2011
Yahara Journal
A literary and fine arts publication
Yahara Journal 2011 A literary and fine arts publication
Editor
Brianna Johnson
Staff
Kacie Bailey Brent Coppernoll Micah Noonan Ali Nicholson Bill Plumley Becky Sawatske Emily Shrader
Advisor
Doug Kirchberg
The Yahara Journal consists entirely of Madison College student work. It is made available by the Student Life Office and funded by Student Activities Fees. Opinions expressed in this journal do not represent those of the Madison College administration, faculty, staff or student body. 1
Table of Contents
Poetry Anne Kelly • Theseus ......................................................................... 4 Jonathan Kremer • Senses Congestion .............................................. 5 Misian Searles • love advice from a unicyclist ................................... 6 Misian Searles • marquis de sade ....................................................... 8 Misian Searles • the only honest love poem in me ............................. 9 Christopher Vaage • Poem Cat ....................................................... 12 Alaraya Homberg • Moonlight Memories and French Fries .......... 13 Takeyla Benton • aMILLIONMILES .............................................. 14 Jessie HarlaQuinn • This is for Real ................................................ 16 Jessie HarlaQuinn • Apartment ...................................................... 17
Prose Alison Linde • The Kitchen .............................................................. 19 Andy Staplin • Boredom Burns Green ............................................. 21 Andy Staplin • I Am Quite Mature for My Age ............................. 23 Benjamin Seipel • False Idol ............................................................ 25 Fred Koegh • The Potato Patch ........................................................ 29 Abigail Morrison • Still ................................................................... 34 Milo Schorr • The Gatekeepers ......................................................... 39 Charlie Jenstead • Lionel Bernstein ................................................. 44 Rachelle J. Dorr • Catholic Confession ............................................ 46 Nikki Elaine Wright • Cigarettes Will Bring Us Together ............. 47
Artwork Katrina Taloza • Banned .................................................................. 50 Stephanie Casey • Sky Lights........................................................... 51 George Treviranus • Soul Phrase .................................................... 52
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Table of Contents Bess Selje • I’m Sorry ........................................................................ 53 Bess Selje • Tied To ............................................................................ 54 Aliona Krupskaya • Spooky Fish .................................................... 55 Aliona Krupskaya • Octopus .......................................................... 56 Terrence Adeyanju • Untitled ......................................................... 57 Lindsey Chapman • Street Scene .................................................... 58 Nina Golemi • Autumn Splendor .................................................... 59 Nina Golemi • Mason ...................................................................... 60 Nina Golemi • Is There Something in My Teeth?............................ 61 Thor Bussewitz • Untitled ............................................................... 62 Thor Bussewitz • Untitled ............................................................... 63 Valerie Stevens • E Komo Mai ......................................................... 64 Jonah Zucker Burns • The Trees ...................................................... 65 Kristin Hendrickson • Alaskan Grizzly & Cubs............................. 66 Andrea Gonzalez • Girl in Doorway .............................................. 67 Aaron Parks • Discipline .................................................................. 68 Aaron Parks • Love .......................................................................... 69 Pat Eckert • Zebra Camouflage.......................................................... 70 Jenna V. Richardson • Dark Bubbles ............................................... 71
Staff Emily Shrader • Camp Coffee .......................................................... 72 Brianna Johnson • The Cake ............................................................ 73 Ali Nicholson • The Beginning of a Legend .................................... 75 Becky Sawatske • Stump ................................................................. 79
On the Cover Aaron Parks • Love
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Anne Kelly
Theseus My heart is a labyrinth of old, Model for Tartars Dark and cold. It behooves no man to enter its cavernous depths; For too often they are suffocated to death, Within the walls. Suitors, feign to be heroes – A modern day Hercules, But unannounced to them The turns, corners and bends never end. Warned they are steadfastly, but listen, They do not... To their peril. Yet who lives with the burden of guilt – This heart of mine; For if there was no labyrinth, Would men still attempt?
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Jonathan Kremer
Senses Congestion Mock the making of Fire. The fencing and Ducting watch the bow. Wind gives tips with smoke Kites, and detectors. Sound for the children, Nighttime allergy, Yell muffled wise words. “Senses congestion”? Nocturnal Affect: Traffic tearing ‘round Downtown in your mind Dying numbers as Sides of dice sorta . . . “Apparitionize”? Zen news reporters Euphemize all the Euthanized sand men. “Never again!” said Docile Denizen, “Never again will Lambs be on the lam; Messing up fences, Seen vandalizing Gates of Dis’ towers So that the poets Stay sunk in the dirt.” Take attendance twice Ensure the cigarette is Out.
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Misian Searles
love advice from a unicyclist when we first broke apart, it felt awkward I felt like people kept expecting to see you, and felt shafted every time it was just me. we were a bargain deal, each other’s finished sentences, a two-for-one, two peas in a pod, two drops of rain from the same cloud, two leaves from the same branch, but, really, we were too different I felt awkward and strange without you ‘cause for however wrong we were we’d be doing it for so long it felt natural; like a tree that learns to grow around a light post. awkward like watching the guy in my neighborhood ride his unicycle, up and down the street, awkward like “where the fuck’s the rest of your bike?” awkward like it looks like he’s defying science or gravity or maybe he’s magic but after watching this neighbor of mine ride his unicycle, solo, mono, one
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Misian Searles
all summer without teetering I realized anything becomes natural in repetition and if your core is strong and your life is in balance it doesn’t take two wheels to move forward.
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Misian Searles
marquis de sade Sunday night bloody marys melancholy ukuleles electric tape on gum drop nipples corset’s squeezing temptress hipbones borrowed drag queens’ fox fur coats wedding veil and string of pearls whips and lace and eyes that smoke lashes batting glitter dust ivory fangs pleading yes fall breeze kissing naked chests tonight it’s about pain and pleasure tonight it’s angels dressed as vixens tonight it’s saints out to be wicked tonight they’ll paint this city in sex and silk and all things holy, all things hushed and desire driven tonight it’s tomorrow’s taboo stored inside a locket’s tiny door clasped between two middle fingers screaming “fuck you!” to the status quo with poe and a raven on their shoulders singing “nevermore, nevermore”
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Misian Searles
the only honest love poem in me I don’t want microwaveable love, the kind that turns cold quickly, I want stove-top, stays hot and simmers, and barely ever burns love better yet, I want solar energy to heat it, I don’t want any negative by-products of love, I just want that good shit. I’ve found puppies, songs, endorphins, Barack Obama speeches, hugs and cigarettes can change my mood in less than six seconds, I want puppy love that grows into an old souled dog I want endless playlist love I want endogenous morphine love that makes my pituitary gland pump out neurotransmitters with more precision than a 1915 Ford assembly line I want honest, unwaivering, stick to your guns, power-to-the-people, politician love I want never-akwardly-long-hug love I want cancer-free cigarette love, but really, I want give-up-nicotine love, I don’t want to trade one addiction for another, because I’ve learned through cheese-grated hearts how far you can make it when you’re dependent on a lover, but I want independent love that knows when to lean on one another and when to dance by itself Don’t ask me out for coffee unless the cups are bottomless, unless you expect me to test
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Misian Searles the walls that you’ve built if we spent more time pushing the barriers of our hearts and less time pushing people away we’d see pessimism isn’t realistic, it’s the side effect of broken hearts we could together be on the mend, heal side-by-side, ‘cause when you heal by yourself you block off pieces of your heart ‘cause it’s easier to build walls, close the door, and ignore what’s in there than sift through pain, box it up and throw it out, our hearts are all hoarders, holding onto anything that once made us happy, inevitably, some of it turns rotten and it’s keeping all that molded love inside it that renders your heart romantically inept I’d be glad to help you dust, sweep, and polish up the places that hurt I’d be more than willing to wait out on the steps if you need to cry until your hands can hold more than just yourself, I’d be even more willing to make you tea and read you poetry until your insides warm up I’ll draw chalk rainbows on your sidewalk at midnight just so that you wake up every morning cracking more smiles than there are cracks in the pavement. Whatever you need, I’ve got it What you want, I’ll get it Whatever it is, whoever you are I’m ready. Ready like the breath before the leap from twelve feet high jumping from the swing set, the gasp before the kiss, the brace of your bones before impact on a new heart’s bed, the first heart you’ve let in since it got boarded up.
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Misian Searles I’ve audited my heart, spoon fed myself a tablespoon of optimism every morning for the last two months, drank 8 glasses of poetry a day and have re-discovered what it means to be myself what it means to be a human being separate and whole and not a part of someone else that the word “idealist” isn’t a bad thing, that the reason my hands kept coming up empty except for the cuts and bruises is because I was looking for love and past-loves thought I needed their approval, that expectations aren’t something you climb, they’re something you embody, that sunsets aren’t the death of the day but the rest it takes to birth a masterpiece like the sunrise. I am happy in this body – I am happy in this life and I’m not looking to give it to anyone – I’m looking for someone to share it with.
