Yahara Journal 2007 by Yahara Journal

l a n r u o J a r Yaha 2007

A Fine Arts Publication

o J ra

l a n r u

a 7 h 0 Ya 20

Staff Editor Chryshelle Rassbach

Staff Charles Amidon Lauri Brenning Nina Dietenberger Nicholas Gorener Paul Kirner Chris Rogers

Cover and Layout Design Ali Laufenberg

About The Yahara Journal The Yahara Journal is a fine arts publication of Madison Area Technical College student work. It is one of many activities made available by the Student Life Office and funded by Student Activity Fees. The opinions expressed in this publications do not necessarily represent those of the MATC administration, faculty, staff or student body.

Acknowledgements The Yahara Journal would like to thank instructors for encouraging students to submit works to the Journal and the online zine, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Voices,â&#x20AC;? at http://matcmadison.edu/ studentlife/yaharajournal. The attendance of instructors and students at events such as poetry readings and art shows has been greatly appreciated by the Yahara Journal.

Yahara Journal 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.

Table of Contents Poems Marilyn M. Winkley “Dusk on the Marsh” pg 2 Marilyn M. Winkley “Night Watch” pg 3 Lorelee Sienkowski “How Much of That Fur Ball is pg 4 Mouse Hair?” Shelley Peckham “How Stella Got Her Mojo Pin Back” pg 5 Kyle Clayton Gundlach “Horse Hawk and Mind Blocks” pg 6 Madeleine Davies “Le Perdu” pg 9 Morgan Murray “Love Poem for Eden” pg 10 Kay Kartechner “Mariposa” pg 11 Arsenio Green “Black Struggle: I Accept Me for Me” pg 12 Arsenio Green “Syssta Circle” pg 13

Short Stories Karole Dachelet “7 1/2” Lauri Brenning “The Zodiac Saloon” Erik Koglin “Blinded by Love” Kaleb Schwecke “Closing” Megan Bothum “Property of James” Lauri Brenning “Lies and Old Girlfriends” Becca Lemanczyk “Carpe Diem” Luke Erickson “A Hunt for Common Ground”

pg 16 pg 17 pg 23 pg 25 pg 29 pg 30 pg 33 pg 35

Art Chryshelle Rassbach Rebecca Heitzinger “Billow” Bird “Infertility” Libbie Allen “Jamie in Oz” Ryan Ebert “Natural Beauty” Kristina Hill Chris Berns “Armor-Dillo”

pg 40 pg 41 pg 42 pg 43 pg 44 pg 45 pg 46

Elizabeth Balson “Reaper” Cory Lyle David Gutrowski “My!” Cory Lyle Kristin Kurt Libbie Allen “Beetle on the Beach” Brian Martin Lisa Giss “Sitters” Lisa Giss “Wild Sky” Matthew Gerdts “Winter Tree” Aaron Gilmore “Ink Figure” Aimee H. Johnson “Knit Breakfast” Amanda Dottl “Invaders” Constance Bonk “Analogous Nook” Jenna V. Richardson “Bookkeeper” Mandi DeSigne

pg 47 pg 48 pg 49 pg 50 pg 51 pg 52 pg 53 pg 54 pg 55 pg 56 pg 57 pg 58 pg 59 pg 60 pg 61 pg 62

Drama Sam O’Reilly “For the Love of”

pg 64

Poems

Marilyn M. Winkley “Dusk on the Marsh” I sense your movement beneath the snow as I follow the trailing tumulus, feel your small furtive steps, keep cadence with my heart, as each slow exhalation brings you closer, ‘til on my inhale I feel you pause, nose aquiver for the rich scent of melting earth, promise of shoots and seeds, whose warm life tempers frigid air; and while you burrow, unaware in blue veined caves, the wanton sun shatters your carefully constructed, fragile dome, exposes you to preying eyes and lashing talons; a silver explosion under dusk, a flare of light on gold struck wings brings the news that winter is over for some, yet just begun for others; I breath out, smoke on the wind, aware of how long I stood tensed, and watch the ochre marsh grass quiver with the passing chuff and skree of russet raptor singing in misty air.

Marilyn M. Winkley “Night Watch” I sat beside you in that pale room, watching eyes move beneath translucent lids fragile as a Luna moth’s wings. You, who had been so strong, trembled under sheets, plucked at your cathetered penis, mewled like an infant caught in the sweat of night terrors. I sat by helpless, remembering those hands, knuckles swollen from too many fights, brushing my chestnut hair gently, struggling to tie it back in a white satin bow. You gave up on an exhale. That day my hair swung free, tangling with each rise of the swing. The orderly said you would never wake. I thanked him for his help, silently wishing him to Hell. Later, eyes dark as mine opened. “Who took the air out of the room?” you rasped. I had no answer as midnight moved over and into us. Not ready to die, you asked that I wash your hair, clip your nails. The orderly, amazed, brought a tray. I massaged thick liquid onto scalp, removed it with damp cloth, towel dried your hair. I kept the white crescents of your nail clippings. You gave up on an exhale. I did not cry.

Lorelee Sienkowski “How Much of That Fur Ball is Mouse Hair?” How much of that fur ball is mouse hair? How much of that fur ball is cat? And why is it there in my slipper And not on the floor – think of that? I hate when they’re fresh and they’re slimy; I hate when they’re old – stuck like glue. Why can’t you just leave them al fresco? Would that be a hard thing to do? No, you have to hack them at midnight, Or at dawn, but just right in my shoe So when I get up sleepy and stumbling The first thing I notice is “you.” I wish you had lots better manners; I wish your main thought was not YOU If you had regard for us others Your fur balls you’d not serve au jus.

Shelley Peckham “How Stella Got Her Mojo Pin Back” Tradition poisons The death of purpose and the birth of evolution It’s survival of the sheepish The dream of clarity with a Das Kapital “K” Conscience abandoned, left bleeding in the tangles of the emperor’s new clothes Pistols at dawn, day, dusk and darkness Wasn’t it easier when Intelligence was ink Death was a phone call And you paid no attention to the man behind the curtain? Your cause is shocked and awed into the maimed limbs of the lucky ones My signature forged into the side of the bomber Enola Gay Marriage Banner Flown by those Hairy True Men Drunk on the blood of Christ and Choking on His flesh Who invented new words for liar But still, the extinguished have more to burn And so you wave your white powder for the chemical surrender It’s only a party after all Purchased status of substance Just like everything else Get it up, slow it down and keep it together And walk beside the new prophets While the fifth horseman lives next door His viscera smacking its lips He stayed the course He followed the tracks on my arms

