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Murphy Square 2010, Page 09
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Dead Flowers Em Kline Dawn was sitting on the blue and green plaid couch when it happenedThe olive green curtains along the wall in front of her began to move despite the closed windows. At first it was as though an August breeze was signifying the turn oflate afternoon into evening. The ceiling...
Show moreDead Flowers Em Kline Dawn was sitting on the blue and green plaid couch when it happenedThe olive green curtains along the wall in front of her began to move despite the closed windows. At first it was as though an August breeze was signifying the turn oflate afternoon into evening. The ceiling fan clunked in circles above her, causing the single, dim light bulb to strobe faintly around her. An all too familiar tune chimed from the grandfather clock in the foyer, fol— lowed by one of those ominous chimes that echoed through an empty, still house. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to control the chimes, hoping they would stop. Inevitably, as it had chimed four times last hour, it chimed a fifth resounding stroke. He would be home soon. She curled her toes around the fibers of the oriental rug beneath her feet and let out a long slow breath that flattened her stomach. The unopened book that rested on her chest fell to the floor and she stared at it, willing it to slide under the couch and be hidden from her sight. As the curtains blew further from the wall, a laser of light cut through the dreary room and illuminated dust that floated in the air. The dust moved in one direction. Down. It came to rest on every available surface, creating a visible layer. Had she been able to muster the force to move, she wished to draw the sideways 8 ofinflnity on the walls. Instead they were covered with aging wallpaper that peeled from the mopboards, the ceiling, and the corners. Tiny sprigs of baby's breath decorated the paper in the few spots lacking picture frames or furniture. One frame was not in line with the others and she felt an overwhelming need to straighten it. It nagged on her mind, even though she refocused her attention to the book on the floor. She let her eyes flicker to the crooked frame, hating it with intensity. She wished the glass to break and the disobedient wood to splinter. But it did not, and she would not rise to fix it. It had been only a few days since the episode and Doc prescribed that she indulge in rest and avoid stressfirl situations. She couldn't decide which was more stressful to her at this mo— ment, getting up to realign the wooden frame or feeling its crookedness mock her from across the room. For the moment she escaped the spiteful laughter of the picture and became ensnared by the thought of eradicating all other stressful situations. He surely wouldn’t be allowed in the front door, every day bringing his work problems through the front door. Talk of her unemployment and household contributions would be banned. She would sweep, mop, dust, 7
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Murphy Square 2010, Page 14
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ing like a snake through the top layer ofearth. He had caught up to her, having lost his hat and shed his button-down along the way. “Dawn. don't do this. I can't do this right now." He wiped sweat from his forehead and looked at her under a brow wrinkled from the glare of the sun. “Let’s go home...
Show moreing like a snake through the top layer ofearth. He had caught up to her, having lost his hat and shed his button-down along the way. “Dawn. don't do this. I can't do this right now." He wiped sweat from his forehead and looked at her under a brow wrinkled from the glare of the sun. “Let’s go home, Dawn." She twisth from his grip and stared straight into his eyes, wondering if he could ever really love herjust as she was. All she wanted was a small sign. A look in his eye or a soft much against her bare skin. She didn’t speak. He turned away. raising a trail ofdust behind him as he walked the winding path hack to the house. She took off running down the long rickety wooden pier and dove in head first, letting the cool waters welcome her with a lapping tongue. She let herselfsink to the bottom of the pond, expelling all the air out of her lungs in big bubbles. She was in mother nature's womb and she, too, would refuse to emerge alive. 12
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Murphy Square 2010, Page 15
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Motive: A Study in Antelope Samant/Ja Guck Sometimes I have a hard time deciding whether animals are more like humans or machines. example: An antelope is being pursued by a wild dog, his parting snarl and the thunder of padded feet close behind, tools of the take-down of the antelope’s end. As...
