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Title: Murphy Square 2002: Literary and Visual Arts Journal 2002
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Title: Murphy Square 1997
Collection: Literary Journals

Title: Murphy Square 1998: Murphy Square: a Literary and Visual Art Publication
Collection: Literary Journals

Title: Murphy Square 1999: Murphy Square Augsburg College '99
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Title: Murphy Square 1996
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Title: Murphy Square 1995
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Title: Murphy Square 1991: Spring 1991
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Title: Murphy Square 2012
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Title: Murphy Square 1978: Murphy Square Vol. IV
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Title: 1995 Homecoming Program: Catching Up on a Lifetime
Collection: Schwartz Collection

Title: Paul Pribbenow Inauguration Program
Collection: Augsburg Histories

Title: Dr. Kenneth C. Bailey, Dean of Augsburg College, circa 1968
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Title: Dr. Kenneth C. Bailey, Dean of Augsburg College, circa 1968
Collection: Photographs

Title: Murphy Square 2017: Murphy Square Visual Art and Literary Magazine
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE ISSUE 42, 2017 EDITORIAL BOARD Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor Cassie Dong, Art Editor Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor Abigail Carpenter, Prose Ed...
Show more MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE ISSUE 42, 2017 EDITORIAL BOARD Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor Cassie Dong, Art Editor Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor Abigail Carpenter, Prose Editor Ryan Moore, Prose Editor Gabriel Benson, Poetry Editor Danny Polaschek, Poetry Editor Cary Waterman, Advisor 2 WITH THANKS TO Ivy Arts Copy and Print Augsburg College Student Government Augsburg College English Department Augsburg College Art Department The Echo Augsburg Honors Program QPA 3 TABLE OF CONTENTS 1 What Type of Black Girl Are You? Nikkyra Whittaker ........................................................................... 8 Simul Justus et Peccator, Andy Anderson .......................................................................................... 11 Queer, Eve Taft ....................................................................................................................................... 12 Jesus in a Cracker, A.Tetzlaff ................................................................................................................ 14 Grey Cloud Island, David Baboila ......................................................................................................... 17 Saint Paul Airport, David Baboila .......................................................................................................... 18 White Bear Lake, David Baboila ............................................................................................................ 19 Zips Coliseum, David Baboila ............................................................................................................... 20 Bridge, Jacob J. Miller ............................................................................................................................ 21 50 Feet Tall, Emilie Tomas ...................................................................................................................... 25 Meow, Ashley Waalen ............................................................................................................................ 26 Mousetrap, Halle Chambers .................................................................................................................. 27 Faces, Constance Klippen ..................................................................................................................... 29 I Don’t Always Feel Colored, Diamonique Walker ............................................................................... 30 Where I am From, Hannah Schmit ......................................................................................................... 32 Who Am I?, Ashley Waalen .................................................................................................................... 34 2 Gratitude, D.E Green .............................................................................................................................. CSBR, Gabriel Bergstrom ...................................................................................................................... The Fire, Elisabeth Beam ........................................................................................................................ Desert Drums, Abigail Carpenter .......................................................................................................... Colors, Hannah Schmit ........................................................................................................................... Urban Delight, Jazmin Crittenden ......................................................................................................... When Dad Wore Cologne, A. Tetzlaff .................................................................................................... Shitty Christmas Trees, Elisabeth Beam ............................................................................................... Summer Nights, Adam Ruff ................................................................................................................... 36 38 39 41 42 43 44 46 48 The People United, Adam Ruff .............................................................................................................. 49 After the Hike, Adam Ruff ..................................................................................................................... 50 Crumbs, Malena Larsen ......................................................................................................................... 51 Bloomed, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................................................... 55 Pruned, Audrey Campbell ...................................................................................................................... 56 Herman, Danny Polaschek ................................................................................................................... 57 El Barrio Suyo, Chad Berryman ............................................................................................................. 60 The Neighborhood, Chad Berryman ..................................................................................................... 61 Odyssey, Eve Taft .................................................................................................................................... 62 Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 63 Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 64 Counting Sheep, Danny Polaschek ...................................................................................................... 65 3 Sky Nights, Keeyonna Fox ...................................................................................................................... 67 Inner Self, Keeyonna Fox ....................................................................................................................... 68 Victory of the People, Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk ............................................................................. 69 An Open Letter to the Un-specials, Halle Chambers ...........................................................................76 Sorex Palustris, Emilie Tomas ................................................................................................................. 79 Woodsy Adam Ruff, Gabriel Bergstrom .................................................................................................. 80 Words, Malena Larsen ................................................................................................................................. 81 Malcom, Danny Polaschek ....................................................................................................................... 83 DRIVING AT ZERO ONE, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 85 DRIVING AT ZERO TWO, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 86 Placemakers, Diamonique Walker ........................................................................................................ 87 A Necessary Evil Thing Considered in any Light, Jacob J. Miller ....................................................... 88 1 WHAT TYPE OF BLACK GIRL ARE YOU? Nikkyra Whittaker On the spectrum of being black and female, we can only be what we appear to be. Take this quiz to find out what kind of black girl you really are! 1. You’re listening to the radio on the way to Target. You’re playing… a. Beyonce’s “****Flawless” b. Taylor Swift’s “Fifteen” or “You Belong With Me” or “Wildest Dreams” c. Chris Brown’s “Loyal” d. Keri Hilson’s “Pretty Girl Rock” 2. It’s your day off work. What will you be doing? a. Blowing off steam on Facebook. b. Watching old episodes of One Tree Hill c. Out for drinks and scoping eye candy d. Talking shit with the ladies while drinking Moscato! 