A FINE ARTS AND LITERARY JOURNAL 1
2021 YAHA R A J O U RN A L A L I T E R A RY & F I N E A RTS J O U R N A L
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Hailey Griffin
EDITORIAL STAFF Steven Andriantsiratahina Julet Frazier Destiny Johnson Melissa Perez Megan Robinson Rhianna Prine
BOOK DESIGN Steven Andriantsiratahina
COVER ART Steven Andriantsiratahina
ADVISOR Doug Kirchberg
The Yahara Journal consists entirely of Madison College student work. It is made available by the Student Life Office and funded by Student Activities Fees. Opinions expressed in this journal do not represent those of the Madison College administration, faculty, staff, or student body.
2
TABLE OF CON T E N TS PROSE 6 8 11 13 17 19 21 24 26 30
A Drinking Problem Nicholas Adam Dagel The Affliction of Cooper Barton Hannah Waugh She Is My “Place” Destiny Hines Memories of a Programmer Adama Sawadogo How to Be a Woman Trinity Lerum A Rare Game Elizabeth Pardo A Mother’s Love Never Ends Ricardo Isaias Marroquin Santos Staff vs. Crew Allison Rudolf Robin Hood’s Bow: Forging a Weapon of Identity Lia Smith-Redmann Monk, Mother, Mystery: The Woman in the Incomplete Portrait Lia Smith-Redmann
33 The People Watcher Hannah Dotzler 35 A Brief Account of Booker House Cameron G. Schneberger
POETRY 38 Every Day Jada Janneau 39 Somewhere in the Future Jada Janneau 43 October, Broken Rena Medow 45 Take Care Stephanie-Rae Steiner 46 Home Sydnee Schaller 48 Mythic Trinity Lerum 49 Shapeshifting Soul Paige Zezulka 50 Rules of Entry Allison Rudolf 51 The Puppeteer Paige Zezulka 53 Shuttle Ava Puser 3
54 Driftless R. Schlaugat 55 Hollow R. Schlaugat 56 Apollo Sophia Gundlach
68 David, Reductive Drawing Paige Peloquin 69 Fairytale Dreams Dian Yao 70 Jellyfish at the Aquarium Kimberly Brown 71 Lighthouse of ARTWORK Minnesota Kayla Fry 58 Origami Color Wheel 72 Untitled Anna Franklin Maia Lathrop 59 Death 73 Marcus Aurelius Rosa Collazo Katy Villalpando 60 Baba Yaga 74 Daydreaming Maria Schirmer Devitt Ava Puser 61 Opera Girl 75 The Fawn Purple Dian Yao Peony 62 The Blue and Yellow Lily Caroline Glasgow Caroline Glasgow 76 Stay Fly 63 Jewel Tone Haley Fuhr Camilla Thembi 78 Heightened Drawing 64 What I’m Good At Raine Thoma Emma Fashing 79 Paradise 65 Imagination Kayla Fry Ishee Xiong 80 Untitled 66 Dinner Cora McElroy Ishee Xiong 81 Octavia Told Us 67 Pray For Plagues Maria Schirmer Devitt (Pray For Me) Miguel Mares 4
MISSION The Yahara Journal supports learning and creativity at Madison College through the publication of a print journal and the sponsorship of events and activities that facilitate growth in writing and visual arts.
SPECIAL THANKS The Yahara Journal would not be possible without the financial assistance provided by the Student Activities Board and Madison College. The Yahara Journal staff is especially grateful to the faculty members who encouraged students to share their work with us. Finally, we would like to thank all Madison College students who took time to create and submit work for consideration in the journal. This book would not exist without your efforts.
5
PROSE
6
A Drinking Problem Nicholas Adam Dagel Dearest Mother, It is I, your loving son Anselmo. I’m writing to inform you that your youngest son is a success. As you know, it’s been nearly a fortnight since my landing in Bavaria. In the time since my arrival in this ominous and beautiful country, I have been appointed as the dutiful servant of the mintmaker, the issuer of currency and a wealthy landowner, the right and honorable Count Orlok. The Count has recently taken to sickness. And in his illness, he has required the services of an able-bodied man to help him in the upkeep of his estate. He also requires assistance in the performance of his duties as mintmaker. I had been staying in an inn after I arrived in this foreign land. I went to the innkeeper and inquired where I might find employment. The innkeeper informed me of the open position here at Count Orlok’s estate, and upon the beginning of my employment here, Count Orlok graciously provided me with lodging in a small cabin on his land. It’s funny, dear Mother. When some locals heard of my acceptance of this position, the Vicar himself came to me to warn me of the Count’s strange activities. However, I’ve found that despite the odd hours he keeps, the Count is a truly generous and kind-hearted man. I’ve found the denizens of Bavaria to be a superstitious and cowardly lot. Count Orlok is a lovely man. He’s even offered me some inheritance if I continue in my faithful service! Regards, Anselmo.
7
Dear Ronaldo, my loving brother, I require some assistance. You see, I recently accepted a job in the employ of Count Orlok. Things have not gone to plan. Upon my arrival in Bavaria, I found myself quite low on money after my long trek from Holland. I inquired about some employment opportunities and was informed of one such opportunity to work for the Count. Some of the locals informed me that Count Orlok is a strange and dangerous man. I paid them no heed and took them for superstition. But upon commencement of my employment, I learned the truth of Count Orlok’s supposed affliction. When I met him, he had a deathly pallor about him and the strangest yellow eyes I’d ever seen on a living man. Months later, I learned the reason for his disquieting appearance. Count Orlok is a vampyr, dear brother. Worse than that, there have been some murders. Shortly after my arrival at this estate, the town drunkard, a boisterous man named Beauregard, came to live here. The Count informed me that my new primary job was to bring Beauregard casks of wine from the village whenever he required them. I was confused at first until I learned the purpose of this errand. You see, in all my time in his employ, I never witnessed Count Orlok eat or drink anything to speak of. I learned this was due to his condition of vampyrism. Unfortunately, it seems that Count Orlok had developed a taste for alcohol. Except that because of his affliction, he couldn’t consume any liquid other than human blood. As a result of this, the only way Count Orlok could satiate his desire for a drink was to consume it from the blood of a drunk man. This is the reason for his agreement with the drunkard, Beauregard. However, I refused to assist in this activity if I wasn’t going to receive the benefits of vampyrism myself. When I informed Count Orlok of my position, he became quite violent, and I feared for my life. I tore down the curtain covering the window, at which point the Count violently burst into flame. Then, in my rage, I stabbed the drunk Beauregard. In any event, I now desperately seek rescue from Bavaria. I implore you to come and rescue me, Brother. Regards, Anselmo.