Kyle Clayton Gundlach “Horse Hawk and Mind Blocks” Closeted punks upon slippery slopes crystal glasses smashed on factory roofs gifts from santa back alley creeps city muggings On demand keys piss poor hobos smelling up a sty crying for jesus away from the storm Skulls and crossbones picket the square protest the losers twiddle your hair twiddle your thumbs question what’s wrong junkies in bedrooms in beds strung out city gets quiet when the booze train leaves town pistols feel warm whence the sun goes down Castrate the cops piss on the grave laugh, your maddening your blanketing stares gold stained basements silver stained molars chewing on carrots rabits run faster foxes in fox holes scrambling like eggs Bitter crowned baby kings Fuck Over This Place pistols play god now video game fun cats got nine lives people got none Bombs above London Parachutes litter France

distrust in America acceptance in happenstance hackey sack heroes die on front lines kicking and screaming tantrums are kind Piss away parcels with ribbons and bows shit on the runway fall off the course rubber soul sunshine BLASTSOUTTHESPEAKERS are you young are you able can you take on the heat call up your mama call on the priest ask for fogiveness ask for release mmm that’s tasty oh aren’t you sweet cola chromed fiances waiting to split knowledge surpass me show me my worth ain’t she amazing look at her perch fly away jesus you cause too much harm come along Linus you’re looking real fine habit habit crimes not of this world mistaken for brothers tried for murder La-lots of dollars Thrown down on our bet B-Bits and pieces puzzles beset Boom! it’s amazing facing your death Crisp as a chip cracking in dip too much for ransom too much at stake

let the paint dry and see what we’ve made popped collar polos prance in the fields fairies wear linen demons wear hate Turkey Vulture Circling Midwestern estates Murkey mad crooners sing of mistakes Regrets, I’m oblivious wink on the sidewalk passing my grandpa driving for keeps dust sets the scene in western town garb clothing and jewlery playing their part blips on the radio Ace up your sleeve cross out the other pick up the slack way to look forward way to look back aren’t you assembled pre-emptive attack Live a love lonely waiting for rent Life a love slower Darling I’m spent

Madeleine Davies â&#x20AC;&#x153;Le Perduâ&#x20AC;? He loves the girl with awkward knees, Knees that bump together as she runs, Laying down the bible black beat Of days spent locked inside. They laugh when he recalls her kool-aid red lipsStained by summer night block parties. Sleepless nights he prays for the return of days When her crooked teeth and band-aided skin were enough And the buttons on her sweater were never Back-seat ripped from their seams. Sitting next to her, he spends his days. Sweet silent reverie. He waits to touch her perfect bent elbows.

Morgan Murray “Love Poem for Eden” I took her home in an empty sour cream container, Placed her in the small glass aquarium. I lost her for 3 days amidst her newspaper And found her again when I emptied her tank into the garbage. She fit perfectly, discreetly in my pocket, Yet Grandma always knew when she was out And so did the principal at my school, Who hid behind his glass doors with the screeching blonde office assistant And shook his finger at me sternly While his eyes betrayed him with an amused glint. We took art classes together, and biology. In the first, she was our star model, Elegantly draped over the still-life we painted, Curiously watching the brush strokes with her bright, vacant eyes. In the latter, she demonstrated her powers of focus, strike, and constriction While my voice sang over the battlefield, Praising her evolutionary skills. Her long, purposeful, winding grace That hid a swift hunter’s heart. Through years of our childhood, Our adolescence, And this strange age where I still feel like a child, But my niece calls me a grown-up, We remain together. She is a scrapbook of memories, my college roommate. All grown-up herself, And not at all modest about her almond-shaped eyes, Her long, slender figure, Brought about by seasonal anorexia, Her cheekbones a model would kill for, Or at least purchase. She glides in beauty like the night, Shunning men with a curve of her head and a huff, Preferring the warmth of long hair and hoodies, Breathing sweetly on my shoulder. My Mesozoic feminist, Still outraged about apples.

Kay Kartechner “Mariposa” As the butterfly metamorphoses within its private chamber, to emerge and unwrap its fragile wings of dust, so do our souls transform… unknown and unseen and mysterious, encased in ego and earthy matter; the grist of God’s alchemy.

Arsenio Green “Black Struggle: I Accept Me for Me” Nigger, Nigga, Monkey, Darkie, Coon, Jigaboo I wish I wasn’t born Black, My black hands are used to bring death to other black men, My black feet walk all over the man, and his stereotypes and beliefs of us, Touching the light of darkness, Hopes are eliminated, exposing the shadows of cruelty, My rear inhabits jail cells, coffins and the back seat hands full of heat, My heart occupies the color of pitch black, The heat takes bullet form and is released into a young child, who has yet to see age three, My soul dwells in the devil’s throne, we take turns placing fear into people of all nations, How can I be intolerable of my own skin, my own blood? My skin is beginning to glimmer in this modern era, More self-righteous then ever, we shatter the chains of suppression and depression, Racism and discrimination no longer seize us, We are no longer shutout and forced to mask our talents, We have grown to gain the ability to make everything a possibility, I’m in love with black; I’m in love with the color of my flesh; I accept my new role in society, created by opportunity, I accept me for me, specially hand-made in the Holy Master‘s image African-American, Black, Person of Color, Born Black, beautifully exquisite, yet charming as can be, I wish no more to apply my black hands as a weapon to fight, My black hands are blessed with limitless ability, Hands no stranger to royal pedigree. Touching the light of darkness, Black Struggle becomes a path of Equality. My black feet, calloused by stomping stereotypes and assumptions, Black struggles were the catalyst that fertilized my race my being. Concealed my being able to hope and dream. No more shadows, I can be seen. My rear occupies every possible seat, Transcending from jail cells, to CEO, Congress, even Wall Street. Standing on the shoulders of giants, giants like Sojourner Truth, Martin Luther, Malcolm, Blind Tom, Jackie Robinson, and Muhammad Ali to name a few. Chest out standing tall upon their shoulders, eyes wide crystal clear view, My heart occupies souls of rainbow colored people, Skin called Black, absorbs all colors of people, yet Black is all you see. Hands full of heat radiate victory, from every child to the first page of my ancestry. My soul tops every mountain, and surfaces from every sea, I am Black and I accept me for me.

Arsenio Green “Syssta Circle” Let me exchange conversational morals with you my sysstaz, beautiful skin laden with so many colors, Black, White, Mocha, Carmel, Yellow, and Red, Come close and hug me before contempt embodies your soul, I want to show you how and why you’re being hurt my sysstaz, My sysstaz lash out, insult and belittle each other, they use hate to strip my other sysstaz pride and emotions away, Discouraged in so many ways you all suffer, You’re vicious toward the ones who’ll understand you, Appearance becomes hideous as you change your natural characteristics, My syssta you were born with miraculous allure that defines beauty, Beauty resides on the surface as well as skin deep, Let me exchange conversational morals with you my sysstaz, Image will never show the marvels of your personality, And regardless of your skin color you are still my syssta. Queen, Princess, Goddess, Angel illustrates what you are, Dancing, Singing, Rapping, Poetically expressed are the movements of your body, with curves on both ends that can intrigue, Remember it is not a weapon or a seductive object it is your temple to dwell, My sysstaz lashed out at, insulted and belittled, No man or woman is worth breaking your bond within the syssta circle, You can always do better than the abusive, alcoholic, drug involved, arrogant man or woman, Alone you stand on two feet, Together you hold each other up so all my sysstaz can and will fly, I showed you why and how you are being hurt, now my sysstaz of all races, lesbians, bi-sexual, and heterosexual, Don’t stand by as an opportunity approaches your voice to bring equality, Advance to the level where the world can be proud to say that is My SYSSTA...

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Karole Dachelet “7 1/2” A real woman has at least 20 pairs of shoes. A lady should never be without the right heel or flat or sandal to complement her outfit and her mood. It is embarrassing to be caught unprepared for any occasion on account of your footwear selection. Me, I have many shoes in my specially designed cedar shoe closet. I stopped counting after three hundred pairs. I catalog my memories with my shoes … when my daughter told us she was going to college two thousand miles from home I was wearing my brown leather sandals with the turquoise embellishments. The right pair with the perfect one and a quarter inch kitten heel. On the day my husband left me, I didn’t have the right pair of shoes. I am still waiting to find a pair that goes with my suburban housewife meets homicidal tendencies ensemble. Maybe one day I will find them, sitting on a shelf at Barney’s with a killer heel and just the right shade of red. I still haven’t gotten the bloodstains out of my bunny slippers.

