would these take us to where we were going? I walked up to the first car, the side had been removed, and people were gathering around to see what was inside. I looked up; they were extraordinary, each one lavishly detailed and completely unique from the other railcars.

The first railcar was lined with green velvet wallpaper that looked soft to the touch. Its floors were covered by lavish oriental rugs with white fringe. In the center stood a round wooden table with hand carved ivy that grew up to the center of the table, where a vase of perfect red roses stood. The moisture on the petals sparkled from the crystal chandelier that hung just above the roses. A sublime aroma poured from the railcar; it smelled of Thanksgiving. I reminisced about the lavish dinner parties that she would host. Cooking the most amazing meals that took all day, warming up the house with a fragrance that made your stomach ached with hunger. Laughing would fill each room, from the pure enjoyment of family enjoying one another and stories being told—each story familiar from the past, yet just as enjoyable as the first time.

A different railcar had a red brick fireplace that contained a brilliant fire, popping and scorching the fresh pieces of wood. Glowing red ambers would shoot from the center of the fire, gliding through the air until disappearing. White walls, outlined with rounded cedar trunks created a background, and paintings of landscapes and blurred pictures covered the walls. The floors were covered with plush carpet and overstuffed chairs overflowing with pillows that welcomed anyone who passed. Hot cocoa steamed from an oversized mug with bears painted on it. I could almost taste the marshmallows that she would always put 65

in my cocoa. This was her heaven. During summers in the mountains, she would plant flowers all day, her slender silhouette surrounded by the vast lake and mountains—their significance was no match to hers— and at night she would build a fire, sit on the couch with two pairs of socks on (she had poor circulation), and lose herself in whatever book she was reading that week.

I looked down the bank and saw at a few more I had not seen; each one waiting for me, wanting to show me what I should have paid more attention to, what I should have appreciated more. After a while, however, I didn’t want to look at the others. The memories were too difficult. I came back to the others; across the way stood another distorted face, holding her enlarged belly with contentment, planning the years to come—yet another reminder that I would never see her again— what had she planned for me? I yearned to see her again, to tell her what I never could.

The sun would be gone soon and then the journey would continue.

I looked down at my reflection in the water, looking back was a reflection of a face, recognizable, yet not my own. Why couldn’t I see my own face? It was her, she was looking up at me; I had never wanted to see her reflection in mine…till now. Now it was a comfort. I reached out to touch her but my hand passed through and the ripples took her away.

As the water became still I decided not to look again—it would only be a meaningless, empty image.

I walked on, passing every railcar, each one awakening a new memory.

One smelled of chicken noodle soup—she always knew how to make me feel better when I was sick. I would never feel that comfort again.

Another contained shelves of candles that reminded me of when the power would go out during storms—she was always the first through my bedroom door with a lit candle, saving me from the darkness that had always frightened me. A familiar old man wearing a three-piece tweed suit, peered out of another railcar, while sitting at a table reading the New York Times and puffing at his pipe—she hated that smell, it is what took so many of the ones she loved. Did I thank her enough? Did she know how much I cared? There was never enough time. Memories that were proof of all the good were now the cause of so much pain.

The end came just as the sun was disappearing into the ocean. One by one each box passed me again as it slid into the ocean, floating off into the vast darkness. As the last one was placed in the water, I picked up my right foot and placed it into the water, then the left. Slowly the water rose around me, each memory floating in front of me—each a memory of her. Would these memories stay there with me or would they float away? I wanted to hold on and float away with them. What was next? The water was cold.

66

Redemption

By Christine Pineda When it came down we thought it was a pine cone, branding us lucky with three precious seconds of its swan-dive dance, a rare flamboyance.

Only the occasional, drunken fool, driven to blasphemy by autumn, would wish for something more, throwing his arms out for a thunderous encore.

Yet perhaps it might be just as well if a pelting cascade of shell-shocked seed clusters were to follow now, dissipating fantasies of an inborn courtesy between the trees and the ground.

My brother struck a truce with the earth once: clutching a dead sparrow to his chest, he staggered toward a spot in the backyard where the hard clay yielded easily to his three-year-old hands.