Show moreMotive: A Study in Antelope Samant/Ja Guck Sometimes I have a hard time deciding whether animals are more like humans or machines. example: An antelope is being pursued by a wild dog, his parting snarl and the thunder of padded feet close behind, tools of the take-down of the antelope’s end. As death thumps the earth behind her, what motivates the antelope to run? Is it panic, blind and personal? Does the antelope run because she knows she has a life and a life is a thing worth saving? Does she run out ofdesire to see the end of another sun red and flaring over the long grass ofthe Serengeti? To lie in sleep on the fragrant earth,> To taste sweet water once more And rejoice the return of rain? Or does the antelope run simply because the antelope runs: Driven by joints fueled by feed compelled by some unconscious command ofinstinct running with blank eyes, beating time with programmed hooves, thinking no thoughts toward her own red ribs, fearing no fears ofclumsy stumbled bones hoping no escape-hopes of her own? 13
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Murphy Square 2010, Page 63
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a shower smelling like soap and I could see the mole on your right hip peeking up at me with every step. Now, in my new home, I can’t recreate the way the wood floor creaked as you proudly strolled through the sun light streaming in through the open windows. I picked up a package of Dial Soap from...
Show morea shower smelling like soap and I could see the mole on your right hip peeking up at me with every step. Now, in my new home, I can’t recreate the way the wood floor creaked as you proudly strolled through the sun light streaming in through the open windows. I picked up a package of Dial Soap from Target today, it was on sale and it brought me back to that second Saturday in June when I was twenty three. You had come from student teaching in the suburbs to stay with me in my apartment next to an old Laundromat. I hope you remember how we walked down the crowded street next to the University of Minnesota. We slipped into a corner booth at the bar on the corner and I told the lies that I thought I had to tell you to make you love me. “What do you do when I'm not around?” “Work, exercise, read and look forward to the weekend." “You're full of shit.” We talked about the books I was “reading” and I did everything to remember what books I had read in high school so I had something to say during these conversations. Really I was working and drinking with my friends and occasionally sleeping with other men be- cause you weren’t having sex with me and we had “been together” (dating,I guess) for two months and I didn't know how exclusive we were. So, because drinks were two—for—one and I ordered three, but drank six, I got drunk and dizzy and didn‘t care that it was rain— ing the kind of rain that comes down in waves instead of steady drops when we stumbled out into the night. When we got to my street,l stepped in a pothole and you caught me before I fell and that’s when I smelled your shower soap mixed with the scent of rum and whiskey and rain. Kissing you there as I was shivering and sweating from rain and liquor made me want to carve out a space for us in that pothole and stay there forever. When we got into my apartment ourjeans were soaking wet and I stripped in the living room, leaving the twisted denim and white Hanes t-shirt I had taken to wearing when I didn’t have any clean clothes, in a pile. You went to the bathroom and got towels from behind the door and wrapped me with one. I tried to kiss you as you had your arms wrapped around me and my towel, but I was too drunk and too tired to find your lips so I put my face in your neck and breathed slowly. Goose bumps rippled through your body and you nuzzled your wet, red hair against mine. “Let’s get you a glass of water," you said and left me standing in my living room 61
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Murphy Square 2010, Page 18
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I have a confession Hanna/.1 Curbing At night I like to walk and look into windows of the houses I pass. Not in perversion. Rather.I find it calming to watch the peaceful nighttime routines unfold without any frame of reference for the chaos I know must be more truthful. How predictable the...
Show moreI have a confession Hanna/.1 Curbing At night I like to walk and look into windows of the houses I pass. Not in perversion. Rather.I find it calming to watch the peaceful nighttime routines unfold without any frame of reference for the chaos I know must be more truthful. How predictable the rhythms ofour lives, our comings and goings, our ascents and descents. Through the windows I can see it. Television. Teeth brushing. The eventual tiring. 'Ihe surrender to unconsciousness. The wave of the white flag. It is almost hopeful. Unless,l think that tomorrow they must do it all again. 16 And that this peaceful display of light cocooned softly in darkness is but something tangible to house the seething at its core. How predictable the rhythms of our lives, the rises and falls, the labored breaths and tired exhalations, the loves and losses and trite words of comfort, the numbness, the resentments, the hatred. How predictable that we need some things to hold fast to, proof that this rhythm is redeemable for something besides distraction monotony, or boredom. How predictable that I should like to walk, and while I walk look into windows creating for these characters — stories as fictional as their lives.
