Yahara Journal 2014 by Yahara Journal

YAHARA JOURNAL A LITERARY AND FINE ARTS PUBLICATION

2014 E D I TO R - I N - C HI E F Zina Schroeder

E D I TO R I A L STAFF Alexander Balchen Joseph Dunst Giovanni Fanara Robin Gee Brittany Hoban Kelsey Marten Megan R. M. Mendonรงa

A DVI S O R 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.

TABLE OF C ONTENTS

P RO SE Rand Bennett • The Visitor ..........................................................7 Samuel Carlson • Always With Me ................................................. 10 Gretchen Chan • Talk Story ........................................................ 15 David Emerson Droster • Lightning Bug .........................................20 Candis Klaila • Tooth ...............................................................26 KC Phillips • Slave to his Work ....................................................30 Madeline Polzer • Mother Wolf ....................................................36 Francesca Veto • Magnolia and the Wyrm .......................................42

P O E T RY Gisela Alt • Bound ................................................................... 47 Maria Guadalupe Avina-Hernandez • Dreams ..................................50 Judy Brickner • Willard ............................................................. 53 Madeline Polzer • How I Will Remember .........................................54 Sydney Rakestraw • Galway ........................................................56 Thor Rothering • Rome .............................................................58 Teal Rowe • Grandmother Willow .................................................59 Misian Searles • The Elephant in My Mouth .................................... 60 Sarah Weston • Battle Hymn of the Ghost Crab ................................ 61 Sarah Weston • Peter Pan in Hyde Park ..........................................62

A R T W O RK Sarah Anderson • Vertebrae .......................................................65 Goldie Bennett • Jessi .............................................................. 66 Goldie Bennett • Daniel III ......................................................... 67 Dace • Compost ..................................................................... 68 Kristin Fox • Henna Pattern 2 .................................................... 69 Hannah Goldberg • Masked ........................................................70 Hannah Goldberg • Wood ........................................................... 71 Hannah Goldberg • Sleeping Woman ............................................. 72 Jessica Anne Grimes • Elephant in the Jungle .................................. 73 Alyssa Hageman • Untitled ........................................................ 74 Elena Poiata • Chess Set 1 .......................................................... 75 Alek Schroeder • Krakenhaus ..................................................... 76 Donna L. Xiong • Beauty Found Within .......................................... 77 Josh Zytkiewicz • Emily in Cocoa .................................................78

T HE V I S I TOR Rand Bennett Last night, the unfinished painting thumbtacked to my wall came loose and made a sound loud enough to shake me from my reverie in the darkness. The skin above my tailbone prickled, and I knew before I turned the light on to investigate that you were in the room somewhere. I didn’t take the time to think about it too hard. That may have been the trick. Wrapped in blankets and the perma-glow from the winter clouds outside, I started talking softly, sensing you draw closer and closer to the bed. You were waiting, I think, to be invited in. I forget sometimes that you are new to death; perhaps the new dead, before they are proficient in visiting this world, attempt to observe certain courtesies toward the living. And I, so long entrenched in the doldrums of realistic expectations and the laws of science, so unwilling or unable to suspend disbelief—I, who do not believe in God, angels, or hell—I, who embody the cynicism of American youth, actually applied myself to believing that you were there in some strange way, not solid and warm and breathing like I was used to, but lighter-than-air and silent. I knew on some instinctive level that if I held onto this too tightly, it would squirm through my fingers and fade into the background of the night like a wild animal. So I just scooted over on the bed to make space and let you occupy this dimension in whatever way you could. I tried to believe you were there so we could comfort each other through our respective presence, like Lyra and Will in parallel Oxfords. I imagined holding your hand, felt my thoughts and my breathing slow. At one point you went to get up and leave—maybe to visit someone else who loved and needed you—but I asked you to stay, and you did, keeping watch as I talked myself into a deep sleep. *** I woke crusty-eyed and sore, dingy January light filtering through bare branches and blinds. Alone. You had slipped away some time during the night, leaving behind only another day to get through. Reluctantly, I slunk from the

TH E V I S ITO R sheets, my head throbbing in protest and sending me to the ground with a dizzy spell. In the early days, I’d shut myself up in the closet and scream into a towel, trying to muffle the wretched sounds of snot and loss, clawing inanely towards the back. I think I envisioned the chalky white paint somehow unfolding into a place where I could find you under a lamp post, singing soft and low. It was stupid, but I forced the scene to play over and over, as if imagining it hard enough would make it come true. When my strange behaviors—sleeping on the kitchen counter, listening to the same song on repeat for hours at a time, crying fits in strange, dark places—got to be too much for the roommate, I’d snatch my keys and sneak out. Head down to hide my shame, I’d desperately move double time, ahead of my thoughts and hoping the shock of the frigid air would take precedence over anything else I might’ve been inclined to do that would alarm people of a saner caliber: smash glass, rip cloth, hurt myself. I just wanted to destroy something, if only for the relief of not having to keep it together all the time. Ridiculous, all of it. In the months after you killed yourself, you bounced endlessly about my headspace and found your niche in my dreams. There I was stuck with you. I couldn’t shake you off, as I did during consciousness, by reaching for the vacuum or scouring with cleaning chemicals until my lungs felt as diseased as my riddled brain. Sleep became addicting; dreams were my drug. They were my only chance to see you without the weight of reality scaring you away from my thoughts. Suddenly, last night seemed foolish; of course you weren’t here. It was all in my head. So here we are. Your story unfinished—but certainly ended—and mine ground to a halt. This is how we ended up. Rubbing my feet against the dull beige carpet, I decide abruptly that I am sick of winter. I could once see the dead and sleeping earth as more than just the antithesis to life; described through your eyes, it had its own beauty and substance. Now when I venture outside, holding my breath against the scent of stale piss in the apartment stairwell, I find that winter doesn’t bring you back. As if to prove this point to myself, I grab my coat, pull my boots over my leggings, and pad frantically through the backyard toward the trees. I scream into the dry air until my throat is raw and my voice cracks. But your name comes out feeble, dissipates in the bleached and empty woods, seeps

R AN D BE N N E TT through the chain-link fence that I claw and sob and cling to until I’m numb from cold and exhaustion. The cars on the highway press on, making a soft whoosh as they pass like ghosts, unknowing and unknown to me. If I follow the fence for another two hundred yards, there will be a place where several trees converge in a ring and make a small, hidden clearing. I’m tempted, each time I come out, to simply lie down and fall asleep there; people rarely come through this forgotten corner of woods. No one would disturb me. Life wouldn’t disturb me. I could curl up in the snow and relish the heat leaving my body; I’d be so quiet and still, the rabbits would hop around me, unconcerned, and I would hear the gentle kiss of the snowflakes hitting the ground near my ears. I’d wait for that strange warmth to flood through me and eventually I’d see you, making your way silently through the black trees, leaving no footprints. Maybe then you could explain, and I’d understand. But I never do it. Not yet, at least. I turn and trudge back home, pulling my hood up and wiping my face clean on the sleeve of my jacket.

A LW AYS WI TH M E Samuel Carlson Every time that I hear the song “Hate Me” by Blue October, I am brought back to that bright little operating room in Iraq where my life was changed forever. It was not me on the operating room table that day, but the things that I saw while I was there helped me gain a whole new understanding and appreciation for why I was in Iraq in the first place. I watched a man’s life be transformed in that room, for better or for worse, I will never know. It is January 22, 2009. I am sitting quietly in the corner of a small room, thumbing through an old copy of Reader’s Digest. I just got off a thirteen hour night shift out at the bomb dump. I’ve been in Balad, Iraq for 122 days now, and Sundays are the days I look forward to the most. In the desert, we work six days a week, but Sunday is my day off. Unfortunately, today isn’t Sunday, and it isn’t my day off. Today is Thursday, but I had nothing better to do when I got off my shift, so I walked over to the base hospital to see if I could volunteer at the helipad. I’ve been volunteering here for a couple of months now. Balad Air Base has the biggest hospital in the United States Air Forces Central Theater, so they service many of the most serious medical cases from the surrounding established and forward operating bases. When casualties are medevaced in, volunteers at the hospital run out to the helicopters to help carry in the patients and get them situated in the intensive care unit. As I got to know the hospital staff a little better, I started asking if I could help out in the area I was really interested in: the operating room. I had stood in on a couple of surgeries already. I saw a stocky young soldier get slit open from one side of his chest to the other. My stomach churned as I watched the army surgeon thrust his arms, all the way up to his elbows, into the soldier’s stomach, fishing around for shrapnel. I was fascinated. It was disgusting, but I couldn’t seem to look away. So here I sit, in my little corner, my head resting on the wall behind me. The Reader’s Digest has slid onto my lap, and my head keeps involuntarily snapping backward as I fight to stay awake. Suddenly, there is a commotion off

