STAFF 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010
Editor: Kim Johnson-Bair Sta: Lauri Brenning James Lloyd Brotzman Jr. Jason Nelson Chryshelle Rassbach Michael Sweet Matthew Wald Karin Wrzesinski
Cover and layout designed by Andrew Schultz Back cover illustration by Nick Remus
010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 CONTENTS Poetry & Prose Constance Chang
Cherry Blossom Season
Ryan Dean
February
PaNgia Vang
’ Forgive and Accept, It s Reality
Kimberlee Ann Koth Picture
Chryshelle Rassbach Eternal Embrace
Ryan Dean
Cherry Burlesque Pie
James Lloyd Brotzman Jr. Grasp Less Life Past The Gate of Rest
Patrick Carman Flight Plan
Michael Sweet Kirby
Chryshelle Rassbach Fuck Genre
James D. Wilson ’
Monkey s Lament
Justin Price
Open Window
Jenifer R. Thompson A Day On Venus
Monologue 8
Melissa Stelter
Ballad of the Screaming Idiot
9 10
Art Aaron Gilmore
Autumn Dancing
11
Maia McDonald Untitled
13
Cory Lyle ’
America s Dairyland
14 15 16 17 18 19 20 22
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Jerod Anklam & Blake A. Housenga Political Beer Beaver
12
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Pablo Hendrickson Dirty Don
Zachary Manners
Divine Confirmation
Janis Finkelman Exchange
Joshua Kitt ’
I Don t Recall
Aleia Mason
The Crimson King
Tina Notaro
The Jewel Within
Kriss Boeck
True Colors
35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43
44
CONTENTS 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Art - continued Chryshelle Rassbach Untitled #3
Stephanie Meyer A Portrait
John Passell
World on Fire
45 46 47
Short Stories James D. Wilson Brush Worm
Lauri Brenning
Tequila and Karaoke
B.E. Golay
No Amount of Soap and Water
Rachel Detra Doors
50 52 54 56 58
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 EDITOR S NOTE A new academic year – a new adventure. The challenges for this year’s Yahara Journal began with recruiting staff for the year ahead. By the second semester a solid staff was in full swing. As a new group, we converged to discern and reflect. We grappled with issues of creativity in order to gain insight and meaning into the poetry, prose and short stories submitted. Included in these pages are poems of love and personal conflict, politics and war, and satirical monologue. Today, technology and media invariably shape our own perceptions as well as those of the world around us. The pieces in the book reflect just that, the individual predicament of trying to make meaning while struggling to come to terms with ideals past and present in an ever-changing environment. The Yahara Journal has hosted a number of readings, spoken word and art presentations, and we look forward to bringing new forms of dynamic media and presentation to the campus in addition to the pages of the Yahara Journal. Kim Johnson-Bair, Yahara Journal, editor
We wish to thank Doug Kirchberg, Bird Cupps, Matthew Guenette, Guy Thorvaldsen, John Galligan, Amy Minett, Holly Kerby and all of the writing instructors for encouraging their students in their work, and MATC students for submitting their work to the Yahara Journal.
Constance Chang 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Cherry Blossom Season
Pink joy for a moment, incomparable beauty, whispering gently, love.
Fluttering swirling hovering resting.
I will ďŹ nd you again, even among the pages, silent symphony, hope.
Withered pale petals, shriveled green leaves, prepare for a journey eternity.
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Running ďŹ ghting
staying
growing.
Ryan Dean 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 February
Arctic thoughts collapse Cold blue icebergs Send shivers down my spine My body convulses like a wet dog And I am ďŹ ne
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PaNgia Vang 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Forgive and Accept, It’s Reality
A flower that gazes at the sun from sunrise to sunset But cannot be with it, is a flower in love. The only time a flower can be with the sun Is when they are written out together – SUNFLOWER. An oil lamp that has burnt out But refuses to let the flame blow out is a flame in love. The only way to put it out Is if the love between it dies. A given kiss that won’t rub off And refuses to let it show, is a symbol for love. The only way to make it show Is giving back another kiss. The moon that stares down on the earth But cannot make contact with it, is a moon in love. The only way it will be with the earth Is when it reflects off the lake. There is a couple that is deeply in love But refuses to be together, that’s you and me. The only thing that can bring us back together Is forgiveness and acceptance.
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Kimberlee Ann Koth 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Picture it doesn’t make much sense now that the salsa-dancing sky lit up like Vegas that night, while we sat out on your pier smoking twilight cigarettes falling in love over dixie cups and wine it was only one stupid picture that you don’t even remember taking and now I’m kicking myself because it was the only one we ever had Footsteps: The rhythm of you walking until you reach my door. You come in looking strong and confident and beautiful. A snapshot of you. it was only when i was staggering through the last goodbye that i saw it dangling like its own personal vendetta to me, it could have been a masterpiece on browned edges of recycled film to me, it could have been love tacked on a cluttered, off-white wall Laughter: The sound of your voice telling me to hold on. You smile, reminding me to breathe. A snapshot of you. if i had known it hung so subtly all along maybe i’d still be standing there but i was already swimming in salty tears and it was only one picture for changing my mind i could have painted you a deep blue sky behind a crimson setting sun and with only one picture i could have shown you how to love
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Chryshelle Rassbach 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Eternal Embrace
Black velvet cloth of night surrounds me. Dark sky dusted with glitter, it spirals and shines. Waves crash, and wind blows past my ears. I feel so small against this endless deep. The water is carried on the wind, a salty fresh essence. My tongue dances the avor around my mouth. Bits of glassy sand creep between the crevices, Cool and soft they envelop my feet. Breathe in deep, the night air ďŹ lls my lungs, I raise my head and there they are. Lights intertwined, my scales and my scorpion. An eternal caress.