3. What’s your dream home like? a. Full of books on systemic oppression b. Beverly Hills penthouse c. Some big shot rapper’s mansion d. Spacious New York Loft 8 4. Your favorite TV show is… a. Docu-series on race b. Sex in the City c. Bad Girls Club d. Love and Hip Hop 5. Finally, who’s your favorite female icon from this list? a. Angela Davis b. Taylor Swift c. New York from I Love New York d. Nicki Minaj Tally up how many of each letter you got and turn the page to find out who you really are! If you got mostly a’s...You’re an Angry Black Girl! Congratulations, you loud-mouthed, anger filled home-girl! I’m guessing there’s always some reason to be mad at someone, isn’t there? Do you just spend your days in a perpetual state of rage, angry at the world for reasons they don’t find important? Do you find yourself constantly snapping your fingers in that z-formation, pursing your lips at anyone who steps in your way? I bet people are telling you to just be quiet, huh? I mean, what issues could you, a black female, possibly have? Why should you care that your high school English teacher gives you a C+ on your essay because she thinks you copied it from the white man online? Why does it matter that your male co-worker at Target constantly teases you about your nappy hair, calling it a “brillo pad,” “cheeto puff,” or some other clever name? None of this should anger you! Be aware, you sassy Sapphire, in this world, your anger means nothing. If you got mostly b’s...You’re an Oreo! You grew up watching Lizzie McGuire and listening to Aaron Carter. You straightened your hair from the moment you were old enough to assert yourself and cried when it wouldn’t lay flat. Your friends were always shocked to see you bring collard greens and jambalaya to lunch so you stopped eating your favorite foods. They didn’t understand why you couldn’t just brush your hair, wash your hair everyday, why it suddenly grew or shrunk inches overnight. I’m certain you’ve heard from many of your friends how they just don’t see you as a black girl. They erase your black skin because it doesn’t fit the images of other black girls they see. You spend most of your time edging away from the loud black girls, the ghetto black girls who ate hot cheetos and drank kool aid and had corn rows and long braids and smelled like a mix of the jungle and your ancestors pain and you wished, maybe for a just a moment, but you did wish that you could be white. But honey, you can never wash off that melanin! It’s a permanent stain. Just because your friends can’t see the black on you, it doesn’t mean the rest of the world can’t. 9 If you got mostly c’s...You’re a Hip Hop Ho! You sexual deviant you! Let me guess—big breasts, small waist, and wide hips? You’ve got that original Betty Boop to you, something in your eyes that say yes to a question no one bothers to ask. You’re the black girl that white guys use as a notch in their belt. You are the exotic sexual being that men love to hate and hate to love. You became a sexual thing at a young age, when your breasts came in at ten years old and became d-cups at fourteen. They started looking at you differently, didn’t they? Your eyes stopped existing. Your words didn’t matter. Your body became the tool used to diminish your worth. How often did you get yelled at in school to put on something less revealing than your shorts? Did you ever wonder why the skinny, flat-assed white girls were never told the same thing? Honey, your wide hips wrapped in chocolate skin were never yours. You will never be yours. 10 If you got mostly d’s...You’re a Ghetto Fabulous Black Girl! You make what little money you can working at Walmart or doing nails. You make people waiting at the bus stop with you uncomfortable with your loud laughter and yellow and pink braids and long, bedazzled nails. You toss your weave around, remove your earrings, and square up to anyone that says shit about you. When you’re out, you are often told to stop yelling, screaming, taking up space. You’ve got baby daddy problems and you’re only 18. You grew up playing double dutch in the middle of the street with old rope. You accept your black, your ghetto, your Ebonics. But you are not supposed to accept yourself, honey! Don’t you see the fashion police spreads in the magazines? You are on all the pages! Don’t show your hips. Put on a shirt that conceals your stomach. Put your breasts away. Don’t wear bright lipstick. Stop standing out, being different. Get smaller, quieter, lesser, as you are supposed to be. You love your black too loudly and it makes others uncomfortable. Your job is to make people comfortable so do your best to limit the loudness of your melanin. simul justus et peccator andy anderson 11 QUEER Eve Taft You think there isn’t a sign on my ribs that says “stonewall inn”? You think Matthew Shepard doesn’t tug at my hair and warn me as I walk the streets of my city? You think I don’t choke on the smoke from the hellfire you spit from your pulpits with sparks that sear and heat branding irons which scar your names on me to mark me as danger? You think my veins don’t shiver when they think of the devastation wracking the cities that some called deliverance while Reagan fiddled as we burned You think that the prisons pink triangles asylums bullets spitting into a nightclub don’t whisper in my head as I make my way through the world? 12 You think that I don’t notice— I kiss her and kiss her —the headline blowing by with a death toll and I kiss her the skyline splashing out behind us the lights on the Washington Avenue bridge flicker on and I kiss her Putin criminalizes us, across the world I kiss her Vigils held too late for young suicides Corrupting, perverted, disgusting, an affront to family values— I kiss her in the rain and the sleet of Minnesota I kiss her, our lips tasting of chants from the protest that shut down I-94 handed down from our grandmothers hearts beating, eyes sparkling, alive I kiss her You think I forget the lists and the candles and the deaths and the pain and all that roars in my ears is a chorus screaming over and over again you were not able to kill us I kiss her and all is still 13 JESUS IN A CRACKER A. Tetzlaff Eucharist I hugged my father’s black, pleated pants while we waited for mass to start. He was beaming proudly and chatting with the rest of our family. I wore the only dress I allowed to touch my body: by then it was a year old and from my uncle’s wedding when I walked down the aisle carrying a bouquet, looking like a blonde deer caught in front of a semi truck. It had a black velvet top connected to a white skirt. All the girls wore white. My parents cut their losses. All the boys, shirt and tie. Eight-year-olds taking their first communion despite the fact that most of us had no idea what was happening. Understanding the sacraments isn’t really necessary when you grow up in a Catholic family. By the time you are aware of your burden, it’s too late anyway. Religion lived at Nativity of Our Lord Parish, in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Between church and home, I lived in a realm of contradiction. I came to visit religion, but it never went home with me. On Sundays when the game was in town, God would not judge you for wearing your Packer jersey to church. Sinning was bad, but you could tailgate and drink and carouse to your heart’s content. We should have taken beer at 14 that first communion. We would have appreciated it more than the wine. We took our places in the ritual that had been performed again and again. The time-worn ritual begins anew as I walk to the altar with my hands folded in front of me. I must remember to raise my hands high enough so the rheumatic priest doesn’t have to bend down. Right hand over left. I’m a blonde deer again. “The body of Christ.” This is the part where I say, “Amen,” whether I mean it or not, then put the communion wafer in my mouth. I must cross myself (right hand touching head, then left shoulder, then right shoulder) as I walk back up the aisle and toward my family. They liked to sit in the middle section, never too close to the altar. They didn’t like making direct eye-contact with the priest during his homily. To this day I skip the wine for fear of communicable diseases. It stuck to the roof of my mouth, this first communion wafer. It was stale. There was no substance. Maybe the parched flour and water, mixed with the lingering incense is actually what Jesus tastes like. The absorbent clump lasted into the next hymn. Saliva rushed into my mouth and eventually the wafer, heavy with mois- ture, fell from the roof of my mouth. I swallowed without chewing. Just go with it, I told myself. All these people believe in this, so one day, you will too. But I wasn’t sure. I didn’t get it. The power that kept me from running back up the aisle wasn’t the love of God gently pushing me along, but the ritual itself, and the expectation of my parents and grandparents watching proud and probably dewy-eyed as I joined their ranks. Hugs and smiles and congratulations as my family comes out of the first communion Mass, but I wasn’t sure what was such cause for celebration; I hadn’t had a great epiphany about God, nor had I felt any change at all. It was just like every Sunday late in October. head and tell me I was forgiven. “Sometimes, I’m not very nice to my mom or my brother,” I told him. Navitity didn’t own a confessional booth like the ones in movies. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a confessional booth at any Catholic church outside the movies. We sat quietly in a tiny room. Being small for my age, I circled the air below me with my feet. I sat facing him directly. He crossed his legs under the cassock he wore, clearly annoyed. After a silence and a slow nod, the priest said, “Sometimes, we hurt the people we love the most.” It was the only part I heard or remember hearing; he started talking about God’s forgiveness, I assume. I didn’t pay attention, because I didn’t feel different after admitting such a pitiful sin. Marriage I had no ill-feeling toward the physical place of church. In fact, the ritual, the sounds, the smell of incense, and the light that filtered through the stained-glass windows from an Easterly rising sun became familiar and comforting over the years. The nave, filled with old pews, had witnessed my parents’ wedding and my grandparents’ weddings. The organ towered over the choir. The smell of old patrons and Sunday cologne too liberally applied became a sensory memory of that place. However, religion has never been an inward practice; the practice and the scene never joined together. Anointing of the Sick When times are bad, I’ve pulled the fragments of ritual from my memory and recite the “Our Father.” I did this in the winter of my eighteenth year in days following my grandfather’s funeral. He died of bladder cancer, worsened by a communicable bacterial infection called C.Difficile. I became familiar with the ritual of funeral; I’d been to three or four for close relatives. But this time, the ritual felt different. Before, I was sad. My grandfather’s funeral confirmed that the only sacred part of my world had been ripped mercilessly from my arms. Reconciliation “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”As the words come out of my mouth, they themselves felt sinful. I hadn’t sinned, I was eleven. I barely knew what sin was. I had to stop a moment to think of a sin I had committed, so the priest could nod his Baptism I sat in the shower until the water hitting my face was colder than I could stand, reciting the “Our Father” over and over, sobbing. Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. I hoped, over so many repetitions, that my view 15 of God and heaven would change. Yet, it confused me more. Religion stopped looking like the patron blind to reality and became a place where I didn’t belong. Like I was missing out because I didn’t get that epiphany, and didn’t have that same faith. Confirmation Religion was so stale, that when my Mother would occasionally talk about faith, or God, or divine love at the dinner table I would blush with pity and embarrassment. How can you believe this? I thought, how can you be so blind to the real world? Perhaps, I’m the blind one. I continue to live in an intermediate space between faith and atheism. I can’t commit to either. The fence between atheism and faith is fraught with angst. Most days, I try to laugh away my uncertainty. I tell jokes about my Catholic past, chuckle when I hear of “recovering Catholics,” and tell friends, “It smells like a Catholic church in here,” whenever they burn incense. Religion is still stale to me. Religion has no nutritional value. Stale religion has no holy orders. 16 grey cloud island david baboila 17 saint paul airport david baboila 18 white bear lake david baboila 19 zips coliseum david baboila 20 BRIDGE Jacob J. Miller This was not way back when, as my dad would have you believe. It was more recent than that. If he can’t flat out deny it, which he no longer can, he will at least try to convince you that it was so long ago as to suggest it might have been a different lifetime, and he a different person. He has been, after all, Born Again. Except he was not the only person involved, and to carry along as if he was is an exercise in what I’ve heard philosophers call solipsism. For him, his transgression was between himself and the Holy Ghost: accountable not to those he wronged, only to an invisible spirit. But he doesn’t have sole authority in determining the past’s relevance or irrelevance to our lives today. My mother too pretends the past is only what has happened at a particular point in time, and not a factor in what determines what has happened since then and what is happening now. The slate wiper theory of forgiveness is what allowed them to wear their veneer of innocence and believe in its authenticity, and for that reason I resent their new-leaf turnover. My love for them may not be emergent in my words, I know, but I do love them, regardless of the fucked up traits they passed on to their children, which will become evident as this story unfolds You might be wondering, if you care at all, what could be so terrible. Well, it’s not so terrible, and not even very uncommon, but it happened to me, and my brothers and my sisters, and there was never anything we could really do about it. We watched it unfold almost every night to reveal its rotted pit. What was scariest was not when a half-full beer bottle would be hurled in our direction for us being too noisy, and then being held responsible for wasting the beer, and getting punished even more for that. What was scariest was when they fought with each other, mom and dad, when they were both liquored up. All of us children would be sitting in the living room, on our knees, in a line, with our hands folded and tucked inside our clenched thighs, having hitherto been fulfilling our playful, childish duties who couldn’t expect things to go so suddenly and intensely wrong. They would fight about anything, or nothing, for all we knew or cared. They would yell, swear, slam their fists on various surfaces, throw things across the room at each other as if rehearsed. One time, I remember, and this is what I’m talking about when I talk about how scary things got, my 21 dad had my mom pinned up against the refrigerator—after she threw three or four plates at him, one that hit his arm, but would have hit his face if he hadn’t been blocking, and cut it deep. He had the sharp kitchen knife pressed firmly under her chin. If she gulped too hard in fear, or if dad in his stupor lost balance, she would have been bleeding all over the family pictures held by magnets to the fridge. As we grew older, my big brother and I began working under dad instead of merely living under him. Our prospects in life weren’t substantial at that point. Whatever potential we had, it had never been encouraged, so entering into the family business, if it can even be called that, was the only viable option. I woke dad up most mornings from his typical collapse into a face-down, fetal heap on the kitchen floor, sometimes still wet, sometimes already crusted over. I’d say, “it’s time for work, dad,” and he’d drive me to the site where (drinking coffee with whiskey in it on the way) heavy machinery was waiting to be operated—even though we used hammers and nails whenever we could. Stonehenge-sized slabs of cement, wooden pillars, cinder blocks, and iron rods littered the landscape. It was all so disorderly that if a nomad wandered upon the scene, the indication would be of destruction rather than pre-construction. There were no piles of allocated materials or inventoried supply lists. It could have all been salvaged from past demolitions or by thievery from other project sites. We seemed to accrue it all without any kind of exchange or standard of accountability for use. Everything seemed to just show up wherever and whenever we needed it. Who actually made all this stuff? How did we move it from place to place to use from job to job? Who permitted my sodden father to oversee such potentially hazardous 22 projects? He was a self-made man outside the advent of auditing. What did I care then? I was making my way, fashioning for myself a future out of will power, and holding my breath until I could extricate myself from this grim farce. First day on the job, my dad said to me, don’t fuck up, or he’d make me test the bridge before the support beams were all in place. I believed him. That particular bridge wasn’t connecting two sides over a raging river or anything; more of a convenient pathway over a stream, but it was still a threat coming from dad. Second day on the job, my brother James tore partway through his leg with a chainsaw. I heard him yell, but it sounded more out of frustration than terror and pain. He sat down, ripped his immediately blood-soaked pants from where the initial tear was, delicately unlaced and removed his boot so as not to cause more pain, grunting as if he had done nothing more than step in dog shit, and lifted the nearly severed part of his leg that dangled lifelessly like a tube sock on a clothesline, to close the wound, from which I saw steam rising sacrificially to the wintery heavens. He reached forward to grab the excess of sock which, although bunched up at his toes, had a long, tortuous journey before being completely removed. He screamed as he stretched forward, more circumstantially appropriate this time, and this is when I dropped my— whatever, the thing I was holding, I can’t remember what, but I didn’t hear it land because I couldn’t assimilate anything else that may have been transpiring around me. I almost seemed to float over to him, not even aware of my legs propelling me forward. I saw all the blood, but I wasn’t put off by it as much as I thought I probably should have been, and I thought that as I stared at it pooling out. I observed it dispassionately, coldly, but I may not have been breathing. At first sight, it was just an organic pipe that sprung a leak. I think I asked if he was all right but I meant it more like did he think he was going to die. He said to go get dad and that’s when I became afraid. I stood there for I don’t know how long, until he repeated himself more urgently: “Walt!” he said, “Go! Get! Dad!” I listened that time, but I was still very afraid. I was trembling and began feeling like I might faint, and I almost hoped I wouldn’t find dad, that he’d be off drinking somewhere, but he wasn’t. He was drinking right there, over a small mound of dirt, holding a big piece of wood sturdy for someone to do something with. I saw his breath bellow out into the cold with a cough and evaporate as he took a swig from a bottle before sliding it back into his coat pocket, without so much as a pretense of inconspicuousness.The bottle neck stuck straight out and brushed against his elbow, a cumbersome lump sinking down and throwing off his equilibrium further than the ethanol already had. I slowed my pace, tried to regain some composure, and still hoped he wouldn’t notice me. I could claim an attempt at getting his attention, but he just couldn’t be bothered with me. I tried, I’d tell James, but I’ll carry you. I was sure I could have done that. Part of me still wished I could have avoided involving my dad at all. It was selfish, but I thought I might get slapped with the blame. But I yelled, Dad! Come