8
The Affliction of Cooper Barton Hannah Waugh The old house on the corner creaked and groaned, its weight bending to the merciless wind. The shifting of the rotting planks and boards eerily resembled the moaning of a human voice. The house appeared as if it had been pleasant-looking in its prime; an open porch snaked around the outside of the house, and a winding garden pathway led to the front door. The wide double doors had been delicately engraved, a brass knocker centered on each. Time, however, had degraded the house. The paint was peeling back to reveal the rotting wood underneath, and the brass had tarnished to a deep green hue. The garden had been neglected for years and now only contained overgrown weeds and the skeletal remains of dead shrubs. Its name was Blight Manor. Despite its appearance, Blight Manor was occupied. A man lived within it; he had inherited it from an anonymous, deceased relative, people said. Or perhaps he had bought it to carry out his shady business, the bolder ones said. People spoke about this man behind his back, but not one of them had ever said one word to the man; the townsfolk went to great lengths to avoid him. Parents told their children that he was the worst kind of man. This man, you see, was a writer. His name was Cooper Barton. He was known to lock himself in his house for weeks at a time, never emerging until his deadline was met. He spoke to no one, acknowledged no one, and they did the same to him. Tonight he had shut himself up in the house, as it was the night before his deadline. Within the house, the man sat at a worn, wooden desk in the library. He was a small man, and the ornate chair seemed to swallow him whole. Bookcases towered around him, their shelves filled with tomes that used to inspire Cooper; now, they only taunted him. A laptop was perched upon the desk, its bright screen illuminating the small room. A document was visible on the screen. Cooper leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest. He stared at the 9
words on the screen, watching the blinking of the cursor. Cooper allowed his heavy eyes to slide closed. He listened to the shifting of the house, wishing he could decipher the meaning of the groans. Imagine all this house has seen, he thought. If only it could give him inspiration… The floorboards behind his chair shifted, and the sound startled Cooper awake. He sat up in his chair, frantically looking left and right. The shadows seemed to be swirling and pulsing around him, but the house was silent again. The man scolded himself for being so easily frightened, settling back into his chair. He fell back into the ritual of staring at the blinking cursor, his eyes closing once again. A door upstairs slammed, the noise reverberating throughout the whole house. It echoed, reaching Cooper’s ears time and time again. He stood, positive that he was no longer alone within the house. Stepping delicately across the wooden floor of the foyer, he came to stand at the foot of the winding staircase. He strained his ears, listening for any noise that may have revealed what was waiting for him. Seconds passed, then minutes, but to Cooper, it felt like hours. After confirming the silence time and time again, he ascended the staircase. Each step creaked underneath his weight. Cooper stood at the mouth of a long hallway, lined on each side by wooden doors. Peering at each of these doors, he discovered that all but one stood ajar. He took a delicate step toward this door, careful to place his feet only where the wood would not creak and groan. Standing just outside the door for a minute, he listened for any noises coming from within. He heard nothing. Hesitantly grabbing the doorknob, he swung the heavy, wooden door open, revealing the grotesque scene within. Within the veil of darkness of the bedroom, Cooper could make out the outline of something sinister. It was sitting in the center of the room, hunched over what appeared to be a dead bird. It was tearing at the animal with claws and teeth, and feathers littered the small room. It had heard him enter and turned to him with its black, soulless eyes. It screeched and cawed, lunging after the terrified Cooper. Unable to contain his dismay, the man let loose a bloodcurdling scream, seeming to shake the house’s very foundations. Cooper deftly stepped back as it lunged for him. He spun on his heel 10
and ran for the stairs. He did not dare to look behind him. He heard it following close behind him, the scratching of claws against wood. One moment of hesitation, and he would be the creature’s next meal. Upon reaching the stairs, he bounded down the first two steps. The next steps, however, he did not reach. He lost his footing, his feet caught beneath him, and the man began to tumble. Head over heels, Cooper fell down the winding staircase. The creature watched from afar while his prey landed at the foot of the stairs. It stood before returning to the shadows from whence it came. The police arrived at Blight Manor only minutes later. They had been called when someone complained about the screaming. Upon kicking in the rotting door and traversing the entryway, they found Cooper Barton in a crumpled pile at the bottom of his stairs. His neck had snapped on the way down, and his eyes were still open in pure terror. He seemed to be looking to his desk, where his laptop, and unfinished work, sat waiting. No one could say for sure what had happened to Cooper Barton that night. Some say he killed himself. But others, the bolder, say he had been killed by...writer’s block.
11
She Is My “Place” Destiny Hines As she walks just ahead of me, I try not to stare. Her dirty blond hair is dusted with glistening grey that peaks out just under her sideways-worn Milwaukee Brewers baseball hat. She takes each step with confidence as she makes every effort not to cause a crease in her new grey-blue Converse shoes. Her first pair of jeans for the colder fall season were pulled from the back of her closet. They are stylishly distressed with rips at the knees and hanging white threads, and they sit just at her hips. Her grey-blue speckled shirt covered in a small swallow bird print shifts with each step. Her well-kept style will never overshadow her perfectly angled smile that lay below her beautiful, grey-blue crescent-shaped eyes. Minutes feel like hours as I get lost in her swagger. With each step we take across cold, pale concrete toward the brightly lit entryway, my hand becomes clenched and yearns to hold hers. I listen closely to her enthusiastic words as she harmonically talks about sports. I try to appear as though I know what she is talking about. I, unfortunately, do not know much about the topic. What matters to me is that I know what I feel for her. I instead watch her as she gracefully takes each step, and I listen to her sing her words about sports. Once we arrive, we wait for our names to be called so we can share one of many more meals together. We stand between two large white horse sculptures as they stand guard to the restaurant’s entrance. As I lean against a cold concrete wall while we wait, I feel arms wrap around me. The feeling of warmth swallows me whole. As she leans over my shoulder from behind me, her body pushes against mine. She lays her cheek to mine and then kisses my shoulder. I inhale and close my eyes as her kiss sends chills throughout my body. My heart swims in this moment. I inhale deeply while I still stand wrapped in her arms. She smells of men’s cologne. A smile spreads from ear to ear across my face. With my eyes still closed, I can feel the eyes of people staring as they walk past us. The feelings 12
of bliss coursing through me take over. I no longer think of anything but her. The smell of spices starts to intertwine with the cool autumn breeze, and it begins to spin all around us. We both inhale deep and then exhale with sounds of pleasure as our stomachs start to grow in anticipation. I open my eyes to refocus and realize our surroundings. While we still stand in the same place—the restaurant entryway— something has changed in me. At that moment that I was in her arms, even though it was only a few minutes, I felt as though time had stood still. Her warm, affectionate embrace made me feel complete. At that moment, nothing else was as important. That moment showed me she is my home, my heart, and my “place.”
13
Memories of a Programmer Adama Sawadogo Almost like a daily ritual, he ended his day with these scripts in the command prompt: git add . & git commit -m “courses addable” & git push. He saved his long day’s work before shutting the machine down with shutdown /s. Nobila always had his fingers invisibly glued to the keyboard. Now, it was time to go to bed and enjoy the movies of his long-time but vivid memories. Quickly, his desperate attempt to revisit his day and his successes and failures did nothing but drift onto the island of his nostalgic childhood memories. The last time he telephoned Grandma back in the Homeland to Honest People, he felt as though he had just left. Their conversations were long and deep, as he would often pull out common memories that he had with her, some of which she had already forgotten. However, he avoided certain words and topics, as he knew that the old woman would not sleep days afterward just thinking about the distance separating them. He felt like it was just yesterday that he was farming with her, herding her sheep, and going on trips on foot for dozens of miles. This was one of the most cherished memories he wished to go back to. Or so he thought. His memories about the village where he grew up, his young uncles, his grandma, and the lake were so fresh that he could lose himself in them for a while. On his gran’s mat on the floor, under a thick and warm cotton blanket, laying on his belly, head up, he used to read his elementary lessons in front of the incandescent lamp. He was only nine or ten then. Best times ever! Romantic memories sometimes stop by, but as he refuses to welcome them, they turn back and slam the door of his conscious mind that is crowded with sweet and innocent experiences. However, on rare occasions, he accepts the urge to look back at these beautiful young girls who had always had a crush on him only because he was smart, if not the smartest. Alas, the same way he refutes his memories, he ignored the girls. Now he wonders why he had not been courageous enough to talk to the teacher’s daughter, whom he 14
publicly denied but loved dearly in secret. To him, love and school could not sit on the same bench. Nevertheless, he could not forget the day when Biba deliberately came to him with the pretext of helping arrange textbooks. “Let me help my husband,” she said to her friend. The shame and happiness were so intertwined that he did not even know what he felt at that moment. Today, he is certain about it. Nobila hid in the shadows of his natural shyness, which coincided with his “gifted” intelligence, to convince his peers and himself that one was the result of the other. He was as fascinated by his school performance as his peers were puzzled. Like an unwritten law, a grandchild is always cherished if not venerated. The young boy enjoyed his life in the small village. It was not only the climate that suited his hobbies but also the environment, which he believed was the center of the world. One of his favorite activities was hunting red-headed rock agamas. He was known for his precision, despite his young age. At times, older peers of his would unanimously delegate him to aim first at the reptile on the tree with his slingshot. When it was time to chase the animal running to escape, his uncle would laugh at the ground at his amusing devotion to catching the agama. He cared less. Now retrieving these remembrances, his saliva rushed to his mouth when he thought of the delicious, well-salted, grilled agama meat they would savor at the end of the hunt. If he ever enjoyed barbecue, it was grilled agama barbecue. This thought just reminded him of the unfair fact that he has nothing to tell his “modern” friends what his hobbies are and what meals he preferred. Not only are his hobbies deprived of him, but mentioning them to friends would worsen his situation. “What? You used to eat agamas?” they’d say. This country is an island to him! An hour has passed since he agreed to the conventional call from the bed. He checked his phone. People from his home country were already in the daytime, blowing up his WhatsApp. Ironically, he ignored the messages because he did not want to receive a call from an uncle at this hour of the night, although he had been thinking about their shared memories. After a few swipes on Tinder, his rage escalated from the simple knowledge that these gals seemed too good for him or that he was a victim of a stupid algorithm. From the day he learned that users are classified based on algorithm-generated scores, he tried to swipe left often to keep his score high, but it did not 15