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Ryan Dean Cherry Burlesque Pie
A black limousine creeps up the driveway, so black, so official. It stops under the canopy near the front door. Two men with sunglasses exit the vehicle, wearing black suits, and begin to scrutinize the landscape for any sign of: AlQaedaterroristsblackmenwomendemocratsralphnaderdirtyhippies, and especially Michael Moore. A man exits, looking so old, so white, so rich, so official. He wants to pee on innocence, so young, so pure, only fifteen. It’s her first day but the laws only apply when a brain mechanism chooses to apply them. In a sense this virgin, a constitution of sorts will be interpreted and distributed as seen fit. In the end, after the man goes back to his mansion, so old, so white, so official, she’ll wipe off her makeup and do it all again until someone gets it right.
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James Lloyd Brotzman Jr. 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Grasp Less Life
Wind is blowing to exhaustion Violence raking across their cover Screaming through their cords Limbs bending with weakness Fingers clawing for hold Losing grip of their ownership Tears owing along their length Shedding the bark to the bare beneath Nakedness revealed Uncovering all the emptiness Booing the shame Scorning this wretched existence Shattered by the storm Burned by the sun Returned to the dust Lost, gone
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James Lloyd Brotzman Jr. 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Past the Gate of Rest
Down the pebble street of a long forgotten town Beyond the last stone cottage worn by wind and time By weeping vines across the road and crows above that frown To a warning bell, cracked by its final chime Where weeds have grown waist high And willow and oak trees barren stand Where snakes in grass no longer lie And mist forever covers the land Upon a rusty, leaning iron fence Surrounding a bed of tarnished stones Love ones laid, known not whence Silence only broken by the winds moan Beyond the gate, a stone chapel stands within Engraved upon its wooden door: Although our life comes to an end After five or six years score The sorrow and tears will soon mend To those left behind sullen Our souls gone to heaven to drink wine From a wood grail’s crest And with the Lord we shall dine Past the gate of rest
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Patrick Carman 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Flight Plan
The killers are numerous and armed to the teeth With political powers and secrets to keep One of them asks me, “Where do your loyalties lie?” “Answer me now, pilgrim, or you will surely die!” “I would rather die, then live a life on my knees” “So go ahead and shoot, do me a favor please!” “A quick death is too good for you vile, renegade scum” “Get up, look around, see the destruction you have done?” “Destruction’s not important, I have freed their souls” “Which is a lot better fate than getting filled with holes” “Your arrogance and your pride will be the death of you” “You can’t form a resistance, your numbers are too few” “Numbers don’t matter, it’s the fire that’s lit inside” “It’s your pain, compassion, it’s your homage and your pride” “On this day, I say, a new sun will rise” “We will raise up our fists and cut through your lies” “No, you are wrong, we will kill you all one by one” “And we will not stop it until we are done” “But one day you will fall and join me with the dead” “and you will know how it feels, with a bullet in your head”
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Michael Sweet Kirby
And the night is too tight to carry The wind too fair to blow The rage too deep to bury By the whiskey road to grow Far too boy to whisper Far too man to know Return, my dear, to crazy And let your love but show
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Chryshelle Rassbach 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Fuck Genre
My story would begin with clowns riding in spaceships The copilots would be unicorns and sea horses Cowboys and castles would ďŹ ll in the gaps It would be a whirlwind of murder and mayhem Our illustrious hero would die in a freakish boating accident But not before leaping tall buildings in a single bound It would end with Little Red Riding Hood becoming intrigued with Jack’s huge bean stalk Two hundred pages including the leather bound cover So, where should it go on the shelf ?
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James D. Wilson 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Monkey’s Lament
The lowest point in my life was the day/ I found out why moths spiral flame/ that beacon on high that guides your way/ may amount to nothing more than a street lamp’s fading incandescence/ fits of present tension/ distance mends the dents in/ ego’s fragility-damaged shell/ as you struggle your way back here from Hell/ to circle the drain above God’s well/ households, destiny’s a much tougher sell/ We don’t, any of us, know what we’re supposed to be/ alternative versions of the futures we/ envisioned for ourselves when we first learned to dream/ wishers at the well were heard to scream/ “Not like this!”/ as their bodies fell slack/ and Cypher glowered over them extracting head-jacks/ Life is light-less/ Plight is night-less/ this is a contest without a finalist/ just some-non-essential-elements-and-moodenhancing-chemicals-competing-for-attentionon-molecular-electrical/ synapses that fire amiss/ we never seem to tire of this/ choked with seratonin/ trying at risk/ to cope with our environment/ alas, at least a natural state/ wired all evening and tired all day/ the pace slows, we begin to waste/ away to bones and skin
and vapor/ no more delay/ if you’re holding it in, don’t wait/ until your opening begins to decay/ if-you-have-a-dream-you’d-better-kill-itor-fulfill-it/ find-the-will-don’t-window-sill-ituntil-you’re-old-and-ill-and-finally-willing/ to risk failure/ we’ve all seen this trailer/ and know how the story ends/ no faith, no love, no name, no friends/ what began as disappointment with yourself burgeoned into hatred of everyone else/ another mind devalued, left to feed on itself/ finally abandoning upkeep of health/ sunken eyes, dough stomach, ground teeth, cracked lips/ closed quotes and taking notes from the all-holy Hard Disk/ superstitious apes staking homes around obelisks/ when the frog storm finally began to let up/ we bled through our braces and sang and wept/ and broke into choruses of Wise Up/ it’s not what we thought when we first began/ and it’s way too late to come up with an alternative plan/ another night gone to waste reliving it again/ we aren’t, any of us, required to make a change or think/ I could throw away a whole day to cry and drink/ I’m evolving into something that is already extinct.