But he woke the next day and found the grave empty, pillaged by neighborhood cats; its matchstick cross became splinters in his fist.

Now that same boy saunters over to where a newborn carcass ended its life descent with a thud, brash and bewildering on a bed of needles.

The ground had just begun to breathe again when he lifted his boot over the still-white chest— and pressed and pressed.

67

Untitled

By Amie Dahnke Inhaling deeply, she grasped the cool metal handle of the heavy arena doors and walked into the athletic center. Avoiding eye contact from the scatter of cross country boys that were stretching in the team meeting place she quickly turned left into the hallway that housed the coaches’ offices. Trying to breathe her fears away she rapped on the wooden door of Ian’s office to find him sitting placidly at his desk while Ray was pretending to type away on his computer.

God, what the hell must Ray think of me now? She glanced over to the picture that had been so proudly pinned on his bulletin board two years before when she had visited as a junior. She was surprised to see it up.

She was even more surprised to see that she looked so…happy…and normal in it. Even though I was fat.

“Y-you wanted to see me? Three o’clock, right?”

“Uhm…yeah.” She could tell Ian was nervous from his sharply tensed shoulders that contrasted so drastically with his usual feet-onthe-desk posture. “How about we go some where else?” Hastily shoving in the last few clicks of the mouse, he got up and led her past the boys team to the stairs. She could feel the heat of male eyes staring at her in confirmed curiosity.

They knew. They all did. With Patricks’s fat mouth and the fact that the whole team hates me. I didn’t do anything to him but fall for him and he broke my heart.

Beth thought back to the first day she met Patrick. She had refused to let him know she was in a relationship. She honestly believed that Nickolas was everything she wanted, but then she met Patrick. Sweet, beautiful Patrick. The first time he spoke to her, she sunk into the pools of his mysterious blue eyes. Patrick intrigued her in a way Nickolas could not offer. He reeked of intelligence that not only excited her, but challenged her too. He did not let her get away with manipulation, which was a first for her. She was used to twisting boys around her little finger until she had complete control over them. It was something she thrived off of. The power of having another human being so in love with her pushed her beyond this earth into the clouds.

It was this exact power that Patrick feared, to the point that he despised it. He was not yet ready to allow her that power. Still being engulfed by the image of his ex girlfriend warped his mind into a territorial status, like a mother protects her children. Amie was the predator, trying to get into his mind and destroy the offspring.

But that’s not what she was doing. In fact, all of the power belonged to Patrick. It was she who was enthralled and hypnotized by the pseudolove that connected the two. Amie had never met such a fine boy; she just could not comprehend why this had happened.

“A week ago, I was lying in his arms in his bed. He was begging me to stay.”

The late aubade was an aftermath the couple had experienced a plethora of times. He always wished for her to stay with him in bed, trapping her with his skinny, toned arms.

“Stay with me. You don’t have to go, and you know it,” Patrick would tell Beth. And she would obey, because, unlike her companion, she succumbed to her desire to be with him.

But now that was all over. Patrick had expressed to Beth that he still was not over Marie. Although a familiar comment from the boy, Beth could tell from his flat tone and indisposed actions that this nostalgia went beyond the normal.

“So, I talked with Janine today,” Ian wasted no time with small talk.

That is what she had liked about him when she came for her recruiting trip. He hadn’t tried to bullshit her with gimmicks of the school and 68

dreamy possibilities. He gave her the facts: she could be good, no…great, if she put her mind to it and trained. School would be taken care of as long as she continued to have enough passion for the sport.

Isn’t that what I have? You can’t get more passionate than me. Nobody loves running more than I do and he knows it. Everybody knows it. Running is my life. I’m nobody if I’m not a runner.

“Yeah?” Beth sheepishly murmured. Her cheeks began to grow hot while her palms clammed up.

“Beth, look at me,” he paused. “She says your body is going downhill.

Your liver, your kidneys, your heart are all at the beginning stages of failure. Continuing to run with the eating habits that you are practicing is going to kill you.”

“I’m getting better Ian, you know I am. You know how hard I’ve been trying. I try harder than anyone else on the team. I’m putting in so much more effort than everyone else. How can you listen to them? You know that I’m okay. It’s all bullshit,” she pleaded. Desperate, she begged with her eyes so swollen with tears.