quick! Dad, I yelled again, skidding on the gravel as I spun around, intent on not letting my dad’s impatient glare lock on me, and from that momentum, nearly ascending at a perfectly horizontal angle in the air before I landed face first on those same tiny rocks, a perfect reenactment of self-humiliation on the school playground at recess. I felt all those multiple points of impact, but wasted no time in catapulting myself back up—no time for embarrassment just yet—clawed off the pebbles that clung gently to the tiny dents they bore into my face and palms, and sped back to my brother who, when I reached the dirt-mound summit again, I could see was lying flat, surrounded by the thick, still-steaming purplish puddle which had, since I left him, at least quadrupled in circumference. Not looking back at all during my return sprint to see how far behind me dad was, or even if he followed me at all, I turned from the sight of my brother completely to see him, Dad, shuffling over the mound, bogged down by beer bottles, which could be heard clanging together in his pockets. He was wheezing inhalations of frozen air. He saw James right away, I know it, but he didn’t say anything until he got right up close to him, planting one clumsy boot in the blood puddle with a squelchy, meager splat, like an old-fashioned letter-sealing stamp on melted wax. He leaned over with outward turned elbows and hands on hips, looked at James’ face. James’ eyes were closed. Dad then scanned down to the butchered leg, grimaced, scanned back up to James’ face. James’ eyes were now open again, frigid with shock, and dad said, “pull yourself together, son,” erupting hysterically at his own clever buffoonery. James turned out to live, no real thanks to our father. I ended up having to run to the nearest phone anyway and call an ambulance. He didn’t even lose his leg. He did require a blood transfusion because he lost gallons of it, or at least it seemed like it when I stood there staring at the mess, but his gristly cheeks had their color restored right in front of me, resupplying and, it almost seemed, re-inflat23 ing him to human shape at the coercion of some stranger’s bodily elixir. It worked like sorcery, but far more astonishing because it was methodologically reliable. The warm fluid surged through his veins, and he was ensconced for a moment in a prodigious glow of newfound vitality. Back then, my dad, laughing, called him a lucky son-of-a-bitch, whereas telling the story now, upon reflection and suspension of rational thought, my brother was “touched by an angel.” Now, whenever this celestial creature of mercy is mentioned, who conveniently remains anonymous for humility’s sake I suppose, instead of our dad drunkenly laughing and mocking the situation, James does. An example of an aforementioned fucked up trait passed on in the family. 24 50 FEET TALL Emilie Tomas I was in 5th grade When my class went To see ‘The Human Body’ and I watched In childhood Horror as A 50 foot grin Unfurled, loomed Large enough To pull me Into orbit Devoured First a sandwich And then my Faith in humanity With deafening Smacks Like thunder If thunder Was made Of jelly and Dismay and I Knew it was a Crime to allow a Person to become This Inflated, With every pore Its own path to Hell and I knew I couldn’t trust Anyone because In our heads We are all 50 feet tall. 25 meow you see ashley waalen 26 MOUSETRAP Halle Chambers Minnie “Mousy” O’Mally knew she was invisible up here on her fire escape. This was her safeplace. With the ladder pulled up as it was now, almost no one could reach her here. Plus, even if someone did make it up here, she could easily get away. If she crawled rough the window, she’d be securely locked in the apartment. There, it was warm and dry and at least sometimes safe when her daddy…no, excuse her, correction, “Father or Sir” wasn’t home. He hated when she called him Daddy. He wasn’t home now, out doing illegal God knows what in the “family business,” but he would be back soon. Hence why she was out here. So, no apartment, not right now. If she dropped the ladder, she could slide down to street level in seconds and be down the block in under a minute. She knew, because she’d practiced and had timed herself. The only way to avoid getting hit in the face was to be quick on your feet. That was the first rule of fighting that Jase, her older brother, had taught her. With the life they lived, it was also a rule of survival. And they didn’t call her “Mousy” for nothing: she was small and fast… very fast. Jase could make a distraction, and Minnie could run. But, Jase was working a job that “Father” had given him out of town till this weekend, and she’d surely get caught if she didn’t have her usual head-start. So,“down” wouldn’t work either. If she scaled up the ladder above her, she’d be on the roof, where their oldest brother, Cobie, had often taken her and Jase to stargaze. She hadn’t known till six years into her still short life that he’d done it to keep his precious baby brother and sister away from their father’s sight when the man would come home satellite high or plastered. She hadn’t known till twelve years in that he’d take their father’s hungover backhand on the mornings after, so she and Jase didn’t. All she’d known as he’d taught her each constellation was that Cobie was braver than Orion and that she and her brothers were more inseparable than the Gemini twins. But, her world went as topsy-turvy as Cassiopeia when her father had sent Cobie away, saying he would not have a queer as a son. When Jase and Minnie hugged him, Cobie swore he’d come back for them in a year or so. Jase had given up when he’d been two years gone. That was two years ago, and now even Minnie 27 was starting to doubt. No, she couldn’t go up to the roo, not alone. She shivered in the October chill as she reviewed her options: “in” would be facing her father’s wrath, “down” would be facing being caught by a cop or a stranger, and “up” would be facing a reminder of the happiness, now heartbreak, brought by a brother who was likely never coming home again. So, maybe she couldn’t escape easily…or at all. She shivered again, this time more in frantic panic than from the frigid, near winter city wind. For not the first time in her life, Mousy felt trapped. 28 faces connie kilppen 29 *I DON’T ALWAYS FEEL COLORED Diamonique Walker Sometimes I find comfort in places I somehow know I don’t belong Never a full day, but hours will pass and I won’t consider my brown skin or kinky hair I’ll let the imminent fear of my black body being made into an example fall back to the depths of my mind My daughter’s safety in mixed company won’t occur to me I won’t juxtapose my blackness with any other’s identity confidence As if one chooses randomly from a pile of stock black girl names when they look at me He asks me if my hair is real I tell him he can’t ask me that He says oh it’s okay, my girlfriend is black I’m a dirty smudge on freshly ironed white linens Trying to blend in, trying to live my life I breathe, momentarily Suddenly, I’ll feel breathless, choked Stabbed in the chest Stung by a white hot micro aggressive slap in the face An unsolicited violation of my personal space A pale hand gently pulls a lock of my hair in white amazement Or a thin pair of lips will say “what’s upppppp” to me and not anyone else I’ll get called a name like Jasmine with such utter 30 *Line borrowed from Claudia Rankine, Citizen WHERE I AM FROM Hannah Schmit I am from the forest. From ruddy Maple and heady Pine. I am from the sunlit dust that refracts the life of the breeze. The rough wood of the trees are my bones, roots firmly planted deep in the depths of the cool black soil. Generations have taught me to live in the sun, tan weathered hands, calloused and worn cover small, break earth and sow seeds. Exhaling with the unfurling of new leaves whose first stretch welcomed life, I learned the importance of patience and nurturing. I am from dirt beneath my nails and gritty sand in my teeth. Sap painted hands and hot tar feet, blackened from short dashes across burning pavement that rippled with summer heat. Sandboxes were my kingdom, the layers of silt and sand familiar to my prodding hands. I climbed turreted towers of twisted bark and branches to survey the world and breath in time with the breeze. Twigs and leaves were my crown and a rusty tractor my carriage. My people were the songbirds and insistent cicadas whose songs filtered lazily together through the woods. Sometimes I called back, matching note for note, melodies and harmonies creating a canopy of familiarity. I am from wildflowers who nodded their velvet, satin, and paintbrush heads as I passed by. From dried grasses whose sweet scent rose from rolling waves that undulated under horse-tail clouds above. The gold-fringed top of the corn is my hair as it turns to brown under the autumn sun. I am from the passing of seasons, each marking the time as brilliant red and orange gave way to pristine white and serene gray. Freckles and sunburn traded for pale skin cold kissed cheeks. My life can be counted in scraped knees and bruises, and band-aids and scars, each a story unique unto itself. I am from the water. Clear and silted, still and rushing it surrounds me. The river courses through my veins, its steady pulse my heartbeat. I am from the muted silence of holding my breath. From letting go in the soft pixelated light that swirls lazily in the haze of a murky river. From the dew that rests in early mists that lay as a blanket over a newly purified earth, protecting the last of the dawn. I am from music. Love-strung tunes of lullabies rock 31 my past to sleep and call forth dog-eared memories. Treasured memories that float fragmented in my mind, I was waltzing with my darling… Goodnight, Irene… Then sings my soul… Black Forest I have come to be in this place. Knit sweaters and hand me downs weave the fabric of my personality. The black ink of the notes is