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Christopher Vaage
Poem Cat The poem crouches on All fours. Hunting, In a predator’s paradise. Inside the mind of the creator. Starving, The poem catches skittering insect-like verbs and adjectives. But the poem’s mighty prize, The metaphor, Sitting in the corner of a mental glade, Feeds on connective images. Readying the pounce, Getting its sharp noun-like claws Readied, When suddenly, The poem is snagged up by its owner, Coaxing purring meaning from it. Then squirming, The poem jumps down, And runs in a different direction altogether
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Alaraya Homberg
Moonlight Memories and French Fries The place smells of burgers and fries. He’s looking at the menu, but doesn’t read the sign. He sweats as the line moves forward. His mind jumps back to what he had told her. It was a cold night outside, the moon was gleaming. And next to that house he had spat out his feelings. “Can I take your order?” he hears in the distance. He’s looking again at #1, #2, #3; he might need assistance. He isn’t that hungry, but it’s all so tasty cheap. There are people and time ahead of him. In his mind that night creeps. He felt it had meaning that they had been together for such a stretch of time. And as he began to unveil his passion, she coughed, “I need to be in by nine.” His heart fell, falls and soon jumps! He hears, “Sir, you’re up.” His heart bursts. “I’ll take a number one.” He stands still while the memory runs. “I love you!” he cried without any fear. Breath-taking territory breached. She gasped, “It’s been two weeks!” In front of him echoes, “Excuse me, Sir ... “ ... Sir, excuse me.” “Yes” he says with eyes of salt and sea. “Do you want fries with that?”
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Takeyla Benton
aMILLIONMILES aMILLIONMILES from happiness with a pen and my journal in my mind I’ve ran this race aMILLION times cried aMILLION cries wrote aMILLION lines while denying this destiny was mine how can writing be anything more than just a pastime so I write a list to decide what the hell to do wit’ my life so I can die satisfied my heart tells me to write but the reality is I gotta get my money right so I work ‘til I’m numb emotionally constipated bloated with rhymes and lyrics and so much poetry that in my sleep my soul longs to be near it in everyday conversation my ears can hear it there’s so much I want to write that it keeps me up at night and on the verge of homicide during the day in every way I’m longing for a literary laxative to release my flow from this uptight life I live flushing me aMILLIONMILES away from this stress but that a whole notha mess and a whole notha poem aMILLIIONMILES away on a day when I’m not Mommy or Baby or boss or have to hear about how much that or this costs or have to hear about how I ain’t doing it right or have to be a brotha’s love slave when I really just feel like getting some damn sleep at night
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Takeyla Benton -well maybe I can do that some nights but tonight I just wanna write aMILLION sonnets aMILLION villanelles and tell some folks to just go to hell aMILLION prose perfectly composed in neat lil’ epic rows wrapped up in cute lil’ ballade bows hung perfectly in a frame outside my do’ under a big red sign that reads “don’t disrupt this bitch’s flow”
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Jessie HarlaQuinn
This is for Real This is blood on the sheets and decaf in the pot This is me making you dinner you’re at work This is me with a knife in my stomach You ate at work
Cork screw motion it in
This is me eating alone on the kitchen floor This is bleach seeping into a cut and a broken coffee mug This is me playing house Folding the laundry Painting while you read Family holiday greeting cards This is for real for keeps for Christ sakes forever and ever This is me getting up off the kitchen floor wiping the blood off blowing off the dishes walking away
one foot in front of the other
This is not my wedding day This is not your cum on my sheets This is me spitting into the kitchen sink Who the fuck makes decaf
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Jessie HarlaQuinn
Apartment paint is peeling on the walls there’s some nasty smoke stained avocado green that once was blue wallpaper bubbling underneath. without an air conditioner it’s so humid it’s yellow the windows will not open are painted shut funny to wish for blizzards in july wishful thinking is a working radiator in winter the boiler hasn’t been flushed in decades the toilet sweats nervously in the corner you need to dip your hands into the tank, fish around to pull up the stopper manually the handle is co-dependent toilet seat skipped town squat above the bowl strengthen your core muscles then carry the groceries up six flights of stairs and down and up and down and wandering up and down the street outside my window a broken clock always asking for an inane amount of change to get on a bus to go and get gas because of this or that clock is out of time never giving it away
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Jessie HarlaQuinn never getting a strait answer what time is it? the refrigerator is luke warm makes a humming sound in response to your question running, but is already late for work like room temperature beer the ice cube tray is always full and never fully frozen i sleep on the floor i have a bed like the feeling of being grounded potted plants sit in the windowsill self absorbed in light not paying their rent the rats dance freely in my living room we dance together in celebration of my impending eviction noise coming in through my window, the cool kids in their hand me downs handed down from the overpriced vintage thrift boutiques hanging out down the street i smell musty like your dead grandmother’s perfume on a sweater locked in a trunk in the attic its humid up here sort of yellow and irony like running an air conditioner when you can’t pay your bills their apartments look like mine but hey, at least i’m honest
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Alison Linde
The Kitchen The tips of her fingers softly held my arm in place. It wasn’t time yet, but I think she was trying to calm my nerves before they even started. I could feel something where her skin met mine, not a temperature change or a texture but it was as if she were transferring energy. When she moved her eyes or her shoulders, a pulse shattered my reason. The room was dimly lit; a soft dome of light encircled us, a capsule that could withstand the harshness of the remote space surrounding. The light flickered and melted like its source was a candle but they were lamps, lamps for sure. I had my back against the chair that was pushed up to the wall and sat at a round table. It was a dark wood, I could tell because it blended in with the shadowy walls that stood defiantly against the orange glow. My chair was facing so that only my left arm rested on the table. Alix sat across the table, leaning over it and facing me. She never made any sudden movements; it was like she herself was suspended in the light, flowing through the space like she was part of it. Her pupils pushed to the outside of her irises, black holes replacing the skies of slate. She, a temptress in a guise, her jaw line softly receding into the lengths of her blonde hair, she gazed into me. It was almost time. Oh, but it was too quick! She can barely see! She’s not wearing gloves! Maeva’s attention did not wane once. She sat behind Alix on another chair, but still lined up so she could see me. She was the reason I was there. She looked stern and resolved, her black eyes fixed on me as if she were just waiting. Her hands were relaxed and at her sides and I could see the beginnings of an assuring smirk pulling at the corners of her lips. Her calm and her stare made the needle vanish. Alix was no longer holding an empty syringe, although her hand was still posed as if she were. The hand was steady, and I looked back at Maeva. Our eyes met with great
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Alison Linde force, an interlocking of fate held our gaze even then, and right as she grabbed my right hand, I felt an intrusion in my arm. I looked down on instinct and found a silvery shaft of a needle protruding from my skin and a tube slowly turning red. I looked up at Alix. She was concentrated and confident, the transfer of energy still flowing from her fingertips.
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Andy Staplin
Boredom Burns Green I’ve always found the color Green to be quite smug. He thinks that just because he’s in the middle of the rainbow, it means he’s safer and more important than his fellow refracted comrades. He thinks that he can glare at me through the angry numbers on my alarm clock, telling me to wake up or lose the day. In the dream, I was staring into the beady eyes of the spotted Toad of Irony, breathing in the dank forest, searching my soul for the keys to human emotion. He told me, “You’re gonna need some cargo pants when the zombie apocalypse begins in a couple hours. Trust me, all those pockets come in handy.” I found it odd that the Toad knew that it would be a zombie apocalypse, and not a robot apocalypse or a nuclear apocalypse, powered by guns and evil and rockets propelled by awesome. I was shaken awake by the sound of a low flying jet-plane rattling the entire apartment complex, and I knew that it was time to bid a final farewell to the blue lady of sleep. I sat and counted the bubbles in the wallpaper before I pulled out my toothbrush, bristles frayed and shaggy like an aging stray dog. Because I tied my shoes too tight, I missed the Buffy marathon and headed out the door later than I had hoped but earlier than the rest of the world expected. I was heading to Cindy Mayweather’s house in New York, N.Y., questioning why “New York” wasn’t called “Old York” or just “York.” I hated Cindy Mayweather. I hated that woman. She was like a pleasing sack of razor blades, but not quite so pleasing. Her voice sounded like the crack of a whip against my back. Her entire blouse smelled like vanilla extract, which I hated almost as much as I hated the word “ROFLcopter.” And she was my girlfriend. There was nothing remarkable about her. She was so boring that the light fixtures yawned when she entered a room, and the sofa cheered when she left. She poured her bitter, stinking love onto me, and I did all I could not to choke on the fumes. I had to dump her. I knew this. She knew this. The guy I passed on the street and gave a dollar to every Thursday knew this. The universe was the
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Andy Staplin only one against me on this one. I had just finished reading the book on how to dump your girlfriend. I had even seen the film adaptation (which I hated, by the way). It needed to happen, and I was shocked by the accuracy of that Toad. The apocalypse was coming. And it wouldn’t be my fault. It would be Green’s fault and the jet-plane’s fault and New York’s fault and everyone who ever said the world “ROFLcopter’s” fault. And the zombies I unleashed would be easier to deal with than Cindy’s perpetual tone of a lifestyle. The cobblestone steps under my feet, and no Batman or Spiderman to save me, cargo pants filled with ammo and rations and depression, doom looming, and the impending fight seconds away, and I still had a smile on my face when I rang the doorbell.
