Writers Magazine 2007 by Writers Magazine

U N I V E R S I T Y O F P O RT L A N D

WRITERS

E N S I O N

SPRING 2007

University of Portland Writers

Tension Senior Editors: Maureen Inouye Elizabeth Watje Editors: Ashley Sanders Heidi Busath Katie Mitchell Jennifer Tierney Kat Berg Tiffany Candelaria Magazine Advisors: Dr. Louis Masson Dr. Lars Larson Cover Photo: Into Space by Doug Franz

“To speak, and to write, is to assert who we are, what we think. The necessary other side is to surrender these things — to stand humbled and stunned and silent before the wild and inexplicable beauties and mysteries of being.” —Jane Hirshfield Welcome to the 13th edition of the University of Portland’s literary magazine Writers. Writers is a publication designed to showcase the writing, of both poetry and short stories, by students at the University of Portland. In order to further enhance the artistic experience, student photography has also been included. Traditionally, the magazine has been organized by members of the English Society, a group founded in support of all literary endeavors. Each of these pieces is vibrant and unique, full of paradoxes and unpredictable elements that combine to create tension. Tension, therefore, is this year’s subtitle. We are proud to present the writings and the photographs of over forty University of Portland undergraduate students, representing many different disciplines and interests. These authors and artists show courage, talent, and an acute awareness of the world around them. We hope to have captured such traits in this collection. Enjoy. — The Editors

Table of Contents Poetry Brian Curry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .5 My Monster Cody Dollowitch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .6 Poetic Sunset Ashley Gibbons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .7 The Onions Sarah Knotts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .8 Seaside, OR Summer Zoe Zuschlag . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .9 Down by the River Chesica Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10 Bridging Seasons Thomas Ngo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .11 An Earthly Salvation William Acorda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .12 Mt. Rainier Paige Hofbauer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13 It’s a Well-Lit Cave (Grave) Eric Slininger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .14 Unaltered Distortion Mary Jane Freemont . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .15 Sweet Seduction Lydia Albjerg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .16 Communication Rachel Morenz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .17 Riding in Cars with Boys Elizabeth Evans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .18 Dusk in West Texas Tyler Gulyas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .19 Afterthoughts Tiffany Candelaria . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20 Ester Kendra Chritz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .21 Oh St. Patrick Stephanie Landis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .22 Breakfast All Day Long C.K. Egbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .23 Statues of Suffering Danny Jensen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .26 Raging Calm Joseph Baird . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27 A Dog’s Story Katie Shine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .28 Suffering the Echoes of Time James Mahoney . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30 Here was a Cloud Bob Insley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .31 Untitled Alizabeth Roth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .33 It’s Always Darkest Before the Dawn Jen Goolkasian . . . . . . . . . . . . .34 The End of a World Joseph Ritter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .35 Daised Elisa Patterson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .36 Broken Heart Surgery Amie Dahnke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .37 Perception Tiffany Candelaria . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .38 Romanoff Erica Ellingsen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .39 Zar Heidi Busath . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .40 Summer Valerie Silliman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .43 Spanish Silhouette Angela Klaassen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .44 Lucky Me Natalie Fennimore . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .45 Magnum Opus Erin Murray . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .46 Untitled Amy VanderZanden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48 Café selon Degas Elizabeth Watje . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .49 White Noise Allison Goodfellow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .50 Janie Gretchen Riehm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .51 Progress James Mahoney . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52 The Afterschool Special Julius Calasicas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .53

Poetry By Brian Curry Vapid verse and foul form The tool of depthless and high-handed writers Simpering and grandiloquent The most beloved of all a teachers subjects as they cut away in barbarous analysis Presumptuous and pretentious So much meaning in so very few lines, even the authors would be astounded Haughty and lordly Favored medium of fleeting teenage amour and bleeding hearts Farce and echoes Your time has come and gone; long since cooled beside the still form of Mercutio Wasted and antiquated Alas to the coming generations, compelled to prolong your decided demise Brilliant beguilements and proud prose

My Monster By Cody Dollowitch i named him. he looks like my shadowâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shadow. he is invisible. he looks like this:

Poetic Sunset

By Ashley Gibbons

The Onions By Sarah Knotts The fridge smells of onions, Pungent and conquering in the early morning, When one’s nose is still waking up, confused and sore from slumber. The nose searches for smell contained in memory, Stale in the mind. The lotion that your mother wore in Sydney that calmed the senses, And relaxed rigid posture. The lemon and lavender dig up thoughts of soft-shelled crab rolls, And an ancient Japanese masseuse, With hands made from fiery stone. Here come the onions— Determined and fighting to stay, self-preservation, Cut for tonight’s dinner, full of purpose and duty. The nose desperately rummages the trunks of your head again, Pleasantly surprised by the aroma of that Moroccan restaurant— The one that digs its claws into your clothes, And clings to you like a small child, for days after your visit. And then there are the onions again, begging not to be forgotten… The smell of the fruit market brings that morning into focus. It is raw and colorful, A sweet, stinging odor lays heavy on my eyelids. The odor of friendly pineapples and velvet peach globes, That are up for adoption. The bouquet of buyers, And the scents that they carry in their palms. The fragrance of a slow SundayDivine ears and simplistic figs have gained your attention on this day. And then, there is the stall with the onions, Bringing your nose back to the now, The reality, The onions in the fridge…

Seaside, OR, Summer By Zoe Zuschlag Call it synchronized sleeping: spooning with eight people on Billy’s leopard bed, pieced together in repeating tessellation, knees in crooks of knees. When one person turns the others follow or the one will be squeezed, singularly, out— discarded to the cat piss carpet. Seaside sunlight chips through blinds, up with the sun on no hours of sleep; the Crazy 8 pile half in the Volvo, half in the Dead Face Down van to chase away the stale beer taste at the Morningstar Café with a small coffee in a large cup and ketchup on a breakfast burrito. We gut lyrics on the way to The Cove, where we crust the rocks like unshowered barnacles. Face the ocean, sometimes talk or listen, lay across laps licking at seasalt, it takes four tries to light a cigarette.

Down by the River By Chesica Jones The sun fades idly, Sparrow chants the dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s last tune, As time strolls away.