stained on my fingers, the lyrics printed out as a map on my mind. My body is movement, ‘full of grace’ as I danced through recitals and music competitions. My history is composed of the ivory keys of a piano board, the metallic strings of a guitar, and the soft wheeze of a musty accordion. I am from survivors. From broken families and lives I was given the opportunity to begin. Out of the ashes of war and blood, death and pain I was taught compassion. The scars remind me of my privilege. A handful of ink-smeared letters, a fading tattoo, and relentless nightmares that went unspoken. Touched by shadows of heartbreak and longing I have learned the fears of disease and pain, the cruelty of man and the destruction of illness. I am from a legacy. Footsteps preceded my very first and taught me how to stand tall—to walk courageously. When I was tired of walking and needed to fly, strong hands lay behind me as I learned to test my own strength. I am from fading memories. From sweat and ploughs, rough tools and run down sheds. My past is a copper foundation of saved pennies stretched with love and trust. The polished wood of a hunter’s gun and tug of a taut fishing line tie me to the land of a generation gone by. I am from the creaking wood of a ship that ferried dreams. From the fjords and 32 I am from strength. From weary hands that sought to move forward. From songs crooned in different tongues, prayers tucked away from missed lives. I am from the sweet smell of tobacco. From a worn brown pipe laid in the top overall pocket. From tales of Shirley Temple and shiny black shoes. From the canoe as it passes over reeds and the click of a cane keeping time with shuffling shoes. From sterilized rooms and flowers with similarly fated owners. I am from loss and tears. I am from the Mississippi and the Great Lakes, from steam and coal. From concrete jungles and log cabins. I am a piece of the past, I am… The rooms of my mind are wallpapered with snapshots of a younger me. Sayings and phrases are the soundtrack of my life. I carry them with me. Tucked in locked and forgotten rooms they wait patiently, longingly for me to recall. future. I seek not where I am going only exist here, as I am. I am from the past. Shaped by the present I live for the future. I am from wanderlust. An incorrigible desire to explore that cannot be quelled with the stillness between heartbeats. I am from the excitement that teeters on the brink of the inevitable. I am pulled at by the gentle whisper of religions. Called to the beauty of holiness in the world, I am grounded in the church yet growing in the temple and the mosque. I am gentle hands that have learned to be useful—to give back. Well-used fingers taught to survive and protect. I am a collection of places and people that I have encountered. In love with humanity, I exchange comfort for experience. I am at home in the concrete jungles constructed from heat-cracked pavement and in the mudpatched hut of the desert. The mountains and caves call to me like the trees and fields of my youth. I am at home in the grand expanse of a world that knows no limits, understands no boundaries. A world that exists, simply to exist. My feet itch to travel down forgotten paths where the dust of ages can billow out from under me and cloud the clarity of the 33 who am i? ashley waalen 34 2 GRATITUDE: A POEM IN FOUR PARTS D.E. Green 1. Le Chaim 2. In Praise of Delusion Each day, my own sunrise, my own morning star: your red head radiates strange aerial spikes. When he walks down the sloping skyway from Memorial to the Music building on his way to a long evening class, he sees his reflection in the large classroom window at the base of the slope. He loves that mirror. In it, he is about a foot taller than his five-fiveand-a-half and twenty pounds lighter. He is younger than his sixty years. The silver hair is less telling. As he approaches, the Other ways slightly, moves with the elegant gait of an athlete or dancer. This, he imagines, is my Norwegian double—tall and slender and (at least from this distance) good-looking. Of course as man and image converge, his Other shrinks into an eastern-European, Semitic, rather compact, little old man. Perhaps (he wonders) I have seen the inner image of myself. Perhaps (he smiles) I am happy just to have illusions. Our son’s beard and long Hasidic locks on a head never bowed in prayer hover over his guitar and, till he gets it just so, a heavy-metal riff. The picture of Ollie, our old pup,— his face speaks love, love, love. Like the holiday meal you’ll pretend to let me cook. Or when your hand gently strokes my heaving shoulder: I am sobbing silently because the movie has ended well—a good death, timely reconciliation, vows revived, a renewed breath. 36 3. Thanksgiving 4: To My Son This morning, as I drive from Northfield to Hampton past field after barren field, three wild turkeys foraging and gobbling at the edge of the road— their white-splashed wings, black-feathered trunks, It’s Friday, Z—, and (as always) time to say how much I love you (and your mom too, since I don’t say it often enough though I feel it every minute) and how much I miss you and hope you can spend a few hours with us and Grandma the first weekend in November. We worry about you every day, ‘cuz that’s our job, but we also have an abiding sense of how strong you are: How much you have been through, how far you’ve come, and how you face each day with grit—and, I hope, love. The latter is so hard to do: Over breakfast your mom and I sometimes sit around and whine about our work, about grading student papers. But a little later I’ll be walking across campus and the light will be just right and I’ll see a familiar face amid a group of young people and—I don’t know why—I feel love. I think that’s the word. And I felt it last time we picked you up downtown and you were talking to some scruffy stranger on the street. And the fact that you can still be open to such encounters—isn’t that love too?— filled me with wonder. It’s funny: Old people, among whom I am about to number, have proverbially been beyond wonder, such a romantic and old-fashioned word. But I swear that I still feel it—and that you are among the wonders of my world. red combs poking and pecking the gravel and weeds—surprise me. I flinch. The car swerves. I breathe. They range unruffled. 37 work in progress gabriel bergstrom 38 THE FIRE Elisabeth Beam I stood with my back to the crowd watching the house go up in flames. It happened faster than I had expected. It had taken less than a minute for the fire to spread from the kitchen to the living room and even less time for it to make its way upstairs and into the bedrooms where Grandma and the twins had been peacefully sleeping. Joel stood beside me; his face was dark with ash, his mouth tilted upwards in a sickeningly gleeful smile. Momma had never liked Joel. She said he was a troublemaker and I should do my best to stay away from him. Joel hadn’t always been mean. When I first met him he would bring me friends and make me laugh. He gave me my grey tabby cat, Walter, and my small white bunny, Snowy. We used to all run around the garden and play and laugh. I didn’t like it when Walter and Snowy played. Walter always hurt Snowy. Joel loved it. Snowy’s pain filled shrieks always brought a smile to his face. Joel would play tricks on Momma. He’d move the chair she was about to sit in and she’d tumble to the floor with a crash and a scream. He would put dead things in the twins’ crib for Momma to find. Once he brought a live snake into the house and slipped it into the shower when Momma was in it. She screamed something awful and had locked me in my room for a week. I always got blamed for Joel’s wicked tricks. Momma brought a lot of new friends to the house after that. She brought in men wearing long white coats who talked with me and asked questions about Joel and Walter and Snowy. Joel would stand behind them as they questioned me and make faces. I didn’t understand why they didn’t just talk to Joel and grew frustrated with their questions. Once Momma brought home a man in a black suit. He walked around the house mumbling in a strange language, throwing water on the walls and waving his cross around like a baton. I thought he was crazy. I told Momma and she told me to hush and sit down. The man stood in front of me yelling in his strange way and holding his cross on my forehead. It was cold and made me uncomfortable. Joel got upset. He didn’t like the man and the way he was 39 shouting. The next thing I knew the man was on the floor bleeding from a gash in his head and Joel was laughing loudly in my ear. A bunch of police officers showed up and Joel told me not to tell anyone what he’d done. He said I should blame it on Momma and she’d go away for a long time and stop bothering us. Momma shouted and cried and struggled as the police dragged her away to the sound of Joel’s gleeful laughter and the twins’ high pitched screams. Grandma came after Momma. She was mean. She locked me in my room and told me to stay there until I learned my lesson. I watched him stalk around the room at night mumbling darkly to himself. Grandma made me to go church with her every Sunday, she said I had to pray for my soul for what I’d done to that man and to Momma. I didn’t understand why everyone blamed me for Joel’s tricks and was tired of being punished for all the naughty things that he did. One night at supper, Joel made scary faces at the twins who started wailing. Grandma stood up and yelled at me as she tried desperately to calm the twins. She told me to go to my room. I said no. I pointed at Joel and yelled at him with all my might. This was all his fault. Grandma sent me to bed. Joel told me they were going to send me away. They would separate us and I would never be able to see him again. I told him I was fine with that because he was being horrible. That upset him. He got Walter and Snowy and made me watch as Walter ate Snowy. I