S AM U E L C ARLS ON to my right where two large sets of double doors that lead out to the helipad are strategically located directly in front of the intensive care unit (ICU). Two burly Ugandan sentries armed with M4 Carbines stand up, bristling at the sound of an ambulance as it screeches to a halt right outside the double doors. The doors fly open; four soldiers rush in dressed in battle fatigues carrying a stretcher on which lies an unconscious figure. Black hair juts out from underneath bloodsoaked bandages covering most of his head. Blood is soaking through the dressings wrapped around his right leg. His lanky body is covered mostly by a thin white blanket. Just enough of his dark skin is exposed for me to be able to make one startling observation: this man is not an American soldier. As they sprint past me into the ICU, time slows down. I lunge out of my seat and follow them. The man is heaved onto a gurney, and as he is wheeled down the hallway toward the operating room, I dash into the locker room to scrub up. A few minutes later I find myself in a completely sterile room; everything is white and silver. I can see my reflection in everything from the overhead lamps to the forceps lying on the surgical instrument table. Strewn with shiny silver tools, retractors, clamps, scalpels, drill bits, calipers, and saws of various sizes, the table looks like a carpenter’s bench. I shudder at the thought of having to be the person who knows which tool to call for and when. As the surgical technician unwraps the man’s leg, his wounds are laid open. Apparently, this man was mulling around near a military checkpoint somewhere off base when a vehicle rolled up and seconds later detonated, sending shards of hot aluminum and steel ripping through him, cooking his flesh from the inside out—another noncombatant casualty of an improvised explosive device. Dressings removed, his leg lies bloody and exposed on the table before me. There is a hole the size of a tennis ball in his ankle; tissue and muscle hang in tattered shreds. I can see his ankle bone which is, for the most part, shattered. There is also a hole the size of a golf ball in the bottom of his foot. Fragmentation from the explosion penetrated his leg and didn’t stop when it hit bone. A blast of warm air hits my face as my body temperature rises. I realize the man is still wide-awake. A look of absolute terror comes over his face as the anesthesiologist holds a mask over his mouth, and I cringe as his body jerks hard, just once, before his eyes roll back into his head.

A LW A Y S W ITH M E The lead surgeon casually strolls in. After several minutes of inspection and debate with his team, he decides that amputation is the best route. I’m devastated to hear this. Unsettled by the prospect of this man never being able to use his leg again, I question his decision. “The thing is,” the surgeon explains to me, “once he is discharged, it is very unlikely that this man will ever be able to receive proper medical attention again. I have to make the best judgment call that I can for his long-term well-being. While I may be able to save his leg, the likelihood that he will receive follow-up care for his injury is highly improbable. If he doesn’t, infection will likely manifest again and eventually require amputation anyway. Better that he gets the operation done now, while he has an experienced medical team and a sterile operating environment available.” Then he turns away from me, and springs into action. “Scalpel,” he orders, holding out a gloved hand. Then, to his assistant, “Put some music on.” She reaches over to the iPod perched atop a medical cabinet and hits play. “Hate Me” rolls out of the speakers and my heart starts to thump along with the beat. His first incision slices into the skin smoothly; the cut is clean and sharp. Blood starts to flow out and a tourniquet is quickly applied to reduce excess bleeding. Expertly slicing through skin and muscle, the surgeon seems to be in a trance—he is right at home. He picks up a rope saw and drags it back and forth, moving quickly through the majority of the fibula. A bead of sweat runs down my forehead from under my surgical cap. Arriving at the tibia, the surgeon is obviously starting to have trouble with this considerably thicker bone. Picking up an electric saw, the surgeon smacks the battery into place and pulls the trigger. The machine whirs to life and my nostrils flare, anticipating the impact of the powerful blade as he lowers it toward the infected leg of the man lying unconscious on the operating table in front of him. Like nails on a chalkboard, blade screeches against bone. The surgeon experiences more resistance than he originally anticipated; he stands up on his toes for more leverage, putting the full force of his body weight into his work. The saw blade squeals. Tendrils of smoke curl up from the man’s leg creating an overpowering odor like nothing I have ever smelled before. Minutes drag by. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the man’s leg snaps off. Like a dry twig snapped from a dead tree, his leg is now lying on the table in two pieces. Feelings of success and sorrow overwhelm me simultaneously. The goal of the operation has been achieved, but I know that there is no going

S AM U E L C ARLS ON back now. This man will never walk the same again. The surgeon grabs the disembodied leg and tosses it casually into a red biohazard bag. Like a used tissue, the man’s lower leg and foot are discarded, tossed aside to be taken out with the rest of the trash. The surgeon’s assistant then begins to squeeze the man’s leg the way one would squeeze a tube of toothpaste. Starting at the knee, she encircles the man’s leg with her fingers and squeezes tightly while sliding her hands down toward the amputation site. Pus and infected tissue ooze out from the solitary bloody stump that protrudes from the sea of blue drapes covering the man’s unconscious body. Once the majority of the infected tissue has been removed, the surgeon refocuses. Producing a needle and medical thread, he sews up the arteries and veins individually. The stubborn ones he needs to burn shut with a cauterizing tool to stop the bleeding. As the hot tip of the cautery pen touched the man’s insides, a smell that cannot be described wafts up from the stump; it is an odor that can only be understood if one has inhaled the noxious fumes of burning flesh. One of the nurses suggests that I don a facemask to avoid getting sprayed in the face with blood. I am grateful for her suggestion, as seconds later, the walls opposite the operating table were painted with bright red fluid. With all the loose ends tied up, the procedure is finally complete, and the man’s leg is redressed and rebandaged. I stumble out of the operating room in a state of bewilderment. Had I really just seen that? Wandering back to the locker room, I flop down on one of the benches and took the first deep breath I had taken in over an hour. I strip off my scrubs, hardly noticing the blood staining the breast pocket. I am slightly comforted knowing that the man will be leaving the hospital with a much higher probability of surviving, but at the same time, I am deeply saddened by the knowledge that this man’s life will never be the same again. As I walked out of the hospital later that day, I was surprised to see the man being wheeled out of recovery, now fully conscious, by two nurses. My heart cried as I watched him lunge forward, trying to sit up, thrashing, clawing at the blanket, trying to grab the bandaged stump where his leg used to be. The look in his eyes was frantic, horrific disbelief. One of the nurses was trying to hold him down, trying to cover his eyes and get him to lie back down, but there was no pacifying

A LW A Y S W ITH M E him. I don’t know what was going through his head at that moment, but I could only guess. Was he thinking about the fact that he would never run again? Never again be able to feel an ache in his foot after a hard day’s work? Never again feel the pinch of his shoe as he pulls his laces tight? As he was wheeled in front of me, I just stared at him. Then he was gone. That was the last time I ever saw the man. I do not know what happened to him. I don’t know when he was discharged from the hospital or if he had a family to go back to. I don’t know if he had someone to help him out of bed in the mornings, up the stairs at night, or down the street to the market. I know nothing more about the man than what I have just told you. Except this: His name was Dhafir. Dhafir Kurdi Hilal. And I know that his story will always be with me.

TALK STORY Gretchen Chan E kaikamahine nani o ka’u, e kama ‘ilio kāua. Beautiful daughter of mine, let’s talk story. Our story. Your history. The story of how you became present. “Is this the story of how we all came from stardust?” you ask. “How the water we drink today is dinosaur pee?” you question yawningly. You mean the story of how the universe began? Yes, it is that story and more, for the forces that have acted throughout history are still present today and will likely never change. Therefore, the original story continues on and is also your story. In the beginning there was only an idea; your father and I each wanted to have a child—to love a child, to mentor a child, to create a child. We fell in love and the idea possessed gravity. One night your father and I joined in love and made a spark of life-force between us that started a chain reaction. The fusion of life had begun, just like the origin of the universe and the birth of stars. I saw the light of you grow in mass and luminance and then take root in my womb and take form. I was your first home and I made it as well as I could. That first home was like the salty sea that all life originated from, which still flows through our veins in our blood. You threw out one tendril, one lifeline, and I anchored it to my body. You tasted my favorite foods adrift on the currents, heard music and voices amplified through watery sound-waves, felt love conducted through nerve impulses, and rocked gently in the hammock of my belly like a sailor. The water gives life to all. “Mom, this is the same story everyone has. It’s a rerun.” Yes, keiki, but not enough of us understand that we came from stars and seas and stories. People treat the seas and land like they are separate and more powerful than the rest of the universe, simply because they will it to be that way. Even now, when we can track the histories of the universe and evolution of life, people still forget that we can’t live for more than three days without water to refresh our bodies. So we must keep telling these stories of our origins, or our stories will die with us, and it will be as if we had never lived at all, that in the end nothing mattered. But I know that isn’t so, for you matter, my dear. You are loved and love made matter; therefore, you matter.