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Andy Staplin
I Am Quite Mature for My Age For a week, I thought I was Batman. And in that week, she left. To her, I was “the one,” like, totally. We had found each other in a puzzle box, each looking desperately to find the piece that fit right, and we bent ourselves and pounded our fists on our cardboard souls so that we could form a picture that we thought made sense. To her, we were in a painting, full of twinkle stars and moonbeams where dreams come true. To me, I was in a movie, stealing money from a sleeping cop, acting as a professor, teaching a class on free-form chaos. We were both wrong. The day we became aware of our differences was the day she asked me what my “imminent motive” was. What I was planning on doing with my life. Our blissful ride to Iowa City – which, incidentally, smelled a lot like corn – was interrupted by the leaning tower of Pisa falling to the ground. I couldn’t see the relation between our progression and my lifelong goals. She was like my dog whining, believing she was dying of starvation, begging me for food I didn’t have. She was like something alien, asking this question. She was something I couldn’t relate to any more. She reminded me of Krang from the Ninja Turtles (the little brain guy with tentacle arms) asking me something random, like, if I liked cooking, and I just said “yeah,” so she wouldn’t kill me with a diabolical scheme. She didn’t make sense. It’s like we were both walking to school, but there was construction the whole way, so we each took our own shortcut and ended up in different places. Our puzzle box had become a pizza box, and our pizza had been in the oven too long, and instead of puzzle pieces, we were the pepperonis. Pepperonis made of people – like Soylent Green, but without Heston. And all I can think is “FUCK! It’s hot today!” and how much I wanted out of that oven.
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Andy Staplin And that need to get out of that suffocating heat was what drove her into the arms of old friends and the denim of old jeans, and that same heat pushed me into the seams of new socks and the handle of a new toothbrush. And now my pepperoni-shaped puzzle piece has fallen into the part of the couch that everyone is afraid to look under, and I wait, content, with a lovely couple of nickels and a button named Kate, who is kinda cute in her own right, realizing that the picture we could create together would be a hell of a lot cooler than anything they sell at Target.
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Benjamin Seipel
False Idol With the pace of the baseball game slowing, Ben’s curiosity was about to get the better of him. Turning to his father, he cautiously asked, “Is it okay if I go for a walk around the ballpark?” Sensing his true intentions, Ben’s father graciously agreed. “Sure,” he replied. “Just don’t be gone too long.” Seizing the moment of freedom he had just been granted, Ben popped up from his seat behind home plate and made his way down the steps until he reached the pavement separating the bleachers behind home plate from the stands running parallel down the third base side of the field. He was now on the look out. His mind flashed back to what he had seen on the Friday evening news just two nights ago. His favorite comedian, Bill Murray, was apparently in town this weekend and had been spotted at Warner Park during a Madison Blackwolf – St. Paul Saints baseball game. The Saturday morning paper confirmed the sightings and thus solidified the plans Ben and his father had in mind, to catch the final game of the series on Sunday afternoon. With those visual images from the news broadcast replaying in his mind, Ben was determined to at least try to catch a glimpse of his comedic idol in person. He turned to his left and made his way behind the bleachers where the real heart of the ballpark began. Straight ahead was the concession stand he had visited so many times before with his father. The line for their unhealthy food was healthy – brats, hot-dogs, pretzels, popcorn, peanuts, nachos, and even smoked turkey legs. The news of Bill Murray being in town had apparently turned Warner Park into the place to be on this day. To his right was the souvenir stand crammed full of momentos bearing the Blackwolf logo – shirts, hats, jerseys, baseball cards, and even a ceramic ash-tray. On his left was a structure overlooking the entire baseball diamond. At the top of this structure was the press box. Down below was … well Ben wasn’t sure what was down below. He just knew there was a room where a Blackwolf employee would disappear into and emerge dressed as the large, furry Blackwolf mascot. Small clusters of people filled
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Benjamin Seipel in the open areas all around him, some buying food, some buying souvenirs, and some just standing around drinking beer and probably hoping to catch a glimpse of a celebrity. This was the hustle and bustle of a typical game at Warner Park, only magnified for this occasion. So far, nothing seemed out of place. No famous people stuck out in the crowd. With all the decisiveness of a coin flip, Ben headed off to his right and set out upon his walk around the ballpark. He thought he would follow the path down the third-base side of the field. Further down, near the bullpen area bordering left field, was the clubhouse for the visiting team. If Bill was still in Madison, he may be hanging around the locker room of the team he co-owned. Ben made his way around to the entrance of the visitor’s locker room. Outside of the door he saw about a half-dozen kids waiting patiently for players to come back so they could hound them for autographs. He decided to cool his heels for a minute until he could decide his next move. Just then a group of three more kids came around the corner. The kid in the middle looked amazingly like Bill Murray. Before Ben could finish processing the striking resemblance, the kid blurted out, “Anybody seen my dad around here?” It made sense now. Bill Murray was still in Madison. With the confirmation he needed, Ben resumed his search. As he made his way further down the path, Ben was careful to glimpse upon every person he came to, but also careful to pay attention to the ballgame that was going on still. At least if he did not find Bill anywhere, he was going to make sure he did not miss anything important about the game. No doubt his father would quiz him upon his return and ask the obvious “Did you see….?” this-orthat questions that guys ask one another during a sporting event. Passing by the last of the bleacher stands, the view opened in front of him. Ben was nearing the entrance to the ballpark. A couple of employees lingered at the gates, waiting to thank exiting fans for attending. He scanned his surroundings one last time. If he found nothing still, he would soon have to turn around and begin his trek back behind home plate and then down the first-base side of the field. Ben noticed two men standing against the fence along the left field corner. They appeared to be enjoying the view and chatting up a storm in the process. At first he paid them no special attention. His hopes had al-
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Benjamin Seipel ready begun to dwindle at this point, and he began to think about returning to his seat to enjoy the remainder of the ballgame with his father. Suddenly, the man on the left turned his face to speak to the gentleman he was with and there was, plain as day for Ben to see, the face of the funny-man he had grown up watching: Bill Murray. Ben tried to gather up some courage to approach his idol. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity he assured himself, and he wanted to make the most of it. He would be proud to show his father a Bill Murray signature on his Blackwolf hat, and tell him the story of how he managed to obtain it. When he got within about ten feet of Bill, he stopped. He did not want to seem obtrusive. This was too important to screw up by being rude. With his hands folded in front of him and careful not to interrupt, Ben waited patiently to be acknowledged. After what seemed like a good, long, few minutes, but in reality had been only about fifteen seconds, Bill turned and acknowledged Ben with that sort of “Who are you and what do you want?” glare. Although he had never spoken those words to Ben, Ben took that as his cue to speak up or leave. “Excuse me Bill, but could I have your autograph please?” Ben uttered with a nervous excitement. “No,” Bill calmly replied as he turned his face back to the game on the field. Caught in a moment of shock and disbelief as to what he had just heard, Ben hung his head and began to wonder. “How do you respond to that?” he thought to himself. Looking up quickly, and without much consideration for celebrity, he issued his response. “Are you kidding me? Why not?” The nervousness of meeting his idol had quietly vanished from within him, and in its place was the brazen attitude of a sixteenyear-old boy who had felt betrayed. Clearly annoyed by this, and wishing to put a stop to it once and for all, Bill turned back and now addressed Ben properly. “Because Sunday is the Lord’s day. It’s a day of rest, and I don’t work on Sundays!” With disbelief pulsing through his veins, Ben responded one last time. “Seriously?” “Yes!” Bill declared.
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Benjamin Seipel Ben turned and began to walk back to his seat, still in shock about what he had just encountered. He wondered what he did wrong. He replayed the events precisely in his mind, dissecting each word he had spoken, as if the context of them had been wrong. His mind, which had only known Bill Murray a certain way up until that point, began to explain away Bill’s actions. Surely he couldn’t be anything other than what Ben had come to know him as on the screen. There must be a reason he wouldn’t give an autograph to a fan, but Ben couldn’t figure out why. When he reached his seat, he sat down next to his father without saying a word. The look on Ben’s face must have said enough. “Find anything interesting?” his father asked. “Yeah … I met Bill Murray,” Ben responded. His voice was numb. “Really!?! His father asked in surprise. “Yep … he’s an asshole.”