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Murphy Square 2010, Page 38
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Foreword to A Life Sana Ma/ila And so the third eye indescribable, erudite, true, yawns and shrugs offits burdening lethargy of somesix years, rising in the East midst ravines of blood baths and faded screams, stretching its neck as the words gleam out of my broken pen, eager, headstrong, rushing...
Show moreForeword to A Life Sana Ma/ila And so the third eye indescribable, erudite, true, yawns and shrugs offits burdening lethargy of somesix years, rising in the East midst ravines of blood baths and faded screams, stretching its neck as the words gleam out of my broken pen, eager, headstrong, rushing into the paths of broken posterity. 36
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Murphy Square 2010, Page 06
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Introduction The first time someone asked me why I wrote I knew the answer: if I don’t write,I die. It was simple, then, four years ago when I declared “Creative Writing" on a form. I was a writer because it said so on a page, filed away. But, as I grew,I found myself setting my writing aside to...
Show moreIntroduction The first time someone asked me why I wrote I knew the answer: if I don’t write,I die. It was simple, then, four years ago when I declared “Creative Writing" on a form. I was a writer because it said so on a page, filed away. But, as I grew,I found myself setting my writing aside to edit, to read, to live and I did not die. 50, when asked again, why writing? I didn't have the answer like I did for so many other theories and problems...no one had taught me why I wrote. Now, after spending a year working on Murphy Square,I can answer that question: writing allows me to step back from my life and recognize which pieces are missing...simply put, it sustains me. 'lhis year, you are holding a journal that is made ofpost-consumer recycled paper because as writing and art have sustained all of us, the artists and students in this journal, we have a responsibility to the earth to create sustainable mediums for our art. Our words and images, the culmination of our creativity, now permanent in your hands, did not take away habitats or destroy lives As artists, we recognize ourselves in a larger community, one that is both historical and metaphorical.We take responsibility for our places in both. And so, for another year, the editors of this journal celebrate the publication ofMur- phy Square and recognize it as the space where authors and visual artists can come together and sustain their community for years to come. Arm/mi Sima'w Editor Welcome to Augsburg College's annual issue of Murphy Square. The writing and art in this issue reflect a multitude of voices and visions. Thank you to the editors and staff for their diligent work in selecting and producing the magazine. In the words of poet, David St. John, Let the gates of the garden stand open; let the renaming of the world begin again. Cur‘y Miterman Faculty Advisor
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Murphy Square 2010, Page 13
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r" end of the bargain, he would marry her. He would marry her if she could provide a family for him to feed. She let her body rest on the couch as her mind ran to the edge of their property, far into the fields and beyond a row of mature maples. It was never still or filthy there, like the room in...