matter. Maybe he has been seen but swiped left on all the time. Now, he put his favorite memory show on—fishing. Fishing was one of the things he could outperform his peers in outside of school. While sitting on the inclined tree above the lake behind their home, excited nervousness would invade him at the sight of the cane indicator going down and up at the rhythm of a hungry fish trying to eat the bait for free. The indicator was a piece of old gumshoe, usually red or yellow, attached to the line and close to the hook in a way that would move when the fish is eating the bait—poor catfish. Nothing is free. He recalls these moments when he would dig for worms, holding them with either of his hands in the same way a freshman holds a pen. It is just a tool. When the cane indicator starts dancing, he holds the handle tightly, makes room for himself, and loosens up the line before pulling the cane with an angle less than 90 degrees relative to the water’s surface. If successful, the next events were spectacular, and even he was amazed by his skill. He would hold the cane with the ill-fated fish and walk from the top of the tree inclined over the river to the ground without holding any branches. Those moments were as memorable as first dates and graduation days. The village was heaven to him. In spring, as he recalls, men and women talked about his abilities in playing Yoté. Yoté is a game analog to chess, except that it is constructed by digging 30 holes in a five-by-six layout. It’s one of the indicators of someone’s intelligence. When playing with the uninitiated, he laughs halfway through the game because he already knows that by the time they are done, his opponent will have lost. People tried to steal his techniques, but he seems to have countless patterns that he invents every day. At the rare times that he lost, he would refuse to eat, even at the begging of his grandmother. If the opponent decided to quit, he would burst into tears. It was more than a hobby; it was a commitment. However, since going to the capital to continue his studies, he has lost everything: no hobbies, no hunting, no fishing, no African chess. He stayed away from soccer, as it seemed violent and unintelligent. Memories from the city? There aren’t that many. His life in the capital was limited to school and mosque. At school, he enjoyed overhearing classmates talking about him without knowing what he looked like: the only student who did well on the test. He was wellknown, and at the same time, unknown. His name was greater than his person. Still, he thought the key to getting what you wanted was 16
to focus on school and religion. At one time, he said wisely, “I do not waste my time on looking for mates because I know that if I succeed, they will come to me.” Even though he was a teenager, he was often asked to lead prayers in the mosque. At dawn, he would replace the muezzin to call his fellow faithful to the prayer. This was what mattered to him. He now cries inwardly, knowing that his current environment is so contrary to his past. What can he do about it? Today was a long day. Nobila rethinks about the code that he wrote for the day. What breakthrough did he make? What solution did he find, and what will be his next steps? He thinks about how big his goals, dreams, and responsibilities are. Tomorrow will be another day to conquer, another day to fight, another day to live joyfully on an island away from home. After all, maybe he likes it this way, though, because there may not have been the same sweet things even if he were home.
17
How to Be a Woman Trinity Lerum Be put in dresses while you’re too small to choose. Pick anything that has stripes when you can choose. Grow up playing with Legos and Littlest Pet Shop. Play with stuffed animals with your twin and make up stories about carnivores at war with herbivores where the animals talk and kill each other and plot revenge and poison their enemies and make orphans. Read book after book after book—books about male main characters following the footsteps of Greek myths, standing against those who say unjust and untrue things, saving the world time and again. The women go crazy. The girls fall in love. These are your favorite stories. Try to make the female characters your favorites but fail. The male characters get to hold swords and kill monsters. Get made fun of for these interests. Your parents tease you when you like a band of all boys. Your mother scoffs when you play video games for too long. Your father rolls his eyes when you sing along to a musical. Make up crushes on boys because you’re supposed to. In first grade, you’ll decide to like a boy named Oliver, but when you’re building a snow fort at recess, he’ll push you, so pick another. Pick the next boy you see. All through elementary school, you’ll date him, but you don’t talk to him. It’s okay. You stopped thinking he was interesting in second grade. Forget you’re supposed to have crushes on boys until seventh grade. By now, you’ve realized you’re supposed to feel something inside, not just pick. The new boy who is funny and nice makes you smile, so guess that you have a crush on him. Chop your hair off. Everyone will say something about it. Your head feels lighter. Kiss a girl in eighth grade. She says she feels fireworks when you lean in behind the library on a Wednesday after school, and you take her word for it. She’s your best friend. Date her. In freshman year of high school, believe there is something wrong with you for never having a favorite female character. Go to see the new Star Wars with your girlfriend and like it. The two of you will break up with each 18
other soon, and you’ll still be friends. Like it that way just as much as you liked dating. Get made fun of for a week alongside every other girl who hasn’t seen the original Star Wars movies but saw the new one. Watch makeup videos on YouTube and obsess over how to do it perfectly before you try it yourself. Try it yourself. Buy green concealer to hide redness, then put on blush. Use mascara even though you can’t tell the difference with or without it—it doesn’t matter, put it on. Pretty girls put it on. Every girl that’s worth anything in those books you used to read was pretty. Sometimes they were strong, sometimes weak, sometimes brave, sometimes scared, but always pretty. Girls are supposed to be pretty. Feel mortified when you have gym class, but you forgot to shave the quarter inch of hair on your calves. Hide your body in baggy clothes. Get tired of trying to be pretty. Get tired of hating your body. Your mom will laugh when she sees how long your leg hair is. An amateur makeup collection will sit unused in your bathroom cabinet. For a while, you think the solution is wearing a crop top even though you don’t have a flat tummy. Then you wonder why you’re showing skin to the kids you go to high school with. Grow your hair out. Chop it off again. Wonder why you wear feminine clothes to feel pretty when you thought you were over that. Wear men’s shirts because they’re funnier. Wear women’s jeans because they fit better. Date a girl named Hannah who feels everything you do. Tell her that when you were in middle school, you thought about the same things you think about now, but you forced yourself to forget, and she’ll feel everything you thought you were alone in feeling. When you sit on your couch with her, you’ll sit with her right leg over your thighs like the safety bar on a rollercoaster. It’s nice, but you don’t get to know that for a few years. Be angry. Be confused. Be protective and loud and annoying and insecure and angry again but quieter this time.
19
A Rare Game Elizabeth Pardo It was a rare game they were about to play. This particular brand of fun only happened when Dominic’s temper was so dark that he punctuated each word when he spoke with a sharp, almost-hissing sound. Jennifer didn’t like this game. It wasn’t fun—this is dangerous, Jennifer. Tell him that it’s dangerous, too dangerous—but she was as silent as Dominic. All she had said earlier was some off-hand, jokey comment about a country singer that Dominic liked, and Jennifer’s opinion had set him off to hissing and silence. The game was called Mock Execution, and, as far as Jennifer could tell, Dominic made it up himself. Dominic would spot a pedestrian, and then he would drive his sedan as close as possible to the pedestrian, and then Dominic would pretend to try and run them over. Pretend, right? Pretend, Jennifer thought, watching Dominic’s thin face in the burgeoning pre-dawn light. Once Dominic saw the naked and terrified responses of the pedestrians he was trying— pretending—to run over, he would jerk the wheel. The car would right itself in the lane with a squeal, and then Dominic’s game was done. The last time they played Mock Execution was four months ago when Dominic agreed to finally meet Jennifer’s best friend, Scott, who she met at school. Scott was a classmate she’d known for over three years. Dominic had been nearly silent throughout the whole dinner, looking at his phone, drinking hard liquor, and occasionally laughing at nothing. After they all left the restaurant, Dominic watched Scott walk away to his car, leaving Jennifer standing there on the sidewalk without unlocking the sedan. Dominic told Jennifer as they drove away that Scott wasn’t actually Jennifer’s best friend, as women simply couldn’t have male best friends because Scott was more than likely just looking to get into her pants. Jennifer snorted and laughed. 20
“You’re funny, Dominic! Of course Scott’s my best friend!” she responded, thinking he was making a joke. Dominic went even more silent than he was at the restaurant. He pressed his lips together and had started looking for pedestrians. This time was no different. Still, silent, with angry heat crackling off of his skin in waves, Dominic drove the speed limit but pressed his lips together, scanning for pedestrians. The sedan’s clock read 5:13 a.m., so there were few people awake and outside yet. Jennifer hoped that they wouldn’t find a pedestrian. Then, they crested the hill on the way home, and Dominic spotted a jogger. The jogger wore neon green and yellow running shorts and a neon blue top, her braid swinging with the pounding of her feet on the uneven dirt road she ran on. She was wearing headphones, focused on her run. Jennifer pressed her hands together on the inside of her thighs. Please don’t see us, please don’t turn your head and see us, Jennifer thought. Dominic switched lanes, still going the speed limit, and eased the sedan right behind the jogger, taking up the bike lane. Once Dominic eased the sedan slowly into the jogger’s line of sight, his lips slackened into a small, tight smile. Five, six seconds passed, and finally, the jogger saw the car. She startled hard, her whole body jerking to the right in surprise. Jennifer watched the jogger lose her footing. Dominic had stopped the car to watch, too. They watched the bright purple shoes get caught, tangled, her left foot tripping her right foot. The jogger hit a deep hole in the unpaved path, and neither Dominic nor Jennifer heard the sound of the jogger’s skull crack as it collided with the exposed and unused rusty water runoff pipe sticking up from the ground. They watched as the jogger’s body twitched once, twice, and then went still. Blood was all over the pipe and the ground. The pair remained silent, watching, only for a moment. Dominic jerked the wheel and put the sedan in drive. The game was over.