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Fred Koegh
The Potato Patch At last it’s over. The last string of warmth and rain is ending today, the wind shifting to a northwest flow, bringing with it the deep, permanent cold and snow of winter. The forecasters were accurate this time, and the rain is changing into sleet even as these words fall, just as they said. Believing them, needing always to believe them, I finished the last bit of garden work just ahead of the freeze, laying down the final coat of lime before the last rains, the frost-like coat disappearing into the soil in one final act before it all became as hard and impermeable as last year’s fruitcake. The corn stalks were taken out, the asparagus stalks cut and burned, the tomato stands stacked by the side, and all the dead weeds and vines tilled back into the soil, making everything as smooth as its beginning, way back in hope-filled May. Except for the potato patch. As in every other year, I had vowed not to plant potatoes this year, and this year I really meant it. Potatoes sell for far less than peanuts, at about 30 cents a pound, and the store-bought kind are for all purposes the same as the home-grown, except for the fresh hardness of the latter, which soften after a month or so. A good sized potato patch requires hours of dirty labor just to plant, each slice from last year’s withered remains having to be placed in its own hole, eyes up, one at a time. The potato plants themselves stretch out in vine-like tangles, and the potatoes grow anywhere from deep to shallow, making it necessary to hand-weed them as long as you can stand it. Then you just let them go, forget about trying to identify them in the weedy patch, and wait for the first frost to kill off the tangle before digging up the batch. If you wait too long, the stalks of the dead potato plants disappear with everything else, meaning that their exact location can no longer be found and that the entire patch must be dug up. As in every square inch, each turned over and searched for a sign of spuds, or half-spuds sliced by the spade. This can be done with a hand claw with greater precision, and that was tried, once. It works fine if that is all that has to be done for the remaining afternoons of the rest of your life.
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Fred Koegh So the garden was roto-tilled this spring and the potatoes weren’t planted, and the garden lay in wait for the seeds that would be sown when the ground warmed enough. Weeks before that time, clusters of pointed, poisonous-looking plants began poking through the soil. Potato plants. Like the Hydra, more and more of them appeared day by day in spite of my every wish. There was a practical reason for this growth. The year before had been one of those when the harvesting had been delayed too long, due to sickness or ennui or some weariness of soul, and the potato stalks had disappeared and the whole patch required tedious sifting, and my heart just wasn’t into it. So most of the potatoes were left to freeze and rot and become fodder for the tiller the following spring. Except, apparently, they didn’t freeze and rot and they didn’t grow near enough the surface to be chopped and turned. Instead, they lived on, sprouting in full abundance, forming much the same potato patch that had been laboriously planted the year before. So even in my resolve, the potatoes outsmarted me. They would make me deal with them once again. These maverick troops were weeded once, then once again, then left to the deprivations of invasive species that could blot out the sun if given a few extra months in fall to grow. The potatoes were, after all, unwanted, taking up space that my wife had designated for pumpkins. These would have been used only for one or two pies and for Halloween decorations and would have quickly become food for the chipmunks and mold, but so be it. They were easy to plant and required no maintenance and, besides, they saved us twenty bucks at the supermarket or ten at the roadside stand. In either case, the useless pumpkins were a far more profitable crop than potatoes. But who can kill off growing food? They would be given little help in their striving, but they would not be aborted, either. Sink or swim. It’s a tough world for unwanted crops, but they must be given their chance. They granted me another surprise later on. Because they had started their growth long before normal planting, they reached their maturity well ahead of schedule, while still smothered by waist-high weeds. When the first frost came, the stalks had already shriveled to nothing. If potatoes were to be had, they would have to be found spade by spade, just like the year before. For me, one year of surprises was enough. They would not be allowed to
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Fred Koegh foist themselves on me again. I would dig them all up, pile them into breathable sacks, toss them into the cellar, and be done with growing potatoes. We would eat potato salad, home fries, baked potatoes, boiled potatoes, mashed potatoes, shepherd’s pie, potatoes au gratin and any other kind of potato dish that availed itself every day until they were gone, and then we would buy them in 5-pound plastic bags for $1.79 and eat them at our leisure with the rest of the sane world. First came the grit of digging. I am an educated man who spent the better part of his youth trying to qualify for a job that gives tenure, sabbaticals and summers off. This did not happen, but it is no fault of my own that all the training makes me incapable of working in a chicken processing plant for itinerant wages. The expense of that education, the years of poverty, the delay of family and mortgages and many other earthly joys surely has to make my time worth something more. My figure of that worth is, at minimum, $20 an hour. So it was on a fine fall afternoon that the price of a pound of potatoes was calculated. Based on that afternoon’s labor alone, it turned out that one hour of work produced 20 pounds of potatoes, making each pound worth $1, or five pounds, $5, about twice the going price at the supermarket. This for potatoes whose only unique qualities lay in their hardness and diverse size, some approaching the girth of yams and others less than the diameter of a golf ball, making their handling or cooking more difficult. This for work that caused torrents of sweat, even at 60 degrees, torrents that made the fine dirt cling to every part of the body and continually fogged the eyeglasses. This to have that fine dirt pack itself into hands and under fingernails with such tenacity that even three days of cleaning make them presentable only for a square dance in a hay-strewn barn where hygiene might compare favorably to the livestock’s. Such was my brooding. It had been a cold and cloudy fall, a disaster for the leaf colors, but today everything shone as it was supposed to, the waning sun silver in a brittle blue sky, the shadows stark against this crisp clarity. My glasses were placed carefully in my pocket before my damp face was wiped with a flannel sleeve, undoubtedly streaking my face like an Army Ranger on maneuver. What the hell. Another twenty-pound bag and that would be it for the day. Two thirds of the plot had been raked and
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Fred Koegh gathered. Another couple of afternoons would do it. Five dollars for every 5 pounds. What a wasted effort. Just like so much of my life, wasted in dreams too silly to recall. And here I was at it again, working for potatoes when others had them cooked for them in exquisite sauces and delivered on silver platters. If such people ever had anything like potatoes at all. The best way to sort the potatoes from the dirt is to form a mound with the shovel loads, and then brush the dirt lightly to cause any potatoes to roll out and down. Sometimes there will be only dirt, but sometimes an overturned load will bring forth a cascade of wobbling tubers. Many kinds had been planted a year and a half before, so one did not know if thick-skinned Kennebecks would show up, or delicate reds, or golden Idaho. With my griping and self-pity over, I got to the task again, and didn’t become aware of anything but the work for some time until a thought came back to disturb the rhythm. As a half-dozen reds tumbled down the pile, it occurred to me that I was enjoying myself. In fact, the strain of labor had been totally absorbed by attention and anticipation. Shake this shovel load on top, turn the shovel and crease the load lightly, wait for the surprise. Wait for the food, the carbohydrate gold, to present itself, whole potatoes, dozens and pounds and tens of pounds of them grown from shriveled little eyes so many months before. Months that had seen children grow in bounds, months that had presented dozens of livid sunsets drowned by night and quiet dawns triumphant in light. It all was a chance, a surprise, a gamble. Behind me, right behind me in the garden, lay the remains of our tiny beagle, mauled by the bumper of a car the year before, now mostly gone to feed this year’s corn. It had only been a matter of time, the way she was, but she was pure happiness until the very last. Not a moment lost or wasted, and now gone to corn and us and back into the earth in next year’s tilling. But it’s not a pointless cycle. The corn and potatoes grow fat from sun and ancient death, and keep us in life, to die, too, but there is a net gain, a great increase in it all. The children grow to give joy and gratitude to the day, the puppy to give happiness, all from nothing, all from hard form, bewitched by a magical act that gives meaning and texture and brilliance to the mechanical beat of the heart. Even hard labor brings out the suspense, the excitement, the joy of discovery from
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Fred Koegh somewhere, from some invisible spirit that waits in delight for another roll of potatoes. Potatoes that keep the heart beating, for sure, but that bring out something else, too, something that rises above entropy and adds and adds to a force that is without end. Next year I will think about not planting potatoes again. Today, though, the mounds I made are freezing into little hills that will remind me of my discoveries with each look out the window until the greening spring.
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Abigail Morrison
Still Johnny looks at the photo. A year. Impossible. He’s morbid, they say. Still living at that house. Where she died. But how can she be dead? How could it have happened? Not Darlene. Not precious little baby Darlene. She couldn’t be dead. He’d been watching. He’d only shut his eyes for a minute. She couldn’t have died in a minute. It’s too short. Or, he thinks, closing his eyes, far too long. A moment lived alone is so much longer than ones with Darlene were. How did things ever go so fast? Nowadays it seems like he can’t get time to go fast enough. And yet, with her, things never slowed down. Raising his head, Johnny looks out over the lake. The last time he saw her was well over a year ago. Out in the lake. Playing mermaid with her floaties on. He’d been laughing—watching—then slowly, grown tired in the sun. He’d shut his eyes for a minute, two when he’s feeling self-loathing, and she’d disappeared. Then the panic had set in. The hours spent out in the middle of the lake diving again and again as far as he could to find her. Hours spent searching for the pink spark of a floatie or the dark brown patch of her hair above the water. Hours spent finding nothing. And then Marla had come home. His precious wife Marla, back from the grocery store. He still remembers how the groceries had fallen. Johnny, rising from the water with sloping, apologetic shoulders like some kind of abused sea monster; the apples, at the top of the bag, falling and rolling across the back porch and into the shallows, bobbing along like Darlene had been only hours before; a can of tuna swinging down into itself in an increasingly wobbly pattern before collapsing from motion completely. Marla, collapsing next to it, her knee punching into a loaf of bread that just happened to land where she fell. Then the tears had come. Marla had lost it and the tears had come.