Bridging Seasons

By Thomas Ngo

An Earthly Salvation By William Accorda The Earth cried an endless river of tears That flowed and carved the many mountains. Not for joy, but for Her people’s unwanted fears. Death, disease — Bodies in the fountains. One by one, patiently and piously, Her people prayed. It is too soon for them to enter the Cosmic Channel; A mystical microcosm only for Her people, had She made. Filled with thousands of little embers and a Heavenly Panel. A metamorphosing moon that shines spears of white — Stabbing and piercing the dense black darkness, That enshrouds the vision of all that is right. She tends to Her people to rid them of their starkness. Boom! Crash! — A roar like that of a raging lion, Shatters the silence of her dying, desolate people. A torrent She cried that fell from the gates of Zion, Cleansing Her people and raising them higher than any steeple. Many millennia ago, She planted a seed that birthed us all, Like the farmer that sows his seeds in order to reap. An innumerable number of fears made her people call, But all is well for they are saved, and no longer weep.

Mt. Rainier

By Paige Hofbauer

It’s a Well-Lit Cave (Grave) By Eric Slininger Bring your flag along to plant Banners raised and lowered incessant With handholds next to bear-traps Try to climb the peak a-seeking In social spider-webs don’t panic Your history written in an instant Every-moment envisioned different Stamped with ghosts, flashes of magic But ever-changing never-lasting Fades into an autumn photograph Floating on one’s last lung-expanding breath Laying down in a pool of molten bronze Image solidified-in-death And each fucked attempt a colour Of paint upon a Grecian urn As your own snow globe halts its turn Your smould’ring filter forever burns And then simply a series of dim and fading lights Lack thereof or fulfillment fossilized You’ll forget life when you die and so will I

Unaltered Distortion

By Mary Jane Freemont

Sweet Seduction By Lydia Albjerg The water is falling It envelops her Wetness hits her crown And trickles through her moistened locks A single drop escapes the maze of hair It falls down the bare length of skin to her nose As it ventures to her nostrils The water halfs her countenance She delicately scrunches her skin from the tickle The water bravely falls to her soft sweet mouth Her lips sense the moist coolness They are seduced by its gentle touch The jealous and powerful tongue juts out It licks the bit of rain away The drop is gone Gone forever

Communication By Rachel Morenz Tiny chamber. Red velvet curtains drawn. Mahogany doors shut. Just the austere rapping of the grandfather clock in rhythm with the steady stream of memories riding the dusty sunlight trickling through curtain cracks and door jambs. Tick. Warm breath moving down her spine. Tock. His sweat sliding into her sweat. Tick. One colossal hand entwined in her hair. Hand rapidly releases, returns to body, Eyelids automatically open, pupils dilate, No more buttressing blue, black, black, black. No more time, dong, dong, dong. Iron key screeching in the lock. Grandfather standing outside the door. Pocket watch in hand. Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Riding in Cars with Boys By Elizabeth Evans it seems hard to find a solid line between growing up and not leaving behind all the love and joy childhood brings with sprinklers and swings and games and dreams but what happens when that world collides with a foreshadowing moment of boys and cars and romance under the stars and the yellow slide, oh the joy it brought, all day up the ladder and down the spiraling tube of bright sunshiny plastic but now it no longer takes you to soft green grass but to cold hard hurt those dreams of fame and riches and flight no longer grace your complicated mind the simplicity is gone love becomes a myth in these rocky years of take and take and all you think is â&#x20AC;&#x153;i give and giveâ&#x20AC;? and just when it seems that you have to say goodbye to all the fun the jumprope, the basketball, the super soakers and the slide a little reminder holds your hand and leads you to the box of sand you look at the dirt as if it would hurt to sit for a moment and risk staining that abercrombie shirt but then you start to understand and like the grinch your heart begins to grow shedding all youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been forced to learn and depending on what you know the feel of sand between your toes the love of sun jump rope and bubble gum but beware not to cling to the past because that childhood simplicity is not to last choosing not to grow old to soon is the most grownup thing a child can do

Dusk in West Texas By Tyler Gulyas The truck swayed side to side. It seemed like they had been able to see the city for two nights straight. For a while they had had nothing but lard biscuits, and everyone’s stomach was growling with a familiar pain. The inside of the old Ford one ton and a quarter smelled like Texas dirt and body odor but, like the grumblings of their empty bellies, they neglected this sensation as well. GB drove on despite that haze in his eyes. He had been drunk since noon and here it was dusk. Momma sat on the opposite side of the cab, looking at the west Texas scenery drag by. She was only thirty but she looked fifty. Her face was rutted with the signs of many long nights of worry; and her worries never stopped. Every night it was something. Where was the food coming from? Where was he? Was he going to come home? Was he going to want sex, and was that going to mean yet another mouth to feed? This one time he spent the kids’ Christmas present money on a card game. He stayed gone that whole weekend; she thought he might not come back. Often it seemed like her tiny frame was not going to be able to support all the tribulations, but she always managed. This is not quite how she saw her life going. For the most part she never really thought about her life. Since losing the farm, any hope of calm was shattered. She was only seventeen when she married him. It seemed so long ago now. Everyone was on hard times. The last time they were out in California they had a stillborn. Her cousin had delivered the baby but she just handed it to GB and as he took the little girl, he had looked at her and she thought she saw a tear. They had never spoken about that since; the next day potato harvest began in Kern County. But that kind of reminiscing got you nowhere. She turned her head and looked out his window. Sitting between her and GB were three children and on her lap slept this year’s baby. Jack was the oldest. The last time GB had gone to jail Jack had gone out to the Oklahoma woods with a two-man saw and his younger brother John to cut slats for logging truck loads. He and his brother had made enough in trade to keep the family from starving to death. She always had the easiest time looking at Jack out of all her children. His face was beautiful, his nose, ears and mouth were in perfect proportion to each other, unlike his father. His sandy hair was thick and hung down and over an elegantly rounded head and face. The boy had peaceful blue and deep set eyes, a smile dimple on the right side of his face, and a constant look of calm graced his countenance. He looked nothing like GB and whenever she looked at the other kids she saw him, and whenever she thought about him, she felt the strain of worry. Now Jack did not have to work, he could rest the hands that could be doing something great. They all just kept on looking at the lights of the town up ahead. She would thank God that Jack was different, but that made her guilt bite even harder. How could she feel this way about her own children? God would forgive her, and hopefully not hold it against her that she had brought all these children into this world in such a condition. But at least that guilt would not sting her every time she looked at Jack. The baby would be waking up soon and GB’s hangover would begin, then all of the worries would come flooding over her. Setting up the tent, cooking, cleaning, and mediating were all tasks that she would have to delicately balance. But for right now, there was just the west Texas dusk and Jack’s sleepy eyes.