21
A Mother’s Love Never Ends Ricardo Isaias Marroquin Santos At the age of 16, mi madre kept one secret away from everybody, especially her padres. Although, she couldn’t hide it for long. She lived in a vecindad, a Mexican style home where multiple generations of our familia shared a large house with a courtyard in the middle. One day, very unexpectedly and from far away, her cousin Eliot asked, “Hey, Silvia are you expecting!?” Since her padres were standing next to her, mi madre couldn’t hide it anymore. Mi madre stated, “Within three months of my pregnancy, I stopped going to school and eventually dropped out of high school because I wanted to prepare for a safe birth delivery.” Within three months of her pregnancy, mi madre happily married mi papa, Miguel Angel Marroquin Guerrero. At the age of 26, mi madre had given birth to four boys who she loved and cared for. She took on the role of a full-time stay-at-home mother. Time after time throughout her life, she made decisions that benefited the lives of her children. She sacrificed a career outside of the home, her familia (brothers, sisters, and parents), and her comfort zone. Mi madre worked very hard. Her dedication throughout the day was hard work, and every intention was to benefit her children. Throughout the day, she worked hard to have something ready for us to eat without delay once arriving home from school. The meals prepared were simple pero muy deliciosos! Meal planning provided mi madre with endless possibilities of varied combinations and healthy choices to pick from. She served the simple base of rice, beans, lentils, ground beef, vegetables, soups, quesadillas, molletes, and chiles rellenos en salsa verde. Anyone can understand how many extra measures it takes to build a meal from scratch. It’s indeed beneficial, but I see how a large part of her day and energy was sacrificed for providing food for all four of her children and husband. At the age of 35, she heard about an opportunity for a better future. What could possibly go wrong? In 22
a word, everything! When she decided to reach U.S. territory, mi madre sacrificed the thing she loves the most, which is familia. It is very hard to connect the dots in my head and think of mi madre’s odyssey. The opportunity for a better future wasn’t guaranteed. In fact, this was the biggest sacrifice that covered all the things she loved the most: familia, memorias, and amigos. She wanted más for her children, but at the same time, for herself. The plan to come to the U.S. was made quickly, which made her odyssey more dangerous. Soon enough, she was encouraged by her close amiga, Norma, to cross the Mexican border and reach U.S. territory with the help of a coyote. Then, she would settle in Madison, Wisconsin. When mi madre arrived in Madison, Wisconsin, she had to do things outside of her comfort zone. Amazingly, mi madre’s odyssey and sacrifices were worth it, and she arrived safely after two long weeks. A period of two weeks makes such a difference! There are many factors she bravely faced, like the language barrier. She also managed to do things for the first time. For example, she got her first job, learned how to drive a car, bought her own car, and most importantly, overcame her comfort zone. In the process, mi papa, three older brothers, and I crossed the U.S. border and joined our lovely mother in January 2001. Looking back at this exact time brings tears to my eyes, and I cannot relate it to a feeling I have ever had before because I felt like I was following in her footsteps. I got a taste of the sacrifices she made. When mi madre, Silvia Santos Garcia, found out she was pregnant for the first time, she kept it a secret. This event enforces the comfort zone she later broke out of. Time after time again, her dedication towards putting herself last was the work of her selfless acts. For the people who know her, she is a mother, a father, a friend, and a visionary that broke down walls. She came to the U.S. with a gut feeling that it was the right choice to leave everything behind. On the surface, she is mi madre, but in my corazón and conscience, she is the sixth sense that guides me with a gut feeling. Because of those feelings, I have also stepped outside my comfort zone and made sacrifices to take my education seriously. Because of her experience, she will say, “Estudia! Si no vas a trabajar donde yo trabajo.” I take this quote very seriously, and she is glad that I am following her legacy of being courageous. 23
Translations: Amigos: Friends Chiles rellenos en salsa verde: Stuffed peppers with green sauce Corazón: Heart Coyote: A human smuggler Familia: Family Madre: Mother Más: More Memorias: Memories Mi: My Molletes: A traditional Mexican open sandwich with refried beans and melted cheese Padres: Parents Pero muy delisioso: But so delicious
24
Staff vs. Crew Allison Rudolf It is 3:57. My shift at the restaurant starts at 4:30. I am always 10 minutes early. The drive is 17 minutes, which means I need to find my uniform shirt in the next three minutes if I want to make it out to my car with a minute or two to spare. I always forget my keys, phone, or something else equally important, so I build in a couple of minutes to my time. My uniform shirt is a little darker than periwinkle blue and has the restaurant logo in the top right corner. I have four of these shirts because I often work all weekend. The first one I got is different from the rest. It says “STAFF” on the back, and it is a V-neck style t-shirt. I used it all last summer, and this summer, management used a new company to make the shirts. My newest three are all different sizes, but they all have a circle neckline and say “CREW” on the back. I am one of the only people who still wear the “STAFF” shirts because I have worked at the restaurant for more than one summer. Working in a bar food restaurant makes said uniform shirt almost unwearable after one shift. Therefore, I have three shirts for three shifts of the weekend and an extra for next week when I forget to do laundry. I have three minutes. I throw my clothes from last week’s pile onto the floor, t-shirts strewn about my room, and pairs of socks littering the walkway. Not there. I run downstairs as fast as my short legs will let me, down to the laundry room. There are more and more clothes, but no work shirt. I rush over to see if it is hanging on the drying rack. I could have sworn it was there last night. It’s not there now. I dash back up the stairs to the living room to check the other piles of unsorted laundry. I am now going to be four minutes late to my original time, which will only be six minutes early. Great. I rush back downstairs, snatch a dirty shirt from the washroom floor, and grimace as I pull it on. It smells like a truck full of French fries with a few sides of grease. Ew. 25
Well, I guess this is it. I am going to work in a dirty shirt. Gross. I yell at my sister to get in the car because we are going to be late. She works with me at the same restaurant. She started at the beginning of this summer. Keys, wallet, phone, purse. I think I have it all. I slam the door on my way out and run to my car. Megan jogs out of the house, and I can tell something is not right. The shirt she is wearing is a V-neck restaurant shirt; it says “STAFF” on the back. Not “CREW.” She climbs into the car and looks at me like she is ready to go. She is wearing my shirt.