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Justin Price 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Open Window His skin was pale and translucent like salt and I, often told him that he tasted the same way he looked. I, was convinced that his mother had given birth to a salt lick. We never do anything but lay in this bed where down pillows feel like concrete that rub and bruise the back of my neck. At night I hear it scrape. I feel it cut like I’m wearing a scarf of clipped fingernails. I touch my neck and it feels wet. I see the red under my nails. I taste the anger in my voice as I scream at him to buy new pillows. When I do sleep I float from bed and hover over him and hope when I wake I will plummet and somehow break his nose and take away some of his pretty. We watch specials on the Huli people of Papua New Guinea, he finds their beliefs interesting and I find that interesting. “The Gospel According To The Papuans” was the theater of the evening. “Hu don mov do va!” he screams from the bathroom. I wonder why he shouts out their hunting call while he is in there. We occasionally make plans.
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 April 21st I told him we would be going to see Death Cab for Cutie at the Orpheum Theater. Tickets went on sale today and I should call. I open the dresser drawer and pull out two Dixie cups attached with a string. I throw one out the open window and I wait. “Hello?” I whisper into the cup. “What do you want?” “Who am I speaking with please?” It’s one thing to think I’m nuts, it’s another to have proof of it. I ate bad tofu? I miss my conservative hippy father. The only man I have ever met who still uses the word “heavy” in his everyday vocabulary. I used to think he was talking about the weight of things when I was younger until I realized a movie was not heavy at all, I could lift it with one hand. I can’t do this any more, I’m leaving him, getting away from this fucking bed, where I can’t breathe, and I’m suffocated! “I’m going to the sofa!” I scream in my mind. I start to get up and realize I will be lonely. So I stay even though he is asleep. I still am lonely but at least he is near. I open the dresser drawer and pull out two Dixie cups attached with a string. I throw one out the open window and I wait.
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Jenifer R. Thompson 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 A Day On Venus
I arrived on Venus Tuesday with taco seasoning I stole from my roommate. He often told me a god starts with kung fu movies, I had my doubts. There was a kid at the spaceport, he said, “Hit me.” I took the deck of cards awkwardly left on the luggage cart and did. He got 19. A taxi pulled up as I exited. I thought of you telling me your heroes were Henry Rollins, some guy named Clint and his friend Johnny. I didn’t understand since you know mine. And mine don’t sing. Venus is the planet of love and women, yet all I saw was a bird singing in a tree, the song: The Legend of the Day and Age, echoed in my head, the first line was something, something …Your eyes are like the sun rising with every blink. I forgot the rest.
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It was freezing in the National Park where I stopped to eat my lunch, a peanut butter and banana sandwich. My cheeks got warm and fog began to form on my sunglasses. I took them off. The sun was dimmer there. I sat waiting for an opportunity to present itself, but like a sullen girl filling a glove box with milk, nothing really happened. I stayed there for months thinking about you and your letters from Moosejaw, Canada. The ones I burnt. The towns on Venus run themselves with barter and sex, the aliens seemed happy although I was really the alien, not them. It reminded me that Democracy is for all the young kids. You said, “Gimme a good dictatorship any day.” So I did, me.
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I am addicted to root beer popsicles, bad horror movies and the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. Sometimes though, I like to watch you watching me watching you. That’s why I’m here. When we adopted the dog you were worried he’d inherit that old man’s teeth and his smelly breath, but it was a good dog, a black lab with a pink tongue and a bushy tail. I wish we’d lasted long enough to watch him get old. Next time I’ll stay. The sky was like purple sugar and Tabasco sauce, it reminded me of that time we saw that silly fat kid from next-door exploding. After the huge bowl of popcorn you gave him, we should have seen it coming. You were surprised though.
That same day I flippantly said, I could be anywhere but in Nebraska. We were fighting, you said go, and well, the tickets to Venus were cheapest. But now I know what the definition of before is: normal and boring, but still … It was with you. I remembered that time I told you “do you want fries with that” was not in my job description, you laughed and I touched your cheek. It’s been a year now since I’ve seen you, I haven’t forgotten. It’s just how long a day is on Venus. I’m coming home.
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Melissa Stelter 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Ballad of the Screaming Idiot Dramatis Personae: Jim Martindale – Moderator Clark Smith – “Republocrat” Party (Note: All of Clark Smith’s lines should be shouted in a harsh and irritating tone, unless otherwise noted in the script) Theodore Wishman – “Better-ment” Party Lights come up, revealing two podiums on opposite sides of the stage, with a desk in the center. Behind each of the podiums stand a candidate. Sitting behind the desk is the moderator. Moderator: Thank you for joining us tonight for this, the first presidential debate of this campaign. I’m Jim Martindale, the moderator for this evening’s debate. As you no doubt are aware, this particular debate marks a historical milestone in American politics, as it is the first one since the dramatic alteration of our bipartisan system. Representing the newly created “Better-ment” party, Senator Theodore Wishman. Opposing him representing the Republocrat party, Clark Smith. Welcome, Gentlemen. Wishman: Thanks for having Smith: IT’S A PLEASURE TO BE HERE! Moment of awkward silence. Moderator: The format of tonight’s debate
will be as follows: Each candidate will alternate receiving questions, and will have a two minute time limit in which to answer them. Following this, their opponent will have two minutes to state a rebuttal. The first question will be directed toward Mr. Smith. Many of your, ahem, vocal campaign promises have involved altering U.S. foreign policy with the hopes of improving diplomatic relations. How exactly do you intend to do this? Smith: WELL, DENNIS, I BELIEVE THAT OUR ENEMIES SHOULD BE SHOT. FURTHERMORE, I BELIEVE THAT OUR ALLIES SHOULD REMAIN UNSHOT. Moderator: (Another awkward pause) Would you care to add anything more? Smith: NO, THANK YOU. I’LL JUST SAVE MY TIME FOR A HARD QUESTION. Moderator: Ah … Certainly. Mr. Senator, your rebuttal? Wishman: Well, while I do agree with my opponent’s sentiment, I believe Smith: HE SHOULDN’T TALK ABOUT FOREIGN POLICY! HE WANTS TO GIVE THE U.S. BACK TO THE BRITISH!