cried. He laughed. Joel woke me up at midnight. He told me we could stay together. Me, him, and Walter, but we had to do 40 something first. He smelt like gasoline. He led me to the kitchen and pointed to the stove which was covered with a sticky, sweet smelling liquid. He told me to open my hands. I did. He handed me a lighter. I didn’t want to do it but Joel got angry when I tried to say no. He yelled and told me to do it for all the times Momma blamed me for something he did. That if I did this everyone would finally realize it was him doing all the bad things and not me. My hands were shaking so bad it took me five tries to get the lighter to ignite. When it did I froze and stared at the small flame in my hands. It flickered with every shuttering breath that came out of my mouth. Joel grew impatient and slapped the lighter out of my hand and onto the stove. There was a large whooshing noise and a blast of orange light. My arm hair stood on end and sweat trickled down my face. I backed away. Joel stood in front of the fire and laughed. He threw his arms out wide and danced in tune with the flames. He was crazy but his movements were so beautiful and fluid. It was frightening. The fire advanced toward me. I didn’t want to move. I wanted the fire to eat me like it was going to eat Grandma and the twins. Joel grabbed my hand and led me outside. We stood to the side and watched as the fire slowly ate up the house I had grown up in. The house that the priest, the twins, and Grandma had all died in. Sirens and smoke filled the night air. I looked to my side for Joel, but he had disappeared. DESERT DRUMS Abigail Carpenter When my London flatmate, Raoni, suggested we travel to Northern Africa because he was missing the heat of Brazil, we had no intention of visiting the Sahara Desert and the Atlas Mountains. But we quickly made friends with a generous and hospitable Moroccan man, Raxido, who invited us to a local drum circle at the edge of the Sahara Desert. After traveling on camelback against an orange-rayed sunset, we found ourselves among the sand dunes. We parked our camels single file near our camp, and I realized a place that once only existed in my dreams was now before me. I had to close my eyes for a long while. I opened them over and over again until I was sure of it. I had to reach down and let the sand fall between my fingers slowly. I had to breathe in the crisp, evening air. And when I looked up, the stars speckled in the sky like the summer freckles on my face, thousands and thousands of them. When the drum circle began, I let its music fill me up. It started in my toes and moved higher, tickled my fingers and sent goosebumps up my arms and back. The drums vibrated within my chest and when it reached my mouth, I screamed in laughter. My laugh echoed farther and farther across the desert, not meeting any person or town or house until it was miles and miles away. I wrapped my blanket a little tighter and watched my friends dance around the fire to the beat of the drums. Their legs moved up and down as their hands joined the ashes flying through the night air. For many hours, we sat around the fire, told our stories and spoke aloud our dreams. We danced and sang and took turns pounding the drums. We slept under the stars among the silence of the desert for only a few hours until the sun awoke us on the horizon. And moving through the deep sand, the sunrise at our backs, we rode our camels to the bus to escape the desert heat before it swallowed us up whole. 41 COLORS Hannah Schmit If I am a color call me red The color of passion and love Humanity worn on my sleeve The color of my blood, beating heart. Call me red. If I am a season call me fall With baited chilled breath I speak My words on whirlwind breezes fall An omen of changes to come Call me fall. If I am a sound call me silence. The chaos and stillness of calm My words lost yet encompassing In anticipation of something Call me silence If I am a thought call me hope The desire for something more A yearning call deep within me The need to breathe Call me hope. 42 urban delight jazmin crittenden 43 WHEN DAD WORE COLOGNE A. Tetzlaff “Did Grandpa Mike die?” My small voice broke a quiet that Dad and I carry easily between us. A radio frequency connecting our minds that communicates silently, so we don’t have to. Even at the age of three, I knew our sacred, noiseless space well. Dad took me to a park one day, nearby my childhood home. We rarely visited this park unless we intended to use its snowy slope for adrenaline rushes in our bright plastic sleds in the winter time. But it wasn’t wintertime now. My dad wore a blue t-shirt he’d owned since high school. Summer or spring, the season isn’t particularly distinct. The hills rose nakedly as we quietly approached. I’ve come back to the memory time and again; the images are blurred, like a positive photograph that didn’t come out of the darkroom correctly. I can’t recall how my father responded to my question, though I’m sure he patiently and painfully affirmed my query. In that moment I wasn’t shocked. I wasn’t sad. Presently, I regret that I can’t remember a man who loved me and was so dearly loved by others. I don’t know how he looked aside from the pictures I know. How he talked, laughed, 44 yelled, walked, I don’t recall. Did he wear cologne to work like Dad? When I was young, Dad wore cologne to work. He woke up around five in the morning in order to be at work five-thirty, and he still does, despite the fact that no one expects him in the office till eight. I’d hear his alarm from my bed and wait to smell the mix of dewy summer grass and the spicy knives of cologne in my nostrils. The smell lingered and pulled me back to sleep as Dad left the house. On the day at the park, Dad wasn’t wearing cologne. Dad didn’t wear cologne that day because it was either a weekend or he had the day off or had taken time away to grieve. I don’t remember the call to our corded telephone late one night. It was the hospital telling Mom and Dad that my grandfather died of a heart attack while showering. I don’t know if he died immediately or if the attack was slow, painful, cold, and wet. I will never ask. The thought of breaking the stitches grief so tenuously sewed incites trepidation. Was my young face one of his last images? I’m vain enough to assume so––grandparents always think of the grandbabies first. Was it a comfort? I can only hope. At my Grandfather’s funeral, I can’t remember Mom’s grief. I can’t remember the funeral either.She keeps the remnants of her love tended like a flower garden and tells me of her father often. I have nothing but the cemented walkway leading to the park that summer day deep in my mind. Mom tells me that my grandfather lived as long as he did because he was waiting for me. It was a miracle I was even born, but that’s not my story to tell. She calls me “the sparkle in his eye.” Christopher, my younger and only brother, inherited my grandfather’s bright, Anglo-blue irises. He was born the year after my grandfather died. Christopher joined the Army a few weeks ago; my grandfather was a Marine in the 60s. During his service in Asia, my grandfather collected each country’s currency. Grandma keeps the collection in a red leather box in her bedroom closet. I used to step onto a chair and carefully extract the artifact from the top shelf and touch each coin and each bill. Some of those tenders are much extinct now. The souvenirs of my grandfather’s life are far less valuable to me than those of my travels––those, at least, the mugs and the key chains, those have memories attached of the real thing. I’ve spent most of my life scouring photos and objects, trying to resurrect an authentic memory of my grandfather. Trying to find a sensation that brings him back to me like the early morning scent of Dad’s cologne because I only remember the hills and my words and Dad. The solvents of time washed away my grandfather. 45 SHITTY CHRISTMAS TREES AND SECONDHAND DOLLS Elisabeth Beam When I was a kid we didn’t have a lot of money. But we managed to survive. Mom worked a lot at the dingy looking Super 8 Motel just down the street from the elementary school. You know, the kind of motel that charges by the hour instead of night. She hated it but it was close to school and paid just enough. Around November she would start picking up shifts at other hotels in town to save up more money for Christmas. It was hard. The heat bill always went up mid-October when the chill started to set in and the snow began to fall. Presents were always an issue. Getting stuff for just me and Sarah was usually alright, but Mom came from a big family. Six brothers and sisters all of whom had kids. All of whom would be needing presents. That’s a lot of money. Money we just didn’t have. One year there was a huge blizzard and they canceled school for a week. Sarah was only six at the time and she couldn’t be left alone to take care of herself much less a five-year-old as well. So mom had to stay home from work and look after us. She tried to make it seem like she wasn’t stressed out about the money, but I knew she was. She would pace around the kitchen at night and mumble to 46 herself. She’d crouch over her checkbook and shake her head. She tried to hide it from us, but I noticed. I always noticed when she got like that. A week of work missed meant we wouldn’t be able to afford the gas to get to grandma’s house for Christmas. And a week with everyone at home meant that the heat bill was going to be rough. She was too proud to try and get food stamps. So money that would normally go towards presents went to buying our Christmas feast. We didn’t go to my grandma’s house that Christmas but it was probably the best Christmas of my life. The day before school let out our landlord took out all the carpet in the living room. He said it was due to be replaced and that someone would be over before the holiday to put down some new carpet. “Your feet will