26
Robin Hood’s Bow: Forging a Weapon of Identity Lia Smith-Redmann Criminal. Deceptive. The ghost of an accident waiting to happen. Precise, tactile, and taciturn, it’s like a ritual of the mute. Sacred. I follow the tip of my inky Paper Mate pen with my eyes, nose to the table as it swims across the paper next to the daunting words “Sign Here.” After an hour of unyielding focus with my pen, as precise as diamond cutting or searching for constellations in the night sky, my hand now knows this process. I end my mother’s signature with a flick of the tail and sit back to admire my artwork. I just signed an official document with an adult’s signature. At eight years old, I am now officially an adult. I began forgery early, and I like to think that if I had charged for the services I provided back then, I would be rich now. Forgery is logical, I realize, as I sit in my third-grade classroom between the columns of soap-smelling necks, clean ears, and pink faces of my peers, looking up at Mrs. Leroy. With 20 other signatures to worry about, she doesn’t care about the authenticity of my mother’s, does she? There’s no reason for me to haul bounties of forms and letters home just to lose them in the shuffle of paperwork on the kitchen counter; no reason to get a bus pass written for me when I can do it myself. Forging my parents’ signatures opens the gateway to an unapologetic secret to give me power. I distribute “parent-written” bus passes like tickets. With them, students can go where they want after school, even a village 40 minutes away from home. A desperate third-grader comes to me and declares, “Hey, I need to get on Bus #5 to go to my friend’s house tonight. I need a parent note. Can you do that?” My memory parrots to me the formulaic format of a bus pass: “So-and-So has permission to take Bus 5 to So-and-So’s house tonight,” signed and dated. I ask them what their parent’s signature looks like, and oftentimes they scribble it out in a flurry of swirls like Sally Brown’s hair in Peanuts, 27
then say, “But nicer,” or, “But longer,” or simply, “But better than that.” It begins with an inspection in the way an appraiser studies a Monet. I stare at the signature, a looming reminder of them, whoever they are. I bring it closer to my eyes, playing trombone with the paper. Then I take my pen—no pencils allowed, for the permanency of a signature in ink cannot be redone with the help of an apologetic pink eraser—and trace the air above the signature, then replicate it once below, twice below, three times; then above and on all sides, filling the paper with mockeries of the penned identity. Then, I flip the paper over and do it again in columns down the page, each a better reflection of the last. I rotate the paper and fill in the white areas. Some signs are so poor I don’t even get to the end of “Andersen” or “Young” or “Jauregui,” and I jumpstart on the next. I practice day-of signatures for a few minutes, mastering the shape, the swing of the pen, and the speed of the draw, like a cowboy practicing his quickdraw with a new pistol. It doesn’t take me this many repetitions to pick up the choreography of a signature—it only takes about two. However, a signature habitually dances through the hand. The forgery should feel as comfortable as a step-ball-change. I’d witnessed the carnage of a bad forgery, standing behind the kid who just handed the bus driver a fake note with bated breath, knowing it isn’t mine. Kindergarteners in the front two rows of seats peer over the leatherette to witness the prisoner exchange. Then, I see the tell-tale wrinkling of the brow and the gut-wrenching sneer on the driver’s face. The driver turns the note around and shows the student the certificate of their failure. “Really?” the driver says. They guffaw, hand it back to them, and send them off the bus. The kid goes down the three steep steps back to the pavement—the true walk of shame—and the friend who was supposed to receive them is unable to do anything about it. They’re forced to sit down in solitude as far back on the bus as they can without getting pushed out by the older kids. Such a circus makes good forgeries a necessity. I can mimic the words of an adult, and I have the best penmanship in the entire class, employing the grace and maturity of cursive and calligraphy. Naturally, my forgeries get better. In fourth grade, I begin to sign my teachers’ initials on my classmates’ planners, which they need in order to leave at the end of the day. I patch up their travel release forms in fifth grade, so they can go home from basketball practice with anyone they want. I sign the 28
forgetful student’s field trip form. Higher stakes ensue. By sixth grade, I have a group of boys surrounding me, saying they all need to go to another’s house. These are big jobs. I need to be smart: five different kinds of paper, four different pen brands of at least two different colors, and one pencil—for variety—and preferably a sample of their parent’s handwriting. I’m picky about the paper. For example, popular moms always use Office Max seasonal-themed notecards or sticky notes. If I’m writing for one of their sons or daughters, I might use strawberry-pattern notes with tiny frogs across the top. I make sure to include variation in the message—in the format and alignment of the text and in the slant of the scrawl. It would be suspicious if five kids showed up on the same bus with notes written on the exact same paper clearly torn from the same sheet, written with the exact same ink, in the exact same penmanship. Most parents don’t have wideruled notebook paper or matching note cards sitting around on their kitchen counters. If it’s a note written by a dad, I whip out a slanted, brisk, mutant chicken scratch, the kind that indicates this farming father has restless cows waiting for him. Or maybe he’s an inn owner, so all of the lines that make up the 5 in Bus #5 touch at the vertices instead of scattering like pieces of a broken wristwatch. If I know I’m writing for an artistic mom—a potter maybe, or a jeweler—swooping cursive, like the curls of a 1980s perm, will do. Other moms, the ones who get to read books and shuffle mail all day, are personified by demure, blocky typography. It’s a study in character. The bus driver will only look at this note for about eight seconds, but at that moment, I want them to see the patient dad working at ACE Hardware, or the bewildered mom running late for work at the Shoreline Restaurant, or the jolly grandmother in the middle of baking a pie for her church. White-knuckled loneliness comes when I forge group bus passes, revealing the parties and homes I’m not invited to. I arrange rendezvous for friends that never want me to write a note for myself. Pride and thrill, rejection and invisibility: confliction wears on me as though I am justice standing under a perfectly balanced scale. On the one hand, I love having a skill other people need to hire. On the other, I know my invisibility is a shield, an advantage for my survival. Teachers would think it preposterous that I, a soft-spoken top student, do what I do. Yet in middle school, my repertoire grows: hall passes, bathroom 29
passes, class passes—forgeries of teacher signatures. A student with too many tardy marks on their record needs a signature from the secretary to give them more time to get to class; a bully victim has a panic attack that morning and wants an out from math class to go to the art room; a girl on her period wants a signed excuse as to why she doesn’t show up for gym class. The hearts of Robin Hood, Zorro, and Green Arrow stir within me. Rare sample signatures, the threat of immediate punishment, complex cover stories: greater risk comes with teacher forgeries. I pore over the scale of justice, gauging the value of my reputation. For this reason, I select my clientele carefully. I won’t sign for classmates I don’t trust, such as Andrea, a born turncoat, or Eva, who I can’t trust not to lose her nerve when interrogated by a teacher. In high school, driver’s licenses, carpooling, and mobile phones strip the thrill of the craft. At 14, I wonder if I’ve been thrown into the technological unemployment market. Robin Hood hangs up her bow. I take on more mundane tasks like signing annual family Christmas cards with all four of my family’s signatures as if my aunts care whether or not the belly of the s in Lucas is round enough. The junior prom committee pays me $200 to write names on place cards for dinner. Instead of forging my mother’s signature to go on a class trip to the Adventure Center, I use it to buy groceries with her credit card. Still, the power this skill gives me does not dissipate, for the power is not in the practice but in the identity that it forges: even a secret one.