“Beth, you’re not emotionally stable. You aren’t physically stableShe couldn’t stop the tears that were running down her face. How fucking ironic; the tears are running non stop but I can’t.

“I’m sorry Beth, but I am forced to follow the Health Center’s advice,” Ian gulped. “And they advise that racing could be detrimental to your health.” Placing his hand awkwardly on her shoulder he left her on the stairs to cry by herself. “I want to see you, when we get back from Regionals. I’ll get in touch. For now, just relax.” Concentrating on the information she had received, his wishes were lost in translation between her sobs.

She waited until the laughter and the murmur of the men’s team trailed off to the outside before she escaped the hell hole she had just been thrust into behind the wall on the cold, dirty stairs. With as much dignity as she could muster, she held her head high as she walked passed the training center and into the locker room. Opening her locker, she took her back pack off of her skeletal shoulders and began thrusting dirty socks and shorts into it. Overwhelmed by frustration, she dropped the bag in surrender and began to weep. Hysterical gasps between tears threatened her ability to breathe. Between the gasping she managed to hear the creaking of the locker room door inch open. Eyes clouded with tears she was unable to see who had entered the room. Wiping her face from the mosaic fluid of snot, tears and sweat she looked up to find Christina staring at her.

“Beth, what in the world is wrong?”

“I…I…I can’t run anymore Chris. They’re not letting me! Ian is listening to the stupid health center. They don’t know anything. I’m fine, I’m FINE!” “Don’t you want to be healthy and run Beth? Don’t you want to be happy and have everything work properly?” Beth could tell through her sobs that she wasn’t going to receive any sympathy from Christina.

“Ian knows what he’s doing. And I back him. The whole team backs him,” she added as she left the locker room door for her Monday six miler leaving Beth alone in her uncontrollable sobbing fit. Taking her heavy head off of the pillars erected by her forearms, she turned right and looked at herself in the mirror. Snot flowed wildly down her nose and mixed into the concoction of sweat and endless tears. Standing up without taking her eyes off of the mirror she began to strip. She tore her shirt off, slid her shorts down her legs and stripped off into her panties and sports bra. Scrutinizing herself in the mirror she studied the curves of her non existent hips and the invisible cellulite that lingered on her thighs.

Fat fucking idiot. Look at what you’ve done. You went and fucked everything up and now you’re off the team. Way to fucking go. She felt the fury of self hatred boil inside of her. Glancing to the left she saw a five pound dumb bell. Picking it up she wanted to destroy her body. Drop it on your 69

foot. Break the fucking thing and then you really can’t run. The rage escaped her mouth and she screamed a cry of despair and confusion as she hurled the weight towards the mirror. The image of her bony frame shattered into pieces as she crumpled to the ground and cried in the fetal position.

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Infantry Memorial

By Mackenzie Reed

71

Without a Choice

By Joseph Ritter I wished I had not had to shoot Jeff Rhoads but he didn’t give me any choice and now he must be dealt with. When you shoot a man for good reason there are two things that you can do; call the police and give them a statement about what happened or wrap the body in a tarp and drop it in a canyon beyond Souxion Creek. The former works best if you’ve done everything as a mild mannered citizen should and not been too poised about it, the latter is most effective if there aren’t any witnesses and you’ve shot someone that nobody is going to miss. With the police you run the risk of a very unpleasant proceeding that may result in your incarceration. If you dump the body and it works it is quite simple, but if you’re found out it’s ashes to ashes murder. I was thinking very hard about a canyon two ridges beyond a little known road that fell a thousand feet to a rushing, spring fed creek, when I recalled that Jeff had a very obnoxious mother that would raise no end of hell and, not being prepared to shoot him, I’d done it in such a way that it would be difficult to hide but did look a lot like self defense.

I set the shotgun aside and walked delicately around the body. He was bleeding onto the linoleum of my kitchen floor, lying mostly on his back. The unfired automatic was still loose in his hand. The shot had entered low in the chest. I did not care to think about or see the condition of the back.