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Melissa Stelter 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Ballad of the Screaming Idiot Moderator: Mr. Smith, will you please refrain from interrupting your opponent? Smith: SORRY. Moderator: Senator, you Smith: CONTINUE. Moderator: (sigh) You may state yourSmith: MAYBE I’M WEIRD, BUT I JUST DON’T THINK WE SHOULD GIVE AMERICA BACK TO THE BRITISH! Moderator: Are you done?
important concern for many Americans. What is your plan to improve the current health care situation in this country? Wishman: Health care is indeed an important concern for all Smith: OLD PEOPLE SHOULD HAVE MORE DRUGS! Wishman: Americans, especiallySmith: BECAUSE THEY’RE OLD! Wishman: those over the age-
Smith: BECAUSE I’M AN AMERICAN! (Pounds podium)
Smith: I’VE BEEN OLD BEFORE, AND BELIEVE ME, WHEN YOU’RE OLD, YOU NEED A LOT OF PILLS!
Wishman: If I may continue, what we all must realize -
Wishman: I’m sorry moderator, could you-
Smith: YOU SEE ARCHIBALD, UNLIKE MY OPPONENT, I DON’T HATE AMERICA! Wishman: I don’t see how Smith: HE ADMITTED IT! Wishman: (Sighs loudly) Moderator: (Dismissively) I’m sorry, we’re out of time, we need to move onto the next question, which is for you, Senator. Health care is an
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Smith: I’VE BEEN TO CANADA, AND I HATED IT! Moderator: Mr. Smith, once again, could you please refrain from interrupting Senator Wishman … Smith: I SAW A MOOSE IN CANADA! IT LOOKED LIKE A BIG BOX WITH LEGS! Moderator: Senator, as you were saying … Smith: WITH BIG FREAKING ANTLERS!
010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Moderator: Mr. Smith, the next question is for you, then … as you know, homosexuals’ right to marry is been a hotly debated issue for some time. What is your stance on gay marriage? Smith: I WENT TO SCHOOL WITH A GAY KID! Moderator: As I assume he’s done, I’ll ask the same question to you, Senator Smith: HE GOT BEAT UP A LOT!
Wishman: To conclude, I firmly believe Smith: SO QUEERS GETTING MARRIED IS OK IN MY BOOK! Moderator: Whether it be out of respect for tradition, or my own masochistic tendencies, I’ll continue by asking Mr. Wishman the following: The preservation of the American family has always been an important issue. How do you intend to use your position to re-enforce such values?
Smith: AND HE RAN LIKE A GIRL!
Wishman: It is paramount that all American children grow up in a safe and loving environment. I have been married to my lovely wife, Alice, for 30 years, and have endeavored to instill positive moral values in our children Tammy & David, as well as the newest member of our family, our adopted foreign son Umberto, who comes to live with us from his native Nicaragua. Alice and I strongly felt that we should share our many blessings with one less fortunate than ourselves, and so earlier this year, Umberto happily joined our family. We hope to give him every opportunity this great nation can provide.
Wishman: I consider myself a deeply spiritual man -
Moderator: (Who has been eyeing Smith with a certain amount of dread) Mr. Smith, your rebuttal?
Smith: YOU SHOULD’VE SEEN HIM RUN! (Laughs heartily, pounds podium)
Smith does not respond.
Wishman: Well, I believe in tolerance Smith: MAINLY BY ME! Wishman: It is important for all Americans Smith: HE’S MARRIED WITH THREE KIDS NOW. TURNED OUT HE WASN’T GAY. WE JUST THOUGHT HE WAS, ‘CAUSE HE COULDN’T THROW A FOOTBALL. Wishman: Equality for all citizens -
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Melissa Stelter 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Ballad of the Screaming Idiot Moderator: (Clears throat) Mr. Smith? Smith: I’M SORRY, I WASN’T LISTENING. WHILE MY OPPONENT WAS TALKING, I WAS MASTURBATING BEHIND THE PODIUM! Moderator: Not only is that grossly inappropriate, it is also impossible, as I can see both your hands right now. Smith: I’M SPECIAL! Moderator: Do you have a rebuttal? Smith: I WOULDN’T TRUST THIS MAN’S VIEWS ON FAMILY VALUES. HE SNORTS THE MARIJUANA! Wishman: Firstly, you don’t snort marijuana; you smoke it. Second Smith: SEE! HE WOULD KNOW! HE’S PROBABLY HIGH RIGHT NOW. Moderator: Mr. Smith Smith: I OWN A CELLULAR PHONE! Moderator: Wonderful. The next question concerns gun control Smith: BOOM! Moderator: - which we’ll skip.
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Smith: YOU SHOULD ALWAYS WEAR EARMUFFS WHEN YOU ARE SHOOTING A GUN. GUNS ARE LOUD! Moderator: Anyway, Senator - (turning to Wishman) Smith: I’M A SENATOR TOO, YA KNOW! Moderator: Mr. Smith, you claim to be a senator, yet there is no evidence that you now, or have ever previously held any public office. How is it that you claim you are a senator? Smith: I’M A SENATOR OF AMERICA! Moderator: Sir, senators are elected by individual states. Smith: YA SEE, MY OPPONENT IS ONLY SENATOR IN ONE STATE BECAUSE HE CANT HANDLE THE PRESSURE! Wishman: This is ridiculous Smith: SEE? HE KNOWS I’M RIGHT! Moderator: Yes. Well, moving on Smith: CAN I ASK A QUESTION? Moderator: Seeing as I have lost all control over this debate, yes, go ahead.