30
Monk, Mother, Mystery: The Woman in the Incomplete Portrait Lia Smith-Redmann “My children don’t know who I really am,” she would say. A portrait evades true revelation without the full picture. A book could be written deciphering the motifs and the moments of her life, and it would still only tell half of her story. Utilitarian, heel-chewed jeans, and dirt-smeared Skechers sneakers, eyes that droop with the weight of her Slovene and Austrian ancestry, to which she is a stranger, and easily caramelized skin imprinted by transient freckles and sunspots—when Facebook comments from former classmates and distant cousins tell her she’s beautiful, she doesn’t believe it. Curated like the Louvre, the books in her library fill floor-toceiling shelves, enshrined by their purpose: The Natural Pharmacy poses separately from Picasso: A Biography, and Shanghai Girls receives allocation to an eye-level shelf. Upstairs in the barn, a collection of her father’s best paintings sits stacked against the wall, made phantoms by a dusty sheet, to protect them from sun bleaching and so that she doesn’t have to look at them. During her Sturgeon Bay, “big city” runs, she is Daniel Craig on a James Bond mission, campaigning through selective aisles with cutthroat efficiency. She takes fast steps and sharp corners, swishing her ponytail. When at home, her wiggling toes metronome her methodical movements as her social anxiety deflates. Worn but practiced slogans and phrases are like survivalist badges, indicating some of the challenges she has suffered. “I hate surprises.” “Family is not blood. You choose family.” “Death always comes in threes.” Death trained her. Pancreatic cancer in ’86 took her father. In ’88, her mother followed with liver cancer, and in the icy grip of Clark Lake’s water in the winter of ’03, she lost her brother, leaving her with 31
a family business she never wanted to run and a future she couldn’t retrieve. Grief and ego became weapons that her sister used to kill their sisterhood. She hates funerals and memorials, possibly because she knows them from the inside out. The doctrines of her everyday rituals could fill a bible. One must follow the proper way to make a grilled cheese and study the intricacies of making a BLT; when shopping, always park next to the same cart corral; chocolate should be eaten after a garlicky meal. Four decades of journals, religiously tended every day, reveal the most reliable catalogue of memories: the birth of her daughter, every move—the Clark Lake House, the Sylvan View House, the Garden House, the Half Mile Bridge House, finally to the Red House, all of which she built or designed—every vacation, from hiking the grease-black lava rock at the edge of the lava flows in Hawaii when the kids were four and five, to her middle school son surfing in Mexico, to midnight walks in Paris and biking down the Italian Alps as teenagers. Undiagnosed PTSD and amnesia had taken these memories away. It is not her routines, however, that define her. Ungirdled by relentless common sense, her craving for dance pours through her: ballet, modern, jazz, swing, tap, Hawaiian, Native American, Javanese, Irish, African, Afro-Brazilian, Bharatanatyam, and Tai Chi. More than the mental liberation of writing, more than the perfectionism of drawing or painting, more than the house-rattling power of her singing alto voice, the physical shackle-shattering of choreography makes her whole. She is whole when she sits, perched atop a stump at the edge of her East-facing bluff that spills abruptly into the valley that hides Fish Creek, where a patchwork of pines woven into the deciduous forest bends together as though meditating on a ritual to begin. Here, she and her off-the-record therapy dog, Tiki, an orange-socked German Shepherd, address her sage and adoring “Inner Monk.” “How do I connect to all people, like Donald Trump, through love? What is next for me?” She is whole, even though her portrait contends itself like the battling colors of an Andy Warhol painting: a sage and a child, insecure and confident, spiritual yet fastidiously grounded, loving and sometimes judgmental, and hospitable but private. Conservatism in a small-town cherry farming community, in which she grew up bookended by only two neighbors for several miles, allowed her to 32
develop judgments about certain people: blondes are manipulative, southern drawls make a person sound unintelligent, conservationists drive Subarus. Despite this, she touches with a healer’s hands—a modern witch, brewing essential oil blends for aches and ailments. Three of her potions—“Tummy Truce,” “Belly Balm,” “Elimination Stimulation”— cure three different kinds of belly aches alone. The encyclopedia-like nature of her spirituality allows her to draw from the Hindu beliefs of the Bhagavad Gita, from Tibetan therapies, from the neuroscience of binaural beats, from Buddhist meditation, from massage, and from countless spiritual and philosophical thinkers and teachers. She heals to survive. She is a mother of two children and a dozen others: the underdogs, the artists, the intellectuals, and the LGBT kids severed from the pedestal of popularity at the local school. She is whole, even though years of name-calling and harrying by her older sister, the lifelong traces of teenage bulimia, and 15 years in the customer service industry as the owner of an inn have diminished her self-confidence. Facebook challenges, constantly updating technology, Fox News, CNN, reality TV, insurance companies, political abuse, climate change—this chaos, the kind that shatters her routine and timetables, she combats with cooking good food, feeding the tender rabbits hiding in the yard, maintaining her garden, and watching MASH on weeknights. Dinner and birthday parties become showroom spectacles. Christmas Day breakfast is a live-action recount of a delicate painting delineating nobility at a Parisian table. A night out at the Door Community Auditorium becomes an art, made intense by the search for the perfect pair of earrings to match her floral, black-and-white Goodwill skirt. The mosaic of these moments, made important by her touch, still does not piece together the whole picture. The language of her love speaks through the intimacy of her details: attending her daughter’s musical rehearsals to offer critiques on her dancing, driving her son throughout Door County villages to help him sell his photographs to the local paper, taking time out of each morning to share coffee with her husband on the porch—even though it may dismantle the routine of her entire day. She knows that how she is remembered makes up only the framework of what would be her lasting memory. Like the Mona Lisa, she lives the life of the muse of a portrait whose mystery only she knows. 33
The People Watcher Hannah Dotzler As soon as I clocked in for the day, I was ready to go home. I sat down in my boring, plain cubicle, and let out a big sigh. Being an accountant at an insurance company was not fun, but it was my life. Let’s be honest, I wasn’t there for the pure enjoyment of math and numbers. I was there for the money. Isn’t that why anyone works? Ideally, I would have opened my own bakery. Baking was my only real passion and happiness in the world. But I didn’t have the money, time, or motivation to actually make that happen. So, there I was, sitting at my desk, dreading the day ahead of me. There was one good thing about my job, though. I was given the cubicle in front of the window, and our company was on the first floor, allowing me full access to people-watch as much as I pleased, which consumed about 80% of my work shift each day. And being in the heart of New York City allowed for some pretty interesting people-watching. This day, I was feeling particularly unproductive and decided to spend the whole morning studying the pedestrians. There were two types of people, I realized, in the world. The sad, and the happy. The sad were way more common than the happy. There were depressed-looking businessmen and women who wore suits and carried briefcases. I swore out of all the years I watched people through that window, I never once saw someone who wore a suit smile. Then, there were people on their cellphones, screaming at the person on the other line. Or there would be people who walked down the street crying, or had puffy, red eyes because they had just finished crying. There would be friends or partners who walked side by side but didn’t say a word to one another. Almost everyone I watched each day looked unhappy. Every once in a while, though, I would see someone from the happy group. Most of them were young people. Kids would be oohing and ahhing over a bird they saw across the street. College students would be laughing at something they had seen on their phones. 34
Couples would be smiling at one another and telling each other stories about their day. When I really thought about it, I realized that I belonged in the sad group. If someone had seen me walking down the street, I wouldn’t be smiling. Especially if I had just got done with another eight-hour shift at work, which was almost every day. I didn’t like the idea of being associated with these depressed people, but I knew it was the truth. My life didn’t have to be like this, and the only person who was making it boring and sad each day was me. I daydreamed about the idea of opening my own bakery, and it seemed like the best, most perfect thing in the world. ‘That’s it,’ I thought, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ Just then, my wandering mind got interrupted. “Have you gotten anything done at all in the last hour?” my boss asked. This was my chance, I thought. It was now or never. I could either spend the rest of my life being an accountant, living a sad and depressing life, or I could be a baker, living a happy and fulfilling life. “I quit,” I said.
35
A Brief Account of Booker House Cameron G. Schneberger Before Booker House belonged to my aunt, it was a school for rich girls with blue eyes. Before it was a school for rich girls with blue eyes, it was a place where Union soldiers cleaned their guns. Before it was a place where Union soldiers cleaned their guns, it was a farmhouse owned by the Booker family. I stayed at Booker House for a week with my cousin. I was 11. It was a lavish place for a child accustomed to Midwest frugalness. It was a bonafide mansion infested with chandeliers, taxidermied foxes, and a small cleaning staff who lived on the premises. My aunt’s collection of exotic chickens orbited the house, and her hoard of marble-colored greyhounds migrated noiselessly from room to room, pausing for nobody’s hand. On the third night, my cousin and I shared a bed. The sound of a low groan enveloped Booker House that night. I don’t remember how long it lasted. The groan slowly crescendoed into a guttural shriek. I’d say it was only 10 minutes, but my cousin claims it lasted all night. It terrified us. We shared a bed for the rest of our stay. I remember I ate yogurt for breakfast the next morning. I also remember interrogating my aunt about the cause of the sound. She offered no explanation aside from the undeniable fact that old houses produce all manner of sounds. Fourteen years and two husbands later, my aunt graced me with a reminder of her existence and asked me to lunch. I was in college at the time. She drove me to a diner in rural Michigan that served frog legs. Booker House had long been sold in favor of a slightly smaller house that was allegedly much less work. “That place was haunted anyway,” she said, dipping a frog leg in ranch dressing. “You know that moaning sound? Never knew when it was going to happen. One of my dogs ran away because of it. Never got used to it.” 36
She explained the last people in the Booker line to own the farm were a pair of twins, the Booker brothers. They were infamous in their brief lives, idiots who inherited more than they deserved and drank most of it away. The only thing they loved more than grain alcohol was their pet cow, an unfortunate animal who the Booker brothers dragged indoors frequently. They dragged the cow inside taverns, general stores, and a church. There was a rumor the Booker brothers were romantically attached to the cow. One day, the Booker brothers lured the cow to the fourth story of Booker House. Cows can go upstairs but not down them, though the cow tried. It fell and broke its legs on the third-story landing. Shortly after, the Booker brothers euthanized it with buckshot. Then, they dragged it down the rest of the flights of stairs and out of the house. A flock of eager crows gave the cow a sky burial. “They kept the damn things in the basement. The cow’s bones, I mean,” my aunt explained. “Had to get rid of them when I put the new pipes in. They told me not to move them, but it made no difference. The cow haunted that house with or without the bones.”