Afterthoughts

By Tiffany Candelaria

Ester By Kendra Chritz When opiates of youth are gone, And troubled years leave faces wan, I’ll realize that what’s done is done For such a time as this. Take the chaff and take the wheat Leave the days behind your feet For it will come that all will meet For such as time as this. The Psalms say life is as a sigh, I bemoan the years gone by. But then I’m stilled by God’s reply: For such a time as this.

Oh St. Patrick

By Stephanie Landis

Breakfast All Day Long (Dedicated to the People of Iraq) By C.K. Egbert The child decided that, without a doubt, her favorite meal of the day was breakfast. There were so many good things to be had at breakfast, milk and butter and sugar and fruit, all mixed up so fine that she looked forward to throwing off the covers and rushing to the table. Breakfast was good, too, because the house was filled with the delicious, dark smell of coffee and the subtle spice of tea. She didn’t drink coffee, but someday she would, and when she did she would make it as sweet as a spring day. She loved breakfast because it was always bright and busy in the house, and yet quiet at the same time. She liked breakfast now especially, perhaps because it wasn’t nearly as good as it used to be. They didn’t have butter, yellow like sunshine and flowers, or the good kind of milk, or very much sugar anymore. Sometimes the child would ask Mother why they didn’t have good breakfast like they used to, but Mother would just frown at her, and sometimes if she was very angry she would hit her on the side of the head. The child knew that she shouldn’t ask, but breakfast was her favorite, and she didn’t see why they didn’t have any of the good things anymore and Mother never told her why. Lately if she asked timidly if there was any milk or butter she could have, Mother would look like she was going to cry and then hold her close. So she just didn’t ask anymore, because that had been worse than when she had gotten angry. Perhaps she was sad because she liked breakfast, too, and couldn’t have her coffee or tea. Yet none of that, her Mother’s tears or the lack of good things to eat, could dampen the child’s pleasure as she sat in the comfort of her special chair at the table. It was a nice morning, and the sky was wonderfully clear, just like a silk scarf she had seen at the fair or a picture in a book, even though she couldn’t see the sky. It had to be bright and clear and beautiful because it was such a wonderful and quiet morning. In her mind it made perfect sense, because the sky would be as calm and peaceful as she was at that moment. She wished that Mother and Auntie would open the windows, but they didn’t seem very much to like seeing the sky anymore. They kept all the windows locked with dark curtains over them, and they wouldn’t let her hide under the curtains or stand close to them. At first she thought it was because there was a storm, because sometimes the glass rattled and shook and there was a loud, thundering sound outside, but it only lasted a few seconds and then was gone. It didn’t even really sound like real thunder, more like an old engine that was trying to run but wasn’t doing a good job of it, only louder. She wondered why all the grownups didn’t look at the sky anymore, and she thought maybe it was the grating, drumming sounds. She was never afraid of storms before so they didn’t bother her much, only she wished she could see what kind of cloud made those noises. She swung her heels gaily beneath her chair and forced her jaws to work very slowly so that she could taste as much of the food as she could before it went down to her stomach, and so that she could linger over the table as long as possible. Mother and Auntie didn’t seem to notice the fact that it was getting late and she still hadn’t put on her dress or her shoes or combed her hair. Everyone else’s breakfast was still on the table and was getting cold, because if you don’t eat it soon enough it gets cold. Hers was still warm because she was eating it, although as slowly as a caterpillar. She had seen a caterpillar once, when her mother took her out into the garden, climbing up on one of the leaves and taking tiny green mouthfuls. The child imagined that she was a caterpillar and took little bites, pushing the food gently 23

against her teeth. Her fingers were now all sticky and she had crumbs over her face and in the tangles of her hair. Mother didn’t like it when she ate with her hands like that and made a mess. The child glanced up at her Mother and her Auntie, but they weren’t even looking at her. They were listening to a man’s voice coming from the big black box. His voice sounded angry like when Father was going to punish her for being a bad girl. The child shivered a little and tried to ignore the angry man’s voice. Her Mother and her Auntie were also speaking, but not nearly as loud as the man, and their voices were very quiet and frightened. The child wondered if maybe the grown-ups had gotten in trouble with the angry man and that was why they were so scared. Mother and Auntie were scared of Father like she was, but Father had gone away a long time ago and Mother had cried. She didn’t know why she cried, because Father went away every morning, only this time he was wearing funny clothes. Maybe he had gone to the same place that Auntie’s boy had gone, because he had to go away and wear those same clothes and he hadn’t come back yet. Auntie cried very hard when he went away and when she read a paper that had her boy’s name on it. The child thought that it was very nice that he was included in the paper and Auntie got a medal, but she didn’t know what the medal was for or why Auntie was so sad. Maybe Auntie didn’t like the medal, even though she kept it over a picture of her boy. Mother and Auntie spent most of their time, now, listening to the voices coming from the big black box and looking very anxious. She thought that maybe the people in the box were scolding them so they had to stay and listen; otherwise she didn’t know why they listened all the time if it made them unhappy. It must be very important but she couldn’t see why sitting there and listening to the voices was more important than cooking breakfast and letting the air in the house. Perhaps it was like school when you had to do whatever the teacher said even if you didn’t want to. Auntie’s boy had been going to school and had to do what the teacher told him and then he had to do what the government told him to do when they took him away. Now Mother and Auntie came back into the kitchen and they looked very funny. “It’s too late, it’s too late, they’re coming,” Mother whispered. That was another thing. Mother and Auntie always whispered nowadays, and the child wondered if it was because they didn’t want the angry men to hear what they were saying. Even people who came to visit were always whispering and looking around as if they had done something bad and were afraid that they might get caught. She heard Mother and Auntie talking once about people that had been taken away by the police because they had said something bad about the government and had to go to jail. So people always whispered so that the police wouldn’t hear what they were saying and they wouldn’t get in trouble. “There’s nothing…” Auntie replied helplessly. “They’ll be here any moment. You heard them. What can we do?” Mother said, sounding hoarse. “Soldiers,” Auntie repeated, looking off at something at the other side of the room. Maybe it was the faded picture on the wall, the one with the medal on it. “My boy….” But then she didn’t say anymore because it looked like she was trying to swallow something that was trying to get up into her throat. There was a big boom, so big that it went inside the house and started to rattle all the dishes. Mother and Auntie went to a window and threw off the curtain and looked outside. The child jumped up from her seat, because she was curious and hadn’t looked outside in a long time. She was right; the sky was very blue and clear. A big black bird, like a vulture, was flying overhead. It must be a girl because it laid an egg, which was falling down very quickly. It was black and got bigger as it 24

