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
RECIPE Rebecca Reilly Ginger. Nutmeg. Paprika. Sweet and sour sauce, to mix it up. Remember rice noodles and pastry squares. Remember— 4 am — he will be there. Dreary. Dulled under store fluorescence. Behind quick snatches of cash, and the springs of drawers and clips. I am his only hope for tips.... Show moreRECIPE Rebecca Reilly Ginger. Nutmeg. Paprika. Sweet and sour sauce, to mix it up. Remember rice noodles and pastry squares. Remember— 4 am — he will be there. Dreary. Dulled under store fluorescence. Behind quick snatches of cash, and the springs of drawers and clips. I am his only hope for tips. Time to spring for real butter—sexier than margarine. Dreamy, with night-shift weariness, for once a gentle, lotioned hand will offer his fingers crisp cash to grasp—and, dreamy, will long to hold, to caress. “So whens your break?" I‘ll finally ask. It‘s at 5:15. We‘ll smoke KOOLs together, and he‘ll laugh, “You seem like the type to shop at Lund’s. not here." I'll nod, drag on my cigarette, and let the silence of the morning linger, simmering between us. He‘ll realize I’m here for him -—that time I bought just cherries and apricot jam --all for him --that time I stood in line with only a single lime --0nly for him --and ignored the other lanes where idle cashiers wait... By now my subtle perfume should create in him the doughy, spicy scents he can anticipate. The shared, senseless, steamy softness for which I wait. I know the way to a fat man‘s heart: follow the unwritten tortilla recipe by the morning star, chase drinks with sweetness through the afternoon, meander through meal courses that will make him swoon, and follow the heart‘s instructions rather than recipe card traditions. Almonds. Brie. Cumin. 37 Show less
EPIDEMIC Malena Thoson Vilify me, make me malicious—- when I speak when I write when I think. Vilify me, make me the femme fatale-- who coyly steals your boyfriend, and your girlfriend, who stands on chairs to flee rationality. Vilify me, make me the apathetic wealthy-— who sip dry martinis, who... Show moreEPIDEMIC Malena Thoson Vilify me, make me malicious—- when I speak when I write when I think. Vilify me, make me the femme fatale-- who coyly steals your boyfriend, and your girlfriend, who stands on chairs to flee rationality. Vilify me, make me the apathetic wealthy-— who sip dry martinis, who throw pennies at fortune—500 charities, who blame your genes for your fiscal plight. Vilify me, make me the unmotivated poor—— who smell, who plague you for spare change, who just haven't tried hard enough. Vilify me, make me the incompetent servant-- who spits in your latte, who works too slow, who forgets to smile. Vilify me, make me the parasitic immigrant-— who steals yourjobs, who pollutes your schools, who drags your property value down. Vilify me, make me the deranged soldier-- who blindly follows authority, who basks in immorality, who kills in cold blood. Vilify me, make me my unfit age-- too young to know the rules, too old to have fun, 50 Show less
INTRODUCTION I remember, when I was eleven or twelve and first had the concept of the Internet explained to me (I was a late bloomer, technologically speaking), think- ing to myself, “What’s the point?" I lived my life by the page—books, newspapers, and, archaic as it sounds, hand-written letters... Show moreINTRODUCTION I remember, when I was eleven or twelve and first had the concept of the Internet explained to me (I was a late bloomer, technologically speaking), think- ing to myself, “What’s the point?" I lived my life by the page—books, newspapers, and, archaic as it sounds, hand-written letters—and saw little utility or glamour in the screen. Now, as I have, along with most of the world, become acculturated to life online, such naiveté is not only comic, but seems to carry a terribly ironic foreboding. It's a hard blow for us bookish types, but pointless to deny: Internet killed the publishing star, and the era of the printed word has ended. What, then, is the value of ajournal like Murphy Square? Are we clinging to tradition, to nostalgia, to a romantic notion of a heyday so few among us ever wit— nessed? Are we dating ourselves, fogeyishly trying to resuscitate a dying practice, or are we simply enjoying what is becoming more and more of a novelty? What, in short, is the point? This one year I have worked on Murphy Square has absolutely convinced me of the merit of a printed journal. It's a statement of faith that the work published has enough to say to be worthy of something more permanent, more physical than an open browser on a computer screen. It‘s a statement that is more impor— tant now than ever, when everyone, notjust the publishing industry, is struggling, when we cannot help but think in terms of debt and deficit, and when the expres- sion of creativity can feel more like luxury or vanity than human need. What you hold in your hands is our declaration of this need, of our trust and faith in this work, and of our celebration of creativity—one resource, at least, that we still have in abundance. Kayla Skarbakka Associate Editor Show less