37
P O E T RY
38
Every Day Jada Janneau It rains today Like it rains every day. Afraid of the cold and empty hearts Of those who swear to protect and serve, But only protect themselves And serve their own kind. Storms in the middle of summer, Storms all year round. None of them are innocent. Standing by and watching people die, Or killing them one by one themselves. Remember, no one is free Until everyone is free. Keep your eye on the rain. To look away is to let them get away with murder.
39
Somewhere in the Future Jada Janneau As the angels surround our hero, And as the sky burns with two suns, She gives the world a smile, Knowing there’s nothing here to be done. Years behind this day before us, And years behind our hero’s great plight, The world was crumbling to pieces From the weight of wealthy greed at great heights. Sotiras tried to stop it then, With the angels by her side and the mortals on the sand, But the Plusios didn’t listen to a lord and savior Who didn’t march like a man. As the oceans overflowed with bones and palpable fog, And the cities were crushed by overwhelming smog, The merciless gods, the Plusios, took what foliage was left And chopped it to pieces, their movements deft. For years beyond that, they sent their remains to other mountain ranges And hoped that the people there could hide it for ages, And the Plusios blamed them for the stench and the stains. But people like Sotiras knew all their secrets, And she wanted to stop them, no matter the treatments. She once tried to dispose of all their expensive rubbish To the reusable mound of disposed-of items, But upon further inspection of that great recycled pile, She soon found they’ve been burning it to make an awful climate. 40
She once tried to sail the great ocean blue And clean up the plastic that blankets the view, But the garbage patch stretched beyond the horizon, Somehow not far enough to make the Plusios wisen. Despite this obstacle, she tried her best, Proving that Sotiras was a savior to the rest. But as she picked up the worst of it all, More showered from the sky like noxious rainfall. But behind the scenes and away from our hero, The Plusios had a plan right at ground zero. Their wealth and their riches opened all doors ahead, So despite all their pollution, they wanted to live. Instead of changing their ways and providing a safe place, They built a machine to explore outer space. This machine could hold only a few, Which convenienced them plenty considering their view: Mortals disadvantaged are not worth a thought, Not when there’s money to be made upon their knot. This machine was supposed to reach the heavens (The Plusios couldn’t even get to Planet Seven). So in just under ten years, the machine was built, Engine revving to life as the mortals died. This machine ran on trees and algae, on weeds and fungi, And all of the water that frogs lived by. So the Plusios took angels and treated them cruel, And stuffed them in their tank to use them as fuel. When Sotiras found out about this great machine, She told all her people, and she gathered her strength. The mortals told her, as they choked on the toxins, That in just a few months, they’d be nothing but dust. So Sotiras called on her only friends, Her only believers, her only strength: The last of the angels, who loved her 41
Till death did them part, Came at her call, they came with their hearts. As she gazed at their leaves and their green and their gold, A dozen roses bloomed inside her, broken free from chokehold. Her strength in arms and her flowers in blossom, She couldn’t do it alone. This much was known. The angels kissed upon her furrowed brow. They told her they’d fight to save the ground, To save the mortals from fumes and extinction, To save the one planet that’s sheltered without restriction. The Plusios felt threatened, but not nearly with ignorance, And this fact itself makes all of the difference. War between them went for many years At the suffering of mortals, at the fall of many angels. Eventually, Sotiras was no longer a savior. The only angels left shed tears at the losses, And Sotiras fell to the sword of a monster. At the edge of that sword, Sotiras was bleeding water, The very kind the great machine would slaughter. The Plusios told her that their planet was doomed. Though once upon a time, there was room for her, too, But since she won’t obey them, there was nothing to do. As they marched to their machine, Making a dishonorable scene, Sotiras sucked in her last few breaths, The air a toxic mess. She found peace on the ground, among the dead dirt, Among all of life’s hurt, And her planet’s last angels found her there. They kissed her wounds, They caressed her hair.
42
The great machine, In its pollution and ill-means, Took off with a burning light, Most like the sun in the sky. Sotiras watched this light As she bled her liquid life, And deep down inside, She knew the truth. The Plusios were selfish, unbothered, and confused. They didn’t understand mortal wounds. They couldn’t comprehend what it’s like to love. In fact, they didn’t care about much at all. Maybe themselves and the money of others, And just about whatever they could take From strong love, like a mother’s. Sotiras believes the heavens hold the innocent, And wherever the Plusios land, They’d be punished, set to imprisonment. Be it hell or high water, They were doomed from the start. As the angels surround our hero, And as the sky burns with two suns, She gives the world a smile, Knowing there’s nothing here to be done.
43
October, Broken Rena Medow If not the density of fruit flies in the kitchen, then the fragility of ice fractals lacing the window. If not the mouse whispering in the drywall, then the bat circling the attic, unable to sense the markable midnight breeze. If not a dream where we are looking at purple wildflowers, then waking up to the first snow on my tomato plants, some of them unpicked, still green. The mind then softly considering your grave—touched by the first snow, now and touched forever. At night you join me. We climb giant trunks of trees and sit in the audience of a never ending outdoor piazza. I ask you how it is to be gone, and you laugh at me, wearing double denim. I bring a bag of small green onions and coconut water to your parents’ doorstep, then I realize I left the wrong bag, the one with half-rotten apples covered in ants. I bike away, but the streets are all upside-down. If not the nonsense of the sleep-mind, then the depravity of the real asphalt, unchanged. Tonight, I will fall asleep rehearsing your voice in my memory, making a figment of you reassure me. At your burial, I placed some flowers on your dead ankles. And I moved your dead body with a dead sheet. You died again then, and every morning you die a little more. We buried you, but it wasn’t exactly you that we buried. You are all over town, overrunning my mind, weeds in the wind, some Debussy prelude overhead. 44
The longer you are gone, the more things happen. In France, bald men dig for truffles. Up in the Oaxacan mountains, old women carry large bundles of clothes on their backs to the launderías. In this dumb little town, I boil ginger root and sit on the carpet, filling a giant canvas with my mother’s garden—squash vines stretching all across the floor. I think of you in the paintbrush zinnias, in the hillside trees and the expanse of skyscrapers from the yellow cab. I feel you in the big moon, which you always thought was up to something malevolent. Now free from the oppression of light, beneath dirt on dirt on flowers on pine boughs on rocks on dirt—the shell of the body becomes what it was always meant to become. Bones and bones to energy, energy bending upwards to mushroom spores, some small green shoots come spring. *Published in HASH Journal
45
Take Care Stephanie-Rae Steiner Be careful as you come into my life, as it’s full of tomfooleries and anxieties. You must wash your hands under my faucet of insecurities and wipe your feet on my rug of terrors. Enter my life on shattered glass and tiptoes. If you must, drink out of my fridge of doubts and eat out of my stove of panic. In my life, come as you are. Please take a bath in my tub of irrational thoughts and dry off with a towel of fake smiles. I beg you, give me honesty and trust to walk through my door of angst. If you are one for rule breaking, beware of the owner’s forgiveness, When it is given, it is given with warranty, and after thirty chances, warranties up. In my life, give me the understanding and empathy to walk on my carpets of disdain. When you enter my house of warm water and welcomes, I will try to Take care.
46
Home Sydnee Schaller Reliable, homey, loving. Small town America. You will treat me well. I’ll never forget where I came from. They tell me all of this with confidence. They are screaming on mountain tops about how great you are, how accepting you are, how nice it is to be here. But they lie. For I have seen your dark alleys, and I know what happens in those cornfields after midnight. I’ve been in that rundown barn as your teenagers get drunk on Boone’s Farm and Miller Light. I was in that bedroom when he stripped her naked and took her dignity. You boast about your pleasantries and your well-to-do families. Your yes, ma’ams and your no, sirs, your pleases and your thank yous, and your “Welcome to Our Neck of the Woods” attitude. You believe you taste like the extra powdered sugar on the funnel cakes at the Homecoming Fair. They all think you taste that way. They think you feel like soft touches and light kisses and that favorite blanket you’ve had since you were three. But it’s a lie. I’ve seen your dark side. You feel like the heartbreak of a first love, gasping for breath at the end of your bed. You feel like the tube they ran down my nose after I refused to drink the charcoal at the hospital. But they were trying to save my life, trying to send me back to you. You are the kids that pushed me around, called me a liar, said I just wanted attention. 47
You are the tires on my dad’s truck that carried him away from my home. You are a constant reminder of every bad thing I’ve been through. They try to say you’re that field of wildflowers one stumbles upon when they aren’t even looking for anything in particular. They want you to be beautiful. Their hometown is beautiful. Reliable, homey, loving. Small town America. You didn’t treat me well. I’ll never forget where I came from.