Lauri Brenning “The Zodiac Saloon” Cast of Characters Leo Adonis: The new “Black Knight” in the jousting contests held at the Bristol Faire – a medieval reenactment theme-park and dinner theater – every Friday and Saturday night. Sag Woo: The “Archer” at the Bristol Faire strolls through various parts of the park with a cast of musicians and jugglers performing his bow and arrow routine several times nightly. Lacy Scorpi: The “Psychic” and tarot card reader at the Bristol Faire has her own booth setup next to the jousting field. Virgie Aloof: The virginal owner of The Zodiac Saloon, located two blocks from the Bristol Faire, it’s a regular hang-out for the Faire staff after a shift is over. And so it goes…… It’s still early, the jousting contest just completed, but the Zodiac Saloon is filling up quick. Service staff and behind-the-scenes workers, long done with their night’s work, sip “Mercury Moon,” the saloon’s homemade brew, from small tables and dark booths. Lacy packed up early as well. After a tumultuous evening battling with visitors’ opposing stars, she has also sought the sanctuary of Virgie’s orderly world. Taking a sip of her Witches Brew, (another saloon specialty that reminds her of a long island ice tea), Lacy surveys the mix of patrons and settles back into her chair to enjoy the show. “Hey!!! NO smoking in here!” Virgie is yelling at the Faire ogre. The small, old man is intent upon lighting up his cigar, despite the tiny saloon’s twenty “No Smoking” signs. Cutting eye, he lumbers up the stairs to partake of his nasty habit outside and, when he turns his back, Virgie gives him her middle finger. However, when the old man turns around to say something to his friends, he is immediately met with Virgie’s gracious smile. (The finger now carefully concealed in her palm.) Always the courteous hostess, Virgie can be quite the maniacal maven when it comes to keeping things neat and orderly. And that includes easily controlling this raucous crew with her evil eye, if required. Also a fanatical health nut, she finds it hard to sit by and watch someone else ruin their health, without saying ... something.

(Lacy always suspected that Virgie mixed something extra in her homemade concoctions. A pinch of this… a little of that… keeps the doctor away.) The ogre shortly returns from his smoke and right behind him walks in the most gorgeous man Virgie ever saw. Followed by a rag-tag entourage of Faire staff, this man has the air of a king and his court (or maybe it’s just the gold-painted plaster-cast and glass-madeto-resemble-real-gems crown on his head). Anyway, readjusting her wonder bra until her small bosom is nearly spilling out over her sweetheart neckline, Virgie casts a radiant smile on the handsome Adonis approaching her counter. He shines his own smile in return, nearly blinding her with a perfect set of gold-capped teeth. “Beautiful Lady” he purrs, his eyes never leaving Virgie’s face. He takes up her hand and brings it to his lips, continuing, “A round of your homemade brew for my friends here … and how about something special for me?” From the unabashed fire in his eyes, Virgie realizes that the man is not asking her for a beverage. Blushing at his heated flirtation, she quickly takes her hand away and pours the requested drafts before responding, “For you, I recommend the ‘Mercury Sun Downer’ – it’s topped with 151 rum and lit on fire.” His thrust was expertly pared and his smile grows wider. “A sharp mind to go with that luscious booty.” Having already decided on his conquest, he continues: “Come, you must join us for a drink.” Virgie places her hands on her hips and gives him the once over. Her sharp mind and intuitive sense figured out his game from the get-go. So why is she standing there contemplating “should I stay or should I go?” In her quest for all things perfect, Virgie does not suffer fools gladly. But as her eyes roam from his impish gold smile down his broad, masculine chest to his lean, hard thighs, his physical perfection mesmerizes her. So, despite his arrogant manner, she finds herself agreeing to one drink. With a knowing look, Lacy watches the interplay between this high-spirited man and her aloof friend. Initially, Virgie looks to be holding her own against his dynamic, sexual prowess. But, as Lacy knew would happen, she observes Virgie’s intent inspection and shakes her head when Virgie walks around the counter to join him … into the lion’s den. The noise in the saloon grows steadily as more Faire staff and visitors pack into the small room. Busy making moon-eyes with her new Adonis, Virgie is quite uncharacteristically lax in her hostess duties so Lacy jumps behind the bar to fill in while warily keeping an eye on the enraptured couple. However, serving ale at a frantic pace, Lacy

doesn’t catch a glance at the king’s table until much later. She is shocked to see Virgie, now lounging across the lion’s lap, exposing her bare, white shoulders to his roaming lips. Intent upon reminding the lovelorn lass of her responsibilities, Lacy’s scolding shout is interrupted by a rowdy commotion at the saloon’s entrance … followed by a rhythmic thumping noise and a loud curse. Glancing over at the door, she glimpses a tall, wiry man as he tumbles down the stairway, in a somersault fashion, trailing a cross-bow. When he reaches the landing, Lacy expects an assortment of broken bones, but is relieved (and surprised) when the young man immediately jumps up to his feet and laughing, raises his arms above his head like a gymnast just completing an especially difficult routine. To the enthusiastic calls of his audience, the Archer takes a bow, catching the tip of his cross-bow on the waistband of his trousers, dropping them to the floor and exposing his baggy boxers. The white flesh of his knobby knees and the ENORMOUS size of his feet brings Virgie out of her lust-drunk lion-stupor. Pushing Adonis’s head away from her bare breasts, she leans up out of the king’s lap and casts a wicked smile on the half-naked Archer. Captivated by the rosy mounds of creamy breast lying open to him, the Archer takes a step toward this tantalizing sight and trips over his pooled trousers, falling directly into his eyeful of fancy. Assuming the man is drunk, Virgie rolls her eyes and pushes him up off her chest. Teetering back only once on his big feet, the Archer comes to an upright position and quickly takes up his trousers. (But not before Virgie spies his extravagant prize ... soldiering a wave to her). It appears that Virgie’s auspicious companion also glimpsed the Archer’s interest because the lion moves swiftly between the two of them and howls out a mighty roar. However, instead of scurrying away, as the man anticipated, the Archer crinkles his nose and begins fanning his face, before replying in a mocking, sarcastic drawl: “P-lllllezzzeeeee! I’m sure the lady’s bosom is ripe, as I smell her scent on your clothes. But the foul odor coming from your mouth … makes me believe you have been kissing your horse!” With a wildly, riotous roar emanating from the saloon patrons, Leo’s face turns beet-red before he grasps his hands around the Archer’s neck, strangling the laughter from the man’s grinning face. Virgie quickly grabs a half-full mug of ale and bravely stepping up to the enraged beast, she gives him the evil eye before dumping its contents squarely over his head. With “Mercury Moon” running down his face, Leo releases his grip and the Archer jumps back, out of his reach. Finished with this particular mess, Virgie hands Leo the bill