TA LK S T O RY “But tell me again who I am, what my name means.” Your name, Nina MeiMing Erdmann-Chan, was given to you in three parts. Nina is both universal and uncommon. It’s a name in every culture and language we could think of and is often used as a term of endearment. You have a great aunt Nina in Hong Kong, yet we don’t know anyone with a child named Nina. You received your Chinese name, MeiMing, from your Grandpa, your dad’s dad. That is the Chinese way. Mei means beautiful, and Ming means bright, or intelligent. Together MeiMing can be interpreted to mean beautiful mind. Your family name came from both sides, though eventually we dropped my surname for simplicity’s sake: Erdmann is Germanic and Chan is Chinese. Several generations back on my father’s side, a young couple in our lineage lived in the mountains of eastern Germany, in a region which is now Poland. The rural villagers needed sons to work the farm, but the first two babies of the young couple had died, so they asked the town apothecary for advice. The apothecary told them to name their next child Man of the Earth, or Erdtman in German, and he would live. Thus, Erdmanns are the successors of the Erdtman lineage in America. Chan is also a family name of survival, although it presents a different story. Many generations back in a previous dynasty, the head of your clan was in the imperial court of the Emperor. At that time, when emperors were overthrown, their imperial courts were executed with them. But the head of your clan escaped and traveled incognito to southern China and took up the new name, Chan, in Hong Kong. Your original clan name is lost; only the story remains. The roots of your family tree are mostly Germanic and Chinese, while the branches are decorated with a mélange of other European ethnicities. But, of course, you are more than your heritage, and more than your name. All the stories you read, the games you and your friends invent, and the knowledge you gain in the wider world become part of your inner dialogue, part of your voice, part of your story. Every culture you explore through celebrations, songs, and sleepovers expands your empathy for others’ traditions. “What is empathy? Why is that important?” you ask. Well, dear, empathy is sharing someone’s feelings. It’s a way to show you understand and respect what is important to someone else. It’s a way to calm your apprehensions about 16

GRE TC HE N C HAN differences. Think of our Indian neighbors, Hari and Nithya. They gave you two eggs when you requested only one for your brownies, and ever since—with big grins on their faces—they offer you an egg when you visit them. From this experience you know that they are kind-hearted and generous people. Yes, they have a golden, many-armed deity in their entry and a shrine by their TV, and yes, they wear different brightly colored clothes, but these foreign things are interesting to you, not scary. “But if people are good, why do you warn me about strangers? How can I know who the good people are?” Your intuition will help you there. I can relate the idea most easily through the metaphor of a soundtrack, the songs you carry with you throughout your day. Remember this: When there is harmony, there is community. When your companions’ songs are in concert with yours, you’ll feel it. Special people will resonate deeply with you. But where there is dissonance, there are lost people who are out of sync with the group. They try to fill their inadequacy with anything good. Be wary of people who take and grab with their eyes, for the mind follows the eye and the hand follows the mind. Those who are trustworthy hold you in a steady gaze: unflinching, accepting, respecting. When you were a baby, you would cry in spaces where there was tension in the air, and be calm when love was freely flowing. Tune your awareness to this rhythm. Our home is a refuge from the outer world, a place to relax our guard, a space of safety and privacy. You are free to create a microcosm here, your own universe, where a herd of plush elephants are your confidants, where paper airplanes take you to Hawai’i, and the shadow puppet theater offers widely anticipated shows. Here we eat our comfort foods together, Chinese rice porridge, “juk,” on cold damp days, and German schnitzel, “snitchel,” on crisp fall days. Society’s suggestions and expectations are left at the door, like the shoes we take off when we enter our home. I don’t allow much TV watching because that would be inviting the outside in. Media only tells things one way; there is no conversation, no reasoning with it. It always has the last word, a simulation of the world presented as truth. But you are an authentic girl, the very girl that you see when you look in the mirror is exactly your ideal image. You don’t like pink and never played with dolls, and mean jokes aren’t funny to you. Your first three-word

TA LK S T O RY sentence at 20-months old was “I’m sorry, Mom,” when most toddlers are saying “No, that’s mine!” For you, consideration is an inherent quality, and it’s developing beautifully. You are so brilliant, words fail me now. Like your name suggests, beauty is a light that shines from within. Love takes many forms, and all are worth cherishing. Relationships are like rainbows with gradual color shifts—where does red end and orange begin? Your friends can occupy a spectrum of roles. Some will offer comic relief, while others excite your intellect. Still others will reside with you in that quiet space of your heart. If you find an opalescent friend, one that fills the whole rainbow with light, that friend is a rare gem. There are some people you won’t like, and that’s okay too. Don’t expect everyone to like you either, just focus on being authentic and trustworthy of those that do. Play with those that like the same games as you and treat you with respect. Comfort those who care equally for you. Hold hands with those who hold yours gently. Find a way to love both girls and boys, the elders and the young. There is just one love that is unique, and yours to experience if you choose, and that is mother-love. “Do I have to be a mother? It looks like hard work,” you ask me, for nothing is lost on you. The choice is yours to make, and you can take your time considering it. For me, mothering is at the same time the hardest job I’ve ever done and the most rewarding. Mother-love is the deepest love I’ve ever known, and I’m a better person for knowing you. Of every lucky thing in my life to be thankful for, I’m most grateful for the privilege to be your mom. Thank you so much for bringing your light into my life. In the end, we all lose our relevance, our gravity, and pull on the community. I won’t hold sway over you when I am old and you are grown. As we age, our words stray from their orbits, colliding and disintegrating as our brain mass fades. Our story unravels at the edges like the neurons of our frayed minds, and it is up to the vibrant youth to mend and maintain the pattern in the fabric. As our bodies lose density, we expand back out into the black matter that makes up the space between what is seen, and our stories seep into the crevices among the living. Like a saturated solution running through a quartz vein, a richly flowing story has the ability to guild the spirit in gold. Hear the story, learn the story, tell the story.

GRE TC HE N C HAN Ha’ina ‘ia mai ana ka puana. Hear my refrain: You are loved; you matter. The story is told. It is true. There is no dispute. The song is good.

L IGHT N IN G BU G David Emerson Droster Allow me to preface this story by saying that at seven years of age, I had two great loves—dinosaurs and Pokémon. This story has very few dinosaurs in it. The first cool breezes of the fall had not yet arrived as I, with my father and brothers, stood amid the rows and rows of children’s books piling the library shelves. There was so much stealthy adventure to be had in a library; it felt like I was constantly sneaking. The discovery of a book was a silent, secret victory. I sauntered between the shelves, slowly searching, looking back and forth. My jeans and too-large t-shirt rustled softly in the quiet, my rounded face topped with a bowl-cut mushroom scanning the shelves. The whole ensemble accented my official, Nintendo-licensed Game Boy carrying case, which hung from my shoulder. Hot damn, I was cool. Seven months before, at the culmination of a long period of saving, I’d bought the translucent, royal purple Game Boy Color that now hung at my hip. Half of it, at least. The other half was a birthday present. My cousin Adam— always the pinnacle of cool—had the purple one, so I had the purple one. He had played Pokémon, so I got my hands on it. I got my hands on it, and didn’t let go. Ever since the first click of the power switch, I was hooked. The first time that screen lit up and the crunchy, sine-wave music burst out of the teeny, tiny speaker, my mind was blown out of the back of my head. I’d turned it back off. I was awed by it. I set the machine down, and picked up the booklet from the box the game came in, reading it to distract myself from the Earth-shattering artifact I had in my possession. I glanced at it from the corner of my eye, and after being sly for long enough, I picked it back up. Finger on the hard ridges of the power switch. Thumbs on the buttons. Flick of the switch. Click of confirmation. Pring! The glorious 16 colors. The theme music. Sweet, sassy molasses, this was awesome.

DAV ID E M E R S ON DR OS TE R Thenceforth, I played it every day. Wake up, Pokémon, breakfast, Pokémon, school, Pokémon, home, Pokémon, dinner, Pokémon, bedtime, Poké— Bedtime! But mom! Stern look. Fine… I adored it with manic fervor. I was going to be the very best—like no one ever was. I was determined. This was my crack cocaine. This was my 8-bit salvation. But it was not to last. Back in the library. There had been free community activities held that day. They were the kind where the staff opened up a back room, gave you enough glitter and bendy straws and other paraphernalia to decorate a Lady Gaga concert, and told you to be creative with it. I enjoyed this kind of day, where there was something to do for the duration of it. It left the least room for friction. No one could argue, and nothing could go wrong. Now we were in the library proper, mulling about in the shelves. My dad called me over to look at some book. He was always doing this—pushing books on me I didn’t care about. We had an ample and frequented collection at home, but my dear, scruffy father always picked the worst ones. Geez, Dad. I’m sick. I’m sick and I don’t like this one. It’s you who likes this crap. Sure, it was only the Chronicles of Narnia, but at the time it was like the square root of War and Peace times Emily Brontë cubed. Just get the Redwall book or something, or let me play with my Game Boy. Of course, I never said any of this, but I had no love for that Jesus-lion, Aslan.

LI G H TN ING B U G “Sure, dad. Cool. I’m sure you really did like this when you were my age—” Oh god! Where’d I put the Game Boy case? I turned around with a start. Ohhh, thank you. It’s just on the computer desk. Why’d I set that down? Idiot. I got a bad feeling as I walked over. I reached for the case, with some unknown, creeping worry. The zipper was undone. I did not leave the zipper undone. I do not leave the zipper undone. I opened it. Oh, god no. It was gone. Panic set in. Where could it be? Pockets? Pockets. Check the pockets. Don’t freak out yet. Nope, not pockets. Could Will have it? I’ll hug him and I’ll punch him if he does. Nope, just coloring a picture. James? No. Books with Dad. Under the desk? Now I’m losing composure. I racked my brain. I thought I’d had it more recently, but maybe in the arts and crafts room? Maybe I’d shown it to someone and set it down by mistake. Even I didn’t believe that, but it was worth a try. The imposing blue of the back of my father’s airport workman’s jacket towered in front of me. If I told him, then it would be true for sure. I checked all my pockets and the tables a few more times. Could I be crazy? I hope I am. I walked up to him. “Dad?” “Yes?” “I—I think I lost my Game Boy.” “Did you leave it somewhere?”