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Smith: (Points accusingly at opponent) WHY DOES HE WANNA BLOW UP THE MOON?!? Wishman: I don’t.
Smith: WHY DON’T YOU TELL THEM ALL YOUR STANCE ON ABORTION? HE WON’T LET YOU KILL YOUR BABIES UNLESS HE CAN SACRIFICE THEM!
Smith: WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD VOTE FOR ANYONE WHO WANTS TO BLOW UP THE MOON?
Wishman: Really, now -
Wishman: I never said -
Wishman: Manos? That’s just Spanish for “hands!”
Smith: I MEAN, COME ON! IT’S THE MOON!
Smith: HE’S SPEAKING IN TONGUES! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEONE GO GET A PRIEST!
Wishman: Rumors of my wanting to blow up the moon are, at best, sketchy and without merit. Smith: SEE? HE ADMITTED IT! Wishman: (visibly frustrated at this point) I did not! Smith: HEY EVERYBODY! IF YOU HATE AMERICA AND YOU WANT TO BLOW UP THE MOON, THEN BY ALL MEANS, VOTE FOR MY OPPONENT! Moderator sighs in a resigned manner and begins to collect papers. Wishman: If you won’t let me complete at least another sentence -
Smith: TO HIS DARK LORD, MANOS!
Wishman: Sir, I’ve had about enough Smith: I JUST DRY CLEANED THIS SUIT! I DON’T WANT TO GET SPLIT PEA SOUP ALL OVER IT! Wishman: Ladies and gentlemen: I know you have a choice in this election. You want to make the right choice Smith: MY OPPONENT WANTS TO YOU KNOW THAT HE IS ALL FOR FAMILY VALUES, IF BY “VALUES” YOU MEAN “GOATS!” Wishman: What?!?
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Smith: AND BY “FAMILY” YOU MEAN “HAVING SEX WITH!” Wishman: (fuming, failing to hold back his anger any longer) YOUR GRANDMOTHER IS A HOBO! Smith: WHAT? YOU, SIR, ARE A TERRORIST. Wishman: I SWEAR I AM GOING TO GNAW ON YOUR FACE TONIGHT WHEN YOU SLEEP! Smith: YOU JUST TRY IT, ASSFACE! I OWN A REALLY BIG DOG! Wishman: YOUR DOG WON’T HELP YOU IF I SHOOT IT IN THE HEAD IF IT GETS ANYWHERE NEAR ME! Smith is instantly composed and quiet. He steps out from behind the podium. Smith: My fellow Americans, is this the man you truly want representing your nation? A man who has just now, in front of you, expressed his desire to shoot his opponent’s dog in the head? Now maybe I’m wrong, but I think that’s just unacceptable, America. Thank you, and good night. Fade to black.
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ART
ART
Aaron Gilmore 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Autumn Dancing
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Jerod Anklam & Blake A. Housenga 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Political Beer Beaver
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Maia McDonald Untitled
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Cory Lyle 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 ’ America s Dairyland
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Pablo Hendrickson 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Dirty Don
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Zachary Manners Divine ConďŹ rmation
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Janis Finkelman 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Exchange
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Joshua Kitt 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 ’ I Don t Recall
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Aleia Mason The Crimson King
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Tina Notaro The Jewel Within
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Kriss Boeck 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 True Colors
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Chryshelle Rassbach Untitled #3
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Stephanie Meyer A Portrait
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 John Passell World on Fire
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 James D. Wilson Brush Today was a family affair. The baking August sun hid behind a chilly September morning, and I stood there in the dappled light, yawning cinematically and shaking off the cold. Today we would have a barbecue, and I was honorary chef. My father and I paced back and forth on the paved square adjoining the garage in his backyard and called ourselves, “making preparations.” An ever-growing list of details, imperative to our afternoon’s enjoyment, overtook our morning, and we met them like hired contractors. He would lean against the handle of a broom and I would trace a circle with my foot and we would debate the repercussions of every change we made to the backyard. We certainly couldn’t be expected to place the grill on an unswept driveway. There was also a small pool of fetid rainwater gathered in an overturned trashcan lid. It would definitely have to be fumigated with insect poison to prevent a mosquito swarm. A heavy table on the front porch would have to be relocated to the back yard so that all the dishes and grill furnishings would have a place to sit. We had gotten up too early and then drank too much coffee. So now we stood outside behind the crumbling red-brown brick house and searched for something to occupy us. We were just happy to be doing something together. Father and son, learning about each other’s lives,
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testing the waters of conversation, interrupting awkward moments with sudden remembrances of something necessary left inside the house. We were dizzy with the thought of getting to know each other as family, but fearful of getting to know each other as men. Every so often, during the discourse, we became strangers and stared each other down like frightened animals running from separate predators, imploring each other with moistened, inquisitive eyes for a way that both of us could escape unharmed. We spent the morning that way, respecting each other, taking stock of each other, alienating each other; sharing stories that brought laughter, and sometimes compunction followed by harried escape. The sun finally started to warm us to the point of annoyance so it was time to go in and begin preparing the food. I skinned chicken, while my father made more coffee and his girlfriend sat at the dining room table, patting hamburgers and layering them between sheets of waxed paper. The three of us complained about work and lamented losing touch with family and made a joke of everything. There were music videos on in the background but they were muffled by thick clouds of humor, spices, grease and cigarette smoke.