be so happy and thankful! That’s the best Christmas present you could ask for!” he had happily told us. No one came. The floor was cold and there were nails and sharp staples sticking up at weird angles. It hurt to step on them and small red dots appeared throughout the house as we all made the mistake of stepping in the living room without socks. Mom put down an old ratty green rug, one that our cats liked to pee on. She bought a small fake green tree from the thrift shop downtown. It was the saddest looking tree. Most of the branches were missing so it had random bald spots sporadically around its leaning trunk. A good number of the ornaments that we put on it fell off because it couldn’t support their weight. We made new ones out of paper and glitter. Mom wrapped tinsel she’d taken from work around it and Sarah and I sloppily placed string lights. We put an old family picture at the top of the tree because we were too scared that our expensive Christmas angel would fall and break if we tried to stick her up there. Thinking back on it now it was a pretty shitty looking tree, but back then I thought it was the best thing I’d ever seen in my life. I remember sitting on the floor amongst the nails and staples and looking at it glittering and glistening and thinking that it was a far better tree than anyone else could ever have. I thought that even if we’d spend a million dollars on a tree and all its dressings that it wouldn’t even be able to come close to this masterpiece sitting before me. For Christmas Eve we blasted holiday music and ran around the living room twirling and waving our arms above our heads. Mom had somehow found time to make new flannel pajamas for both me and Sarah and we had immediately put them on. She had also given us each a doll that she’d found at a thrift store. They looked ratty and dirty but I loved them both. Every bit of dust and matted patch of hair was a story waiting to be told. The dolls had character and I loved it.That shitty tree and our thrift store dolls were great but they weren’t what made that night so special. It was that we were all together, making the most out of what we had and not lamenting what we were missing. I think as we grow up we lose the magic in secondhand dolls and shitty Christmas trees. 47 summer nights adam ruff 48 the people united adam ruff 49 after the hike adam ruff 50 CRUMBS Malena Larsen He’s looking for love In the crevices of his couch Like loose change. I saw him lift up the cushions And pull out crumbs His mother’s earring A quarter The spoon he dropped last week After eating ice cream out of the container. It was chocolate cookie dough and he ate the whole thing. I watched him put the quarter in his back pocket and the spoon back in the cushions. I told him I had been in love once And he said I like it when girls call me daddy. I had a dream that night that he was dating somebody and my stomach hurt when I woke up. I became a spoon in the couch cushion Who said words like Daddy And Fuck me And Hard. At the end of every night I was put back with the crumbs, and each day that he came to get me there was more cat hair or lint stuck to me I waited patiently Dirty For him to pick me up. It was 77 degrees the late summer night he stopped getting me from the cushions. He told me that he found somebody to love and we can’t be friends, because if I see you I’ll fuck you. I asked him why he couldn’t control himself if he was in love with somebody. The inside of my ribcage Was being scraped empty 51 Like the chocolate cookie dough ice cream container And my stomach hurt Like it did after the dream Where he wasn’t mine I can’t help it. He told me. I like it when girls call me daddy. When we met he was wearing a suit and it looked like he had spent a lot of time on his hair but I didn’t think he was attractive until the weekend when I was drunk. Across the table On the other side of red cups And puddles of water He stared at me In a grey tank top. His eyes And arms Were strong 52 And dark. Making eye contact felt like sex And he smelled like Fireball And somebody I shouldn’t be alone with And too much cologne. We went swimming at 6 am at the neighbor’s lakefront when everyone else fell asleep. He took off his shirt I kept mine on. The water fell off of him like it didn’t want to keep his body covered for too long. He picked me up and folded me over his right shoulder and threw me into the 6 am summer sweet lake water. He drove me home At 7 am Still drunk and Smitten. It was 88 degrees and my birthday the night I let him kiss me in the back hallway of our friend’s frat. I couldn’t wait anymore He told me In the house that smelled like Liquor and dust And damp wood. The first time we Fucked Was in the front seat of his White Pontiac Grand prix At 11 pm on a Tuesday. I saw him almost As an animal. His fists Were clenched And his eyebrows Like shelves Over his beetle eyes. Do you like fucking daddy? After that night I had to sneak him into my bedroom because he couldn’t do all of the positions he wanted to in his car. He needed to prove to me that he was the best fuck and that he could make me cum and that I should call him Daddy. I had never called fucking, fucking before. Before I was a dirty spoon it had only been called love. His eyes started to remind me Of Tiny Round Black beetles. There’s nobody else anymore We should just keep fucking. And when we fucked It was 66 degrees and almost fall when he came to my house in his white Pontiac Grand Prix and told me I remembered then, the quarter he put in his pants and how he used me to eat his ice cream and then put me back with all the crumbs in the cushions of 53 his couch Where he keeps looking for love Like it’s the loose change In his back pocket. 54 bloomed audrey campbell 55 pruned audrey campbell 56 HERMAN Danny Polaschek Grape juice dribbled down Herman’s chin and landed in scattered droplets down the front of his white T-shirt. He didn’t notice and, after setting down his half-emptied glass, picked up his spoon and started on his bowl of bran flakes. Sitting at the kitchen table, there was nothing in front of Herman —but a bare white wall. It seemed, however, that he wasn’t looking at it, but rather through it like a child looks through a window and, seeing nothing but gray skies and rain, is overwhelmed by disappointment because they will not be outdoors playing that day. As Herman sat there facing the white wall and chomping his cereal, his son entered the kitchen and began his morning ritual. Herman heard the coffee-maker start bubbling from somewhere behind him in the kitchen along with the quick and efficient pitter-pattering of his son’s feet, who Herman assumed had to be walking laps around the center island as some sort of new, trendy morning workout. Once the coffee maker’s burbling came to an end the footsteps stopped as well. Herman focused on the sound of the coffee being poured, the soft sound of liquid filling a ceramic mug. The sound stopped as quickly as it had started and Herman was further drawn from his relaxed, monotonous state by the sound of his son’s voice. “How are the flakes this morning, Dad?” Herman didn’t turn around to face his son, but continued with what he was doing, looking like a cow chewing cud. “Five star quality,” he replied in between spoonfuls. “Flaky as ever.” Herman’s son chuckled a bit and looked up from his fresh cup of coffee but the laugh died away when he noticed that his father was still turned away from him, eyes glued straight ahead. Taking another sip, Herman’s son pondered whether he would keep pursuing his father in conversation or not. He ultimately decided against it and left the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. A sigh escaped Herman’s throat as he set down his spoon, finished with his mushed and soggy cereal. Ain’t this the life, he thought to himself sarcastically. Finally turning away from the wall, Herman scooted himself back from the kitchen table and slowly stood up. He gripped the side of the table for balance and took a few deep breaths in an effort to steady himself. Just a few weeks before, Herman had 57 missed a stair descending to the basement and found himself tumbling clumsily down the rest of the way until crashing to a stop on the last few steps. Herman’s head still felt a bit shaky from time to time, which caused a bit of a tremble in his legs. Instead of walking from place to place, he grew accustomed to maneuvering his way to each destination by leaning on and grabbing anything he could for support and then flinging himself to another sturdy checkpoint, and so on and so forth until he reached his goal. It was much like a monkey swinging from vine to vine, but less precise and much less graceful. With his feet finally under him, legs steady, Herman pushed away from the kitchen table and launched himself to the kitchen counter, which caught him with cold indifference. Hunched over, Herman caught his breath for a few seconds before beginning to shuffle down the length of the marble counter towards the coffeemaker at the other end. “This better be a damn good cup of Joe,” he mumbled to himself, clearly exhausted. Halfway down the counter, Herman stopped. With a steady grip on the counter he reached up to the cupboard above his head and swung it open. He couldn’t see inside but he knew that what he was looking for was in there: his old blue coffee mug— one of the only things worth bringing with when he moved into his son’s house the year before. Feeling around the smooth, wooden interior, Herman eventually got a hold of his mug which distinguished itself by having only half of a handle still attached. With the partial handle hooked onto his ring and middle fingers, Herman pulled out his mug and brought it shakily down over his head, setting it on the counter with a soft “clink.” Herman was beginning to feel dizzy at this 58 point, and wished for a moment that he had listened to the doctor about getting a walker. “Mr. Huckley,” the