CONTENTS Introduction Theorem, Cary Waterman Fox Trot, Andrea Sanow My Observation, Elizabeth Windsperger Diet, Rebecca Reilly Circa 1990 B.C., Colin Irvine Handmade Book, Erica Paschke The Wedding Picture, Alissa Nollan Transformations, Emily Hanson* Batzer Bay, Ted Conouer Early Morning Arrival... Show moreCONTENTS Introduction Theorem, Cary Waterman Fox Trot, Andrea Sanow My Observation, Elizabeth Windsperger Diet, Rebecca Reilly Circa 1990 B.C., Colin Irvine Handmade Book, Erica Paschke The Wedding Picture, Alissa Nollan Transformations, Emily Hanson* Batzer Bay, Ted Conouer Early Morning Arrival, Ana Olson Surviving the Foul Days of Farm Life, Jennifer Hipple* Saturday Afternoon Stroll, Elizabeth Windsperger Sand and Castle, Sammie Guck Falling, David Siegfried* Winter Carnival, Kayla Skarbakka 30 Below Conscious, Hanna Cashing It Woos, Hanna Cashing Executioner Blues, Joel Enright* I I Should Have Told Him of the Train, Kayla Skarbakkcfi H coo—boo 18 21 22 23 27 28 30 31 34 Show less
“Fear, anxiety, guilt, and the inability to accept? Which do you think, Jed?" She snapped at him. Her voice cracked as she asked. Her tone was much like the jail- ers when they spoke to him through slits in heavy steel doors, sharp and angry. “Is there more to the dream, Jed, or can wejust plan... Show more“Fear, anxiety, guilt, and the inability to accept? Which do you think, Jed?" She snapped at him. Her voice cracked as she asked. Her tone was much like the jail- ers when they spoke to him through slits in heavy steel doors, sharp and angry. “Is there more to the dream, Jed, or can wejust plan to meet again next week?" “No, th—there‘s more.” “Oh, pray tell," she said, almost in a whisper. Had she reallyjust said that? Jed looked at her evil face and then away. Somehow he knew she wasn‘t really evil. Somewhere in his head, where everything was backward he knew she was a nice person. He knew she wasn’t really like this. Dr. Hannah Zietruab was what it said on the diplomas hanging on the wall. They called her Dr. Z in the courtyard or when Jed would see her at lunch. In public he was sure he had seen her eyes smiling; she was nice to everyone. In the din of her office, she was the devil. Jed could feel the straps on his arms holding him in the chair. He felt the need to pull away and to run screaming down the hallway. Someone should know how she was when she was left alone with him. “Jed, are you alright?" Her voice had changed and she was speaking in a pleasant tone again. “Yeah,” he managed to say between ragged breaths. His head was starting to ache as he tried to make sense of her. The best way right now seemed to be if he was to continue with his dream. “Well, I fell, slowly, much more slowly than usual." Jed paused to consider the chaos in his head as she made a note on her pad. “Maybe it wasn’t even falling, maybe I was floating." “Jed, you were falling,” she said oh so plainly. “You do not float in dreams; you are either falling or you‘re on the ground.” “Well, falling slowly then... but I had time to look down and see what was below me." “Maybe you have made progress, Jed. What did you see?" She seemed to ap- prove of his progress, and Jed began to think fondly of the sun shining outside on his acres back home. He imagined himself and Pop out to chop up the last week’s store of wood they had brought back for their family. Jed imagined his Pop; he had brawny bulky handsjust like he had. Pop would be standing in the front yard in his jeans and flanneljacket, buttons left undone. Pop was a woodsman; he worked long hours at the lumber mill, and when Jed was good Pop would bring home some odds and ends of uncut wood so Jed could cut it. He would come out and Pop would be standing there in the setting sunlight holding that axe Jed loved to swing and split wood with. Jed loved the sounds of the cold steel axe slip- ping through the hardwood, oaks, maples, elm. Jed imagined himself chopping wood outjust beyond the porch. He could imagine his Ma and Sis getting dinner ready through the open windows and doors that let the summertime breeze in to their wooden cabin Pop had built with his two hands. Jed was sure he had made progress with this dream, but the final moments scared him, and he knew she would know if he left them out. So he pressed on with his explanation, as best he could, convinced this was part of the getting better process. “I uh... I saw my family.” Jed continued almost more like a question than any- thing. If he was careful with his words, she might think he was better. He gripped 24 Show less
THEOREM Cary Waterman Pythagoras forbade his students to speak, not wanting them to utter falsehoods. The only truth was mathematics and so they would converse only and ever in equations and theorems. But what of us who do not know the way? Are we to forever blunder on mistakenly taking a... Show moreTHEOREM Cary Waterman Pythagoras forbade his students to speak, not wanting them to utter falsehoods. The only truth was mathematics and so they would converse only and ever in equations and theorems. But what of us who do not know the way? Are we to forever blunder on mistakenly taking a syllable of meaning like Fool's Gold to the assayer only to be told it’s worthless? And how did Pythagoras admonish his students not to speak? What is the equation for that? Students sit outside in the September sun, boys, girls, long-haired and cropped. They are rabbits just out of the hutch of protection. And I am the Hydra swaying before them, many—headed, smelling of camphor and myrrh. I like all my lips, the sound of lids opening. Words. Words. Let there be words! Show less