010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 It was nearly noon when I was finally ready to start cooking, but the grill was caked with char and grease, in desperate need of cleaning. My father looked for a wire brush in the garage while I rooted for one in the basement. While I was searching, I came across a sagging cardboard box, thick with dust and broken open at the corners. Next to it was a wood framed “In loving memory” plaque dedicated to the son of my father’s girlfriend. Years ago he was gunned down outside of a night club. His killer was later caught and sent to prison. I carefully set the plaque aside and lifted the cover from the box, loosing spirals billowing of gray and beige dust into the air. Inside was a green plastic holiday train set. The side of the coal car read “Christmas Magic” in silver letters. My father called from the top of the steps to ask if I had found the brush. Of course I had not, because I had stopped looking for it. His girlfriend’s daughter had arrived and overtaken the house with her booming, joyful voice. One of my father’s friends, who was out for a walk, stopped in to rest and happily joined us for dinner. There was good food, comfort and ease of mind for everyone. Alienation between father and son sat swept into a pile in the driveway to disintegrate in the afternoon sun. A son’s death and Christmas magic gathered dust in the basement.
Yahara Journal
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James D. Wilson 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Worm You cannot just keep showing up to work in filthier and filthier clothes. Eventually, your co-workers will begin to whisper about you. Then you will begin to stink. The cuffs of all your best shirts will go gray and shiny with human grease, and those stains will never leave. Your skin will begin to crawl and itch. You will scratch constantly, dragging your filth-caked nails into your raw neck and shoulders until you develop an infection. No sensible person would want that for himself. No hygienic person would lay here in bed, procrastinating and philosophizing about washing laundry. Go change some dollar bills for quarters and then wash your clothes. There is no escaping. The alternative is too disgusting to consider. I left the house in pajama pants and slippers with no socks. The cold clung to every available spot, and I was knock-kneed with chill by the time I made it to the car. Laundry day is always especially abysmal. Repeating any domestic chore is draining in its own right, but washing clothing amounts to something much more sinister. It is your struggle to stay clean, to hide your filth, to absolve yourself of your sticky infixed transgressions and try keeping up appearances. Laundry does not stop at keeping clothes hygienic, it also demands that they be immaculate. In addition to marveling over spotless shirt sleeves, some circles even
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demand that they continually be kept in a state of amazement at how your linens never seem to wrinkle. The icy door handle stung my fingertips. Only last night, it was raining and warm enough to go without a coat. Now, that rain was going solid and sheeting on the ground. I hadn’t bathed or shaved in weeks, so I had no intention of going inside a building and subjecting some attendant to what I assumed to be the hellish way that I looked. There was only one choice for quarters then; the do-it-yourself car wash. After an overcautious crawl over slick roads to the far side of town, I reached my destination. It looked like a stable or a killing floor. A row of plain beige concrete stalls with rusted drains at the center formed a wall before me. Each stall was outfitted with steel, a hose and a great, sloppy, wide brush that drooled foam into a PVC gutter. People were washing cars here, or people were killing animals. Either way, I was equally revolted and pulled the car into the last stall; the one nearest the change machine. My dreary assertion about this place’s double life as an abattoir realized itself in a way that I was not expecting. As I exited the car, I looked behind me and found a murder scene. The great sloppy brush was gurgling pink lather into an awful pool that ran from underneath the car and extended several feet behind it. It was a mess of
010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 soap, waterlogged corn stalks, fur and congealed blood. Wobbling, red-black jelly laid in thick clumps and slowly dissolved into the water, casting a brilliant red. Sometime earlier, a car had collided with a deer, and the driver had chosen this place to rinse away the mishap. Somewhere there was a deer, slumped into a dying heap, spasming on the side of the road. Barring that, there was a deer limping through the woods dragging ribbons of skin and meat where there used to be a leg or an intact rib cage. Regardless of either outcome, there was a collapsible hamper of soiled shirts awaiting my attention. I stepped around the blood and fed the machine four dollars. It gave me sixteen quarters in return. I was immensely satisfied with the exchange: one of the very few times your return exactly matches your contribution. Money in hand, I walked straight back through that awful puddle and huddled into my car. Another jittery skid across town and I was home again. The walk to the front door fell on one last twist of cruel fortune. The ice that was forming on the road had trapped the anterior of an earthworm. No doubt it had come out during the previous night’s good temperature and weather. Now here it was, frozen to the ground. The half that was not encased in ice was bloody and flat. A car had run over it.
My heart was broken. All I had wanted to do was change some dollar bills. Now I found myself again full of sorrow for things that could not possibly understand, or for that matter are not even in need of, my pity. “Oh Jesus Christ,” I begged in a whisper, trudging down to the basement to rinse away another week’s corruption, “Save me from God’s world.”