fell through the peaceful morning air. The child thought that the bird was very ugly and that the egg it laid would not be good for breakfast. It was stupid to lay it the way it did because it would get all splattered once it hit the street in front of their house. Mother and Auntie hugged each other very tightly and closed their eyes as if they were waiting for something. They didn’t look so afraid anymore, just calm like they were about to go to sleep. The child thought that maybe it was the bird they had been afraid of but they weren’t scared of it anymore because they saw that it just flew overhead and made loud noises. She shrugged and slid back up onto her chair and dreamt about milk and butter and sugar and all the best breakfast foods that she could ever imagine. She could feel Mother and Auntie beside her, and the sound of something coming near. But she wasn’t thinking of any of that. She was thinking about what a nice morning it was, and enjoying the breeze on her face from the open window, and licking up the last of the crumbs. The child thought to herself, “When I get older, I will have breakfast all day long.”

Statues of Suffering

By Danny Jensen

Raging Calm By Joseph Baird Why is it I feel like dying When Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m laying on the ground Wishing I was flying Listening to that peaceful sound Which floats through the air With oh so little care Touching, feeling all I know Leaving but not a trace So great I could not show If it only had a face It floats around me touching nothing Flowing up and down Dancing to a beat unheard Oh that peaceful sound

A Dog’s Story By Katie Shine Greta slunk across the kitchen linoleum, her chest mopping the floor and her nails clinking against the black and white checkers with each awkward step. “GRETA! I swear GRETA, if you piss on the couch one more time…” Nate’s words trailed off as he violently rubbed the innocent washrag back and forth against the new yellow marking on the cream carpeting of the living room floor. “One more time and you’ll what? Finally put that dog out of it’s misery? I swear Nate we need to put her down — she’s seventeen for God’s sake. How old does that make her in dog years?” she played with the fingers on her left hand — appearing to solve the mathematic problem she had just posed. “Old. It makes her old — but I can’t put her down, you know I can’t” “Nate, she’s miserable. She knows she shouldn’t go in the house and she can’t help it, and it doesn’t help that you give her such a hard time.” Molly swooped down, her dark hair blinding her temporarily as she jammed her right and then her left foot into her black heels. “Come here, Greta,” she said, letting her voice raise an octave to let Greta know she was no longer being scolded. The collie approached tentatively. “Oh Greta, you’re ok, you’re alright,” she purred to the dog. It padded the rest of the way up to her, and contentedly sat on Molly’s black heels as Molly tugged and massaged the dog’s ears. “Hey, do you have time today to swing by and let her out?” Nate asked. “Are you serious? I’ve come home the past three days. You can’t seriously be asking me to come all the way back here for your dog again?” exasperation in each word. “Ok fine, I guess she can make it till I get back. It’s not so long. And hey, what’s another stain at this point?” “I can’t believe you. Leaving her here all day. You need to come home during your lunch or call the neighbor.” “I don’t have time, and I’m not going to call Vicky again, I already agreed to mow her lawn for coming last time and I don’t even have time for that.” His voice had risen. His coffee almost spilling out of its thick glass mug as he pounded it against the counter. “Never mind.” Her pumps marched swiftly past him, their resounding cadence signifying her frustration. She left him in silence. He heard the garage door open and then close again. “What are we going to do with her, eh, Greta?” He sighed and took another warming gulp. *** “Excuse me, am I speaking with the owner of a Greta Warner? You see I found…” “Greta? You found Greta. Oh thank God. Is she all right? She’s never not come back. Where are you? Should I come get her now?” Nate’s voice was anxious and worried. “She’s fine. And you can come get her whenever. I have to leave in about an hour though so if you wanted to come over now?” “Yeah, let me grab a pen here real quick. What’s the address?” *** Molly hated herself for missing her lunch for the dog. She had unsuccessfully attempted to ignore the sinking feeling of guilt at leaving such an old creature in Nate’s neglectful hands. 28