DAV ID E M E R S ON DR OS TE R “Maybe.” “Let’s have a look.” We went to the librarian (tangentially a colleague of my father’s) and asked if we could get into the back room to look. “Sure.” She walked with jangly keys. The room was dim with the lights now out and reeked of glue and marker fumes. It was not in the room. It was not even close to in the room. I was beginning to get tight in the chest. Oh-god-oh-god-oh-god-oh-god. “Do you think someone might’ve stolen it, Tim?” “Maybe. I didn’t see anyone though,” my father answered. I stood by as the two giants discussed (with insultingly little horror) my miserable fate, my ruin. In my mind, I summoned everything I’d ever heard my father yell at another driver. Oh, dammit, bitch, pissing, bastard, shit! Fuck. I covered my mouth as I thought it. What was I going to do? I tried to keep it together. The talking seemed very distant. “Well, we’ll talk to some of the kids and see if anyone saw anything.” “Alright. Thank you, Margie.” I sidled along in tow. Everything seemed distant. My ears were cotton cloth. Someone had done it. I knew it. Half a dozen children down and no dice, until, between two shelves, three young boys spilled it.

LI G H TN ING B U G “Yeah, I think I saw him. There was a kid with a purple Game Boy. He’s Lightning Bug. He might have it.” Lightning Bug? Well, someone get me a flyswatter. I like to think that I’d said that, or had wittily asked for bug spray, but I absolutely didn’t. I just shook and clenched and clenched and shook. The canyon of shelves was closing in on me. But hope! We knew the name. I walked faster now. The musty smell of books was that of the blood of impending victory. I couldn’t help but imagine him—this thieving trash—being ripped apart by velociraptors. And he’d deserve it, too. He’d kidnapped my friends. He’d violated my sanctuary in the fictional land of Kanto. He’d snuck in like a disease and then pilfered my dreams. We were outside now. It seemed colder than before. There was a whip of showdown wind under the covered walkway connecting the storefronts. My father spotted them first, three young boys down a ways. He walked towards them without saying anything, and I followed. “Excuse me, boys.” “Yeah?” There was a lump in my throat. I couldn’t bear the tension. “Is one of you Lightning Bug?” “Yeah. Me.” “My son is missing his Game Boy; I’m wondering if you’ve seen it.” Oh man, this is awful. To have my dad save the day. Give me a velociraptor, and let me do it. The shame. I’d never wanted so hard to be a man. “No, man. Haven’t seen it.” What!? I knew this was a lie. I could practically smell the conspiracy between them. As I remember it, they snickered amongst themselves like comic book villains. This probably never happened though.

DAV ID E M E R S ON DR OS TE R “Listen, a couple of kids inside said they saw you with it. Don’t lie to me. Do you have it?” “I said no.” I’m going to be sick. I knew he had it. But he did say he didn’t. But he could be lying. But there was no telltale bulge in any of his pockets to indicate the bulk of what he might’ve stolen. “Might’ve stolen?” Oh man, I could feel my assurance slipping from my fingers. No! Where was that blood of victory? I could only look in glances. I was certainly crying now. What do I think? What do I do? What can I do? I don’t know what they all said—I don’t remember even hearing the rest of it—but I knew that at a point my father had to let them off. We walked back to the library quietly. I couldn’t look up, so I followed the footfalls of my father’s loafers. We retrieved my brothers from the care of the librarian. “It’s time to go, guys.” “Is David ok?” Please don’t let him say anything. “Come on. Let’s go.” And we got in the car, and I didn’t say anything.

T O OT H Candis Klaila There was a time and place where the mother smoked Camel cigarettes at the yellow formica kitchen table, before the cancer ate at her, sucking her thin, dry and grey as smoke. In that time, the mother had long dark hair that shined. Her eyes still twinkled and people would comment on her pure beauty. This was back when it was safe to blow the smoke carelessly in the face of your own children with no ill social consequences. The young girl’s mother smoked. Her neighbors, both above and below, her older brother, the mailman, the cook at the corner diner, the grocery clerk, and even her own pediatrician smoked. He was in a white jacket, his sparse hair combed over limply, adjusting her into the fleece-lined, off-white harness that crisscrossed her back. It encircled her arms, trapping her in the constant, proper, upright position that plagued her tenth year. A broken clavicle. “She fell.” In the tiny doctor’s office, every third panel on the wood covered wall looked just like Jesus swung up high on the cross. Everyone inside had their heads bowed and Jesus was too lost in his own paneling predicament to ever bother with her. The cheap, dark, unfiltered cigarette dangled from the doctor’s thin lips. It stunk of burning leaves as he adjusted the straps to hold her shoulders in position while she healed. The girl wished he would take a step back so she could breathe. When he stopped, she searched his face for a kind word looking up at him, thinking of him as some sort of genuine authority figure. Maybe he would say she was brave or just let on that he knew how much pain a broken collarbone would bring such a young girl. His lips twisted, “Fucker sheds like a damn cat.” He blinked and then he exhaled fully into her face. The mother, at this point, didn’t say much in the morning. Sitting across from the daughter and occasionally the older brother, who was more there than here these days, she’d stare out the window. Behind those brown eyes she’d replay something the girl would never be privy to. Piling ashes on to her plate, 26

C AN DIS K LAILA she’d let the streaks of left behind egg yolk snuff out the burning flakes. The girl never minded these silent mornings, sitting there with her back to the window, eating the eggs, the toast, or the occasional bowl of cereal. It was mechanical: the fork in and the fork out, the spoon in and the spoon out, take a drink, swallow. It was easy and automatic. In a rush one morning, the girl scraped her fork against her teeth letting loose a squeal, a shriek that pierced through her eardrum. Without releasing her eyes from her window stare, the mother stopped, put her cigarette down on her own plate, crossed her hands in her lap, and announced, “Your father hated that sound.” The girl’s father, the first husband of the mother, was never ever spoken of. The girl knew she resembled her father. She assumed every feature not represented in the mother, the wide cheekbones, the toothy grin, the hair that stood on end and was so wild that it was painful to brush, were all gifts from her father. This was all she knew and to now have this new bit of information for her own felt like a prize, a story she’d tell to herself over and over to keep herself safe. She’d go off to fixate on that sound, stealing away a fork in the sleeve of her red knit sweater, like a junkie who sneaks off metal spoons to get his next fix. When the mother, or the stepfather, or even the older absent brother upset her, she would sneak off to the dimly lit stairwell of their apartment building and begin to signal her father by pulling that fork in and out of her mouth. The sound would ring out, amplified on the concrete walls of the confined space. It would build up a hearty echo, calling out, I am here. Where are you? She didn’t know his name or where he lived but she was so sure that if he heard that noise he would come running. It became a regular ritual, but never more than once a day. If you filled up too much of the space with the noise it just became another thing, like traffic, or the sound of everyone down the hall watching the evening news, a sound she heard each day on her way home from school. After a particularly furious injustice done unto her by the mother, she pulled the metal object out from her sleeve. She sat against the wall, knees pressed tight to her chest, stuck the fork in and CRACK! She bit down on the fork 27

TO O TH at just the perfect angle to place a in crack her front tooth. It ran half-way up so that when she ran her tongue across the tooth it snagged slightly. The searing pain that erupted in her mouth later lessened to a dull ache which she found herself seeking comfort in. Now instead of her father being a sound and an answered question, he sat as a cracked tooth in her mouth, only large enough for her to notice. He was always with her now. She grew up with last name of a man she never liked, a man the mother was bound to by a wedding ring, worn like a shackle, stifling her life. Her mother married several times but after the fourth, the girl stopped keeping count. The girl bore his last name, a name that never suited her and felt lousy resting in the mouth that housed the cracked tooth. The man, the second husband of her mother’s, was just as lousy: hair gel, red face, smart remarks, and violence. When the rotgut feel came, when the air filled with vodka vapors, when punishment rolled in, the girl would place her tongue against cracked tooth for some intimate measure of protection and bear out the pain. The girl was blessed by his large turquoise rings, punching her in the stomach, in the back, in the shoulder, but not the face. Oh, no, never the face, because the face left visible bruises. If it wasn’t on the face then it wasn’t abuse, it was learning her, and she deserved it. Sometimes afterward, the mother would pull her out of the house. Forgetting jackets, or the girl’s shoes, even in cool weather, the mother would steal her away. Once out of the house, she would spit on her fingertips and try to clean the girl’s face, smearing the spit and tears all around until her entire face was equally dingy. The mother would wipe her face dry with the bottom of her t-shirt, sometimes just rubbing the young one’s face against the side of her low riding bell bottom jeans as if she was polishing it. Her hand grappled in the mousy hair of the girl, she would pull her head back and forth, like one cleans the reflective side of a knife against their thigh. If you asked the girl to draw a picture of her mother to this day she’d likely just draw those low slung hip huggers that marched in front of her on outings to department stores as the mother so rarely looked at the girl directly.