and asks him and his group to leave her place, pointing to the dozen “ABSOLUTELY NO FIGHTING” signs prominently displayed throughout the saloon. Adonis Leo tries one last magnificent purr on the lass. But, to no avail. Virgie’s lips are pressed tightly together as she holds out her hand for the money. Reaching into his pants’ pockets Leo pulls out … NOTHING. The life of the party, he is always dead broke. And, as he silently pleads with his companions, they stare at the floor. No one offers to help. (They too have been victims of this poorman’s pockets and are reluctant to throw more money to bad.) Seeing the lion’s boisterous roar turn into a sedate meow when his whiskers are pulled, Lacy silently congratulates Virgie for “looking behind the curtain” of this hapless fella. Leaning over, she whispers something into the Archer’s ear. A moment later, a rubber-tipped arrow lands neatly on the king’s table – a $20 bill run through its shaft. All at once, the entire table of people turn toward the bar. The Archer smiles and nods his head. Virgie gives “the man with the money” a quick, saucy wink. Taking up the arrow, she plucks the $20 bill from its shaft and tucks it into her wonder bra. Although loathe to let Leo off so easily, she gives him another evil eye before chasing him up the stairs. His cohorts shortly follow behind. Leo’s amorous spell is broken. Virgie sighs, stepping back behind the bar. (It was hot while it lasted … but it nearly burnt me!) Embarrassed that Adonis could make her forget her responsibilities, she quickly jumps back into a rhythm, serving ale to several thirsty patrons, all at once. The Archer watches the woman work, admiring her efficiency and dexterity. A few minutes later there’s a lull at the bar and Virgie walks down to greet the man, placing his arrow on the counter between them. “Nice shot, but your aim was too low.“ After hitting the table, squarely in the center, the Archer is confused and says so. Virgie smiles, casually plucking the $20 bill from her breast, she waves it in his face before replying, “I may have given you this $20 … if you had hit him in the ass!” Lacy coughs into her “Witches Brew” and Virgie flashes her an evil eye. But Lacy can not contain her laughter. Whispering a quick, “Sorry!” she covers her mouth, before she can say more. (Like maybe … “It’s gonna take more than an ass hit to get that $20 away from tight-wad Virgie!”) But the pair is no longer paying any attention to her, as the Archer smiles, ready for the chase. The candles have burned down low. Only a half a dozen patrons still nursing their drinks remain in the saloon. Virgie and the Archer moved

to a small corner booth almost an hour ago. Lacy has been filling in at the bar. They talked about everything under the sun. (This unassuming man really has the gift for gab!) And Virgie finds herself being drawn further into his realm–full of faith and philosophy, worldly wisdoms and beliefs. He asks a lot of questions. (As Virgie is also prone to do.) But he has also found a lot of answers. A history and geography teacher at the local high school during the day, he has traveled around the world and lived in the far east at one time. (This totally fascinates Virgie, who has traveled no more than 100 miles from her home, in all her life.) When he talks about his experience and interest in Chinese healing, Virgie nearly tumbles into his lap for joy … another health nut! Lacy has been observing Virgie’s captivated attention and her slow encroachment into the Archer’s space. The woo-er of woo-ers and the master of the hunt, the man will use his brilliant perception and vision to hone in on his quarry, quickly finding the way to Virgie’s heart … is through her head. (Good for you, my girl.) Eight months later, Virgie and Sag have been like two-peas-in-apod, heads together in animated discussion – almost every night. An incurable optimist, Sag’s infectious enthusiasm has given the wary Virgie an outlet to indulge in her own adventurous spirit. Virgie: ‘I’m selling the saloon.” Lacy: “What?” “What do you mean – ‘what?’ I’m selling the bar. Sag and I are buying a boat. A big boat! We’re gonna sail around the globe. Live from port to port. And, after we have circled the earth … we’re gonna do it all over again.” Lacy sees the flash of – something (assured confidence, perhaps?), which has firmly taken over her friend. The virginal Virgie is a virgin no longer. She found the answers to her questions, and has learned she was quite right after all. At first shocked by the woman’s confession, Lacy rolls her eyes. The woman obviously did not think this ridiculous idea through. “What do you mean – sail around the world? How do you and your Archer propose to support yourself?” At first, Virgie does not respond, contemplating if she should let Lacy in on her secret. But excited about the prospect of a great business success, she decides to divulge her plan. “I have been experimenting with the ‘Mercury Moon’ brew. Actually it was Sag’s idea.” Virgie

smiles slyly before continuing. “We figured out how to make a great tasting beer ... that is REALLY less filling.” (NO CARBS … NO CALORIES!) Although a wine drinker herself, Lacy is stunned by Virgie’s discovery. However, the other woman shakes her head and chuckles. “You know the pessimist that I am. I would never have given it a try if it wasn’t for Sag. He was totally sure it would work. And it did!” Having already lined up a marketing firm and bottling factory, the only thing left was to settle things at the bar, pickup the boat and be off to the Caribbean before the holiday. Lacy finally realizes that Virgie has indeed thought this though and is torn between happiness for her friend’s success and the thought of not seeing her again. Not one to make many good friends, she takes one last stab at convincing Virgie to remain, “But what about kids, a home – you know, roots?” Virgie’s bright smile grows wistful at the thought of having a family. “Of course we’ll have kids. And, the world will be their classroom. As for a home … don’t you really mean a family? Aren’t those roots attached to the people you love … not the ground you live on?” Quietly agreeing, Lacy takes up Virgie’s hand and squeezes it tight. Tears filling her eyes, she replies, “I’m gonna miss you, you know. But, how can I argue with a certified genius?”

Erik Koglin “Blinded by Love” After a memorable candlelit dinner and a few drinks at several different bars, we found ourselves at Jollyman’s. Melissa’s Caribbeanblue eyes lured men from all corners of the bar. Her beauty drew attention no matter where we were or how she was dressed. I took pride in having such a beauty all to myself and never once could have foreseen the betrayal that lay beneath. A woman of her beauty could not help that men noticed her, oftentimes expressing their feelings through pickup lines. Even though I was used to such “comeons,” that night was different. A beer bellied, half-shaven man sitting at the end of the bar slowly got up from his stool and walked toward Melissa. He was followed by four other of his buddies in a stumbling fashion. The man gently placed his hand on Melissa’s right shoulder and she twirled around in her normal style to look him in the eyes. Without any warning, the man pulled her up pressing her into his body and told her, “I can’t help but drown in the ocean that fills your eyes.” I could have dealt with the pickup line, but the minute that man placed his hands onto Melissa’s butt and squeezed her against his chest, he crossed the line of my security. Now typically, I was a man who did not get attached; one who strongly supported one night stands. So, with any other girl at any other time, I would have let those comments from a few drunken men slide right by. But she was the “one.” My internal spark of anger quickly turned into a fiery blaze in a matter of moments. Outraged, bubbling over with jealousy, and beads of sweat forming along my hairline, I finally snapped and stood up. The swivel bar rose off the floor and I prepared myself to attack. However, before I could take a swing, the five shit-faced men ganged up on me, pushing and egging me on. Before anything began, the bartender, seeing a five to one ratio, sent the men on a direct, oneway ticket outside. Having cooled down and seeing that the night was still young, I ordered a few more rounds for Melissa and myself. By the time the bar’s closing time crept up, Melissa and I were two sheets to the wind. We decided to call it a night and staggered out of the bar. Having moved slowly down the strip of bars as the night grew, we had a lengthy walk back to the Hilton Hotel which proved to be much more time-consuming than expected. As we stumbled down the cobblestone walkway, a sudden flash of heat ran through my nerves, followed by an unforgettable chill down my spine. I could never have predicted what was about to come out of the dark. With the alcohol having set in, a delayed reaction time enabled me to take charge before the first blow hit me dead on. A cheap shot

from behind, hitting the back of my skull, took me to my knees. Time passed slowly as an uncomfortable amount of unfair punches and kicks penetrated my body from head to toe. For those five drunken men, it was a game. Helplessly, I lay on the ground, getting beaten, and all I could think about was Melissa and her wellbeing. Were they going to rape her? I wondered if she would end up in the same state as me. My concern for Melissa blurred my vision of reality. As minutes passed, the hot stream of blood dripping from every crevice on my helpless body seemed invisible. Nothing mattered if Melissa was hurt or in trouble. As the men continued with their beating, my mind began to drift. My vision, already distorted due to the alcohol, became that of newborn puppy. Returning to reality, I reached out for Melissa only to realize that nothing moved. The blows ceased and I watched as my perpetrators disappeared into the darkness. My eyes coasted back to where Melissa once stood. She approached with such grace and liveliness. The darkness grew around me and my world slowly diminished. As I lay on the cold, winter stricken cement, I felt Melissa reach over into my back pocket and remove my black, leather wallet. Her silky hands then slid my watch off of my left wrist. My eyes drew to hers, which were no more than a mere glow in the dark. Just as I made eye contact, she stood up and turned away into the darkness. My world turned black.