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Lauri Brenning Tequila and Karaoke Somewhere in Madison, every night of the week, the holy ritual of Karaoke is celebrated. Scanning the crowd at these events, the aspiring “singers” are easy to recognize. They travel in packs. And, when not hunched over massive three-ring binders seeking musical inspiration, they are the ones contributing enthusiastic applause after every other singer’s performance. As a “spectator,” I am from the other karaoke clique. Unobtrusive observers, we hug the perimeter of a room. And, despite the persistent prodding of the singers, mock the very idea of ever going on stage. We can appreciate a singer’s enthusiasm for the art form. But it is their uninhibitedness which draws a karaoke audience. As spectators, a singer’s almost-certain folly is the main pursuit of our evening’s entertainment. But, between the expanse separating a karaoke “singer” from a karaoke “spectator” lies their common collaborator – alcohol. Some singers require liberal amounts of this encouragement to release their inhibitions. However, the same outcome can also be perpetrated upon a spectator. Thus, on occasion, the boundary between spectator and singer is inexplicably crossed. Some embrace their newfound talent, while others are humiliated by their folly. Although, only through actually performing, can a spectator discover the truth in their presumptions. Until then, they are just … speculating. It’s almost 11p.m. and the night’s entertainment is well under way. Slipping into the dark club, I bypass the usual shadows of the
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“spectator’s gallery” and spy a group of singers sitting at the bar. Pressing into a seat next to them, I quickly learn that two of the women are karaoke veterans. The third, Jessie, is a newbie. Tonight is her first karaoke experience. By the time I enter their conversation, Jessie is past her emphatic refusal to perform and onto her friends’ liberal enticements – namely tonight’s drink special: Tequila. Not at all opposed to that particular vice, I naturally join them. After several tequilas and more, less-thantolerable performances, “Frank Sinatra” now commands the stage. Styling in a black suit, shiny shirt and requisite bling-bling hairy chest, this Latino lounger’s opening choreography is in perfect unison to his song selection, “My Way.” Never once glancing at the monitor, with practiced ease, he croons the first verse and chorus before smoothly moving down into the audience. Pausing at one table and then the next, he eventually reaches a group of college girls and lounges (a’la Josephine Baker) across their table for his finalé. As a spectator, for the last hour, I watched these same college girls steadily down pitcher after pitcher of beer interspersed with tequila shots. So when Latino lounger ramps up for his last pass at the chorus, I am not at all surprised when the girls stand up and join him, screaming the lyrics at the top of their lungs. The polite applause that follows turns riotous, when (in unison) all four girls lift their shirts and flash the crowd before collapsing into a fit of giggles. I
010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 smile broadly at their passover from spectators to karaoke performers, quite sure we will see more from them later. Several more tequilas now consumed, my head is buried in the song album when I hear Jessie’s name called over the PA. Turning to my new friend, it is obvious that the liquid bribery was a success. Smiling wickedly, the woman hops off her bar stool and weaves a path toward the stage. I promptly weave after her. The most regrettable offense a karaoke singer can make is selecting a song well beyond their small talent. The “regular” artists know their limitations and usually chose songs that are compatible with their voice range. However, a newbie frequently picks a song for only one reason. They think they know all the words. The DJ cues up Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” and the lyrics quickly pop up onto the monitor. However, Jessie is still trying to figure out the microphone, so the first page is gone before she even notices. Finally finding her place, she gets into a groove and I see her confidence building. Finding myself applauding her courage, I start to think that she is actually going to pull this off, and then she starts the chorus: R-E-S-T-E-E come on and do it to me R-E-S-T-U-P that’s what you do to me Totally contrary to my spectator’s creed, instead of ridiculing Jessie’s folly, I am genuinely embarrassed for her. However, turning to her friends, I see they are not so sympathetic. Both are doubled over, laughing hysterically. I believe
it was at this point, when the tequila completely took over. Making my way on stage, I put my arm around Jessie’s shoulder and join her for the next chorus. She smiles at me and the two of us spell out Aretha’s signature demand … correctly this time. Determined to finish the song strong, we belt out the remaining lyrics and the music eventually fades. As a longtime spectator, I know our interpretation was positively dreadful. But Jessie is grinning ear-to-ear and I can see her “passover” is complete. Although, making our way through the crowd, several other patrons give us high fives, and I am starting to think perhaps our performance wasn’t so pathetic after all. However returning to the bar, we find Jessie’s friends are doubled over, laughing hysterically. As karaoke aficionados, they are mocking me for a newbie blunder. “Next time you should wear a dark top.” One offhandedly remarks, and I look down at my white tank puzzled. The other woman finally stops her snorting long enough to add: “The stage lights made your top see-through. We saw everything.” My own “passover” to the “other side” was a brief, but nevertheless humiliating experience. And the realization that I had provided exactly what we spectators seek … sobered me right up. Now fully recovered, I am again a confirmed “spectator” who is taking seriously one piece of valuable advice. Tequila and karaoke should not be mixed together.