C AN DIS K LAILA They would arrive, after those little streaks of violence, in a deli where smoked meats hung from the tin print ceiling and large bowls of various mayonnaise salads were kept behind glass, blurred by fingerprints, sleeping on beds of kale and ice. They’d walk past these beauties to the south wall where two tin drums topped with a cranked lids lay locked away in a glass topped freezer, a choice of chocolate or vanilla, bowl or cone. The girl always chose vanilla and a cone because, to her reasoning, it offered up a little something more than just a plain bowl. Within two bites, the secret crack in her tooth would ache with the cold. The pain would raise the alarm that the girl took as her payment to the tooth, a little offering to what kept her just safe enough to make it here. It was their deal, and they did it every time. In the public atmosphere of Shaultz’ Deli, the mother was full of smiles. She would become electric and alive talking to the man at the meat counter, light on her feet and cheerful as she would turn her nose upwards in laughter. She’d flirt and fling her hair over her shoulder. The man saying back, “If you’d just leave...” “If you were mine...” “If only...” If is a mighty short word for a mighty large meaning. The girl did not notice that they never had to pay for their ice cream. The mother always left her situation eventually for one man who was just like the former, chasing her ifs as though one would lead to salvation. She never packed her large worn suitcase until some other relationship was secured. Eventually, the mother didn’t pack the daughter and take her with her. The girl was okay. She was taller then, and more hardened. She placed her tongue against the crack in that tooth, set one foot out the door, then the other and was gone.

SL AVE T O H I S WOR K KC Phillips Hanging on the wall was a small, framed piece of corkboard. There were a few memos tacked onto it: What to do if somebody is choking. Surf lessons with Dave on Thursday nights. The Halloween party. Charlie’s eyes were trained on the space the board occupied. He pushed his hand around the metal desk, blindly looking for his coffee cup. Keyboard. Stapler. Folder. There it was, the little paper cup. He touched the plastic lid to his face three or four times before finding his lips. The bitter, brown fluid was lukewarm and stale. Charlie held his breath and ignored his offended taste buds, swallowing the liquid trash. His eyes were dry and sunken. Dave knew how to surf? Charlie straightened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair. Thirty-six right, twelve left, twenty-four right. It was a simple combination. The door creaked open. The safe beneath Charlie’s desk was just large enough for a few documents. In this case, a couple of phone numbers for important clients. “Hello?” came a voice from somewhere behind the thin plastic wall of his cubical. Charlie stopped breathing, his eyes shot wide open. His spine stiffened and he stayed low to the ground. Each passing second felt like an eternity and the deafening tick of the second hand reminded him of his own presence. “Damned drones working overtime, leaving the lights on.” The voice flipped the switch, blackness flooded the office, and the door slammed shut. Charlie let out the stale air in his lungs. Lock the door next time. Every night it was the same routine. Charlie woke up at sunset, threw on his red tie, and got back to work. He’d usually sort through papers and make a few phone calls. Nobody picked up this late. He took an extra-long lunch break— nobody seemed to mind—and got back to his desk. Charlie’s desk. During the day, it was somebody else’s, but at night, it was all his. He ran his hands down the jagged metal contours of the cheap thing. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was all he had. He got back to his feet and turned the lights on. That was too close. He locked the door and started entering phone numbers and contact information into the computer. This place needed him. He kept it alive at night, when all of the

K C P HILLIP S other, lazier drones went home to their families. Or pets. Or TV dinners. Charlie’s cracked lips parted into a grin and he let out a small chuckle. There was a knock at the door. “Who’s there?” Charlie felt the blood freeze in his veins. He swung at the light switch and the room went dark again. Sweat poured from Charlie’s face as the tumblers clicked and turned. The door creaked open. The lights came on. Charlie stood face to face with the voice. It was a short man in a grey janitor’s jumpsuit. In his left hand was a flashlight; in his right hand was a ring of keys. “Charlie, what are you doing here?” “My job.” Butterflies nibbled at the lining of his stomach. “Charlie.” The janitor took a long pause, “Go home. You were fired weeks ago. Your family is probably worried sick.” “I can’t talk right now, Phil, I’ve got a lot of important calls to make.” “Charlie.” “Hello, Mr. Stark? I’m calling about the account under your name…” Charlie held up the faded white receiver. The cord dangled freely at his knees. “Yes, I know, Mr. Stark, but you don’t—“ “Charlie. Go home.” “No, Mr. Stark, our records show that— He hung up on me! Can you believe it?” “Very rude.” “I completely agree. Now I am sure you’ve got your work to do and I’ve got mine. You’re a good man, Phil. But these reports aren’t going to file themselves.” Charlie sat at the computer desk and typed names and dates onto a blank screen.

S L A V E TO H IS WO RK “You’ve got it, Charlie.” Charlie lifted his head from his desk and raised his eyebrow. “Phil, what time is it?” “Three in the morning.” Charlie checked his watch. Three in the morning. “Thanks, Phil.” He ran his hands through his hair again. “Oh, and Phil?” No answer. “Phil, if you could throw some coffee on the pot.” No answer. “Thanks, Phil. You’re a good guy. I bet you don’t hear that enough, working the late shift like this. But I appreciate you.” No answer. “I really needed to hear that, Phil. I’m going through a hard time right now. I just lost my job. I’ve been fighting with my fiancée.” The phone came to life in a burst of light and sound. Charlie checked the caller ID. “Speak of the devil.” “Where are you, Charlie?” “I’m at work, you know that.” “Please come home. I miss you.” “Oh, you miss me? Last night you wanted me to shove my head up my own ass and tonight you miss me? That’s very convenient. What do you need? Money?” “Honey, please, just come home. We can talk later.”

K C P HILLIP S “My work is very important to me, Carla. I’m not going to risk getting myself fired over you.” Muffled sobs. “Oh. No, no, no, no. Don’t cry. Baby, wait, that’s not what I meant.” Charlie stood up and paced in his cubicle. The dangling receiver cord swayed in time with his legs. “Please, come home.” “Here, I’m putting my things away. I’ll be home in a few minutes.” “Come home, Charlie. I need you. We need you.” “We?” Silence. “What do you mean ‘we’? Carla what’s going on?” He was met with the hauntingly familiar tone of a dead line. “That was my fiancée. She knows I work here late, right, Phil?” Charlie set the receiver on the table and poked his head above the cubicle wall. “Phil?” The room was empty. The fluorescent lights hummed and the clock on the wall ticked. Charlie took a sip from his paper cup. Fresh, hot, black coffee. The taste filled his chest with warmth. He set the cup down onto the smooth wooden desk. The desk was made of a very expensive mahogany, lacquered and polished to a gleaming bright shine. He ran his finger down the side of the desk. Just where it always was, his little black safe lay on the floor, hidden underneath his desk. He entered the combination on the numeric keypad. One, nine, eight, nine. The year he asked Carla to marry him. Inside were the numbers he needed to call tonight. Contact information, important documents. He pulled out a handful of cards and laid them out on the desk. “Hi, I’m calling for Mr. Quincy. Yes, I’ll hold.” Charlie placed the receiver back on the desk and pressed the speakerphone button. Light bossa nova music

S L A V E TO H IS WO RK resonated through the office. Charlie took another sip from his coffee. The music stopped. “Please go home,” said a female voice. She was having trouble breathing. “Excuse me; I’m looking for Mr. Quincy?” “This is him.” “Mr. Quincy, I’m so glad I could speak with you. It’s about your account with us.” There was a small click from the other end and the line went dead. Charlie sunk his head into his hands and let out a deep breath. Was the clock ticking louder than it was before? Four thirty in the morning. He looked at the bulletin board again. Where exactly did Dave hold surfing lessons? He let out a loud yawn and jerked forward, forcing his eyelids open. He was not going to sleep on the job. Charlie resumed entering names and dates into the database. The door groaned open and slammed shut. “Phil, this coffee is delicious.” “Thank you, it’s the good stuff. It costs a little more, but you can taste where the money goes.” “Damn straight.” He rolled his chair out from under his desk to make eye contact with Phil. There was nobody in the room. Charlie knelt down and turned the key to unlock his safe. He turned his wrist toward his face and checked the time on his watch. Three in the morning. He snatched up a few documents and entered the names, numbers, and dates into the computer. He ran his hands down his round, plastic desk and straightened his tie. “Is somebody in there?” There was a knock at the door. Charlie’s muscles stiffened and he ducked his head under his desk. “Charlie, is that you in there?” The figure in the window of the door knocked again. “Charlie, I’m going to call the cops. You have to go home.

K C P HILLIP S “I have to get to work,” Charlie called back, challenging the figure behind the door. “You were fired. That means you don’t work here anymore.” “I’m working.” “You’re trespassing.” “Hello, Mr. Fredrickson, I’m calling about your account.” Charlie ignored the man on the other side of the locked door and picked the phone receiver up to his ear. “You are speaking to him.” “Great, I just wanted to go over a few things.” “Charlie, let me in or I’m going to break the door down.” “Firstly, it says here that on March 5, 1991—“ “Are you dealing with the Fredrickson account?” “Yes, I am.” He held his hand up to the receiver. “I would appreciate it if you’d let me get back to work. Mr. Fredrickson is a very important client.” “No problem, Charlie. I was worried for a minute that some lunatic had broken into the building.” “Yes, Mr. Fredrickson, I understand, but— No, Mr. Fredrickson. Yes, Mr. Fredrickson.” “I’ll let you get back to work.” “Thanks.” Charlie set the phone down without hanging up. “This job needs me.”