Kaleb Schwecke “Closing” With only an hour left before close, the gas stations’ floor was mopped and clean. Not that it mattered, for after years of wear, the previously white tile took on a brown tinge that no amount of scrubbing or mopping could remove. Even so, they were mopped every night with one part soap for every two parts water – a slippery combination. Yellow signs dotted the glossy wet floor warning customers as they entered to be careful. But what the signs really said was that if customers fell, they would not be able to sue. Only 56 minutes left until close as the attendant stood behind the register staring at the clock, staring so hard that it appeared he was trying to speed up time with his mind. He was so intent on watching the second hand make its agonizingly slow march around the white face that he failed to notice the two young men approaching the store until the door opened and greeted them with the dull sound of chimes. He jumped slightly as the noise startled him but offered them the customary greeting he had memorized since day one, “Welcome to Kwik Trip, anything I can help you find tonight?” They didn’t respond or even acknowledge his presence as they headed for the candy isle. And so the attendant went into the back room to pretend to do something in a futile attempt to pass the time. Fifty-three minutes left as the two young men stood in the candy isle staring at all of the brightly colored labels and happy slogans vying for their attention, and their money. “I’ve never really understood the point of gum,” the shorter one said as he picked up a pack of gum claiming to give him a just brushed clean feeling. “I mean it’s not like you eat it or actually get anything out of it, you know?” “I know it makes your breath smell like you didn’t eat a dead fish for lunch.” “What’s wrong with my breath?” He replied while setting down the pack. “And anyways, would you rather me eat a live fish for lunch?” “God, you’re a moron …” A clang rang out from the back room as a coffee pot fell, followed by an inaudible expletive. “So are you ready to do this?” the taller one asked as he peered out from under his hood.

“Maybe I will have to buy a pack and try it out, the commercials always tell me that it will make me better with the ladies.” His eyes quickly darted back to the green and blue packages. “Do you think I’m a spearmint or wintergreen guy?” “I think you better make a decision about if you are going to go through with this or not.” The words came out of the hood as it turned away and walked further down the isle. “And quick, I don’t have all night.” The shorter one looked up as the attendant emerged from the back room with a wet blotch on the front of his shirt. For the first time he looked at the attendant and saw that they were roughly the same age, and from the open textbook behind the register he assumed it was either his last year of high school or his first year of college. “Slow night?” he asked the attendant as the gun in his pocket suddenly gained enormous weight. “Yeah,” the attendant replied eager for the interaction. “You guys are my first customers in the past two hours.” A muffled cough emerged from the hood causing the shorter kid to look down the isle at him. The cough was followed by the words, “Hey, come here and look at this.” “What’s up?” The taller one pulled the hood further over his eyes, burying his face in the shadow. “Don’t make friends with someone who you are going to need to kill.” “But that’s the thing, I don’t understand why we need to kill him.” He peered up over a bag of chips and saw the attendant reading the textbook and glancing at the clock. “I mean we can just threaten him with it and get him to give us the money. We …” he paused … “we actually don’t need to kill him.” “You see that is where you are wrong.” The words shot out of the hood like knives. “If we don’t kill this kid he will call the cops on us.” “But what if we just. …” He was cut off as a hand grabbed his arm and squeezed. “No. That is what you don’t understand, and that is what I am trying to tell you. He is the only one here. If we go and shoot him, the cops

won’t even know what’s happened until we are long gone.” “But do we even need to do this? He said that he hasn’t had a customer for a while, so how do we know there is even much cash in the register?” The attendant looked up from his textbook. “We are going to be closing in 39 minutes, not that I think you are going to be here that long. It’s just that I wanted you to know.” They both looked at the attendant, but only the shorter one said “thank you.” “Okay. Here is how it is going to work. Go grab a pack of your silly gum and walk up there like you are going to buy it, and that’s when you do it. Do it now. I am going to wait outside. Got it?” The word seemed to come out of somebody else’s mouth, not his own. “Yeah, I got it.” As his friend left him, the shorter one stood down at the chip rack trying not to think too much about what he was about to do. A single tear escaped and rolled down his right cheek. Just then, the cold air entered the store as the doors opened and the navy blue hood left the store and melted into the darkness outside. “Tough decision, huh?” the attendant asked from behind the counter as the only other body in the store paced up and down the gum isle. “Too much junk food to choose from. You should try having my job, sitting here with nothing to do but eat all this crap. I’ve definitely put on a few pounds.” “Yeah I could see how that would be a problem. I think I’ve found what I want, though.” The kid grabbed at a pack of gum and turned towards the counter. “Not a bad choice. I actually really like that stuff,” the attendant said, putting his book down and approaching the register. As the young man reached his hand into his pocket, he felt the immense weight of the gun in his hands. He could see himself pull the gun out. He could see the attendant’s face contort into a strange mix of confusion and fear. He could hear the sound of the gun going off, and he could see remnants of the attendant’s head splatter on the giant plate window behind him. But he pushed those thoughts from his head and said, “yeah, me too.”

He sat the pack on the counter and pulled out his wallet to hand the clerk two crumpled bills. “You can keep the change. Hope you have a good night.” Picking up the pack of gum and heading for the door, the gun seemed to lose all of its weight. Stepping out into the cool winter air, a small smile grew on his face while unwrapping a stick of gum. Then, looking into the hooded face, he said, “let’s just go home man.”

Megan Bothum “Property of James” I smelled the cantaloupe, carefully selecting my victims for tomorrow’s breakfast. That’s when I saw the familiar tattoo on the shoulder of the woman next to me. Her white tank-top and red bra strap couldn’t hide the rose wrapped in barbed wire with “Property of James” in western print, the same tattoo I had on my own left shoulder. I touched my shoulder, and a shiver ran down my spine. As my eyes followed the back of her head to the meat department, I remembered the feel of the artist’s chair and the sting of the needle running across my skin. He said he would love me forever, but that was so many years ago. James rode in on the edge of a storm, to a local bar where I worked. The rain lasted for days, and he stayed in my room above the bar. We hardly slept at all. By the time I was falling for him, the sky was clear and he was gone. I assumed I wasn’t the first girl to have her heart broken and shoulder branded by James, and here, standing right in front of me, was that proof. Before I realized it, I was close enough to reach out and smack that little blonde head of hers, spin her around and punch her in the mouth. I didn’t expect to feel this way about an old lover. I was married now, a mother of three, why should I care. But there was a fire in my belly, and I had to know. “Excuse me …” I softly spoke to her mop of blonde-out-of-the-box hair. Her eyes turned and smiled at me. She had to be at least 10 years younger, perhaps she thought I was lost. I smiled back and turned, lifting my t-shirt to reveal our twin tattoos. Her smile faded and she stepped back. As the fire burned out I realized that she was just like me, 10 years ago. “So … how is James?”