She flew down the exit ramp, the rain water sloshing against the pavement as her tires plowed through each small glass mirror of water. Pulling up to the small home she shared with Nate she let her car screech to an angry halt in front of the garage. Without bothering to close the garage door behind her, she swerved through piles of Christmas decorations and odd unusable knickknacks into the house. “Alright Greta, I’m here.” The dog trotted over excited to see her noonday visitor. “Yeah that’s right, no lunch for women with inept boyfriend’s who own sad pathetic animals. How did I get roped into doing this?” she asked Greta, opening up the back door to let her out to run in the autumn colors. She wandered back to the fridge and opened its suction tight doors to reveal the hidden treasures of last Friday’s chow mien, and last Wednesday’s pizza. “Note to self: hit the grocery store on the way home.” She mixed the two entrees into a unique hybrid, which sounded more exciting than it actually tasted. Left a sticky note on the table stating: “You owe me big — M.” and went to go let Greta back in. *** Nate woke to the sound of the garage door’s motor churning and muscling its way open. Molly must be getting back from her business trip. Nate ran to the bedroom and grabbed the neatly bowed gift and ran back out into the kitchen just as Molly was coming in. “Merry Christmas!” His grin stretched from ear to ear. “What? Already? Christmas isn’t for two weeks” But she was smiling too. “Well, open it,” he said handing the gift over to her. Her eyes grew large as the box moved on it’s own in her arms. She set it carefully on the ground and undid the thick red ribbon encasing the box. “Oh my. Oh my, you got me a dog? It’s beautiful. What does Greta think of him, or is it a her?” “Oh Moll, I had her put down, I decided it was time. She had a good life, but it was her time,” he paused. “But go ahead, name him. It’s a him this time.” “But you had Greta for seventeen years. You loved that dog. We met because of that dog. Why would you…How could you?” Her eyes drilled into his unblinking. “Molly I thought you hated that dog. She was a hassle and was making a mess every which way she turned. It was her time to go. You have to understand that. This dog may not be able to replace Greta, but he’ll be a good dog, and I’m sure you will grow to love him. Besides, it will be our dog, not just mine this time.” The small dog twisted and turned inside its carrier, slipping its paws through the grated door merrily. “Nate? Why would you do that? You didn’t even tell me.” “Look, don’t worry about it. I mean I miss her, but this dog is going to be great too. A new start.” “I can’t believe you did that, I mean, I can’t believe you.” “Come on, Molly. Now look. Look what’s around his collar.” He pointed excitedly at the small blue collar encircling the dog’s neck. Instead of a tag there hung a sparkling diamond ring. “Nate.” She was shaking her head slowly, setting the carrier firmly on the floor and backing away from the dog. “Molly,” he grabbed her arm, “will you marry me?” She was crying and still shaking her head. “Come on. Say yes.” “No. No, I can’t. I won’t.”

Suffering the Echoes of Time By James Mahoney (I walk toward the window and) There I am. Light, forever despising interruptions, impatiently filters past me. Some of the more hesitant beams Decide to remain behind in the glass And reflect on where they have just been And what they have just seen. And now I see too: My wife’s behind: undressing, revealing old age’s stages. When I was young I thought all’s well that ends well And so I decided on her. But That end is no more. The cold, unfulfilled bed takes up space beside her similar legs, Mocking my choice and clarifying the deterioration So that words will not have to. My focus shifts now to the dark outside where Dust silently sinks down and etiolates the unresisting earth. She turns back around, robed, changed, And heads for shoulders to rest hands on. “I wonder how long that snow will keep up.” She considers out loud to herself and to me. Us. I think about that for a mournful moment. “It snow more,” I realize. It’s no more.

Here was a Cloud By Bob Insley Sitting on the bench at the edge of campus, it may as well be the edge of the world. Looking out over the city, there is a barge with some kind of crane on it moving slowly down the river. It smells beautiful and clean out. It is bright in the sun, warm with an edge of cool in the shade. She is running the toe end of her shoe across the concrete slab beneath the bench, perhaps drawing pictures that only she can see. I am watching the cars driving over the span of the closest bridge. There is a song running slowly through my mind, but I can’t remember the name of it. I look at the way her hair is pushed back behind her ear. She looks out there on everything else and opens her mouth like she is about to say something, and then she does. “Tell me about love.” I say, “Hmm?” But I heard her. “Tell me about love.” “It’s a big subject.” “I know.” I watch the crane for a while. “I used to think that I knew what love was... I used to think that if I could just imagine what the girl I was supposed to be with looked like, then I would know her when I saw her. You know?” I realize that, from this distance, I can make out individual people in the shipyard below. “And then one day you’re walking around, down some stairs or in a doorway or something. And your eyes meet some stranger’s and it’s exactly what you’ve been looking for, it’s who you imagined it would be. And that right there, that moment, that’s love.” “You used to think that?” “Yeah.” I deliberately do not say anything else. Her hand is fidgeting with the seam on the outside of the leg of her jeans. “What changed your mind?” I notice the clouds in the sky and I am reminded of Aristophanes’ play The Clouds, where they say that the clouds are goddesses. Here was a cloud that almost made me believe it could be true. “Because one day you’re walking down that staircase or in that doorway, and you see that person, and it really, really messes you up, because she’s nothing like you thought she’d be.” The cloud is changing shape now, and the blue of the sky almost makes me forget where I am. “Nothing is ever like you think it’s going to be. And it really messed me up, for a long, long time.” I look at her and, God, she is beautiful, and I briefly wonder what she is doing sitting next to me. I wonder, too, if the beauty isn’t truly her own, if it is simply the beauty of the general human form. It seems like I have had these thoughts so many times before. My eyes are drawn to a line on the side of her neck. There is something inexplicably attractive, undeniably sexy and perfect about it. She is still looking out on the city, on the river, on life moving along. 31

From the side, I can see the bulging curve on the front of her eyeball and the infinitely delicate lines underneath. There is something strange about the human eye, completely out of place on the body, yet right at home. Perhaps it really is the one window looking onto whatever is inside. I ask her, â&#x20AC;&#x153;What do you think love is?â&#x20AC;? She opens her mouth like she is about to speak, but she cannot because she is not sitting there, except in my mind. I get up and head back towards campus. My feet do not make noise on the grass. As usual, it is only as I am walking away that I begin to understand.

Untitled

By Alizabeth Roth

It’s always darkest before the dawn By Jen Goolkasian The 10th month; when leaves fall and scatter, leaving naked trees behind The 9th snapshot I took when you weren’t looking (it never developed) The 8th week straight I’ve gone without listening to The 7th track, our song…remember? The 6th instance I almost picked up the phone to call you The 5th of November, it would have been going on 3 years The 4th time I asked you to choose The 3rd time I asked you to choose me <I guess third time isn’t a charm after all> The 2nd person to tell me I’m beautiful The 1st and last dance It’s over. Here’s to finally letting go.