To his way of thinking, he had a very good reason to kill me. Of course, that had given me a similarly good reason to shoot him when I found him in my kitchen at two a.m. with a gun, but that really did not make me feel any better about it.

What happened, I was sure, was that he had been dead set to kill something after I had cast the last stone in a ruined life, and killing me took less than killing himself, especially with that damn mother. Jeff Rhoads was dead at twenty three and had not lived one happy day in his life since he was nine years old. The body on the floor was the product of a very intelligent cowardice that worked beautifully with the things he could control and drove him mad with what he could not. But when you spend seven years fixed upon an illusion loosely based on fact and believing that it is the remedy to your self imposed misery it is a hell of a thing to loose. Delusion like that is a cancer—if caught quickly you can remove it but if left to be fueled by the host it will grow into one of the worst ways of dying naturally, and with the exception of humans, people have the common decency to shoot the afflicted creature.

I stopped at that thought. That was the last thing to tell the inquisition, a twelve gauge euthanasia would be a legal spectacle worthy of at least one front page and a special report on Sunday night. Too bad it wasn’t like the old days, where a shooting involving two armed men was called fair and the body is taken away and it was over. But even now, at two a.m., in your kitchen there was not a lot of question, on the surface at least.

He was looking more and more dead and I knew I had to do it. Well, fuck it.

I made the phone call, left the gun where it was and the ejected shell on the floor. I went into the front room to wait.

Jeff Rhoads wanted to kill me because he thought I took his girl. I killed him because I didn’t want to die. He could not have known that she was never his girl, and never would have been, nor did he understand that she wasn’t really mine and though I unapologetically loved her she knew that she was free do to do as she wished. I knew this would all be hard for her, but I hadn’t been given a choice.

The cops showed up and I explained what had happened, and showed them the body. They picked up the two guns. Dully, as though watch72

ing from somewhere within myself, I listened to the two cops and got in the back of the car to go to the station and take care of the necessary administrative rituals. To myself I was thinking that as soon as I could I would give notice at the office and put the house up for sale. John was in Great Falls and I could stay with him for awhile. I worried about Kelly, because she would be hurt by this, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do for her. I wished I had not had to shoot Jeff Rhoads.

73

A Lonely World

By Julius Calasicas As the list of phobias and philias grow And the only ists remaining Are the rapists, racists, sexists, ageists While the artists, novelists, philanthropists disappear And the cides are at an all time high Homo Sui Infanta Geno And the only costs are the ones That follow holo And Philes accumulate Beasto Pedo Necro And the only acronyms are AIDS, HIV, STDs And drugs are sold by the anagrams In glass VILEs so EVIL that even Uns and Ins can’t describe— It’s Unbelievable Inconceivable Unacceptable Intolerable All ending with ables but no one is Able to end.

ProBeneConMaleThese Prefixes predict nothing progressive and the Suffixes suffer until the end, Do nothing constructive until then These fixes do anything but…

And Homo is confused!

Sexual?

Sapiens?

Genous?

It’s all the same…

And everyone’s trying pro-life, pro-choice, pro-everything because We don’t believe in cons.

To conceive a child, to Procreate life, when you yourself are but a child, well We don’t condone it by refusing prophylactics; We’re just trying to prohibit it by taking away condoms…

We can’t do anything right.

So what’s left?

Is there some unifying thing to do?

Something to fuse us together But won’t confuse us profusely?

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We can hope.

And the only thing that can modify that...

Is a Lonely Lonely Question Mark?

75

Remnants of the Lawrence Tree

By Thomas L. Ngo

76

Moonbeams

By Holly Westerfield Last Wednesday he woke to a secret delight At the end of his bedspread all wrapped up tight A mess of moonbeams lay in a mound A neat little knot, all tangled and bound.

Reaching over with care he loosened a strand And oh! What a racket there was to withstand.

They tumbled they spilled they whirled in a flutter Then dashed to a corner and started to mutter Of hide-and-go-seek with a mischievous comet And ill-fated luck at so distant a plummet Too far from the reach of the man in the moon Now utterly lost and haphazardly strewn In the room of a child who stared mouth agape, Thinking of naught but preventing escape.