Lauri Brenning “Lies and Old Girlfriends” Mirror Lake: 9 miles As we pass the road sign, I try not to look at my watch. We have been in the car for over an hour and the anticipation is starting to overwhelm me. However, Michael seems to sense my apprehension because he picks up my hand, holds it to his lips and says, “Not long now, love.” I remember the moment so vividly, the feel of his soft cheek and rough chin as I trail my fingertips across his face before leaning in to place a light kiss on his full mouth. He turns to smile at me, and I truly feel blessed. Michael has a way about him that is hard to describe. It’s a casual self-assurance, a confident poise that’s unpretentious. It’s one of the things I love about him. Things were right – simply because they are right. We met at a fundraiser almost three years ago. In exchange for a free ticket to the glitzy event, I volunteered for a shift at the donation table. Michael was the music coordinator. During a break between bands, we found ourselves vying for the same open space at the bar. Exactly two years later, at that same charity affair, Michael proposed to me. And here we are, I muse as we pass a road sign announcing our arrival in Mirror Lake. It appears the whole town showed up for the party, and my first few hours in Mirror Lake resemble a continuous reception line. I can hardly remember the dozen or so names of Michael’s immediate family before I am bombarded with several dozen more. Stealing away to our room for a few moments to myself, I look out the window at the hoard of people milling about in the yard and sigh. This is gonna be a loooong day. Scanning the crowd, I spot Michael at the center of a large group standing near the gate and smile at their rapt attention to another of his animated stories. Turning away from the window, intent upon rejoining the party before my absence is noticed, I stop suddenly at a flash of red crossing my vision. The little red dress belongs to a young petite woman who is purposefully striding down the road, toward the gate and Michael. That’s her. I whisper, shocked that the woman has the audacity to show up at our party, although equally relieved to be hidden in the house for this confrontation. Moving to the side of the window, out of view from anyone standing at the gate, I wait and I watch. They quarrel something fierce. The young woman is stamping her feet and waving her arms, as she shouts at Michael. I watch as the rest

of the group quietly moves away, some shaking their heads at the spectacle the woman is making of herself. Her rants having no effect, the woman finally breaks down into tears and Michael abruptly turns and walks away. It looks to me like she might follow him, but Michael’s two brothers intercede, blocking her advance. The tears immediately dry up and the woman glares at the two men before sending one last curse over their shoulders at Michael, who continues to ignore her, and turning heel, heads back out the gate. And so it’s done. I whisper to the empty room, feeling relieved and somewhat guilty, although the situation is not of my doing. Glancing back at Michael, he has rejoined the same group, now gathered near the drinks, but his mood is much more subdued. Good. He should feel bad, but not for too long, I resolve, a wicked grin breaking across my face. Besides, I have no intention of allowing anyone or anything to spoil this week. That settled, I take one last look through the window at my tall, handsome fiancé and decide to keep close, just in case. A woman scorned. The week passes, and the woman obviously has had enough of Michael ignoring her, because she has now left a venomous message directed at me. This was no longer even vaguely amusing. The woman just bit off a whole heap more than she could swallow, and I decide it is time for me to finish this thing. However, instead of plainly walking into her yard and calling her out, I devise a much more simple plan in order to draw the woman to me. Enlisting the aid of new coconspirator, I have her deliver a message to the woman from Michael. Although I would not have fallen for this ruse, I surmise it will be easy to ensnare the enamored young woman with this lie. And sure enough, almost immediately she arrives at the designated place to meet “Michael.” However, her happy smile quickly changes into something akin to apprehension at the sight of me stepping out from behind the building. Immediately recognizing her mistake, there is nothing she can do about it now. We had never been introduced. But when I ask the woman if she knows who I am, she immediately responds, “Sherry.” I smile a bit, but I’m not going to give her the same satisfaction in return. So, I casually ask, “And, who are you?” That little jab was enough. The young woman’s face turns red as she sucks in a long breath of air and then releases it in several hard bursts. My smile grows wider and I quickly close the distance between us. “I must tell you,” I say evenly. “I am the one who has been receiving all your messages. The better ones, I play for Michael, and we

laugh at your foolishness.” I pause for the woman’s reaction to this statement, but, she has not yet fully recovered from my initial insult and can only spit and stammer before I cut her off. “The bitch has come, as you requested, so you can spit in her face. Isn’t this what you wanted?” I had expected the young woman to lunge at me, and I was ready. But, by this time, she has only gained control over her mouth and a wicked stream of insults flow from it. I laugh out loud at the woman’s feeble attempts to ridicule me, and this only incenses her further. But I didn’t have time for cow-bawling, there was a purpose to my visit. I step up to her, our faces almost touching, before quietly declaring, “You have no idea who you are dealing with.” My voice is low, hard, and my eyes hold the young woman’s own as I speak. “You want War? Is that it? I can promise, you will get much, much more than you bargained for, girl. So come now ... spit in my face ... let’s start this thing.” I literally tower over the woman and, as I suspected, she is a coward. Although her foul mouth starts up again, she makes no move to touch me. Instead, she immediately backs up, still cursing. I laugh and confess that Michael knows I have come to confront her, and if she thought what I had said was untrue she could ask Michael herself. I then bid the woman a pleasant life, leaving her with one final thought. “It was YOU who declared war. Don’t let there be a next time.” I have no qualms about claiming my victory. That evening, one last message is left on our voicemail. “Sherry, this is Emily. I know it has been three years, but I still can’t believe you won. I know he loves you and this is what he wants, and that you love him and gave up everything to be with him. I’m just … just … I’m not gonna bother you any more. Just know that you better take care of him. You hear me?” I play the message for Michael. He is relieved to learn there is to be no war. And I infer, perhaps, I should carry protection just in case any more of his old girlfriends crawl out of the woodwork. He assures me that will never happen. But I press the point even further and remind my handsome, future husband that a smile, turned in the wrong direction, could very well land him in the same boat. And I didn’t fancy spending my days planning War. I much preferred weaving love spells. Michael smiles wickedly before taking me in his arms and calling for the first strategy meeting of our new “Make Love, Not War” campaign. I promptly second the motion.

Becca Lemanczyk “Carpe Diem” Jill flipped anxiously through her address book, searching for a number she had not dialed in years. She had always hoped that one day she would have enough courage to make the call that she had rehearsed so many times. Today was the day. It had to be; she was running out of time. Three months earlier, Jill had gone to the doctor with what she thought was bronchitis. As it turned out, she had a rare and aggressive form of lung cancer. She was only thirty-two. There was no hope. Jill was going to die and she was going to die soon. There were only a few months to make arrangements, go on one last dream vacation, and say the things she needed to say to the people of significance in her life. Jill had created a list of these people. Julie was at the top. She wasn’t going to her grave without making one last phone call. Julie had been Jill’s best friend from the time Jill was seven, until one week after her twenty-eighth birthday, when Jill unexpectedly came home from a business trip and found her husband Ted and Julie scrambling to put on their clothes. Julie’s underwear were still in her hands when Jill walked into the room. Jill can still recall, like a snapshot in time, the way Julie’s pretty panties looked all balled up in her soft ivory hands. A look of shame, like Jill had never seen, had flooded into Julie’s face. “Get out!” Jill had screamed at her. Those were the last two words she had ever said to her. Jill and Ted divorced shortly after. Julie had made countless attempts to apologize. She left dozens of messages begging for a chance to explain and pleading for forgiveness. She had even shown up several times at Jill’s work, but each time Jill had her escorted out by security. Jill shut Julie out completely. At the time, Jill solely blamed Julie for the divorce. She wouldn’t acknowledge her part in the mess, like how she constantly chose work and booze over her husband, traveled for months out of the year, and encouraged a level of emotional intimacy between Ted and Julie, suggesting that they look to one another for companionship when she was out of town or at the bar. Finally, Jill found the number hiding in the Xs. Her palms began to sweat, her stomach tightened, she took a deep breath and dialed. Julie’s familiar voice answered the phone. “Julie, it’s Jill,” she said nervously. “Oh my God … Jill. … How are you?” Julie asked, sounding a little bewildered but excited. I’m dying of lung cancer.” Jill flatly replied. After a long pause, Julie said, “Jill, I’m so sorry.”