The End of a World By Joseph Ritter She looked up out through the window and saw him standing the driveway. She went outside. “What the fuck are you doing here?” “I didn’t want to call.” “Save it.” “I thought that—” “Fuck you.” He was standing there without really moving, hands in his pockets and slightly rocking on his feet. He was wearing the old olive drab coat. “Let’s take a walk.” “No.” “I think that—” “Go to hell. You don’t think about anything, John. Remember?” “Come talk to me.” “Go to hell.” “Really?” He changed for an instant. “Come on.” They were walking down the sidewalk. They went to the end of the neighborhood and kept walking where the grass grew through the broken concrete. They did not speak. “I think I won’t go away.” She did not look at him. The sky was grey and it was dry, but cold. Their hair blew lightly in the wind. “I’ve learned a lot of things, Jacqueline. But you’ve got to play each different game by its rules.” This time she watched his lips as he formed the name he had never before called her. “You do what you do.” “Not anymore, I don’t. This is your game, not mine. You had your chance at that.” “You’re a bastard.” “Probably.” They kept walking. The wind gusted once, hard, and she caught herself stepping closer to him. She stood straight. “I could have loved you very easily.” “You said you did.” “So does everyone.” “So what are you going to do, then?” “I’m going home.” “What the fuck, John? You’ve only had one home in your life and you’re not going there.” “No, I’m not. I’m going to flaked off white paint and dirty windows, an electric bill and a pile of old books.” “Jesus Christ, what is your fucking problem? Can’t you just go back to yourself? I didn’t like that, but at least I respected it.” “I won’t.” “Go.” “Nope. You’re rules, Jackie. I’m not doing it anymore.” He had had his hands in his pockets the whole time. Now he stretched his arms wide. His hands were not shaking anymore. “You want to live like this, we’ll live like this. I’m game. Let’s get the fuck on with it.” “You’re pathetic. I—” her voice broke, and she shut up. “It’s your life, Jacqueline. It’s your life.” He turned and walked away. She felt it in her stomach and throat, and there were hot tears on her face. She hated herself for crying. He stopped walking. He turned to look at her then kept walking away. It wasn’t that bad, he thought. There was nothing to miss, really. After all, she did alright. 35

Daised

By Elisa Patterson

Broken Heart Surgery By Amie Dahnke Broken heart surgery. I need the scalpel. I’ll do anything for you, kill anyone for you. Slice it open. In the phrase to cut these lips, I loved you. No Goddamn’t I have no time for anesthesia Don’t ask me again. The morning will come Are you afraid to feel pain? In the press of every kiss. Are you afraid of hurting? Hold still this won’t last long. With your head upon my chest. We’re out of sutures. You’ll have to mend yourself. I wish that I could stay but you argue. Good luck. My work here is done.

Perception By Tiffany Candelaria Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s funny how our eyes can capture a whole forest Or can focus on the tiny crevice on a branch. We can sing a song, thinking it the best Then we listen and realize our mistake. The air feels cold to the man in the doorway But not to the lady sipping coffee with her friends. Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the use in describing the day For only you would have seen it that way.

Romanoff

By Erica Ellingsen

Zar By Heidi Busath The cousins jostled and fidgeted, each trying to hide behind the others and to get a glimpse of this new man their grinning fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts, were greeting and hugging. A few of the braver ones crept over the plaid sofa and up behind their parents. Who is this Stranger? they whispered. The old farm in Liberty, Idaho exhaled peace and relaxation and the Stranger didn’t match at all. His body was tense, his muscles skinny and wiry—like a rubber band about to snap. He was all angles and the scenery was all rolling hills. But this was where he had chosen to make his new home. Slowly the news leaked down from the adults. This was our first cousin once removed, Doug Brown. He had bought the farm house just down the hill from the Lodge after Great-Aunt Evelyn died in March. Oh. He was strange. Why did he want that run down house? Was it because he wanted to hide his long hair? Slowly the commotion calmed down, and the parents began their usual chat about unpacking and preparing the meals and how much work the Lodge needed. The cousins thought the Lodge was perfect, however, so they snuck to the pasture to escape unpacking and discuss the Stranger. What is a ‘once removed’? It sounds dangerous. Maybe he’s a criminal and that’s why he has long hair. A million questions were raised but they all came back to just one —Who is the Stranger? After breakfast the next day, they found out. The Stranger is Fun. He has horsies. Two of them and he lets the cousins ride them. Their names are funny though. Ceresina and A-bu. He even gets one of the uncles to help give tractor rides to the kids, and they get to really actually drive it. By the end of the family reunion he isn’t the Stranger. He’s Doug. The cousins are sad to leave, but he’ll still be here next spring. The station wagon pulls up behind a minivan and the cousins jump out. Where’s the fun guy with the horses? Oh, my gosh, what’s happened to the house? It looks beautiful. Where’s the wreck that was here last year? A man in a paint splattered shirt and tight jeans and carrying a hammer walks out of the new building which stands out strangely against the milking barn across the street. His straight blond afro frames his leathery face. I was expecting you two hours ago, he says. The cousins think he looks familiar—wait, it’s Doug. He’s given the house and himself a make-over. There is laughing and hugging all over again; this year the cousins join in. Somehow the parents don’t seem as excited as they did last year. They quickly run up to the Lodge to vacuum up all the dead flies that collected during the long winter. The cousins stay behind shyly observing the new Doug. Little girls start blushing when he asks, My god, who is this beautiful woman? They blush as much from the swearing as the compliment. The boys get thrilled from the cool dude attitude he greets them with as he saddles up the horses, more like friends than little kids. After hours of horseback riding Doug pulls out a shiny motorcycle. No, the mom’s declare, it’s too dangerous. It’ll be fine, just be careful not to burn your legs on the exhaust pipe. Someone gets burned as she climbs on, but doesn’t tell because she wants the ride. It is worth it. The blurred fields whoosh past at 80 miles an hour cooling the long burn ’til they return to the Lodge and it can be taken care of. Doug is Adventure. After dinner the parents usher the cousins out of the way so they can talk. The cousins don’t mind, but later that night they hear whispers from below as they lie in the loft pretending to sleep. Above the hum of the refrigerator random phrases float up as the cousins drift