M OT HER W OL F Madeline Polzer Angela found the wolf pups when she was walking in the forest, looking for her husband. He had told her to come out around noon to help him handle the kill, skin it, and hack it up for a stew—he didn’t give her any ideas about how she was supposed to find him in the forest that surrounded their house, but she knew he expected her to anyway. After a few hours of wandering, Angela had stopped looking—she was either lost, or hiding. She was deep into the forest and hungry when she found the pups, a yard away from a collapsed den. There were four of them, their eyes still closed, too skinny and soft in her hands. They whined and wriggled when she picked them up, but calmed as they settled together in her apron, a knot of soft gray-brown fur. She turned around and started walking back home, only pausing with nauseous dread when she entered the clearing where her house was built and heard her husband screaming. She tucked the wolf pups into the woodpile and went inside—she’d share them with her husband later, when he was in a better mood. Someone’s going to see me, she thought, her heart pounding sickly as she entered the house. Something other than me is going to know, is going to hear and see and understand… The forest animals ran away and hid, becoming insubstantial ghosts. But these ones, the four wolf pups, would see the bruises before they could fade back into the ballad of her blood; they would be able to smell her fear and hear the unreal silence that followed. Her injuries would no longer just be like a story she told herself. Angela found these thoughts comforting as she went out to the woodpile later that night, the bruise around her eye looking dark and slick as oil in the fading summer night. Her husband had gone into town, to a bar called The Hatchet. Her muscles stiff, she pulled the pups

M ADE LIN E P OLZ E R out from behind the woodpile and carried them inside, cradling them in the crook of her arm. Angela loved her wolf pups—she loved them with the soft, sad, burning intensity of a woman who wanted children but couldn’t have any. That first night, she fed them each by soaking a clean rag in milk and giving it to them to suck on. She named them and fell asleep with the four pups curled up beside her. The next morning, her husband had returned, but didn’t seem to care about her new pets. “If you want to waste your time on the mutts...” he said, letting his gruff voice trail off. Angela’s husband had a habit of not finishing sentences. He was a man of few words. She was a little surprised he allowed her four things of her own, but understood it was only because he saw them as a burden instead of a boon. Angela named the wolves Odin, Ferrick, Freya, and Sheva—two boys, two girls. The first couple weeks were full of the anxieties that plague most first-time mothers—they all needed feeding every few hours and would let Angela know with feeble and high-pitched whines. She had walked three miles to their closest neighbor and asked to borrow her old baby bottles. Sheva nearly died the first week, but pulled through. Angela made a nest for them next to the fireplace out of old rags, flannel, and sweatshirts. However, most nights she brought them to bed with her to curl against her stomach—she imagined this was exactly the way they were supposed to sleep, piled in a furry love-knot against their mother. Angela figured they knew she wasn’t their real mother, in some forested corner of their barely-formed minds. She wondered, if they slept next to her long enough, if she cared for them long enough, might they begin to confuse her for their real mother, forget their real mother’s smell and the wild beat of her heart? Maybe they would always know anyway. Maybe she’d always smell easy to kill and her heart would always seem sluggish and awkward. Their eyes opened a week after Angela brought them home. By late autumn, the pups were walking. They would eat the innards, eyes, and tongues of her husband’s kills—Angela would mash them up and feed them to pups 37

M O TH E R W O LF from her hands for the first month before their teeth grew in. They would play, preparing their skills for a fight; Angela liked to watch them tumbling about in a nipping, yelping heap. Their personalities were clear by this time. Odin was serious, almost somber, definitely the big brother of the group. Ferrick was a little passive, the quiet one. He usually got pushed around during the play fights, and was often the last to eat because the other three bullied him. Sheva was adventurous—she wandered off alone at least five times during first couple months she could walk on her own. Freya was a leader, aggressive where Odin was stoic. During the fall, her husband hunted and went out drinking with his friends when he wasn’t working. When he was home, he was in a generally good mood, calling her “honey” and fondling her when he got the opportunity. Once summer came, the heat put him in bad moods; she endured his abuse all year long, but summers tended to be particularly ruthless. Angela found she didn’t think about her husband when he was gone and she was caring for the pups, which was an unexpected relief. She spent her days toting the wolves outside and inside, feeding them on the kitchen floor, and doing her chores with sixteen paws, eight eyes, and four little tails underfoot. In the cool autumn nights, Angela gathered the four wriggling pups, sat on the roof of the house and taught them how to howl. The pups were long-legged youths as October dragged into November, ready to stalk Little Red Riding Hood and serve witches for Halloween. Their play fights had turned serious—a hierarchy had been established, with Odin at the top, followed very closely by Freya, then Sheva as the content beta, and poor Ferrick at the bottom of the heap. Slowly, Angela grew more secure in her success, in her knowledge and mastery over the unruly pups. When they grew big and became strong, she could look at them and know that strength existed because of her, possibly as a reflection of herself. She spoiled and cuddled them less, the way parents dote less on their children as they grow up and start to make a place for themselves in the world, a place separate from their parents. Angela saw them less as her pets or as 38

M ADE LIN E P OLZ E R her darlings—they were suddenly becoming abstractions, like the other forest creatures, symbols of power and wildness that she in her domesticity only had a tenuous grasp of. They loved her, but she couldn’t imagine just what that love meant, or if she had the capacity to reciprocate. Her husband was getting jealous of the attention Angela gave the wolves. They were big now, and he said they couldn’t live in the house anymore. He would take a swing at Angela at the slightest provocation, and went out much less often since it was getting so cold. She was now quiet when he was hurting her: partially because she didn’t want to startle the pups, and partially out of spite. She had to go to the hospital one night in November. After her husband had passed out, the wolves piled into the back of the pickup truck and Angela drove the hour and a half to the hospital to get her jaw wired shut and her nose set. Her bones were bruised, the doctor said—Angela imagined the old bruises that had just sunk and settled on her bones. The doctor and nurses seemed to know how, but they didn’t ask questions or call the police. They knew she wouldn’t have anything to say to the cops. She had nowhere to go. The wolves waited patiently in the back of the truck, knotted together against the cold. Angela was surprised how quickly they grew. They were always hungry. She started using her husband’s shotgun to shoot rabbits and squirrels. She needed to teach them how to hunt. In December, after a night of light snowfall, Angela wandered into the forest in her winter coat and boots with the hungry wolves behind her. For a fraction of a moment as they had started to leave the clearing, Angela feared the wolves might attack her out of hunger. But wolves don’t kill their own, she thought, the words emerging from the back of her mind as the simple truth. She had been trying to develop their hunting instincts since they could walk by making them chase and attack a fresh rabbit carcass, or letting them try their

M O TH E R W O LF teeth on an old deer hide. She didn’t expect today to yield results—this was only one more step in their development. It was around noon and Angela’s face was cold. She pulled her old, fur-lined hunting hat down tight over her head and pressed on into the woods. She had no idea how to track a deer or elk or whatever it was the wolves were supposed to eat. The wolves followed her at first and then, as if sensing her lack of knowledge, trotted out in front of her. The small pack broke away from her completely after a few hours, disappearing into the brush at a smooth run. Angela thought they were leaving her. She ran after them, holding back tears. Her heart felt like it was falling in on itself, crushed under the weight of its own love, need, and anger. She instinctively followed their tracks, laid out neatly in the snow like an ancient alphabet. She heard howls, but didn’t see the wolves. It was half an hour before she came across them in a clearing, their muzzles and jaws bloody. She almost began to cry all over again, overcome with the kind of happiness that threatens to tear you in two. They had brought down an older deer, its throat torn open and its torso exposed to the cold air. Angela hung back in the trees, out of sight. She was surprised to see Ferrick was eating while the others held back—the alpha always eats first. He must have asserted himself during the hunt and realized what he could do when the chips were down, she thought. Angela moved from behind the trees. The pack saw her. Ferrick backed away from the deer carcass. All four peered at her, waiting. Angela realized they were waiting for her to come and eat. She walked up to their kill and pretended to eat, letting blood smear across her face. The wolves waited for her to finish before taking their share. It was dark by the time they returned to the clearing, the wolves yipping and bounding with excitement and pride. Angela herself was enveloped in the serene satisfaction that accompanies absolute, well-deserved success. The lights in the house were on. Hearing the wolves, her husband came out and stood silently in front of the door.

M ADE LIN E P OLZ E R Sensing the danger in his silence, the wolves’ hackles bristled and stood on edge like a witch’s broomstick. Ferrick was the first to bare his teeth and the other three followed, growling. Their eyes were huge and bright. Angela swore she could feel their growls ripping through the air like an engine, rattling her ribs and the pit of her stomach. The group broke apart; they circled their prey. Her husband started to speak uneasily. “Ferrick,” Angela was startled by her own voice—it suddenly sounded like something worth listening to— “go.” Ferrick lunged forward, the three others following, as Angela knew they would. Her husband disappeared, screaming, into the knot of fur and teeth. The snow was soon soaked with blood. That night, Angela slept in the center of her bed with the wolves piled around her. They all dreamed the same dreams.