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B.E. Golay 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 No Amount of Soap and Water It’s hot, and I’m sweating. Of course it’s hot, I’m sitting in a truck with no air conditioning, in the fucking desert, and wearing a chemical suit that could double as a snowsuit. So of course I’m sweating. I’ve been sweating for days on weeks on months. Okay, so it’s hot and I’m sweating, so logic would dictate that I stink. And not just your everyday missed a shower after a basketball game stink – this is a stink that clings to your nose and makes your eyes water, the kind of stink that just won’t quit. But I’m not really concerned with the temperature right now. Nor am I concerned about dehydration or my stench. My whole concern, all of my attention, is focused on a tenyear-old boy. The boy is sweating just like me, but for different reasons altogether. The reason for his extra perspiration is that I currently have his forehead directly in the sights of my rifle, and I think that’s enough reason to start a few beads rolling. Thinking back on it now, I don’t know how he got so close without someone noticing him, but out of nowhere I felt a tap on my arm. I glance over, relaxed, thinking it was just one of my men telling me he’s got to take a piss. But I’m wrong. Possibly dead wrong. Instead of a full-grown killing machine decked out in the latest military fashion in the middle of the peepee dance, I’m looking at this dirty, sweating,
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ten-year-old Iraqi boy. My reaction, while not common to most folks, was to immediately point my rifle at him. He looked startled, but not nearly as startled as I would be if some strange foreigner pointed a gun at me. Once he realized that I wasn’t going to shoot him instantly, he started to move his hands up. I thought he just wanted some food, but then I noticed a very important detail. In his left hand was a grenade. So I’m scared, sweating, and stinking, but now mostly scared. What the fuck is he going to do? I try talking to him, but my Farsi is a little weak, well, non-existant really, and all I really know is “Imshi,” which means, “Get back.” What else could I do? I can’t shoot a kid can I? And what if he’s booby-trapped, so when I shoot him that little grenade and three little grenade friends taped to this kid’s back go off when his innocent little face meets the dirt? So it’s a bit of a standoff, him with his grenade and me with my rifle. Problem is, it’s not just him and me. There’s also the matter of my boys in the back of the truck, and if that grenade goes off, I’m sure to bite it, and maybe a couple of them, too. They would kind of deserve it. I didn’t tell all of them to go to sleep, and someone obviously missed this kid walking up. But, fuck. My MEN. I have to get out of the truck. Careful to keep my eyes locked on the kid, I open the door
010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 and slowly start to slide out. The kid is shaking now, on top of the nervous sweating, because he knows that something bad is going to happen. Something very bad. I’m out of the truck now, and still have the dangerous end of my gun pointed at the kid. I reach into my pocket, looking for my translation card, find it, and bring it up to my sight line. I’m looking for the word “down.” I want this kid on the ground for some reason; people always seem like less of a threat when they are lying down. I find the word, but I’m just a little nervous myself and manage to screw up the pronunciation pretty badly. Fuck it, time for some charades. I use my rifle tip, pointing at him, and then the ground. Him, then the ground. He seems to get the idea, or so I thought. Instead of getting down himself, he drops the grenade at my feet. I jump about thirty feet, straight up, but it turns out that was unnecessary. There is no explosion. I look at the kid, and he just turns white. Looks like his little present was a dud. Amazing. Now, my blood begins to boil a bit, and can you blame me? This little asshole just tried
to kill me. What fucking balls. So sorry, little buckaroo, you failed. My rifle goes down, but my fist comes up. I catch him in the left temple with a pretty decent shot and he crumples straight to the ground. I take one last look at him and the grenade, wake my boys up, and get the fuck out of there. We need to find us some barbequed goat and some Iraqi cigarettes. We were running low as it is, and I’m sure to be chain-smoking tonight as I finally sit down and think about what just happened. Last I saw, his leg was twitching a bit, but I doubt I killed him. I don’t feel as hot anymore, but I stink just the same.
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Rachel Detra 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Doors
She stood outside the entrance of the building so she could watch the automatic glass doors open. Hearing the air slip in – whoosh in whoosh out – she watched the doors rhythmically birth oblivious people. The door never hesitated, she noticed; the door never second-guessed. The door didn’t worry over the outcome of who it let enter – the door would open for a criminal with the same efficiency as it would open for a sinless baby. She was jealous of the door. She envied its assurance, its ability to make immediate decisions, its ability to disregard consequences. Closing her eyes, she raised her hand and let it hover over her middle. Before she let it touch what was there, her hand fisted and dropped heavily. More than anything she wished she could ignore consequence. Her mother reminded her of the door: indifferent. When she had told her mother, pleaded with her to make the decision, her
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mother picked up her teacup and said that either way would be fine. Her mother would let anything pass. Whether her daughter walked out of the sliding doors with a little life or let someone else do it – either way would be fine. She wanted her mother to recognize the weight and take it from her, and once it was gone she would curl up on her mother’s lap and cry over curdled youth and over the sadness that comes when a child passes on its childhood to another. She stared at the door, hard. She was trying not to miss any messages the doors might let pass through. Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me what to do, she repeated under her breath. She held to the rhythm she had created, with repeated words and a stuck stare. People brushed passed her on either side, creating a fluttered breeze she wished she could say came from her belly.
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010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Yahara Journal Fine Arts Scholarship The Yahara Journal Fine Arts Scholarship has been established with the MATC Foundation. Our hope is that eventually we will be able to award two $300.00 scholarships each year – one for a student taking creative writing courses and one for a student taking art courses. To make a gift to the scholarship account, mail a check or money order to: MATC Foundation Attn: Yahara Journal Fine Arts Scholarship 3550 Anderson St. Madison, WI 53704-2599 Make checks payable to the MATC Foundation. Please indicate on the check that the donation should go toward the Yahara Journal Fine Arts Scholarship. Provide your name, address, city, state and zip code so we can send you an acknowledgment of this taxdeductible gift for your records.
010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 Mission Statement The Yahara Journal will support learning and creativity at MATC through the publication of a print journal and the sponsorship of events and activities that facilitate growth in writing and visual arts.
010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 How to Submit Your Work All students of Madison Area Technical College are welcome to submit literary or visual artwork for consideration. A team of student editors will evaluate the work and decide which submissions will be published. Although the Yahara Journal is published in the spring, students are encouraged to submit work throughout the school year. Work accepted includes short stories, poetry, essays, one-act dramas, photographs, paintings and other illustrations. Written items should not be more than 10 double-spaced typewritten pages. To submit: E-mail items to: yaharajournal@matcmadison.edu Or drop off items at: MATC Student Life OfďŹ ce, Truax Room 140, Downtown Room D237.
How to Join the Sta 010011001010001011010001101011001001101011010 The Yahara Journal has a wide variety of student staff positions available. Students are needed to help evaluate and edit items, prepare items for publication, layout and design the publication, maintain the Yahara Journal website and assist with readings and other events. Staff applications are available at the MATC Student Life OfďŹ ce, Truax Room 140 and Downtown Room D237. Please indicate that you are interested in joining the Yahara Journal staff and include your name, address, phone number, and preferred e-mail address. For more information: call (608) 246-6576, Truax, or (608) 259-2965, Downtown, or e-mail yaharajournal@matcmadison.edu