through clouds of sleep. Yes that’s right…Doug…some woman…gone now…completely naked…window open…beer bottles…be more careful…protect children… The next day the cousins are forbidden to enter his house without an adult. It’s not that we don’t like Doug, kids, you shouldn’t be scared, but we’d feel a lot more comfortable if you stayed where we can see you. There was no fear before, but slowly the cousins were learning it. What is wrong? Is Doug a criminal after all? The horse rides and adventures continue, but the older cousins wonder. Doug is, perhaps, dangerous. Before they can decide it is time to leave again. They won’t be back for a whole year. They’ll have to wait to discover who Doug really is until then. After a succession of years and lengths and colors his hair is long and brown again; his lips are as thin as ever and his elbows are just as pointed. But he is different this year—again a Stranger. Doug Brown is gone and in his place a strange being named Zar is found. Just Zar. That’s it, no last name. Zar. It’s my real name, he explains, I just hadn’t discovered it yet. The cousins are completely in awe. He is Exotic. Although Zar is changed, the landscape remains the same. The fields are a mass of yellow with the spring dandelions, the hills across the valley are alluring. Everything, even the cattle passing to be milked, speaks of the peace and the constancy of this corner of the world. Horses and games still play a large role in Zar’s life, but he has another distraction at the moment. He still gives a few rides and plays with the cousins, but Delores is his new focus. The other women he’s found got the community aroused, but Delores caps them all. She is his cousin’s ex-wife. Her children and ex-husband are noticeably absent at the reunion this year. Doug was an oddity, but Zar is Wicked. The rain pours heavily, causing sixty people to squash into a space made for twenty-five. Despite the crowding, fewer people go to the graveyard to do the highland reel on the graves of their greatgrandparents. The musty scent of wet sweatshirts and yesterday’s meals mingle with the people, crowding amidst the discomfort of an awkward relationships — an ex-aunt and a cousin. When Zar relinquishes his usual seat on the bench for the upright piano, and walks down the hill to his home with Delores, the Lodge breathes again. People move freely and begin talking. The younger cousins go to put on a fashion show, but the older and wiser cousins collect in obscure corners hoping to eavesdrop on the parents. They are successful. I could not believe he was so explicit in front of my seven year-old complains one aunt; I had to ask him to stop talking, another. An uncle this time, does anyone know why he thinks he is the savior come to save the world through sexual therapy? Exorcising the spirit of the Indian warrior in the east bedroom was bad enough. The only answer is Silence. The older cousins all run to the old chicken coop to escape the parents and the rain. And talk. Zar is Scary. How can he think something like that? Christ isn’t a sexual freak. He looks like all the pictures of Christ ever made, but with a devious, worldly glint in his pale eyes. None of them go near him again. He is too much of a Stranger. Despite the fun of seeing cousins, it is a relief when the time finally came to leave. This year the house at the bottom of the hill is empty. No mysterious Stranger emerges to greet the cousins after their long drive through the countryside. The Lodge is still the same, but Zar, Doug, the Stranger is gone. His identity is as inconsistent as the wind that sometimes surges across the valley, only to melt away into nothingness again. He has

changed again. Married a Thai woman and moved there to live with her and her two children. Has never been happier. What happened to the carefree, wild man the cousins knew last? He became Stranger every time they met him. A neighbor has been taking care of the remaining horse, but on the last day of the cousinsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; visit A-bu dies. Heartbroken, I guess. Zar left him for a woman. He had that horse longer than any of his wives. No one will ever know Zar. He is gone now. Gentle. Adventurous. Scary. Faithless. Dangerous. Passionate. Spiritual. Mysterious. All gone. The only thing the cousins can do now is try to assemble the fragments.

Summer By Valerie Silliman The house, they say, needs a wife. The loaf of bread is formed In denial and defiance of role. We’re both scheduled for 11 am. The reason he’s late is He’s just too intelligent, She excuses. Why then I want to ask, am I on time? Her chauvinistic comment Is one in the daily serial. I always laugh as if It’s a joke. Their concern for my safety Is not an altruistic impulse. And yet I still love fairy tales.

Spanish Silhouette

By Angela Klaassen

Lucky Me By Natalie Fennimore I got what I wanted Not what I wished for Now that is something I would stitch on a pillow. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know when it got this bad But I think A part of me Always wanted To be a mess; Always wanted the negative attention With positive support I never saw my life as anything Other then a fantasy That never really happened But would make a great movie I could never decide on whether I wanted to be the star in the movie Keeping my life a figment of imagination Or if I wanted the movie based on the life I lived But then another actress would play the lead And she would be forever remembered For capturing my essence Taking my spotlight Irony being I never wanted a spotlight I always pictured myself as the neglected daughter of an alcoholic The depressed victim of growing up with a cold unfeeling mother So steeped in her own misery She could not be called a fit parent I wanted to be seen as abused Neglected A drug addicted alcoholic Who would never find love with any object With a soul or a kind heart I wanted this life and I worked to accomplish it Because those are the people who get attention Those are the people who overcome all odds To be role models I wished to be normal To be happy To be in love To be loved. But I never wanted any of it. I got what I wanted Not what I wished for.

Magnum Opus By Erin Murray He lived in a middle-sized apartment on the fifth floor of his building. It was vastly different from his former home of hotel suites and room service, but the difference was really an improvement, in his mind. The walls were painted pale blues and greens and yellows— soothing colors, intended to help dull his constant headaches. They were nice, except for his bedroom walls, which disconcertingly reminded him of the ones in hospital emergency rooms. The last time he had been there he had lain on a gurney, drifting in and out of consciousness after his last overdose of heroin, only vaguely aware of what was happening around him. He felt as though he was enclosed inside a small bubble, insulated from the chaos of the hospital. People entered the bubble and began to move as though they were underwater, drifting a hand across his body to cut open his vomit-stained t-shirt or stick needles in his skin. His grimy, dishwater blonde hair that just touched his collar had been hacked off on one side so that they could reach the bloody gash on his head from when he had fallen down the stairs. Then they floated out of the bubble and sped up, as though someone had pushed a fast-forward button. They looked like blurred photographs against pale blue walls. That had been nearly a year ago. He had done the usual rehab run, but this time it seemed to stick. Now, instead of shooting up in some dingy, dark room behind a stage, he sat at home, watching the news and reading while drinking coffee. Caffeine, in legal doses, was his only drug now. Occasionally, he would get phone calls from the other members of the band at midnight or later. He could hear someone banging on the drums at the other end of the line, the drunken giggles of groupies. “Man,” they would tell him. “You’re missing out, man. Come on, come on back. We’ve got a show tomorrow, we could use you. We’ll have a big reunion show. It’ll be wicked! Come on, man.” He could almost smell the cigarette smoke, see the needles scattered on the tables like strange metallic centerpieces. He usually hung up on them, unplugged the phone from the wall, and went to bed. Some days, he would put on a hat and sunglasses, shave—he’d always played gigs with two-day scruff, they wouldn’t recognize him clean-shaven—and walk down to the grocery store. He’d buy normal things—orange juice, bread, eggs, toilet paper. He’d had to learn to shop for groceries after getting out of rehab—he’d never done it for himself before. He’d had to teach himself how to live like a normal human being, how to do laundry, wash dishes, pay bills. He’d never felt as helpless as on the day he first arrived in his apartment with nothing but a duffle bag and his old guitar. The room had felt so empty, those huge blue walls looming over him. Before, someone else had always just done things for him, but now… Now he had no one but himself. Once, he had seen a pimply sixteen year old boy wearing one of the band t-shirts at the store. He had turned and ducked down the beer and wine aisle, an aisle he usually avoided at all costs. He hunched his shoulders, pulled up his collar, and tried to keep his eyes to the floor, away from the bright labels before making his way for the exit without buying anything. Another time, he had been recognized on the street—a college kid had come up to him, talking loudly about some lyric in one of the songs. He had stood, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his