M AGN O L IA A N D TH E W Y R M Francesca Veto One stormy afternoon, a young maiden set off on a journey to collect medicinal herbs in the mountain. Her mahogany leather boots squished in the dark, muddy waters. The downpour fell heavily and made soft pitter-patter noises against her light blue raincoat. Her ebony hair was neatly braided and curled into a bun. To prevent water from seeping through, the maiden covered her gold woven basket with a tarp. As she skipped down the dirt path, she thought to herself, Mother told me not to get side tracked. “Don’t pick flowers!” her mother had said, “And for God’s sake, do not stray from the path.” As the maiden repeated those two lines in her head, she saw a crimson light glowing in the distance. Then came the fork in the road. There were two different signs; Purely medicinal herbs and Rare flowers and herbs. The first path was heavily matted with footprints and crushed grass. The other was full of magnolias, lilies, and fresh basil leaves. In the distance the light grew, gleaming through the trees. “Well, technically there are two... so I’m not actually straying away,” the maiden mused under her breath. With every step she made through the lush path, she picked each type of flower and herb she saw. Her pale slender fingers wrapped around the stems; she plucked and strummed as if she were playing guitar. Her own solo began as she could not contain her excitement and her basket filled to the brim. Soon though, her plucking came to a stop. Her jaw dropped in amazement at what she saw— the crimson light stared straight at her. Yet, it was no light that pierced through her soul, but the eye of a massive dragon! Not only did the dragon tower high above the ground, but its presence also hovered over her like the approaching thunderstorm. His crimson iris was sharp and numbed her to the core. The dragon’s scales resembled diamond shards ready to puncture the skin of a young maiden at any moment—each scale shimmered even without sunlight. For a second she found beauty in this beastly creature. BOOM! Thunder struck and her basket tumbled to the ground. Her newly gathered magnolias spewed across the

F RAN C E S C A V E TO wet grass. The maiden’s quivering lip and shaky knees continued to rattle as if she were a snow globe, everything inside her scattered. The dragon lifted his head and snapped, “Mortal, heed my warning! Turn back at once if you do not wish to be my afternoon snack.” With a quick breath of fire he lit the path back down the mountain. The maiden spun around and took one last glance at the dragon. Something caught her eye. In the midst of his glistening scales, a gaping wound lay on his left leg. The scarlet ooze trickled down to his heel, staining the bed of flowers upon which he rested. She took a gulp and screamed, “You’re wounded!” “Go!” he snarled, wincing in pain. The dragon became furious and lifted his great body towards her, Suddenly, his back leg gave out and he stopped moving. She shrieked and covered her face with her arms. She waited for the chomp of death. She imagined being flung in the air and split in two. How awful! And poor mother would weep and weep. Would I even be tasty? Waiting, and waiting, nothing happened. She lowered her arms cautiously, and found herself looking right into the dragon’s sorrowful eyes. For some reason, he didn’t seem so frightening. He looked more like a wounded kitten, than a man-eating dragon. That may sound stupid, she thought. The maiden grabbed her stone bowl from her basket and began to mash different plants together. The maiden rubbed some salve over the oozing wound. “This will give you some relief.” The dragon flashed his sharp teeth and snapped his jaws. “I’m going to eat you.” “Not in that state you’re not,” the maiden said sternly to her patient and began to crush some more herbs. He rolled his crimson eyes. It was no use eating such a tiny human anyway; it barely fit the requirements of an appetizer. He sat quietly, dozing in 43

M A G N O LIA A ND TH E W YRM and out of sleep. What a peculiar human it is… why is it helping me? Even though the potential of it being food is very high. The maiden finished covering the wound with elephant leaves to keep it safe from infections. She gazed into the dragon’s double-lidded eyes, half-open, and watched as he fell into a deep sleep and began to twitch quietly. She crept away slowly and headed back down the mountain. The thunder had stopped and the oppressing rain was now nothing more than a light mist. Stars began to blossom in the night sky. The maiden traced the stars with her fingers all the way back to her cottage. Arriving at home, she slipped off her muddy boots and hung her raincoat to dry. Her mother was already tucked in bed. The maiden yawned as she tiptoed to her room. The next morning when the she woke up, there was a single silver scale resting on her window’s ledge.

B O UN D Gisela Alt I was a writer once. It was traumatic. The problem with defining yourself as a writer is that you’re essentially declaring that you think sanity is overrated (Not to mention income). And people know, because you’re always losing things. You lose your pen, your passwords, your keys, your wallet, your car, your left shoe, your train of thought, your mind. Sometimes, if you’re unfortunate, your sense of humor. Sometimes, if you’re rejected, your sense of purpose. But still, you write. You write because you have no choice. You write because the words are pounding at the walls of your psyche, and it hurts worse to shut them up than to let them out. You write to express. You write to rant. You write to connect and convince and cajole and confess, You write because you have a voice, and it will not be silent. My voice has changed. Now, I am a mother. I am a tattooed, pierced, opinionated, loud-mouthed mother. There came a time when the excited anticipation of getting laid was eclipsed by the thrilling prospect 47

B OU N D of getting more than three hours of sleep. When support was less about understanding, and more about underwire. When I realized that for me, the only thing more painful than being a writer was being in love. And so I wrote. I wrote because I was ecstatic. I wrote because I was afraid. I wrote because I was uncertain. I wrote because I was judged. Conservatives were offended that I would breastfeed in public. Boob Nazis were appalled that I would formula-feed at all. The mainstream crowd disapproved of my co-sleeping, while the co-sleeping crowd disapproved of my crib. When I wore my daughter in a sling, I was spoiling her. When I pushed my son in a stroller, I was neglecting him. I was always too much, and never enough. What could I do but laugh? And write. I am still a writer. I write now not to make a statement, but to make a difference. I write to congressmen, opinion pages, CEOs, bloggers, and of course combative right-wing media puppets every damn chance I get. I write to defend my son’s freedom of speech. I write to protect my daughter’s freedom of choice. I write because today is my children’s history, and I’ve learned that my words really do make an impact. I write because I am their voice. One day, I asked my daughter what she wants to be when she grows up. 48

GIS E LA ALT An intelligent, creative, inquisitive bibliophile, she seems prime breeding ground for adolescent angst and bad metaphor. I wanted to prepare myself, maybe start saving for the therapy bills. So I asked her, “Do you want to be a writer?” She said no, thank goodness. She said, “I’m an artist!” Oh, shit.

D REAM S Maria Guadalupe Avina-Hernandez What you see by looking at Us Untalented, Uneducated Delinquents dress unsophisticated Getting faded Gang affiliated Their jail cell dated Living a “gangsta life” because the media says it Road to failure and teen parents Growing up to be the criminals of tomorrow Throwing fits at one another Our own brothers Using only their code language, Spanish Not knowing a pinch of “proper English” Because they are too busy drug trafficking to educate themselves If they cared they wouldn’t be drawing, drooling, texting, snoozing or doing other things in class. You see Us The wetbacks, Beaners, Swine-flu Illegal aliens destined to Fail under the laws of the government Working harder than the average human Making less than what you’re assuming. Being amongst the most misunderstood We know we are not defined by the neighborhood In which we live in. Who we really are will come to a shock To those who think they know who we are Just as Martin Luther King Jr., we all have a Dream A dream to end the chain of poverty To not work at jobs that will damage our bodies 50

MARIA GU ADALU P E AV IN A-HE RN AN DE Z To make for a better society and to Have a voice in democracy A dream to get a higher education Surpass the American tradition To fail under the system of no determination Of no end, no hope and imprisonment Take a breath mint Speak cleanly about my people and the real history Here we are telling the true story Not the censored version Our lives and views corrupted by another person. How much control do we have on our own identities? None I’m not considered Mexican in my own country because I’ve been too “Americanized” Not considered American because I’m not the right pigment I don’t deserve to wear that Mexican Flag while I’m living in this country I don’t deserve to be in this country because I was born in another. My rights as a human have been corrupted on both sides There is only one world and I don’t know where the one I belong on, lies The real me slowly dies I become two faced. It’s a challenge Knowing in the end it won’t matter but I still manage To keep both worlds in balance People degrade us and say we can’t make it We get fired up and prove them wrong. Make them eat their words and have them sit in silence reflecting on their own ignorance. We’ve been through enough struggles in our life for your words to take any effect. They say that those who go through the worst become the strongest We’ve been broken down ‘til it no longer hurts And yet we’re not dying, not lying but trying and striving to make it through, alone Parents are foreign to this country and still have much to learn 51

DR E A M S Getting through by paying for a family and taxes While trying to learn English and struggling to do so with their sixth grade education. It’s tragic. Now top that with being the first born, unborn in a country of “opportunities” Having younger siblings watching us break down every barrier in our way People have their ups and downs in life but when you are a role model you just hope that those looking up to you don’t see your train as it wrecks. Pulverized into dust Our struggles become a thing of the past. But as we look back we see our barriers being re-built The kids following behind us can’t see the same path we took Unable to apply for financial aid or student loans, better yet Not being able to get the same benefits because their parents made love in a different country, The fact that we have lived here for as long as most others has no meaning in this society. If only the world were blind Our ears would be the most used sense to determine the future of a life. Of a being wanting to make change Not for just ourselves but for those marching right behind us. Humans go through struggles. But when you have humans vs. humans and laws vs. humans it feels as if there is no way around it. Dreams have a goal, goals have barriers, barriers are broken down by people, people have a passion for change, and change is what will happen. We won’t stop until we get what we want and need. Now, can you SEE US?