Show morer" end of the bargain, he would marry her. He would marry her if she could provide a family for him to feed. She let her body rest on the couch as her mind ran to the edge of their property, far into the fields and beyond a row of mature maples. It was never still or filthy there, like the room in which she sat. The water was always sparkling, reflecting sun or moon.1hey used to spend days by their lake, a glorified pond, really, picnicking and making love at dusk. Resting, exhausted, in each other's arms as the frogs hummed them a tune to which the bees harmo— niwedflheir bodies would be covered in sweat from their efforts and the heat of the day, but soon the evening cool would chill them and they would clothe themselves and walk as slowly as possible back to their home. It had been fun, at first, to try so hard to start a family. Day and night he would sweep her away from whatever it was she was doing and they would let their bodies express their love. Now, only the days circled in red were the days they would meet in a dark room. Their bodies weren’t gentle and soft anymore, but stiff and resentful. A truck spun through the gravel of the long driveway and goose bumps rose on her arms. She stood unsteadin to her feet and shuffled toward the window. She tried to part the curtains, though she knew it was him, but they pushed her away. The wall of windows crept forward until it pressed against her toes and forced her to back up. Behind her and to her sides the wallpaper started crying and crawling toward her, she felt a knot of fear rising from her stomach up to her throat. She could not scream, and had she, he would not have heard her over the rumbling of his truck. She inched her way sideways, unable to turn her head to see where she was going, until she felt the cool brass knob of the front door in her hand. He was on the other side, reaching for his keys. She pulled at the door wildly and flew past him, suddenly filled with the desire to move that she had lacked all day long. She moved with all four limbs touching the ground, us— ing her hands like an animal to balance her unsteady legs. A curious voice called from behind her. “Dawn! What the fuck?" She was knee deep in lively wildflowers and tall green grass with her white house— drcss blowing wildly between her legs. “The flowers are dead!” He dug his boot into the dusty ground and swore under his breath. “What flowers, baby? Baby, come back!" He threw his work gloves angrily on the ground, cursing again. Dawn was to the line of trees now, and could see the lake shining in front of her. It glittered invitingly and she tore off her clothes, tiptoeing barefoot around knotted roots wind- 11
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Murphy Square 2010, Page 19
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All the while knowing, they are lies, all of them. How predictable that I am apathetic. I prefer these sound bite stories over truthfulness. So walking in the darkness, I listen to the dry crunch the fallen leaves beneath my feet that will soon ferment under the heaviness of Minnesota snow. And I...
Show moreAll the while knowing, they are lies, all of them. How predictable that I am apathetic. I prefer these sound bite stories over truthfulness. So walking in the darkness, I listen to the dry crunch the fallen leaves beneath my feet that will soon ferment under the heaviness of Minnesota snow. And I sing. “Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies.” 17
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Murphy Square 2010, Page 23
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rate ways, exploring. It was late fall, and the trees in the cemetery were alive with the fiery colors of the Midwest; red, orange, and yellow leaves enveloped us, enhanced by the sun’s rays. The air was crisp and cool, and I hoped the outing would help my brother feel refreshed. We came together...
Show morerate ways, exploring. It was late fall, and the trees in the cemetery were alive with the fiery colors of the Midwest; red, orange, and yellow leaves enveloped us, enhanced by the sun’s rays. The air was crisp and cool, and I hoped the outing would help my brother feel refreshed. We came together some time later at our family’s section. My brother, his bare arms flaunting the skinhead tattoos that covered every inch of his body, approached the gravesites. Down on one knee, he began to slowly brush the small twigs, leaves, and grass clippings from the sunken memorial of “James Fisher (1944—1960)," our Great Uncle Jimmy. I stood behind him paralyzed, confused by his obvious attachment to the headstone of a boy who never grew to be a man, a boy neither of us ever knew. My brother, with bloodshot eyes and a smell that confessed his many sins, held back his tears and stared down at the grave. He told me the story of how our uncle died. “The truck came out of nowhere and hit him. Smashed right into him. It wasn't his fault. He didn't even get a chance." an It was my fourteenth birthday when my Dad, brother, and I pulled into the driveway to see my mother standing under the carport behind a curtain of muggy August rain. She was wringing her hands and shuffling around as if she had bugs crawling under her skin. Her dark hair was damp and slickened; her clear green eyes murky and just a touch too bright, evidence that her latest drug of choice was still coursing through her system. The air inside the truck stiffened and chilled as we sat watching her, the cool air con— ditioning stifling and stale. Fresh off her latest binge she had disappeared for about five weeks this time. Earlier as I had blown out my candles, I had wished she would never come back. I got out of the truck, walked up to her, looked her straight in those vacant eyes and told her to leave. For good. She did. "lhe summer after my high school graduation my brother and I found out that my Dad had been in an accident. We were at home arguing because I wanted to go see my friends and my brother wanted to tag along. My grandparents silenced our bickering with the 21
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