“Well, you should be,” replied Jill. “Not only did you destroy our friendship, but you robbed me of a husband and a chance to have children. I have to die without these things because you took them away. You ruined my life and I … I hate you Julie.” Jill said. She then hung up the phone and crossed Julie off her list.

Luke Erickson “A Hunt for Common Ground” We crouched side by side in a snow bank. My father had been deer hunting for as long as he could remember, and when I was 13 he decided it was time for me to tag along. His deeply alert eyes and rugged facial features complete with a salty blonde mustache contrasted my fleshy red cheeks and continuous look of surprise. The cool crisp air, the scent of pine needles and the pride that comes with being a hunting man all seemed great in my head. It was only the rifle and the killing living things part that made me question my desire to carry on the tradition. The first year I went with my dad, we drove to my Grandma’s house, nestled in the country, early Thanksgiving night in order to be up in time for the hunt on Friday. Thanksgiving Day, I soon found out, was the easy part. The hard part was the day after, when the actual hunt began. My dad, a former marine, stood outside the spare bedroom at 5 a.m. sharp and beat on the door. Consciousness took hold of me. Where’s the sun? “Luke, time to get up” he grunted, “How do you want your eggs?” “Uh … scrambled.” I mumbled into my pillow. “What?” “Just make them like your’s Dad,” a little louder this time. “Fried it is then.” We brushed our teeth, put on three thick layers of clothing including the customary “convict orange” jacket and hat and finished our greasy eggs in quiet reverence. We got into the woods with all of my dad’s hunting buddies just as the sun was coming over the horizon. In short, I came to find that trudging though a bitter, thicket-strewn swamp at 6:30 in the morning hauling a loaded gun was not my idea of fun. The spiked bristles on the shrubs struck my wind-blown face, the ground sank beneath my boots and left me stuck in the mud like a mouse in a glue trap, and there was the lack of sensation in my entire left leg after sitting in the snow for an hour waiting for a mangy herbivore. I will admit, even though almost every minute I was in those woods I wanted to be home watching the new Christmas specials, there were a few small moments of glory. I would find myself taken aback by the

grace of a bluebird gliding though the winter breeze, the frosting over the rolling hills that had a blinding sparkle, and the distinct sense that we were recreating the chase our ancestors had initiated hundreds of years ago. For the next three years it was much of the same, only now my desperation was becoming more and more evident. How was I going to tell my dad that the one weekend a year we had together just wasn’t working for me? Being my dad’s only son – my dad’s gay son – made me feel like I somehow owed him this one weekend a year where I could be the young man I thought he wanted me to be. Explaining all of this wouldn’t be easy. My fifth and final year, however, made it a hell of a lot easier. It seemed like it would be the same as all of the other years. There was the late night drive, the early rise with greasy eggs, and the crosswalk patrolman attire still intact. The turning point was when my dad told me I might as well start hiking the woods in my own line. This meant not being able to follow my dad and that meant there would be no one to guide me, and ultimately this meant it would be my own fault for getting lost. Oh, shit. My first solo run didn’t turn out nearly as bad as I had feared. It was a relatively short hike over flat, fertile ground. I consulted my compass religiously, kept an eye out for anything that might constitute the agony of gutting, and completed the run in a timely manner. After that shining beacon of hope, the situation took a turn for the worse. We moved to a different location that had steep, angry hills and wet, vindictive valleys. I ended up half of a mile off course and thirty minutes behind. By that time, daylight was decreasing steadily and it was time to head back. My dad just shook his head a little on the truck ride after. “Tomorrow, make sure you look at your compass every few minutes,” he said with the tone of a coach to his team at halftime “and try to keep up.” I almost said it right then. I didn’t think I could do it another day. I had thought about how to tell him the truth countless times before, but in that moment I felt like I had something to prove and to back out now would not only let him down but would also be a failure on my part. The next day I stepped out into the icy morning chill with a purpose. The first couple of runs that day had gone well. I was feeling this was the day I could prove to my father that I was the kind of son he had imagined he would have. On the last run before lunch break we were going through a low grassy area that was nothing out of the ordinary.

I could see a small lake coming up in the distance. I made sure I kept my direction consistent and maneuvered around the edge of the solid water. As I was about to make it around, I heard a sharp cracking sound. I had been walking on what seemed to be firm grass, but as the ice around me shifted I realized that it was only reeds and water greens poking through the snow and ice. Within seconds, the frigid water was half way up my pulsing ribcage. I tried to pull myself up, but the ice around me sank under any amount of pressure. With a leap of faith I reached out and grabbed onto a tree’s lower branches and pulled. It seemed to take forever to get myself out of the suffocating water. Everything including my rifle was drenched. For the rest of the trembling hike to the warm truck all I could think about was the sloshing of the ice crystals in my wool lined boots and the disappointment that would be in my father’s eyes. A fragile, silent understanding between us in the truck on the ride back home seemed to whisper, “It’s all right, understood.” Years later, when I look back at photographs of my dad and me from when I was small, I see a muted, pleading hope in his eyes. Seeing him holding me up while I attempt my first steps, wearing a mini sweatshirt with the insignia of his favorite football team on the front, cuts through every disagreement we have ever had. No matter what happens in my life, my parents are always there for me and love me unconditionally. But I think we all have moments in our heads of when we realized we are nothing like our parents had planned. You know they still love you, but it’s a different kind of love. It’s more of a hope that everything will work out for the best despite our haphazard decisions, our sheer lack of attention spans, or our fumbling, frantically romantic “relationships.” As children, we have to learn how to listen, and sometimes, how to disobey the rules of the past. It’s the only chance we have at becoming who we want to be.

ART

Chryshelle Rassbach

Rebecca Heitzinger “Billow”

Bird “Infertility”

Libbie Allen “Jamie in Oz”

Ryan Ebert “Natural Beauty”

Kristina Hill

Chris Berns “Armor-Dillo”

Elizabeth Balson “Reaper”

Cory Lyle

David Gutkowski “My!”