W IL L A R D Judy Brickner To remember Willard is like falling out of the sky into no middle initial. You’d think there would be nothing but nothingness. No, there are brambled recollections to retain me. Trying to explain the stateliness of that forest or the moral smell of morel mushrooms to non-believers makes me believe even more. Traveling to that space tangled with tenderness revives my crystal clear childhood suspension. No middle thicket of insolence was ever apparent because I was a girl. The timber’s timbre emanates only ardor and affection … and something more. He reflects morning moistures of diligence and evening lights fading, all due to his indelible vigilance. His symbolic tree of life offers common ground, unquestionable black binding dirt, relentless roots. The park breeze remembers no pretense of anything other than what he was. To remember Willard is to feel no façade in his shadow, no doubt in his shelter. I hear only the clarity of my own life. ~ For my Father, who has no middle initial

HOW I W I L L R E M E M BE R Madeline Polzer Prelude: Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a summer like the whole universe sighing, the sky is dark like chocolate, and the stars are calling to us like the chorus of every favorite song. Poem Proper: I dress like my t-shirt is armor, my boots are like freaking justice. My friends and I walk down the street at night like a pack of loose wolves. Laughter like melted ice cream leaks through the neighborhood to break like waves against the house fronts of my old neighbors, sleeping like the dead. As we walk under streetlights, shining on us like they know all of our secrets, light pools on the worn streets, like spilt cheap alcohol. We aim toward the center of town like the head of a needle: a four-way intersection from which you can see all of downtown. We lie in the center of the road without fear like angels in their element. We know no one is out driving at midnight, even in summer. How we talk shakes the dust off the tired old town, like youth is a rag this town wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pick up.

M ADE LIN E P OLZ E R We stop in the gas station like a living person in a cemetery, our skins like parchment under the hard light. We get beef jerky, a box of Hostess snack cakes, flavored water, Pringles, and Twizzlers, and go on our way. We could go left or right, each direction leading us like the north star out of town. We walk to the other end of town like the star-speckled fringe of our little universe, to the beach. We jump off the pier, worn like secrets, into the lake— smooth and dark and clingy—warm as love. We laugh like we’ve never been lonely. We let the air pull the water from our clothes while we walk back to my place. Epilogue: Winter like teeth came and went, spring comes and wakes the earth with a kiss like thawing ice. It’s easier to remember these things even in a city like Theseus’ maze; unfamiliar as it was, I still don’t know it like I do that town.

GA LW AY Sydney Rakestraw Salmon fishing in the canal The dairy farm and the university The bank that once was Lynchâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s castle Quiet by day, bustling by night The city is green and metallic They say you are quaint and I disagree because I see the pale-legged ladies spilling out of doors, leaving thumping music behind, their hems hitched up to their thighs They say you are exciting and I laugh because only the tourists can find new meaning in the same stories we pass and greet daily They say you are beautiful and I cannot deny that your sparkling emeralds and crumbling rock would inspire a masterpiece I turn to those who think they know you and I tell them all I know. I say: No one has a monopoly on the beauty or the ugliness here; not the tailored councilmen or the drunkards who fall out of pubs in the lavender night The schoolgirls in thick cotton and plaid, the red-faced university boys and the mammies pushing plastic buggies of wailing infants have all felt the soak of the rain and the joy of laughter under the sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s spilled rays It is a fresh-faced lad with ambition and it is a leathery old man in a wool cap, shoulders broad from work on the dock for ages Cigarette stained city streets just inches away from untouched jade grass and a sparkling bay full of sorrow Shouting and drinking and dancing to the song of the fiddle and the shudder of the bass Smell of sea salt and exhaust pipe Comfort of an open fire or harshness of a rainy night under a bus stop Building stories of metal and glass Atop mossy battered bricks that tell a tale 56

S Y DN E Y R AK E S TRAW Smoking a pipe and telling you his yellow-toothed past Regaling with a colorful rhyme as you wait for the train in the wicked wind A baby bouncing on his grandfatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s knee as he plays with Jigsaw pieces and building blocks Comforted that underneath it all is the slow heartbeat and the rhythmic pulse of the people Telling a tale Building stories Of salmon fishing in the man-made canal Of the university built across from the dairy farm And the busy bank inside of old Lynchâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s castle

RO M E Thor Rothering At night when it rained, the cobblestones turned the color of barley wine and the men selling umbrellas came from the shadows, like scared eyes and old news paper clippings. We would sit on the balcony having a cigarette until it cleared off and the peace of the night was no longer held within the rainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s authority. Only then would the city reclaim the dissidence and unthoughtful clamor it writhed with so virtuously. The bus to Trastevere was always slow, but so were our hearts because somehow we all felt lost, even with one another, even with the skin-tight light of the night to wrap us. And it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bad; it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t anything but the children inside us who missed home and all the memories they left there. If the night was young enough, a train would run to the sea and we would run to the train, because it was something to look at, the sea, in the dark, as it breathed the salty fine air at us. And the feeling you would get after looking for too long made you wretched and hopeful, because somewhere past it was where you needed to be and somewhere in it was where you wished to drown with no one watching. Going back was always shorter, maybe because our hearts were filled with all that kind of loneliness you find in an empty frozen car, or maybe we had just drank enough wine to make time itself more bearable. When the city arrived to us, our only comfort was the buildings, somehow never changing from night to day, always the same old worn out souls as before.

GRA N D M OTH E R WI L LOW Teal Rowe In caressing watery mirror, she awaits self-sacrifice, torn from greening hillock, and crushed by groaning ice. Her minnow nibbled branches, fowling nests do gently tease, while whispered songs of spring, play on leafy vernal breeze.

T HE EL EP H A N T I N M Y M OU TH Misian Searles The Top Hat told me to stop my stampede or she’ll tranquilize my wild again. (If I ground my thunder maybe she’ll give silk for these shackles.) She says, be steady as the tightrope walkers breath, quiet as the tent after the late show. No one wants to fix the clown car of my want parade or hear about the ring masters in their pinstripes & beards & fists, or the women they force to swallow their fire—No, the weekend families don’t want to talk about my mother. The sword swallowers have to polish every blade alone. She says, “Stop asking the human cannonball about your spark.” (Me, animal, no spark, can’t follow the contortionist into his glass box—can’t leap through the white ring in every eye. Sedate the mammoth in my bones, the want in my bearded heart, the knot in my neck from trying to hold the moon from within this cage / beneath the big top.)

B AT T L E H Y M N O F TH E GH O ST C R A B Sarah Weston When the air is still, save for the spray of ocean and crashing tide, and the sky grows dark and melts into the horizon, they creep out from their holes, emerging to reclaim the sand from forgotten remnants, stale tales from the day before: salty towels, deflated beach balls, broken boogie boards. The Ghost Crabs come out and regain their territory under a star-freckled sky they reestablish their homes amidst the tourist debris and climb leisurely over a playground of old sand castles and holes dug all the way to China. What once was lost is theirs again. Until the Earthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s final yawn, when she stretches pink clouds into the sky, pushing forth the day, forcing the crabs to scramble through the trenches stealing away again to safety under the sand the thickening air of day leaving them no room. They can hear the vibration of the stampede in the distance, from their underground safe houses, as vacation blue reclaims the sky. They wait out their banishment under the feet of conquering tourists.

P E T ER P A N I N H Y DE P A R K Sarah Weston The audacity of tulips emerging, defiant from the nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s thin layer of ice and snow. Triumphant, reaching into nothing but clouds and early morning fog. Mimicking the flippancy of their overseer, the boy in stone who refused to grow up.

V ER T EB R A E Sarah Anderson

OIL P A INT 65

JE SSI Goldie Bennett

A CRYLIC P A INT COLORED P ENCIL 66

D A N IEL I I I Goldie Bennett

A CRYLIC P A INT COLORE D P E NC IL 67

C O M P O ST Dace

INK ON CA RDSTOCK 68

HE N N A P AT T E R N 2 Kristin Fox

CLA Y UNDE RGLA ZE 69

M ASKED Hannah Goldberg

OIL P A INT 70

WOOD Hannah Goldberg

B RA SS SOLDER 71

SL EEP IN G WOM A N Hannah Goldberg

WA X OIL P A INT 72

EL EP HA N T I N T H E J U N G LE Jessica Anne Grimes

A CRYLIC P A INT 73

UN T I T L ED Alyssa Hageman

WA TE RCOLOR 74

C HE SS S E T 1 Elena Poiata

CE LLUCLA Y EP OXY FA B RIC A CRYLIC P A INTS 75

KRAKE N H AU S Alek Schroeder

CLA Y GRA Y DSM STONE WA RE 76

B EAU T Y F O U N D W I TH I N Donna L. Xiong

A CRYLIC P A INT 77

EM ILY IN C O C O A Josh Zytkiewicz

P HOTOGRA P HY 78