BATZER BAY Ted Conover Twenty or so years after my grandparents first wet their fishing lines in the glimmering water of Batzer Bay, my family sat at the kitchen table in my grand- mother Teddie’s house. They had just returned from my grandfather Herald’s funeral and were warming their hands on hot... Show moreBATZER BAY Ted Conover Twenty or so years after my grandparents first wet their fishing lines in the glimmering water of Batzer Bay, my family sat at the kitchen table in my grand- mother Teddie’s house. They had just returned from my grandfather Herald’s funeral and were warming their hands on hot coffee mugs in the kitchen; out- side, the autumn air was biting. Everyone sat at the table sipping coffee while my father and uncles discussed football. Herald‘s funeral had been difficult, and everyone‘s eyes were red from tears. There they sat, bathing in their mourning while mutterings of Randy Moss and Chris Carter floated by their ears, mostly unnoticed. My mother finally spoke after talks of the Minnesota Vikings were exhausted and my father and uncles sat silent. “I think we should take a trip to Batzer Bay this summer, in honor of Dad. He would want us to celebrate his favorite fishing spot and his life." Rocky, winding shoreline jutted high in places, forming steep cliffs that fell into the iron colored water below. Colors on the shore were dark—dark greens from the pines, dark grey from the rocks. The lake with the winding shoreline was connected to another lake, and another. The Man—Chain in Quetico National Park in Canada was made ofa group of three deep, cold lakes. One ofthem, This-Man Lake, had a shore more curvy than the others. On a particular shore ofThis-Man, the banks curved inward to form a quiet little bay that was hard to find. “Ah, here we are. I told you I could find it!” My father took a deep breath through his nose to show his satisfaction with his navigating. “Wow, it’sjust as I remember. Just like it was when I was a little girl." My mom scanned the scene before her as she remembered fishing trips gone by. Our canoes floated ten feet away from each other in the shallow water, my dad and I in one canoe and my mom and my two sisters in the other. We had just entered the inlet that was the only entrance to Batzer Bay. The inlet was like a puckered mouth, folding out into the main lake. Once through the mouth to my grandfa- ther’s famed fishing spot in the Quetico wilderness, the banks opened up to form a bay about 200 yards wide. In the shape of a wide oval, Batzer Bay didn't see many people outside of my family, who visited the bay and fished its waters every half decade or so. We paddled out into the middle of the bay to examine the scene around us. The surrounding banks rose out and over the water quickly to form bluffs. It looked as if the pine—covered banks were trying to hide the pearly expanse of wa— ter before us from intruders. There was a cool, dark shadow all along the edge of the bay where the tall banks blocked the smiling summer glow of the sun. As we paddled toward the middle, the sun greeted us by warming our flesh, which was somewhat chilled from being in the shadow of the looming bluffs. The water 14 Show less
orange t-shirt blazed in the green-yellow grass like blood on white fabric. He had been aware of the boy's presence for some time now, accepting begrudgingly his gaze of morbid curiosity which bore into the back of his head as he toiled. On a particularly labor intensive day, he had been tempted... Show moreorange t-shirt blazed in the green-yellow grass like blood on white fabric. He had been aware of the boy's presence for some time now, accepting begrudgingly his gaze of morbid curiosity which bore into the back of his head as he toiled. On a particularly labor intensive day, he had been tempted to go pluck him up from the bus, and set him to work in the garden. Quietly he slipped out the back door, guiding the screen door gently into its latch, and began to creep over to the garden. With arms full of tomatoes and breath heaving with excitement, the boy turned around to see the Executioner standing patiently at the garden’s edge. “I appreciate the help," he said “but those tomatoes shouldn't be picked for another couple of weeks.” David's lips trembled as the Executioner approached, only able to gurgle idi- otic puffs of monosyllabic distress, his instinct of flight overcome by the feeling that his feet had rooted themselves into the soil. “Well, don‘tjust stand there,” the Executioner said when he had Dan'd cast firmly in his shadow “you picked ‘em, you might as well bring 'em into the house." David looked down at the heap of tomatoes piled in his arms, then over at the bus. He stood still. “C‘monl,” said the Executioner, turning back towards the house. I 33 Show less