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Abigail Morrison Sometimes Johnny will think about the tears and smile to himself, bitterly. They only went away when she did. Johnny never cried. Still hasn’t. Because if Darlene’s not dead, there’s no reason to cry. Johnny lets his breath escape him and forces himself up from his elbows to his palms on the porch railing, standing up straighter and arching his back. Tucking the photo back into his front chest pocket he drops down the stairs, headed for the pier. It’s cold today, but he doesn’t really feel it. Tugging at the gauge in his ear, he wrinkles his nose, sucking back in the snot and shaking off the cold with a quick ripple of his head. Stepping out onto the pier he pads out to the end, determined not to turn back. He doesn’t know what he’s so afraid of finding at the end, but it scares him every time. Every day. There’s a certain point where the urge to turn back really hits him. It’s about halfway through, around the twelfth plank. He starts to feel nervous around plank seven, but plank twelve gets him every time. Then, just like the day before, he passes it and keeps going. Plank twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. Johnny stops and looks out over the lake, like he does every day. He stares out at the lake, just starting to frost at the edges with the coming of winter, and, like always, starts at the far left nook, by the willows. The water is as flat, imposing, and silent as always and his eyes move past the nook to the far right shore, where the trees back off around a small beach. He’s looking for Darlene with the same sick, masochistic fervor he does every day when he sees it. Right in the middle of the lake. A floatie. A pink floatie. Johnny doesn’t even need to think about what to do. He sees it and he’s in the water. “DARLENE!” he screams. He hasn’t swam since the day he lost her but it comes back easily to him, his arms and legs remembering quickly how best to strike out through the water, despite the hindrance of his clothes. It occurs to him that the photo in his pocket will be ruined, but if he finds Darlene alive…proves them all wrong…he won’t need a picture anymore.
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Abigail Morrison Finally, he reaches the floatie. Finally, he reaches out and takes it back into his hands. It’s cold and slimy, like it’s coated in algae, but still just as bright and cheery as the day he last pulled it up Darlene’s little arm. Look Down! It’s scrawled out in large, messy black letters, like someone wrote it in a hurry. Terrified of what he might see but unable to resist what may very well be his own daughter’s frenzied command, Johnny forces himself to look down, one eye clasped shut as if it’ll help against a horrible sight. Nothing. There’s nothing there. Just the same dark water he sees every day. Closer, and cold against his chin—currently tucked into his soggy collar—but still just as dark and void. Still just as mysterious. Still just as greedy. Shhhhhhhhhrrraaaaaaach! Johnny whips around just in time to see a mass of dark red hair whip back into the water. Shhhrrreeeeeech! Turning again, Johnny sees another mop of hair disappear out of the corner of his eyes, this time a wavy gold. “Who’s there? Who are you and what are you doing here? Where did you find this?” Silence. “I mean it! Where did you find this?” Johnny has never been more scared, but forces himself to put on a bold face. Something tugs at his feet, dipping his head into the water. His hair, longer down the middle and shorter on the sides, falls into his face, temporarily blinding him in one eye. He brings a hand up to move it out of the way and when he puts his hand back into the water he sees a small wake off to his right, left behind by something with beautiful sapphire scales. He starts to swim back to shore, determined to call the cops and not at all pleased with the people trying to prank his pain, when something gropes at his shoulder. Whipping around yet again, Johnny finds himself face to face with the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. Her hair, long, red, and curly despite being soaked falls around her shoulders like coiled strawberries and her cheekbones sit high on her face, like
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Abigail Morrison royalty. Her hand is on his shoulder and a shiver runs through him, his cheeks suddenly hot and his chest thumping. “She misses you, you know.” “Whuh, what? Who? Darlene? Do you know where she is?” “Yes. My daughter is fine.” “Your daughter!? She’s my daughter! Where is she! What have you done with her?” Johnny is about to grab the woman so she can’t get away from him when yet another person shows up in his lake, this time a man with shining, golden hair. “Not anymore. Shesha is ours.” “Shesha? What are you talking about? Where’s Darlene.” “She’s with us now.” “Where? Give her back right now!” “We can’t do that. She’s one of us now.” “One of you? What do you mean, one of you?” The woman tilts back slightly and the sapphire scales from before rise out of the water just in front of her, ending with two long, flowing fins. “You’ve got to be joking,” Johnny gasps. The water is cold and the effort of staying above water in flannel and jeans is exhausting. “No, Johnny. We’re not.” “Well, where is she? Is she okay? Can I see her?” “Look down.” Johnny doesn’t like the idea of not keeping an eye on the two people, mermaids, things, in front of him, but grudgingly, obeys. At first he doesn’t see anything then, slowly, something starts to come into focus. Dark brown hair, a pale face, those button eyes. It’s Darlene. His daughter. Johnny dives before the mermaids can do anything to stop him. He doesn’t take that deep of a breath and starts to choke, but he keeps going, forcing himself further into the icy depths until finally, he grasps his daughter’s hand. After more than a year, he finally grasps her hands. Then, his air leaves him. He runs out of air and water rushes in. Wanting more than anything to pull her up with him, he feels his daughter let go and bobs to the surface. Just like the apples. “Please, give her back to me. Give her back…” “She wanted this. She asked for it. Once it’s done, she can never go back. In a few years she’ll be old enough to come to the surface,
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Abigail Morrison but for now, there’s nothing we can do.” “Let me join her then. Whatever it takes…” “We can’t do that. We’re sorry.” Johnny closes his eyes for a few seconds, thinking furiously, and when he opens them again, they’re gone. His daughter, the mermaids, illusions, hallucinations, whatever they were, are gone. Johnny swims back to the pier shivering and hauls himself up onto planks twenty-four through nineteen. He lays there for a while with his shoes dripping lake water back onto the silent mirror of water in front of him and just breathes. Then, slowly, Johnny gets back up and goes inside. He pulls the photograph out of his pocket and lays it on the table. Darlene is gone, and outside, the lake is still.
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Milo Schorr
The Gatekeepers A boy named Vince wrapped a pair of chapped, shaking fingers around a coat in his entryway closet. His eyes, warm and gray, had been worn down by sickness. There was a gash across his face that sliced straight through his tear duct, and each blink brought a cringe. Vince pulled the coat over his long-sleeved shirt and buttoned it to the very top. He had to reach up on tiptoes to get a hold of his hat, which he pulled sloppily over a messy head of hair. He sat down with care and put on a pair of heavy boots, tying them tight. His fingers trembled. Vince bit back tears. Soon enough, he thought, he would be too weak to tie his own shoes. Vince had a nasty habit of always being right. He sniffled as he wrapped a long, striped scarf around his neck. It reached past his waist without struggle. He glanced at the clock, whose hands pointed to five-thirty. It was the dead of December, and the sun had yet to rise. Vince slipped his fingers into a pair of thick mittens. He took one last look at the clock, twisted the door handle, and walked into the wind. It whistled, sweeping snow into drifts. The plows had not come and the roads were blanketed in white. Street lights cast a soft gold echo, and something about them made Vince smile. He was not running away, per se. It was more of a suicide mission, a sacrifice to save the world. The wind buffeted the gash, and he gasped around a whimper. As he battled heavy snowfall, he squinted ahead and saw an old woman. There was a black Newfoundland by her side, and as they approached, Vince saw that the dog’s muzzle was graying. Vince exchanged a smile with the woman as she walked past. He stopped a few steps ahead, frowned, and turned around. “Ma’am?” She did not stop. He cleared his throat and repeated himself in a shout. The woman stood still and turned her head. She had been beautiful in her time. Her voice held a smile, and her speech was slow. “Yes?”
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Milo Schorr “Could I pet your dog?” He sounded hoarse, and it took effort to speak at all. Her smile grew. “Of course. He’s very friendly.” The dog’s tail wagged and he took a bite of snow. The woman tugged his leash, and he took an impatient seat. The dog watched Vince with a huge smile. It was strange how expressive he was, as though a human face was beneath that mass of fur. Vince stomped through the snow and knelt in front of the dog, who was wagging from head to tail. He wrapped mittened hands around the dog’s ears, kissing his forehead and ruffling his fur. The dog leaned against Vince and grumbled with contentment. “I think he likes you,” the old woman said. Vince laughed. “Yeah, he’s a sweetheart.” The dog pushed his head against Vince’s neck. “My grandchildren used to visit us, before my daughter moved.” It was states away, Vince thought, and many years ago. “It was states away,” she said, “and many years ago. He was just a pup back then, small thing with all the energy in the world.” She sniffled and rubbed her nose across the back of her glove. “He grew up with them. He must have been, oh, five when they went away.” She smiled. “I think he just misses having kids around, but he’s too shy to go looking for them.” “A real gentleman.” Vince wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck and patted him on the back. “Never wants to intrude.” She smiled again. “Yes.” “What’s his name?” James. “James, after my husband.” She paused and looked at a street light. “He died, many years ago.” “And he held you as he did it,” Vince said quietly. He looked up at her face, squinting against the weather. “You felt him give out, and he dropped as though stone. It felt so unreal, and you could have sworn you...” “... felt yourself disappear,” they said together. “Like something was pulling you away, but you couldn’t go.” They fell silent. The storm quieted with them and snow dotted the air. “I think,” she said softly, “that you are the first person I’ve spoken to since then. It has just been James and me,” in that old house.