Cory Lyle

Kristin Kurt

Libbie Allen “Beetle on the Beach”

Brian Martin

Lisa Giss “Sitters”

Lisa Giss “Wild Sky”

Matthew Gerdts

“winter tree”

Aaron Gilmore “Ink Figure”

Aimee H. Johnson “Knit Breakfast”

Amanda Dottl “Invaders”

Constance Bonk “Analogous Nook”

Jenna V. Richardson “Bookkeeper”

Mandi DeSigne

Drama

Sam O’Reilly “For the Love of” Dramatis Personae •Carlos, a college student. He is 19, and bisexual, though his roommate doesn’t know this. He should be attractive and charming, but stubborn. •George, Carlos’s roommate. He is a devout Christian, also 19, and has been depressed recently because of the death of his brother John. He should be loud and belligerent in the beginning, softening later. •Liz, a friend of both George and Carlos. She is also a student, and very drunk. SCENE: Carlos and George’s dorm room. Late Friday night. GEORGE enters. He takes off his coat, throws it on a chair, and moves to the fridge. CARLOS enters right behind George, looking as if he has been running. The conversation involves many interruptions and awkward pauses. CARLOS: George, we really need to – GEORGE: Don’t talk to me. (takes beer can from fridge) CARLOS: (Pause, indicates beer) I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. GEORGE: (Interrupting on “good”) Well, I didn’t ask you. I need this right now. (drinks) CARLOS: We should really talk about – GEORGE: (Angry, turning on Carlos) Well I don’t WANT to talk about it, Carlos. There is nothing TO talk about. Now, leave me alone, for the love of – CARLOS: (apologetic) I’m sorry you feel like this, but – GEORGE: How do you have any idea how I feel? How could you possibly have any idea? CARLOS: You’ve been talking about it all night. You were drinking pretty heavily, too.

GEORGE: Well, I have good reason. Here’s to John. (drinks) CARLOS: (taking beer from George) You’ve had enough. Stop now, George, and celebrate the life he led. GEORGE: Oh, for the love of – ! What do you know? You never met John. You never saw the way he looked at me. He hated me. CARLOS: Why would you ever think your brother hated you? That’s as far from the truth as you can get. GEORGE: Well, if he didn’t, he sure does now. He saw me tonight, from Heaven. He saw me when I – (pauses) CARLOS: (realizes) Oh. Oh, I see. GEORGE: (takes beer back) Yeah, now leave me alone. CARLOS: Drinking will only make it worse. We need to talk about – GEORGE: For the LOVE OF – ! (pauses, calmer) For the last time, Carlos, there is nothing to talk about. I can do that much for my brother. CARLOS: Don’t you think he wants you to be happy? GEORGE: I’d be happy if your parents had never crossed the border. CARLOS: (pause, hurt) You don’t mean that. We’ve been friends for almost four years now. Remember when you rescued me from that mugger? That was really a – GEORGE: I don’t care. Leave me alone. (drinks) CARLOS: George, we NEED to talk about – GEORGE: TALK! ABOUT! WHAT! CARLOS: (pauses, then quietly) You kissed me. (Awkward silence) GEORGE: I’m drunk. People do stupid things when they’re drunk. CARLOS: You know as well as I do that all alcohol does is remove inhibitions. You wouldn’t have if you didn’t –

GEORGE: You are never going to mention this again. To anyone. As long as you live. You shall not say a word. (pause) Day after tomorrow is Sunday. I’ll go to confession, let Jesus forgive me, and never say another word about it. (drinks) End of discussion. CARLOS: George, I just want you to – The door bursts open and LIZ staggers in. LIZ: Hey guys, why’jou leave so early? The party’s still going. CARLOS: Liz, not now. LIZ: (turns to George, tries to wink) We coul’ party in my room, George. Huh? Huh? Whaddaya say? GEORGE seems to make a decision. He stands up, pulls LIZ to him, and kisses her deeply. CARLOS looks away, exasperated. GEORGE: (releasing LIZ) No thanks, Liz. You’re drunk. Maybe some other time. LIZ: Butchoo jus’ … (looks at CARLOS, seems to grow more sober) What’re you guys talking about? GEORGE: Nothing. (sits down on couch) CARLOS: (standing, moving to Liz) George has had a bad week. (quietly) His brother John just passed away on Wednesday, and he’s not feeling too great. You go to your room, get some sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning, okay? LIZ: I was just… (looks at GEORGE again, then turns suddenly and leaves) CARLOS: (closes the door) What was that? GEORGE: I wanted to feel something. CARLOS: (pause) Feel what? GEORGE: The same as – (long pause) The same as I felt when… But not as much. Not as much. CARLOS: (sits next to GEORGE) That’s all right.

GEORGE: I’m not gay, you know. CARLOS: (pause) Well, I’m bisexual. GEORGE: (surprised) Since when? CARLOS: Remember the mugger? (GEORGE nods) He wasn’t a mugger. He was beating me up because he saw me kissing Frank. GEORGE: Fruity Frank? (CARLOS flinches) Sorry. CARLOS: Yeah, him. I never told you because I didn’t think you’d understand. Religion means so much in your life, I didn’t think you’d be able to handle it. GEORGE: I don’t think I can handle it, Carlos. I hope I don’t remember any of this in the morning. CARLOS: You will. GEORGE: (incredulous) What? You’re gonna remind me? CARLOS: I won’t have to. You are going to remember this for the rest of your life. Suddenly, CARLOS kisses GEORGE. GEORGE resists at first, then stops for a beat, then pulls away. GEORGE: For the love of – You had no right to do that. CARLOS: I don’t care. I’ve wanted to for a long time. GEORGE: (pause) All right. (pause) All right. I’m over being indignant now. CARLOS: Good. (leans back in) GEORGE: No! (CARLOS stops) Not again. CARLOS: Okay, then let’s talk about it. GEORGE: (standing) It’s late. We should be getting to sleep. CARLOS: George, I really think we should – GEORGE: I need to pray. Leave me alone. I need to tell John what…

CARLOS: (pause) What, George? GEORGE: You shouldn’t have kissed me. I didn’t like it. CARLOS: Well, let’s try it again. (pulls on George’s arm) GEORGE: No. Once was – CARLOS: Twice. GEORGE: (pause) But never again. (starts to turn away) CARLOS: (grabs his arm) Please, George, just tell me you understand. Tell me we’re still friends. GEORGE remains silent. CARLOS: (whispers) Please. GEORGE shakes his head no. CARLOS: (bitter) Well, then, why don’t you go seek comfort in the arms of Liz? GEORGE: (pause) I think there is little Liz can do for me tonight. CARLOS: Then stay here and talk to me. GEORGE stands for a moment longer, then sits. They stare at each other for a while. CARLOS: First of all, you’re not gay. You’ve had girls before. GEORGE: It’s a different feeling when I kissed them than when I – (cuts off) You know. CARLOS: I know exactly. Same thing happened to me in high school. I used to be a homophobe too. (pause) I mean, not that you’re a homophobe, just – GEORGE: I deserve that. I don’t think I will be anymore, though. But I was. (pause) Do you think I’ll be punished for this? CARLOS: I know you won’t. These feelings wouldn’t be in your heart if you weren’t meant to act on them.

GEORGE: And what about John? He always told me that – CARLOS: If John gets on your case about this, then I will personally apologize. And then stick my head in a bucket of water, to sober up. GEORGE smiles, then laughs. CARLOS laughs with him. They settle down, but keep smiling. CARLOS: You know what you really are, I think? You’re bi-curious. GEORGE: What? CARLOS: Like in “Kissing Jessica Stein.” GEORGE: Oh. Yeah, that’s probably it. (thinks about this, then laughs loudly.) CARLOS: What’s so funny? GEORGE: I’m Bi-Curious George! They both laugh together. Then, suddenly, GEORGE leans over and kisses CARLOS. He responds immediately. They break apart, and chuckle again, smiling fondly at each other. Blackout

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