WALK, DON’T RUN D. E. Green Don‘t run on the pool deck or in the slush-slick winter lobbies of Minneapolis towers. Don't run in the supermarket, where you might smash your eggs— or your neighbor‘s. Walk, don’t run, at the airport where undue speed bespeaks terror. Take your time: Slow down for... Show moreWALK, DON’T RUN D. E. Green Don‘t run on the pool deck or in the slush-slick winter lobbies of Minneapolis towers. Don't run in the supermarket, where you might smash your eggs— or your neighbor‘s. Walk, don’t run, at the airport where undue speed bespeaks terror. Take your time: Slow down for children and old folks, the hearing- impaired and the blind, not to mention the deer and the squirrels, the rabbits, raccoons, and those strange swallow—like birds that swoop unexpectedly out of the fields and across the road right in front of your car. Don‘t run through the Abstract Expressionist galleries at the Walker. Walk— or you might miss a Kline or a Motherwell. Walk, don‘t run to your grandmother’s coffin, to your intended at the end of the aisle, and even into your lover‘s arms. Walk, don‘t run—or someone might get hurt. Walk, don’t run~or you might not remember how you got here. 59 Show less
attention of the man. He saw how some plants shuddered to the touch and how others seemed almost to bend towards the master as he neared, reaching outwith the flat palms ofleaves as if he was a beacon of sunlight rising from the grass. David looked at the black, warm soil. He wished he could lie... Show moreattention of the man. He saw how some plants shuddered to the touch and how others seemed almost to bend towards the master as he neared, reaching outwith the flat palms ofleaves as if he was a beacon of sunlight rising from the grass. David looked at the black, warm soil. He wished he could lie his body on it and sink slowly into it, until from his flesh would sprout small stalks of himself, roots would anchor him and limbs would green and curve up to support the petals of his finger, petals that would cave in on themselves in the dark, and flower open to absorb the light. He would be a part of the garden, and then he too could hear the whisperings, and feel the caress of the Executioner’s hand. It was on an execution day, and David spent the school hours in constant anticipation of the releasing bell. When it finally sang shrilly he was out the door with meteoric speed towards the dirt road. His breath soared as he sprinted. He needed to get there quickly so as to make back in time for the execution. As every- one else in the district, he was required to attend, and being late meant disciplin- ary action. Seeing the house approaching, he veered off through the grass, dashed in a crouch to the bus and clambered in through the emergency exit. Sitting now on the bare seat, feeling the old springs pushing against his weight, his breath began to recede to a whisper and his vision locked onto the house. It looked, as usual, like an abandoned ship lying lonely in the grass—sea. With his breath, his excitement also began to slim slowly until he was reso- lutely disgusted with himself and the Executioner. Having never been to the home on an execution day, David had expected something different. Some sort of preparations or shift in aura or other ineffable wishes which had no physical manifestation but gathered in an emotional space of his mind like the cloak of light cast by a lantern. But nothing had changed; it all sat there as before. Even the garden ritual was the same, though brief, and after tensely watching from the bus David cursed himself as the Executioner returned unceremoniously back into the house. Resigned, he lowered himself out of the bus, and began to sneak through the grass. His path curved however, snaking from the usual beeline he made to the road, to a wide sickle around the bus and straightening out towards the garden. An idea had formed in that grass, and his head lowered, muscles tensed and eyes narrowed as he approached his intended target. Of all that grew in the garden, the tomatoes were the finest. Their green, shim— mering skin was beginning to ebb into irresistible red, and they swelled so much that the stalks from which they hung drooped from the weight, bent towards the soil as if the tomatoes were trying to return to their Earthen womb. The plan, which David had so deftly masterminded, was to pluck an armful of tomatoes, chuck them at the side ofthe house and then whirl off down the road in a cloud of dust, with no intention of ever returning. Emerging from the grass, he knelt next to the largest plant, and with knees sinking slowly into the soft soil, he began to pick tomatoes with a nervous fury. From his kitchen window, the Executioner watched the skulking boy, whose 32 l t Show less