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Milo Schorr God, it’s so lonely in that house. “It has been rather lonely.” “I know.” Vince pulled himself to his feet and looked into her eyes. They were blue and wrinkled around the edges, and her nose sloped to a button. She watched him. Her gaze was intense and lost, though not at all unkind. “Don’t be afraid. It will not be painful, and you will meet him in Heaven, or whatever you believe in. There is something there.” The old woman’s eyes grew glassy. “Thank you.” She looked away, and her face appeared troubled. Vince pulled off one of his mittens to meet the frozen air. He pressed the pads of his trembling fingers against her forehead. “You are free.” She wrapped a veiny, aged hand around his wrist. Her grip was gentle, and her gloves were gone. “Are you an angel?” she whispered. She seemed afraid that someone would step into their storm and see them there, hushed and waiting. Vince smiled. “Something like that.” He pulled her into a hug and they held each other tight. She grew smaller and smaller, softer and softer, until Vince was hugging only himself. He buried his face in his hands and took a deep, shaking breath. He looked down where the dog had been and saw an indent in the snow. “Goodnight, James,” he said in a small voice. “I’m sorry you couldn’t see your kids again. I’m sure they miss you.” He looked in front of him. “And goodnight, Meredith. I wish I could have known you.” He put his mitten back on and returned to the pilgrimage, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He came onto a dead end street and walked through the circle drive into a deep forest. Any paths there had long since overgrown. The wind had resumed gusting at full force, and Vince thanked the trees for protecting him from the worst of it. He came across a bench. He cleared a spot of snow and sat down, rubbing his hands together and chattering his teeth. The bench looked much different in the summer, but the premise was the same. It was a hiding place that only he and a select few knew. The others had nothing to do with him, as he had no friends. It was one of those places that molds to whoever is visiting, and it made note that no paths collided. Anyone that visited knew they was supposed to be there, pulled by some strange force.
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Milo Schorr His fingers were stiff and dead cold. When they moved, they creaked at each hinge. He sat with the trees for what felt like hours, freezing slowly. He was waiting for something. What, exactly, he wasn’t quite sure. Snow crunched in a familiar rhythm and his eyes snapped open. Vince made a motion to stand and found his muscles stuck. He listened to the footsteps, not daring to look until they stopped. When Vince finally looked up, he broke into a wide smile. A man tall and of middle age stood there, bundled up in a thick coat and hat. He looked rather weary as he cleared a spot for himself. He sat down and squinted through the chill. “You cannot die today,” the man said. His teeth chattered. It wasn’t much, maybe a few clinks against zero wind chill, but it was a chink in his armor. He was only human. It was a strange realization, really, that his father was just a man. Vince wrapped a mittened hand around one of his father’s gloves and leaned against his shoulder. “Thank you.” Vince’s cheeks felt swollen and he found it difficult to form words. “You can’t save the world, you know,” the man said. “Everything happens in its own time, and you can do very little to change it.” “Yeah, but I can try.” His father smiled. It made him look older, somehow. “You can help people. Some people, the ones that are willing to take it, but you can’t force things. If you died today, everything would be different.” He took a deep breath. “I would be alone. I’ll be ready for that someday, but not yet.” Vince furrowed his eyebrows and threw his hands down in fists. When they hit his knees, it gave a sound like clinking bone. “But I’m so sick and I hurt all the time and – ” “I know, and it hurts to watch. You have no idea how much I loathe watching you suffer, but you need to brave it. Your work isn’t done here, and I can’t let you be selfish. I’m sorry for that. I wish I could.” He knit his fingers together and pressed them between his thighs. Vince nuzzled against the arm of his father’s coat. “Daddy?” “Hm?” The man put an arm around his son’s shoulders, and Vince pressed his ear against the man’s chest. He was easily a head and a half taller.
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Milo Schorr Vince’s voice trembled and he fought a sob. “I-I’m not ready to die.” His father pulled back his mouth and nodded. “I know.” He broke into a smile. “It will be a lot less dramatic when you do, and I’m sure we will go out together. It will be much nicer, and possibly not the least bit tragic.” He felt Vince laugh and grip onto his father’s coat a bit tighter. The man took a deep breath. “Come on, let’s get you home.” He scooped the small, frail boy into his arms, and Vince felt himself begin to drift into sleep. “You know, Vincent,” his father said, “even we are limited by death. I find it more interesting than sad.” “What are we?” Vince asked, half asleep. The man walked onto the circle drive with a crunch. The storm had calmed again. “I... like to think of us as gatekeepers.” Vince smiled. “Some lady asked if I was an angel.” “And to her you were, I’m sure. It’s in the eye of the beholder.” “I think we’re more like train conductors of death or something. We aren’t holy or anything.” “Like I said, it’s in the eye of the beholder.” The man stepped onto the sidewalk. “Death tends to be a religious experience.” “But we know things. Like, we can tell the future, too.” His father looked at a street light, which flickered out under his gaze. “I have this theory that the whole psychic bit is more of a side effect. How would we know where to find them if we didn’t know where they were?” Vince paused. “I’ll give you that.” His father smiled and turned to the ground ahead of him. The street light flickered on. “And it just so happens to get in the way of everything else. Side effects have a problem with being unpleasant. Otherwise I doubt we’d notice them.” “Yeah.” Vince pushed his face into his father’s coat. “I think I’m going to sleep now,” he said, voice muffled. “Go ahead. You’ve had a long morning.” “Thank you for saving me,” Vince murmured. “You’re welcome.” He paused. “I wouldn’t have if things weren’t going to get better for you. Everything will be all right.” Vince smiled. “It always will,” they said together. Before he could thank his father again, the angel was swallowed by sleep.
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Charlie Jenstead
Lionel Bernstein I hate going to dinner parties, always have. Not once have I gone to a dinner party and thought to myself afterward, ‘wow, I really had a lot of fun; we should go to such events more often.’ The only reason I go to these God-awful gatherings is so my wife, Elizabeth, doesn’t give me the cold shoulder in bed. It’s bad enough that I gotta drive twenty minutes to the other side of the canyon when the game of the year is on, but then when I get there, I have to say ‘hello’ damn near fifty times. And I never know when to stop and move on to the next person I need to greet. ‘Hey Rick, Nancy. How are you guys doing? Oh yeah? That’s great. Well, gotta move on.’ And then I need to act like I care the least bit about what these people talk about. They’re telling me about how great their son’s doing at Berkeley, how he loves the campus and is really connecting with his philosophy professor. I’ve never even met their son; I could give a damn how his time in college is treating him. And then the worst part of the night. I can never go to one of these dinner socials without messing something up. There was the meatloaf that I accused of having squirrel meat in it; the kid whom I told there was an Easter egg hidden in the bottom of the pond; the time I spilled wine on the couch and flipped the seat over, then got caught in the act. And then tonight. I was just helping myself to the hors d’oeuvres like everyone else, spooning a little guacamole, grabbing a few shrimp tails and a chicken wing or two. Usually when you have a party, you account for certain things, like your annoying little dog that’s running around and barking like an imbecile. I mean, if you’re serving hors d’oeuvres at your party, expect that your rat-faced dog is going to end up getting into something, especially when you have those stupid little couch-side tables that are half the height of a regular table. So I didn’t eat all the hors d’oeuvres I put on my little paper plate before setting them down and waiting a few minutes to finish the rest; so there happened to be a nice juicy
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Charlie Jenstead chicken wing sitting there, untouched, and your dog grabbed it when I looked the other way. So he tried to swallow the whole thing in one bite, choked on it. If you ask me, it wasn’t my fault. When I told my Elizabeth, all she had to say was “Why would you set your plate on the table? You knew they had a dog.”
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Rachelle J. Dorr
Catholic Confession He was always in there the longest because he’d bring his list the teacher had made him prepare as a brainstorming exercise. He just never understood why he should only choose one or two of them if he was supposed to be forgiven for all of his sins. The night before his first reconciliation he lay awake half the night lamenting over the fact that he hadn’t brought enough paper into his room. The first half was spent painstakingly recalling every sin he’d ever committed in his eight years of animated life. He vowed to never make the same mistake twice, and when confession came around the next year, he had an entire notebook perched beside his bed. He never came close to sleeping as he spent the entire night tossing and turning, in fear that he’d forgotten something and would surely be doomed to eternity in hell. When his time came to enter the confessional booth, he hugged his notebook snuggly to his chest and nervously made the walk of shame down the aisle in front of his kneeling peers. Upon entering the confessional booth, he handed the priest his notebook, which he had impressively filled from cover to cover. 69 pages, back-to-back, with every sin he’d ever committed, to the best of his knowledge. The notebook originally had 70 pages, but the last page had been torn out, and on it he’d written a letter to his mother stating these words, “I’m running away. I’ll come home when I’m fixed. Love, me.” He’d placed it on the table before leaving for school, knowing she’d find it when she got home from work in the evening. He wasn’t too worried about that part because he knew that by then he’d already be halfway to heaven.