jeans, his tennis shoes itching to move, to get out of the conversation. The kid clearly didn’t understand that he had written most of the songs while high; the white angel didn’t mean anything. She was just one of his hallucinations that haunted him. She still came to him in his dreams—the one place that he couldn’t hide from his past. The kid finally left him alone, after getting a barely legible autograph on a paper napkin. He hadn’t left his apartment building for several days after that, only venturing downstairs to collect what little mail he received and to let the super see him, to reassure him that he was still alive. The last thing he needed was a pack of EMTs bursting through his door to collect his dead body, when really he would be sitting in his sweatpants, eating cocoa puffs and watching cartoons.

Untitled

By Amy VanderZanden

Café selon Degas Elizabeth Watje Silent night. The ruby harlot left a barren stage, brushed by dripping bullion. Her audience left shrouded tables, chairs knocked askew, the after-taste of satin, suit, and languid smoke. The red glow melts in moonbeam after hours, slipping through a chrysanthemum of broken window. The pane of shattered sky is seduced by cornered moons, a pallid stage-kiss in morning. The café lies awake and naked, its gaudy buzz swarmed to bed. When dusk beckons and the sky’s smoke rings the sun, life will sink into this molten holding tank of gems. Silence tails the mouse to her tangled nest of soiled napkin-poetry beneath the bar. Holy night. All is calm: dark and bright.

White Noise By Allison Goodfellow The constant chatter and the insistent nervous giggle were beginning to get to her. The girl glanced up from the essay she was writing to glare at the thin wall separating her from the annoying voice in the next unit. She hoped that somehow the neighbor would receive the telepathic rays and frankly, shut the hell up. It was late and she was tired. Yet, there it was. The mind numbing chatter that seemed to seep through every pore of the wall and spill into her thoughts as it again invaded her space. The neighbor laughed like a chipmunk on helium, and that night she had found something particularly amusing. The girl groaned, trying to convince herself it wasn’t quite that bad, but it was, in fact it was worse. It was a squeaking wheel on a shopping cart. It was trying to meditate to hard rock music. It was a dripping faucet and a ticking watch in a silent room. It was a dog howling at three am, a fire alarm during an exam, a crying baby on a red eye flight, and it never ceased. The girl had tried leaving, attempted finding another place, but the screech of that high pitched voice was so ingrained in her mind that she heard it everywhere now. She couldn’t escape it. The neighbor’s shrill whine followed her to class, to the library, and into her dreams, it had saturated her life. The voice had become a very part of her being. She began to dream of castles built from pink insulation, of seas of ear plugs. But she could not escape, and even her dreams turned to nightmares. She was lost in a forest with only the senseless voice as a guide, trapped in room without a window, and the neighbor was her cellmate. The girl wanted to scream, to run away, to build a fortress of sound proof walls, but she could do nothing. So, she constructed the only thing she could, white noise. She turned her radio on and never turned it off. She clicked the keys on her computer as loudly as she could. She talked to herself in quiet whispers and daydreamed in roaring voices. She paced and listened to the patter of her feet against the thinly carpeted floor and even began talking in her sleep. Soon the neighbor began to fade, to drift into the background, the voice became just another whir in her mind. The noises mingled like syrup on a melting Sunday, until they could no longer be separated. Then, one day she woke to find that the neighbor had moved, the chatter was gone, the hyena like cackle had ceased and the walls were hushed. The girl turned off the talk shows, stopped the relentless typing, quieted her thoughts, and ceased pacing. The silence was absolute — only the sound of her breathing remained and even it seemed unnaturally still. She froze. She waited. She listened. She heard nothing. The sounds of silence encompassed her. The air hung expectantly around her, weighed down by the utter solitude of the moment. With a shudder the girl reached over and flicked the radio back on, retraced her steps across the worn trail in the rug, and humming to the music she smothered the deafening silence.

Janie By Gretchen Riehm My name is Joyce Adams. I am twelve years old. I have been on this ward for Three months. I speak because Janie doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. But only to you, my Trusted confidante. I speak the truthâ&#x20AC;Ś The truth. The truth will Set me free. But freedom is for Janie. And so, I sit here and Talk to you, confidante. And Janie sits here and Talks to no one. The truth is hidden In you, A pale, clean, white wall. And the truth Will never set anyone free Especially Janie.

Progress

By James Mahoney

The Afterschool Special Julius Calasicas Attention all students Fear the Devil Love God Or God will kill you Attention all deviants Stop it Right Now And a warm welcome to all the families visiting us today I trust everything goes honky-dorey And drug-free Attention all hippies, hipsters, tripsters, rollers, e-tards, bloggers, druggies, Green Party members, Green Day fans, indies, alts, retros, afrosâ&#x20AC;Ś I meanâ&#x20AC;Ś aphrodesiatics, over-sexed, complex human creatures Stop it Right Now. That will be all.

The world is all gates, all opportunities, strings of tension waiting to be struck. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Ralph Waldo Emerson