about six feet off the ground. From that branch, the chickens were hung upside down, several at a time, to be cleaned. Watching the display unfold, the veteran cats knew if they stuck around the).r could feast on innards thrown on the ground. Often times, entrails and other nasty little bits... Show moreabout six feet off the ground. From that branch, the chickens were hung upside down, several at a time, to be cleaned. Watching the display unfold, the veteran cats knew if they stuck around the).r could feast on innards thrown on the ground. Often times, entrails and other nasty little bits landed on their heads. They didn't mind; they would simply lick each other clean. They were a tight group. As we got older, my cousin happily graduated to the big leagues: actual hands- on participation in the chicken cleaning. She pulled feathers, used the blowtorch to singe the pinfeathers off, and cut up her fair share of birds. I once watched a documentary on a human autopsy that wasn‘t as off putting as the chicken butch— enng. Grandma would sit nearby on a lawn chair we had brought out for her. She of- fered commentary, told stories about dead relatives, and generally carried on like she was watching a sporting event. “That‘s a nice wing there, Marge,“ or, “good cutting, Janet." Sometimes she would pull a sandwich out of her purse, which she carried everywhere. I would stand back, out of the way. arms crossed, trying to pass the time looking for pretty butterflies or wildflowers. One time, after merciless teasing by my aunt for being too girly to get my hands dirty, I huffed and stomped back to the house and went and sat in the kitchen. Not long after, as I was rooting through my purse for my manicure kit, my grandmother came in and scolded me for not helping out like my cousin. She told me no man would ever want to marry me if I didn't learn how to do these sorts of practical things. I didn‘t have the nerve to tell her I had no intention of marrying any man who expected me to clean chickens. Hadn’t she heard of Gloria Steinem? Women had choices, and I certainly had other plans for my life. Chicken butchering would never appear on my to—do list. Those days are long gone now. Amazingly, I survived with only minimal psychological damage. Yes, I do eat chicken, but I only purchase it in those nice little plastic wrapped trays at the grocery store. The less the meat resembles the creature it originated from, the better. My mother still cans vegetables, makes her own jam, and dams my Dad's socks. My cousin, Brenda, is happily married to a farmer, and they have four lovely children. My Aunt Marge has retired from the chicken butchering days of yore and now spends her time nursing the tired, sore hands ofa hard-working farm wife as she plays bridge with her neighbor—lady friends. The old chicken coop was torn down years ago and in its place is the most amazing perennial garden. It is the envy of Lac Qui Parle County. I 20 Show less
CIRCA 1990 B.C. Colin Irvine Before cell phones, we walked off airplanes and up ramps no longer strangers, a team, really, almost inclined to introduce our new friends to our old ones waiting there at the end of the walkway beyond the roped—off area, almost ready to find them in the crowd and nod... Show moreCIRCA 1990 B.C. Colin Irvine Before cell phones, we walked off airplanes and up ramps no longer strangers, a team, really, almost inclined to introduce our new friends to our old ones waiting there at the end of the walkway beyond the roped—off area, almost ready to find them in the crowd and nod thanks and goodbye and take care. Before cell phones, we stared curiously, casually into the cars turning left in front of us at four—way stops and tight intersections, checking to see if we knew the person or if the person knew us, smiling when caught, an eyebrow up to say we’re both here in this place doing this odd thing, aren't we? Before cell phones, we rode in crowded elevators and standing—room only buses and subways aware of the energy holding us up and together and keeping us apart and exquisitely aware of that unspeakable tension, broken only by an incidental, charged, flirting, friendly touch of shoulders or dangling fingers. Before cell phones, we stood in shifting, silent lines at post offices, grocery stores, and stadiums, studying the spaces between us, focusing nowhere when possible and somewhere when permissible, waiting for that someone who knew his role or hers to bring us together with a quick joke, a comment that got beyond the obvi— ous, something about right now, something that made the pent-up conversation possible, something that made us an us. Before cell phones—before the rings, the buzzes, the texts, the twitters that come at all hours in all places from former friends and indifferent family members getting off airplanes among strangers, sitting passively at intersections, wait- ing aloofly in lines, cold to everyone around them—we enjoyed breaks in time. We took road-trips and never told anyone, just slipped away for an hour here or there, and we found free time like people finding hidden rooms in the recesses of their own houses. I 10 Show less