48
Mythic Trinity Lerum I am a woman, except for when I’m not the kind anyone likes to imagine, with hairy legs & belly & sharp teeth & greasy hair & shattered nails, yes I am human, except for when I say, “Wouldn’t it be nice to have hair like Medusa? Wouldn’t it be nice to have feathers? Yes, my palms sweat but not for anyone with their feet on the earth.” How do I tell this to anyone? How do I say my hands are too small to hold anything very well, except for a handful of hands, a glass of cherry Coke with three ice cubes, a .38 pen, and sweat fits well in the creases of my palms. I tell my girl, fuck romance, and holding my hand, she echoes me and says, “We don’t need it.” One of my snakes kisses one of hers. Two more cuddle up like the symbol on an ambulance. I’ve changed my mind; I want claws instead of feathers. “That way, I can open you up pickle jars easier,” I tell her.
49
Shapeshifting Soul Paige Zezulka I feel like I am an ever so freely flowing river. Shaping and polishing stones, the land, and its creatures as I glide swiftly by. In sync with the formations that surround me, that carve me into all that I am. I am for eternity an unfinished work of art, a clay mold on a spinner, a canvas whom the artist continues to add strokes to, a fine-lined sketch from a pencil. All creating a hidden masterpiece underneath the surface. Is the masterpiece the finished project? Or is it the details, the strokes, the fine-tuning in between that shine the most glory?
50
Rules of Entry Allison Rudolf In my room, you must knock and wait to hear my “What do you want?” respond with reason to come in, and I will let you open the door. Ignore the hinges’ squeak. They have been through thick and thin. In my room, you must ignore the mess strewn about the floor. A tidy room is a healthy mind. Please don’t ask how I am. In my room, you must love others and treat them well. We are caretakers of this earth and each other; how would we get by without a neighbor to help us out? Light a candle with me. Pretend it won’t run out. Burning until the end when the smoke has all blown away.
51
The Puppeteer Paige Zezulka I’ve seen grown men cry From their sorrows With whiskey and goodbyes In spirit with the pledge Doomed with the next Leaning against a wall Cracked led paint As they slip away their last take The glimpse of them His biggest mistake I’ve heard the sobs Of a young girl As her head is deep within a bowl Filled with chunks of green And stains of urine And the smell of the person before Gushing vomit from her red lips Black liner staining the tips Of her cherry cheeks As she grips for a breath to feel anew Wondering how she’ll get home to catch her curfew Then there is the man next door His light always dimmed In his wood shop Bottles fill the floor I never see him Just hear him, late evening As much as I try To cover my ears I feel what his wife fears The constant grunts 52
Pounded underneath What a man truly hunts And me I’ve seen Letting my psyche release Betray the next Stumble with text Fail to realize Friends will leave If you’re not wise Enough to believe I have felt The pit in my gut When someone ends up In a rut With no place to go Besides the nowhere Neither heaven or hell Just a place they can bare The feeling inside Of their dark despair These spirits that appear Rise out from the bodies Controlled by the puppeteer Up to no good Doing things you never would If you were you Without this dependence You would know what to do And how to end this I’ve seen this poison Take over the lives Of dear ones close to me No matter how one tries In order to move forward They have to see Like me 53
Shuttle Ava Puser I’m so tired of being everyone’s punching bag, he said. I was too scared to speak up, to say, that’s not appropriate are you crazy what’s wrong with you are you okay, but I couldn’t, didn’t. Just like everyone else. I was scared, because when I stepped off the shuttle, I would be a woman, walking alone. Scared to be recognized another time. People like that make me so angry I wouldn’t be surprised if someone blew their brains out, but no one said anything. I kept quiet in that spent air, and I tried not to look over my shoulder as I walked away, dead grass on the sidewalks where the salt had burned away the snow. I tried not to hurry.
54
Driftless R. Schlaugat I want to wake up where the wind takes me Make homes in sandcastles or ice caves anywhere I’m not allowed to stay for long Perch by gas station pumps near lakes & people watch at sundown aquamarine boat trailers tied to nautical dreams Visit every corner of every place Sip coffee beneath foreign stars & jump between atolls made of giants’ feet imprints Murder ill intentions in the Yellowstone loophole Burn expectations & bury doubt dump lye on them & lie about it Convince myself the red light I’ve been waiting on turned green Make my living on lemonade stands paint a turtle & trade him for wool socks Crawl beneath the gutter of the road listen to concrete musicals Ride a horse to the brink of a golden field gallop over the edge of lunacy Lay under elements above & sink into soddy earth Inert desire to be barefoot And driftless and ride a goddamn horse through a golden field
55
Hollow R. Schlaugat it began when she and I tore fistfuls of grass from the ground nervously on date one, gouging out the little grave where our time capsule would lie, marked by time and sharpie hearts, carefully curated memories rooted in trust and infatuation. it wasn’t until we dug a hole for a home’s foundation that she thwacked me with the shovel on the back of the skull, and I tumbled into the ditch we carved together. she sprinkles soil on little by little now. it’s in my eyes and in my hair. I think she wants to keep me buried here with the worms and the wet, roots tangled in clay loam. choked by bedrock, but I just dig my heels in. and she pats the last dirt flat with a wink and a kiss goodbye.
56
Apollo Sophia Gundlach I am the god of light, prophecies, art, and medicine. The twin to Artemis and son of Leto. I was born on Delos, a land where a dragon Python was sent to kill Leto unsuccessfully. I went to Delphi, where Python ruled, and I slew the dragon, claiming Delphi as my land. I am one of the twelve Olympians, one of the most important ones. I was the cause of the fall of Troy, befalling them with the plague and aiding the arrow to kill Achilles. My bay laurel crown, representing the Olympics and my lover. My laurel tree, a reminder of my failed love for Daphne. Damned by Eros to fall for the beauty, Daphne, while she was cursed to detest me. My love, who begged Zeus to turn into a Laurel tree to escape me. My love, Hyacinth, my lover tragically killed by a throwing discus in a fit of someone else’s jealousy. My Hyacinth, I remember you through the flower I made with your fallen blood. My dear crow, you have warned me of the betrayal of my pregnant lover, Coronis. Though I thought you lied and turned your feathers black as night, you are now sacred to me. Each day I drag the sun across the sky in my golden chariot. My beauty and purity are as bright as light itself. I am loved by all, but do not take that lightly. I can be ruthless, as I have been with Niobe, Slaughtering her children with Artemis after her rude remarks to our mother, Leto. Worshipped and feared, just as all other gods were. I am Apollo. Sing my name and feel my light shine upon thee.
57
A RT WO R K
58
Origami Color Wheel Anna Franklin Acrylic on Illustration Board
59
Death
Rosa Collazo Pencil, Graphite, Micron Pens, and Acrylic Paint
60
Baba Yaga
Maria Schirmer Devitt Digital Collage
61
Opera Girl Dian Yao Acrylic Painting
62
The Blue and Yellow Lily Caroline Glasgow Photoshop and Illustrator
63
Jewel Tone
Camilla Thembi Oil Paint Decoupaged into Collage
64
What I’m Good At Emma Fashing Acrylic Painting
65
Imagination
Ishee Xiong Illustration on Cardboard
66
Dinner
Ishee Xiong
67
Pray For Plagues (Pray For Me) Miguel Mares Illustration on Wood
68
David, Reductive Drawing
Paige Peloquin Charcoal
69
Fairytale Dreams Dian Yao Watercolor Painting
70
Jellyfish at the Aquarium Kimberly Brown Photography
71
Lighthouse of Minnesota Kayla Fry Photography
72
Untitled
Maia Lathrop Illustrator and Procreate
73
Marcus Aurelius
Katy Villalpando Charcoal on Heavyweight Drawing Paper
74
Daydreaming Ava Puser Photography
75
The Fawn Purple Peony
Caroline Glasgow Photoshop and Illustrator
76
Stay Fly
Haley Fuhr Ceramic
77
Heightened Drawing
Raine Thoma Charcoal
78
Paradise
Kayla Fry Photography
79
Untitled Cora McElroy
80
Octavia Told Us
Maria Schirmer Devitt Pen, Pencil, and Digital Collage
81
82