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Nikki Elaine Wright
Cigarettes Will Bring Us Together For the past three years of my life, I have been a pack-a-day smoker. Having worked in various food service jobs where the number of smokers always severely outnumbers the nonsmokers, I have encountered many interesting and insightful experiences. From all of these experiences, one common theme unites them all – smokers know how to communicate. It isn’t necessarily the most important belief I’ve ever developed, but nevertheless, it is something that I feel nonsmokers should be made aware of because it is clearly a culture that they do not fully understand. I believe that smokers know how to communicate better than nonsmokers. I am not going to argue the fact that smoking kills, decreases the quality of life, and typically perpetuates destructive habits. As a smoker, I already know that all of these things are true. What I would like to bring to the attention of nonsmokers is the level of communication that smokers share. On one of my many smoke breaks at work, I ended up having a conversation with a customer that had been trying to quit smoking for three months, but how have been unable to quit because she spends every night of her life in a bar. Quickly I discovered that her smoking problem was rooted to something much deeper. It was alcoholism, peer pressure, addiction, dependency, and fear. Her pouring out of emotion filled secrets led a thirty-something-year-old smoker standing five feet away to pipe up and say, “I know it’s not my place, but have you ever thought about not going out to the bars? When I quit smoking for three years, I lost all of my friends, but life moves on.” The woman desperately responded, “But if I’d quit, then I would never have been able to meet you.” The man retorted with precise accuracy, “If you’d quit, then you’d never have needed to meet me.” This particular story may seem petty upon first glance, but it reveals a great deal about the lives of smokers. For example, it often occurs that individuals from very different lives are forced to
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Nikki Elaine Wright stand within that awkward distance that makes remaining silent nearly impossible. Any two smokers that make eye contact are required to communicate about something, so as not to seem rude. This rule may not be written down anywhere, but when occupying the same space for the same reason, and having absolutely no distractions, it’s blatantly disrespectful to remain quiet. In a different situation, at a super market for instance, everyone is busy digging through wallets, pretending to read the magazines, or yelling at their children. This makes it very easy to avoid talking to the person who I unashamedly peeking into your cart. Now, step outside and imagine standing next to a dumpster. For entertainment purposes, most people want to get to know the stranger standing next to them. Beyond the fact that smoking allows an individual to become more cultured via communication with other people that one would otherwise have never met, it is also important to become aware of precisely what it is that smokers talk about. Many conversations revolve around the weather because weather greatly determines any individual’s smoking habits. One young man once proudly told me about how he managed to keep his cigarette dry during a thunderstorm that had 30 mile-an-hour winds. The fact of the matter is, this requires years of practice, and not everyone is capable of achieving such a feat. Some conversations will delve deeper than small talk, and two smokers may find out they have a great deal in common. One smoker once told me about her experience outside of a hospital where she was visiting her friend that was in labor. She took the soon-to-be dad outside to get a few puffs in, and inevitably they struck up a conversation with another soon-to-be dad who was also choking down a cigarette. As they were discussing their greatest fears about parenthood, they discovered that they both were rappers. Upon this discovery, they created an improvisational rap about parenthood, the love for their significant other, and the beauty of bringing a new life into the world. Simply put, this intensely powerful moment would not have happened without cigarettes as its medium. As my stories reveal, a great deal of life altering moments can occur by way of a cancer causing, air restricting, and horribly foul device. Every day of my life I wish I had quit smoking the day before, but every smoke break I take I look forward to an exciting
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Nikki Elaine Wright new experience. My suggestion is this, every nonsmoker should take an opportunity to go outside with his/her companions and examine the social situation that occurs around the ash tray. I promise that standing within 25 feet of the building will be an entirely new social world, previously unimaginable. Here it is easy to find smokers that could practically have a degree in small talk, and will glady provide information about the latest weather report with facts the evening news didn’t share.Â
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Katrina Taloza
Banned
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Stephanie Casey
Sky Lights
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George Treviranus
Soul Phrase
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Bess Selje
I’m Sorry
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Bess Selje
Tied To
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Aliona Krupskaya
Spooky Fish
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Aliona Krupskaya
Octopus
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Terrence Adeyanju
Untitled
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Lindsey Chapman
Street Scene
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Nina Golemi
Autumn Splendor
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Nina Golemi
Mason
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Nina Golemi
Is There Something in My Teeth?
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Thor Bussewitz
Untitled
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Thor Bussewitz
Untitled
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Valerie Stevens
E Komo Mai
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Jonah Zucker Burns
The Trees
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Kristin Hendrickson
Alaskan Grizzly & Cubs
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Andrea Gonzalez
Girl in Doorway
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Aaron Parks
Discipline
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Aaron Parks
Love
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Pat Eckert
Zebra Camouflage
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Jenna V. Richardson
Dark Bubbles
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Emily Shrader
Camp Coffee
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Brianna Johnson
The Cake
I had never been more thankful to live in my mother’s basement than the first day I saw the shoes. My only window wasn’t very big and often hid from the sun, just the way I liked it. In my mind the world had little to offer which my internet connection could not provide. That was until the first time I noticed the quick shadow which blanketed my brief daily encounter with the sun. After that morning I adjusted my alarm for just minutes before the light escaped my room, preparing to meet the presence which invaded my private corridors. I stared into the emptiness of my window until the darkness surrounded me. I was astounded by the picture my window framed. There was nothing peculiar about the worn out pair of Chucks, other than being made for rather small feet. Despite this lack of exceptionality, I couldn’t help but fall in love with the effortless beauty of her black and white colours. The dirtied albescent laces were tangled in a desperate attempt to cling to her body. The shoes had a carefree, or perhaps careless, nature which I admired. My alarm never changed after that moment. Every morning I awoke to the shortest and most exciting moment of my day. The shoes were a dream from which I could not awake. They were never exactly the same; some days they shuffled slowly adding to the daily settled dust, others they were rushed, a silver breeze lingering from mud-encrusted heels. Each day the shoes left deep, invisible footprints just outside my reach. I knew if I were to leave my room I could trace the contours upon the concrete and taste the sand from her soles. My moistened tongue would caress my lips as I imagined embracing my only companion outside my room. As I began to move closer to the window, I could hear small high pitched chirps between the rushed hum of motors, sounds of which had never before reached me from my chair. Through all the noise which now entered my room, the most distinct was always that of her footsteps. No longer did I need the clock to know
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Brianna Johnson when she was near. I could hear her. I could feel her. Suddenly there was a world outside my three monitors and bag of Doritos. My complete and contented life vanished, leaving me with nothing but a sense of longing. And then one morning, as I heard the footsteps approaching, my heart began to race. Something was different. The pace was slower, heavier, and the step clumsy. I could feel pressure well within my heart until I saw the dash of black begin to skid across my window. A chilled pulse ran through me as I saw a patch of pink stars upon a pair of black tennis shoes. The checkered laces tied a loose triple-knot allowing the feet to jumble slightly in their cage. I was hopeful for the chance of a coincidence, hoping my shoes would again return with only a thin sheet of glass between us. My routine surveillance grew meaningless as pink continued to trample over the footsteps which had strolled so close to my heart. The window no longer held anything for me. I returned to my chair, filling the imprint of a solitary body.