And so with display of great presence of mind Quickly took up a jar and with swiftness confined Those dear little moonbeams, scooped up in one snatch He held the jar tightly, this valuable catch.

Those moonbeams, they struggled, they labored and clamored In front of the child who watched them, enamored.

Their eyes flashed like silvery rivers of lightening Their skin glowed like twilight, but each second brightening ‘Til only by squinting their forms were discerned They wriggled and writhed and twisted and turned.

They caused such a stir that the jar lid untightened Renewing their efforts, their confidence heightened.

With might and with main and a vigorous thrust They pushed off the lid with a show of disgust.

They flashed past the child to the nursery curtain A window ajar! Their departure was certain.

This auspicious fortune gave ground to their hope They dashed out the window as slippery as soap.

The child, now distraught with pathetic despair Despondently cast himself into a chair Head buried in arms and a countenance frowning With so many tears, in grave danger of drowning.

The clangor of sobs was acute and intense It woke up the neighbors; but in his defense He had lost a most valuably uncommon treasure Which certainly must have brought limitless pleasure.

The fugitives hastening away were affected This abject rejoinder had not been expected.

Retracing their steps they put flight in suspense In hopes of amending this adverse offense.

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A quick backwards glance proved permission accorded The man in the moon gave a nod and rewarded The howls of the child down on earth in distress Who soon would be answered with unfeigned redress.

The very next instant, returned through the casement, The whole slew of moonbeams each rushed to their placement Surrounding the room each positioned and ready Just lacking the signal, all places held steady.

Moving as if they all shared the same mind At the exact same split second their arms intertwined.

Plunging above underneath and below Coursing through rhythms learned ages ago.

Ursa Major and Minor first taught them this dance At the birth of a star in that great black expanse.

Cassiopeia imparted nobility Pegasus heightened their inborn agility.

The opening measures accomplished andante A leisurely prologue preceding the forte.

Each cadence was realized with focused dexterity Choreographed meter with staggering clarity.

Chock full of paradox, but without concern Synchronous dancing, each Beam in his turn Timidly performed with astounding aplomb The moonbeams imparted a feverish calm That sticks to your insides but slips through your fingers Encircling your head as it hastily lingers This dance, this routine, was of slapdash perfection Wholly composed without any direction.

Lucent and luminous, lambently lunar The dance was advancing, the end was much sooner Than any could wish for. In fact, to be candid, In angst watched the child as the last step was landed.

A hesitant pause before the petition His eyes asked “again?” but lacked the ambition To form into words his unspoken request But the dancers just smiled. As you might have now guessed A moonbeam was never intended to slake The whim of a child, though a common mistake Made by those unacquainted with cosmic convention; Entreaties of humans are paid no attention.

Capricious in nature, their manner self-serving They only partake in what they deem deserving.

They scramble towards pleasure in reckless pursuit Often changing their minds about it en route.

The boy was resigning himself to defeat And had shuffled towards bed in a sluggish retreat.

Before their arrival he’d been fast asleep But now all his blankets were tossed in a heap.

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He pulled himself under the clutter of bedspread Expecting to see them withdraw, but instead They had seized up his covers as if to ensure That he got tucked in tight, cozy, snug, and secure.

The chore was completed, their work here was ended.

The child’s affront had been thoroughly mended.

He lay there complacent, his ill-will placated His eyelids were drooping and left him sedated.

The moonbeams each planted a kiss on his nose Then scampered back home as the first sunrays rose.

Shortly thereafter the boy sat up yawning Rubbing his eyes as a new day was dawning.

Half wondering if it had been real or illusion He rummaged around and then made the conclusion That nothing had happened, he’d dreamt the whole matter It could not have transpired, it had been the latter.

He strolled to the bathroom and glanced in the mirror.

Astonished, he pulled himself quite a bit nearer.

Those freckles were new, those ones there, in that cluster They seemed to have almost a familiar luster‌ A smile quickly stretched itself over his face The memory, once certain, could not be erased.

He had witnessed them dance, they had tucked him in bed And had left him this token of love in their stead.

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Incandescence

By Eric Porter Your scent invades meIt drives deep into my heart.