I SHOULD HAVE TOLD HIM OF THE TRAIN Kayla Skarbakka I wish we had been subtler than to up so swiftly westbound through these evening—softened pastures, thick with droves of cattle, clover-fed, yet bred in the grim mercenary way. They bear a skittish witness as the windows dim. Need he know this... Show moreI SHOULD HAVE TOLD HIM OF THE TRAIN Kayla Skarbakka I wish we had been subtler than to up so swiftly westbound through these evening—softened pastures, thick with droves of cattle, clover-fed, yet bred in the grim mercenary way. They bear a skittish witness as the windows dim. Need he know this is the slowest I have ever moved towards him? There is a snaking through the carriage— a lick of clammy air. But we don't mind; we’re going west, and know what‘s waiting there. I’ve never been this way before, but I swear I know this country. I will recognize this shore, the cliffs, the hills, stone—walled villages that I will walk alone, imagining him in every house I see. How dear they'll be as I pass by in silent admiration, as they keep their secrets locked away from me. Safety lights snap on; beyond the pane the world snaps black. Peering out, I can‘t see through my face staring back. I love the empty stony streets that I may stroll unfettered. Better I should walk them slowly, that before I reach the curbside, creeping fingers of afternoon shadows will have passed me by. There will be time to pause there, sift through all that is or was there, time to reason, sort, collect, confront, confound it all again— and even standing still, I move too fast. The brakes shrill. Passengers grapple with their baggage, I with my reservations, but not for long— we are coming to the station. Or suppose that I leave town—for mightn’t he be anywhere? Suppose I move on to stand on white cliffs and be splattered with rock-dashed foam that whips like spittle, salty indicators of something slate—hard and engulfing. Suppose my cheeks grow numb from buffets 34 Show less
IT WOOS Hanna Cushing Left foot, right foot left foot, right foot and so on and forth in silence except for the dry crunch of gravel like gritted teeth and the wind whistling its song through my hair and over the mouth of the open bottle softly. first winding around its neck then entering slightly... Show moreIT WOOS Hanna Cushing Left foot, right foot left foot, right foot and so on and forth in silence except for the dry crunch of gravel like gritted teeth and the wind whistling its song through my hair and over the mouth of the open bottle softly. first winding around its neck then entering slightly but soon shooting off like a solar flare It woos. 30 Show less
TRANSFORMATIONS Emily Hanson In front of the house of Franz Kafka I say I am a moth Standing next to Franz Kafka I place my hand in his armhole Attempt to hold hands in copper At half past three aprés midi I turn Cartwheels across the Charles Bridge Exclaiming I am a moth in flight Rotating into a... Show moreTRANSFORMATIONS Emily Hanson In front of the house of Franz Kafka I say I am a moth Standing next to Franz Kafka I place my hand in his armhole Attempt to hold hands in copper At half past three aprés midi I turn Cartwheels across the Charles Bridge Exclaiming I am a moth in flight Rotating into a metamorphosis of sorts Before I leave Kafka The man, the statue, and Czech Republic I stumble upon a salesman and say Hodne stesti good luck in Czech 13 Show less
“Hello?” I whispered, but nothing moved. I opened my left eye, then my right. The fox started back with brown eyes that didn’t blink. They were kind and always searching for something other than what was tangible. “You,” I said. And he cocked his head as if to say, “Me.” Itjumped off my stomach... Show more“Hello?” I whispered, but nothing moved. I opened my left eye, then my right. The fox started back with brown eyes that didn’t blink. They were kind and always searching for something other than what was tangible. “You,” I said. And he cocked his head as if to say, “Me.” Itjumped off my stomach and I gasped for breath. It disappeared into a row of corn. “Come back,” I said and stepped through the row. It was gone. I stepped back and found his white face staring at me. “Help me," I said and my voice was shak- ing. “Please.” The fox cocked its head again. Everything was still. Nothing groped out for me. I begged with my eyes. “Which way do I go?" I said, and couldn‘t sob enough. I loved the fox because it was there with me. It might hurt me, I thought, and I tried to collect myself. I knew that I would rather be hurt and dying than be drowning in all of this com. I wanted him to run at me, remind me that I was still alive, that I was still breath- ing. But he turned and ran, and because I had nothing else, I followed. I couldn't see through the com. I couldn‘t blink away my tears or the rain fast enough. Heavy leaves hit me in the face and I lost sight of the fox‘s tail ifI tried to weave out of the way. “Slow down,” I cried out, and he ran faster. "Please," I said and then he sped up and disappeared altogether. “Come back,” I said. “I’m sorry.“ I sat doxm and put my face in my hands. They were covered in slimy dirt. “I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” I said. “Mary!” someone said far away. “Mary, where are you!?“ I heard it again and believed this time that it was real. “Mary,” I said to a cornstalk, and the fox ran past me so hard and fast that he knocked me to the ground. I stood up and the fox was jumping back and forth, waiting. I took a step, and then I was running. He stopped just as he changed rows so I could see its tail. I followed his hesitation and took off running. He hadn‘t left me alone after all. I could only see where he turned and bent a small stalk. The wind was working against us and the sky was getting lighter and lighter. Everything stung, and the wind made me shiver again. It was raining harder here, and the fox‘s tail was almost imaginary as it ducked inside green row after green row. We were picking up speed and I could barely keep up. “Wait,” I begged, and I tripped over a rock the size of my shoe and fell with my hands out in front of me. I shut my eyes and fell, defeated, finally. I exhaled and opened my eyes. My hand was in grass, not dirt. I looked up. I knew this place. I looked up and saw the living room window where I should be sitting. the sandbox where I liadjust played. I turned around and thought I saw a flash of white tail turn into a corn stalk. I stood up. My dress was covered in dirt. My hands were green. my knees red. "Mary!" I heard Aggie across the street. I turned to look for the fox one last time. but only a mouse was running back into the field for shelter from the storm. I Show less