himself; my grandmother smiled at him as her fishing rod jittered again with the bite of another lake trout. Back with my father in the canoe floating in Batzer Bay the summer after Herald’s funeral, my mother and sisters still only a few feet away in their canoe, we were living the trip my mother... Show morehimself; my grandmother smiled at him as her fishing rod jittered again with the bite of another lake trout. Back with my father in the canoe floating in Batzer Bay the summer after Herald’s funeral, my mother and sisters still only a few feet away in their canoe, we were living the trip my mother had tearfully suggested, and we were enjoying ourselves thoroughly. My father snatched my sixth lake trout out of the water and took the hook out of its mouth with flying fingers. He tossed the trout back into the water and it immediately swam straight down, trying to get back to the cold water at the bottom. My mother hooked another fish and fought it for about ten minutes. This fish was particularly vital and it fought with every bit of energy it possessed. Once close to the canoe, it twirled and twirled in the water, tangling the thin fishing line around its silver body the way lake trout sometimes do. My sister scooped the twirling fish out of the water with a net before it could get too tangled. Once it was free of the line and the hook, my mother exclaimed, “This one is for my dad." The trout continued to fight even while my dad took my mom‘s picture with it. The sun reflected brightly off the trout's skin, lighting up my mother's smile as she posed for the photograph. The little trout was strong and wily, just like my grandfather. It will never know how important it was to my family—unless it was Grandpa Herald himself, reincarnated as a fish he loved to spar with in a quiet little bay that was hard to find, forever hiding in the Canadian wilderness until my family greets it again to pay homage to the Batzer name. I 16 Show less
And there was something brave and terrible about their awful bodies their pale, puffy corpses. pathetic, yet jarrineg poignant as they waited en masse for the scalding hell of remorseless metal then nothing. It pains me to admit that I ate them brimming with guilt as I gashed and rended their... Show moreAnd there was something brave and terrible about their awful bodies their pale, puffy corpses. pathetic, yet jarrineg poignant as they waited en masse for the scalding hell of remorseless metal then nothing. It pains me to admit that I ate them brimming with guilt as I gashed and rended their still forms between my teeth leaving the meal satiated, but unsatisfied feeling all so much like a walrus or a carpenter quick to stifle the issue of ethics in the presence of a half-imagined hunger. 39 Show less
finger up from the bottom of the page. There, at the top, my name was printed in italics. I had packaged more phones and accessories than anyone else that day. My heart sank. “Yea,” I mumbled to myself. “I am the fastest in a slow race." As I rode the bus home that nigh,t my mind whirled. I... Show morefinger up from the bottom of the page. There, at the top, my name was printed in italics. I had packaged more phones and accessories than anyone else that day. My heart sank. “Yea,” I mumbled to myself. “I am the fastest in a slow race." As I rode the bus home that nigh,t my mind whirled. I thought about my mis- takes and about the things I should have done. I thought about the dreams and aspirations I had lost along with the joy and the dignity. I walked into my apartment that night and collapsed on the bed “God damn it." I felt my eyes well up with tears. “It smells like piss." I 46 Show less
CONTRIBUTORS Makoto Abe was born in 1985 in Ibaraki, Japan. She graduated from Musashino Art University in Tokyo in 2007, and began graduate courses the same year. She is currently attending Augsburg as part of an exchange program. Jakob Anderson is a freshman at Augsburg. He has always been... Show moreCONTRIBUTORS Makoto Abe was born in 1985 in Ibaraki, Japan. She graduated from Musashino Art University in Tokyo in 2007, and began graduate courses the same year. She is currently attending Augsburg as part of an exchange program. Jakob Anderson is a freshman at Augsburg. He has always been interested in photography. It brings stories to life and shares experiences with people who missed the opportunities you were lucky to have. BA. often wanders drunkenly in the hazy lamplights of the late night seeking to master himself, a philosophical mystic and poet; the only thing that truly matters is balance. Joe Brown took a web design class and suggests you check out his website, web. augsburg.edu/~brown3. Ted Conouer is a sophomore at Augsburg majoring in English: Literature, Lan— guage and Theory with a second discipline in Creative Writing. D. E. Green lives in Memorial 223. He is turning into a very large beetle. Sammie Guck is a Philosophy major from Perham, Minnesota. Her favorite poem is currently “Song and Story" by Ellen Bryant Voigt. Emin Hanson is a writer, designer, and editor who currently lives in Minneapo— lis, MN. She will graduate in May from Augsburg College's English department with a concentration in creative writing. Recently she completed two chapbooks— It's Okay I Understand, a collection of short stories, and [Underpinnings], a collection of non—fiction poetry and prose—and plans to continue writing in the various places and avenues life takes her. Jennifer L. Hipple is an Organizational Communications major. Follom'ng a 17— yEar "hiatus" from her college Studies, she is now wrapping up her BA and count— ing the days until she graduates in June. Colin Irvine teaches enjoys hanging out with his kids, skiing the steeps, running in the woods, and writing about life. He doesn't enjoy writing his bio. Cam N. Le is a member of the class of 2009 and is a Studio Arts major with a minor in Architecture. As an international student from Vietnam. she is proud to be fluent in both Eastern and Western cultures. ()1 Show less