I feel It curl round my bodyIt twists and turns in beautiful waves. then suddenly, clenches the very core of my beingdown to the pit of my stomach, It grabs meblinding me with the pain of our distanceso intense, I feel it from my toes to my scalpyet I do not seek reprieve.

I want to feel you, feel this divine sufferingfrom the lack of you, as long as possible.

It calls up in me a desire so greatI am as the Burning Bush, covered by your flamebut am not consumed. the Heat fills me till I believe my blood to boil. my temperature only rises with distance from the Originand reaches scorching Climax when we touch.

I must press upon the Source of my infernoto be closer than skin with the Furnace of you. until I am again bathed in fiery embraceI shall not sleep, and I shall not cool. bring your Pyre nigh and sear me again, forever.

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M—

By C.K. Graves M— what is it about the heart that responds to missing beats by panting with strain?

The young blonde with wavy hair Seemed to say Come with me!

Hurry! she offered her hand, nothing more, Did Eve offer her hand?

Did she even hold fruit? was the fruit already growing inside him?

Did she simply raise her cool skin letting it hover before Adam’s lips, letting him taste the fruit that grew inside him?

Its flesh is her skin and it tastes of desire.

Eve held no fruit, though her hand was not empty, delicately balanced on the pads of her fingers she held him, with a trembling passion and waited, her arm extended.

Eve offers no fruit, no temptation other than one cool hand with slender fingers and the touch of her skin —

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Paralysis

By Christine Pineda You welcome the distraction: blinds and moonlight vying for dominion as you crouch on a bed no longer your own.

You despise the moon’s intrusion, casting gradients of shadow that darken at the corners, mounting, fleeing, cowering from reach.

So you throw your allegiance to the flimsy white bars, weaving them to your tapestry of white ceiling, white wall.

You must tell yourself this is healthy, even as your tummy trembles from the tension of keeping butterflies in darkness, safe in their winter cocoons.

It’s only right.

You have no daffodils to give them, no color to offer, no breath.

You have yet to unbend yourself, rising and soaring, bursting from paralysis, until you’re ready to dance.

For now, though, you rest.

You thread a needle through the blinds— and shut your spirit to the light.

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Ireland Black Kettle

By Kristin Simpson

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Greetings to Maureen Inouye

By Andrew Smith I sat in the class, listening waiting for something interesting from the mouth of my professor.

A yawn escaped from my lips, quickly stifled and I stretch putting my feet up on the chair before me.

I hear a giggle from ahead, melodious and sweet like honey syrup. “Making yourself at home?� she questions.

I smile, a connection made with this independent, strong girl. Could this become something eventually?

Perhaps yes, perhaps no.

Yet I feel compelled to respond.

Why? She is mysterious I find myself already seeking her approval.

A joke I crack simple and silly marks it all.

This girl so impressive a gleam in her eye

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the mark of God the passion for life.

She is blessed.

All can be seen in those amber eyes all can be learned from those inquisitive receptacles.

A fascination with life as if it won’t be around tomorrow.

A life I want to be a part of.

Days later the phone erupts in sound.

I pick up the receiver: “Hello?’

A voice melodious and sweet like honey syrup.

A connection made, A new life begun, A smile across my face.

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Crumbs of Fabio to Dr. Brassard

By Julius Calasicas This hunka hunka man made From a slab of marble turned Into slabs of meat.

Chiseled

By Pygmalion (but Who is this little pygie?), He slipped into our minds like butter but I can’t believe it’s not butter.

Butt is firm, biceps bulge.

Big, beautiful, blonde.

“Baby, I brought you flowers,” he says, In an accent of your choice.

“Just as soon as someone carves it From stone for me…ugh, I mean for you.”

This scrawny not brawny boy, 60-90% water (depending on who you ask), Stares at the mirror, Sweats until he’s slippery.

“I can’t believe I’m not butter But the fitness trainer will Help me look like him…ugh, I mean better.”

Butt is non existent, biceps peep out.

Skinny, sticky, spud not stud.

“I grew you some flowers,” I say.

“I watered them myself.”

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Open

By Amanda Mosher

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Mix a little foolishness with your serious plans.

It is lovely to be silly at the right moment. — Horace

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