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Ali Nicholson
The Beginning of a Legend As the setting sun cast its smiling gaze across the Hills of Maw, a small cottage not far from the Forest of Allon was beginning to cause the serene hills to hold a ruckus within its valleys. An older woman, who appeared not much over forty, with ash grey tresses was beginning to pack various objects into a shoulder bag that was on a decrepit wooden table. “We must hurry!” she looked away from the bag to a young woman her curly auburn hair was tied loosely back on her head. The younger woman nodded grabbing a few loaves of bread and a pigskin sack of water then bringing them to him. The elder grabbed the loaves of bread and shoved them with in the shoulder bag and glanced over her shoulder out the window to see two black blurs galloping quickly down the dirt path. She closed the bag before grabbing a black cloak and pushed the younger woman with a cloak and the shoulder bag toward the back door. “After you hear them enter the house, run, Essiana.” The elderly woman pulled the younger woman into a hug. “I love you, mother.” She smiled before they broke apart and her mother shut the door on her and she pressed her ear to the door, waiting to hear the muted thuds and voices from inside the house when they came. She sat down at the table and began to eat a few scraps of food that she had grabbed from a plate on the center of the table. Not long after, she heard a swift rap against the door and the gruff voice of a man call from outside. “Open up.” The voice called from behind the closed front door. The older woman glanced at the door and then his food before getting out of his seat to open the door to three men cloaked in chain mail and draped over their armor was a white tunic with a light grey cross plastered across the chest and abdomen. The woman moved out of the way allowing the three knights to walk in. Two of the three men stood silently at either side of the woman
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Ali Nicholson and the third, which she would later find out, who was the one in charge, progressed into the small hut looking around at all its contents. As she heard the muted creeks of the floorboards, Essianna raced from the back of the house up the outstretched arms of the Forest of Allon. “Rumors have been spreading that you have been holding a refugee.” One of the guards said while picking up the woman’s plate of food. He took a quick sniff before recoiling from the smell and placing it back on the table. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The woman shrugged and the two men stepped closer. “Queen Essianna is your daughter correct?” She hesitated before answering, “Yes.” “She was heard to say that she wanted to return to her mother. Have you been hiding her?” The third man picked up what appeared to be a shriveled up chicken foot and turned it over in between his fingers. “No,” She shook her head. “And why would she want to return home? There is nothing for her here. You can see that.” The head took his eyes off of the dried chicken foot and pointed his harsh gaze directly toward the woman. His face turned emotionless, as his fearsome red eyes were fixated on her vibrant blue. Their gaze held for what seemed like an eternity before he lifted his chin arrogantly and a smirk appeared on his lips. “Do not lie to me, Grisilda.” He placed his hand on the hilt of a sword attached to his hip. “I am not lying, Reginald.” She clenched her fists and teeth. She was trying so very hard not to unleash herself but her efforts were in vain. His intoxicating gaze broke her control and cyan flames erupted from her fists just as he unsheathed his blade and cast her down, screaming in agony. One of the guards that were standing at Grisilda’s side glanced up to the window to see Essiana racing toward the Forest of Allon. He raised his hand and pointed at the black blur of her cloak. Essiana ran as fast as she could and her mother’s screams caused her to run faster. She didn’t want to return to the palace. She didn’t want to return to the puppet king, whose strings were held fast by his aide, Reginald. Reginald was the one who requested his highness to wed the daughter of the world’s two greatest
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Ali Nicholson wizards, Grisilda of Seldom and Geoffrey of Orten. The supposed prodigy turned powerless. They produced an heir whose power was restored, a boy by the name of Nikoli, and, regrettably, no more. He was perfect until Reginald’s traitorous claws dug deep into the king. He grew more tyrannical, crueler, and more lustful. He was taking women left and right only to slaughter them the next day. With all his new found cruelty, there was another problem: his health was depleting. He would grow sicker and sicker, a shell of the man he once was. He was not the man she fell in love with and no longer the man she desired. In a fierce thunderstorm, a vision came to the Virgin Mother of Hellen from Purlea: from a shell and a wolf shall beget a child to dispose of those unworthy of power and unite the diamond. Information from the Virgin sister’s compound was leaked the palace of Greten: she was the shell. So she escaped. She shook her head, expelling the visions of a past that she could not afford to look back on. She heard the clanking of the soldiers behind her and she picked up her pace. “Look for the tree whose face is bare,” she quickly recalled her mother saying while glancing around the wood for the tree she was noted. “Brush your fingers across the face and the charm will activate. Continue, then, to Tredasian town of Golden Harvest. There you can seek refuge.” She glanced back once more before she let her fingers sweep across the bare face of the tree. Just as she entered the wood, the branches of the front phalanx of trees began to entwine themselves and merge together creating a barrier from one edge of the horizon to the other. She had freedom at last. She decided to camp out for the night hidden deep in the forests of Allon. Golden Harvest was only a day’s walk away and it would be a while before Reginald and his men would travel into the forest. She started a fire and pulled out a bit of food. She began to eat and curl up into a blanket that she pulled from the prepacked sack. A snap that echoed through her makeshift camp and she looked up from the fire. She wanted to call out but, out of fear of it being Reginald’s guard, she stayed silent all the while glancing around the area like a skittish animal. It wasn’t until she took a step toward the fire that she realized her stealthy guests pounced on her. There were two: one picked through her belongings and the other held onto Essiana.
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Ali Nicholson The two of them spoke in an alien language to each other and laughed as one took picked through her things pulling each and every thing out of her bag. The other placed a knife to her throat and scrutinized her under his immoral gaze. A sick smile appeared on his face as he pressed his tongue to her cheek, savoring the taste of the dirt, grime and sweat that was a thick residue on her cheeks. She recoiled at the sap that his tongue left over and she screamed and cried, praying for whatever the goddess would bring to help her. Before all hope was lost, the man looting her belongings disappeared into a black blur, screaming the foreign tongue she couldn’t comprehend as his last words. She couldn’t help but smile as the other ripped himself away grabbing his sword from his belt and balanced himself waiting for the blur to come into view. She pulled herself away from him and froze when a low growl erupted from behind her. It lunged forward at the second bandit and repeated the same stages as before. When all fell silent, the blur emerged from the shadows of the forest in the appearance of a large black wolf. Slowly it changed its shape into that of a man with a long ebony mane and dirty skin the color of sepia. He was clothed the familiar black attire that cloaked mercenaries. His face had strange markings; markings of a hated race that was all but extinct: a Guardian. They sat in silence staring at one another for what seemed like an eternity until he broke the silence. “You are Essiana, no?” his voice was thickly accented of one who lived in the White Wastes. His r’s rolled strangely and so did his vowels. “If you’re going to take me back to Reginald, you’d be better off killing me.” She growled, hoping to taunt the man enough to leave her be. He laughed in response. “Well, comrade, we float in same boat, no?” She could tell he had not been out of the Wastes for very long since his accent was still thick and his English was broken. “Come, we go to Golden Harvest.” He walked over to her and held out his hand. A smile was spread across his face, pinching the edges of his face. She gracefully took his hand as he pulled her to her feet and helped her gather whatever was salvageable before he shifted back into the abnormally large black wolf. He slowly fell to his knees as she pulled the sack onto her back. He turned to look at her expectantly and waited for her to kick out the fire and slide onto his back. Freedom was one swift ride away.
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Becky Sawatske
Stump
“Throw a rock back, bitch!” A stone hit her fleshy back. The quickest way to the house was through the lot that had been for sale for years, overgrown and surrounded on three edges by a weak chain-link fence. The construction nearby had upturned rocks in abundance, and one of the boys picked one up, hurling it at her again. They both laughed as she hobbled to the ground, narrowly avoiding the rock. The skinnier of the two yelled. “Cripple! Cripple! Cripple! Cripple!” She ducked lower, crying, looking at the permanent deformity on her left hand. Missing a thumb, since the age of six. The hump of her back arched over the tall grass, like a breaching whale over the surface of water. Another rock bounced off her spine, tears silently treading down her pimpled cheeks. Hurtling towards a gap in the fence, she squeezed through. The same young woman, eleven years older. Her face is riddled with rosacea, with slightly pocked skin, eyes instinctively dropped down from rejection. From jobs, from dates, from sunshine and day-to-day shopping. At least with age, people politely turned their gaze to more interesting and normal things, like shop windows or the bleak, dry ground. She didn’t blame them. Being reminded of how things could have gone wrong in their own life is a guilt-trip waiting to happen. Now, imagine, night. The same woman, nearly stripped to the bone, in black and red leather, a crop smartly placed. The entire club turns to “Her Magnificence,” mouths salivating at her erect head and ready demeanor. She is glorious. She is sumptuous. Her thick thighs command every eye in the room. She looks down on every little boy who undeservedly is in her way. The women look at her with both pride and envy. Now, there is a skinny boy laying down on the floor of the club.
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Becky Sawatske Crowds splitting before the woman, she walks forward, with two people on either side of her. They hold her arms. Glorious, she places a foot on his shin. Skinny Boy grimaces, shutting his eyes. “No.” She stands on either shin now, still supported. The club lights circulate off her wondrous body, lasers slicing in the leather, techno rhythmically spurting from the floor. Other members gather to speculate. She takes another step. Skinny Boy squeezed his eyes shut again. “No,” she said, “watch me.” Respectfully, he looks up at her again. Her stare penetrates every hair on his body, every crevice, every muscle. He tries not to tremble. Slowly making her way to his waist, her chin held erect, feet moving and feeling the squishy flesh of Skinny Boy. Curling her toes, she leans forward a little, back, forward, back, and smiles. “You don’t even deserve the bottom of my feet.” She can feel his cool, panicked breaths of air tickling her toes. “But I’ll allow it…for now.” His chest is nearly crushed. She continues. “I am better than you. Watch me.” With deliberation, she bends down, extending her left arm to his face. Skinny Boy sees her moist inner thighs up her leather skirt, the dull thud of bass traveling up his back. Goosebumps ride down her legs. Spectators smile. Her left hand, the missing thumb, is inches from his lips. A wicked grin stuck stone-cold on her face. “Lick it.”
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Yahara Journal
Contributors: Anne Kelly Jonathan Kremer Misian Searles Christopher Vaage Alaraya Homberg Takeyla Benton Jessie HarlaQuinn Alison Linde Andy Staplin Benjamin Seipel Fred Koegh Abigail Morrison Milo Schorr Charlie Jenstead Rachelle J. Dorr Nikki Elaine Wright Katrina Taloza Stephanie Casey George Treviranus Bess Selje Aliona Krupskaya Terrance Adeyanju Lindsey Chapman Nina Golemi Thor Bussewitz Valerie Stevens Jonah Zucker Burns Kristin Hendrickson Andrea Gonzalez Aaron Parks Pat Eckert Jenna V. Richardson