doctor said, “even if you don’t think you’ll use it, take it anyways. Just in case.” Herman didn’t take the walker, and wouldn’t even let anyone help to walk him out of the hospital, not even his son. “I don’t need your damn help,” he snorted each time someone tried to take his arm to steady him. He was always a stubborn man and old age wasn’t going to change that. Continuing down the counter, Herman felt this same stubborn anger boiling in him. He was almost seventy years old and yet he felt like a child who was just learning to walk. He’d built his own home, and a garage to go with it, and now he could hardly make it to the opposite end of the room without feeling fatigued. Sweat was running hot from Herman’s forehead. He wiped it with a shaky hand and breathed in deeply, closing his eyes as he did so. He only had five or so more steps to go and he braced himself for the final stretch, determined to get there even if it killed him. With a focused balance and patient, shuffling steps Herman managed to get to the end of the counter and the coffee pot. He exhaled in relief, and a satisfied smile tugged the corners of his mouth up ever so slightly. With his blue mug in one hand, Herman picked up the coffeepot in the other, intent on pouring himself a well-deserved cup of coffee after his tiresome journey. His satisfaction was immediately replaced with bitterness as he lifted the pot and felt that it was nearly empty, only a few drops remained rolling around in the bottom. Herman’s minute smile had vanished and his brow hardened, scrunching up his forehead in small, tense knots. Setting the pot back on the counter, Herman hissed repeatedly under his breath, cursing his son for not leaving him any coffee. Herman’s hands were visibly trembling and he was having a difficult time keeping a grip on the edge of the counter. He contemplated making more coffee but dismissed the idea immediately, knowing that he could not remain standing and moving around the kitchen much longer. Herman felt a hot flush come over his face and could feel beads of sweat rolling down his temples and his cheeks. In one swift motion he wound up and threw his coffee mug across the room, where it shattered against the windowless, white wall. Slivers and shards of ceramic bounced all over the kitchen, the blue pieces scattered like shattered glass. Herman heard footsteps drumming down the staircase before his son entered the room,stopping in the doorway to avoid stepping on any of the pieces of blue ceramic. “Dad!” he exclaimed, “What happened? Herman was bent over, hunched with his hands on his knees. He was struggling for breath now, and sweat soaked through his shirt on his back. In between wheezes, Herman said exasperated, “You didn’t leave me any damn coffee, you son of a bitch.” His son stood there eyeing first his father and then the indent in the wall where the mug had hit. He shook his head in disbelief, which quickly turned to anger. With a clenched jaw, he left the room and returned a minute later with broom in hand. He began quietly sweeping the blue bits of coffee mug into a dustpan. After Herman had caught his breath and recomposed himself, he pulled his body back into a standing position, leaning against the counter. He glanced to his son, bent over and sweeping under the kitchen table. “I heard you on the phone last night,” he said. Herman kept his eyes on his son as he stood and turned to face him. His son raised an eyebrow at him but gave no verbal reply. “I heard you,” Herman repeated. His son bit his lip and continued sweeping, eyes trained on the floor. “It’s just not working, dad.” 59 EL BARRIO SUYO Chad Berryman El viento le envolvió al hombre como una manta de hielo. Él andaba por el barrio suyo pero los vecinos no lo saludaron. Caminaba delante de una casa grande con flores y grandes ventanas, y por esas ventanas podía oír una pelea entre dos padres y los lamentos penosos de sus hijos. Él seguía la acera que serpenteaba por un parque lindo donde había un banco solitario. Él Lo saludó con la cabeza. Recordaba unas noches del verano cuando este banco no había ofrecido insultos ni acusaciones, sino un lugar simpático para descansar mientras él le regalaba un uso admirable. Pero en el invierno el banco se congelaba como él, y ambos eran incapaces de ayudarse el uno al otro. Paseaba delante de una casa blanca de arquitectura maravillosa. Un coche altanero llegara la entrada. Un padre sincero apareció mientras acababa de contar los acontecimientos de su día. Su hija miraba su celular, y el silencio suspiró por la expresión herida de la cara del padre. Ellos entraron a la casa sin otra palabra. El hombre nómada seguía caminando, y pronto la nieve dentro de sus venas se derretía por una balada antigua que se tarareaba al ritmo de sus pasos. 60 No pido mucho, no vivo de prisa canto los himnos con risa bendita no tengo nada salvo alma amada y sin despedida no hay la llegada THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD Chad Berryman The frigid air wrapped around the man like a blanket of ice. He was travelling through his own neighborhood, but no neighbors acknowledged him. As he walked in front of a large, picturesque house, complete with flowers and giant windows, he could make out the sound of two parents fighting accompanied by the upsetting cries of their children. The sidewalk snaked its way through a park in which there stood one solitary bench. With a nod of his head, the man greeted it. Nights of summers past filled his mind, nights in which the bench had not offered insults or accusations but rather a consoling place of rest while he presented it with the gift of an honorable purpose. However, the bench froze and shivered in the winter the same as he, and neither could provide the other with any relief. He passed by a white house of grand construction. There, a flashy car had just pulled into the driveway. From it emerged an earnest father finishing the recounting of his day. His daughter, however, simply stared at her phone, and the wounded expression on her father’s face betrayed an unsung sigh. The two entered the house without another word. As the wandering man continued walking, the snow in his veins began to melt due to an old tune he commenced to hum in time with his steps. I don’t ask for much, or live in a rush in my blessed laughter the hymns come alive there’s nothing I own save a soul that is loved for without a farewell one could never arrive 61 ODYSSEY Eve Taft Thank you for the twisted pathways of your mind Which led to the streets and alleyways of Dublin James Joyce, do you understand that you opened floodgates? Your avalanche of babbling sentences, sans punctuation Buck Mulligan tossing form and style into the wind Your catechism, you, Daedalus, gave us sacrament Blood flow to wake up the numb limbs of literature You spoke with your soul to our souls Fearing not the noise in your skull but flinging it down in ink I understand you, “life is many days” I understand you, “god is a shout in the street” I understand you, “I am another now and yet the same” You understand me “everything speaks in its own way” Soon I’ll visit your beloved homeland Walking the streets of Dublin, writing and giving thanks to modernism Now as free of rigid form As Ireland of England 62 postcards from my bedroom audrey campbell 63 postcards from my bedroom audrey campbell 64 COUNTING SHEEP Danny Polaschek What can you do when the world is asleep? Go to sleep too? I’ve counted all my sheep. They jumped through the air gliding for 5 or 6 feet cleared the fence and then flew with not even a bleat. I didn’t focus however on these aerial sheep antics because far away in the distance was a sight oh so fantastic. A blue house, with a single light on in the window sat a girl a beauty no pencil could ever have drawn. I looked up at her and she down at me addicted to the eyesight too distracted to count sheep. 65 3 sky nights keeyonna fox 67 inner self keeyonna fox 68 VICTORY OF THE PEOPLE Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk Your worship was my refuge, your clay heart my focal point, your chelsea smile the apple of my eye. We were sick. We poisoned ourselves with amphetamines and pills until we didn’t recognize ourselves in the mirror. We walked miles just to feel accomplished in our space, we turned the cigarettes we shared into sentiments we thought we shared. I must possess the wrong innocence. Souls are fickle things that change when left to die in the cold. ~ He was outrageously tall. He towered over me like the Statue of Liberty and he talked to me as though I was a boat in the harbor. Standing five inches taller than six feet, he was an image of Ukrainian beauty. He stood like someone who knew things you didn’t know and this fascinated me. I was so naive, so optimistic. I saw the lust and want in his eyes and I mistook it for passion.The curve of his jaw and his long eyelashes crept into the screens behind my eyelids and ignited a fire in me that I didn’t know how to put out. I was the new girl in town struggling to keep my loneliness at bay. He was a gleaming light in that summer of darkness. I had just moved to Minnesota months before. After discovering drugs and promiscuous sex I became nothing short of a hurricane. Amphetamines kept me awake, cigarettes kept me skinny, and weed kept me sane. My GPA reflected exactly what they don’t tell you about functional depression: you can feel like a blank page, but as long as you fill it with words people will stop asking questions. He was selling me drugs. He offered me a good price. I had never met him but I figured what the hell, I could stand to meet new people. It was dark, long past sundown. We were meeting in a parking lot by a lake a few blocks away from my house. I was in my mom’s car. I waited and listened to Amy Winehouse until I saw an orange car pull into a parking spot a few yards away from me. The man driving fit the picture I had seen of him before. We 69 made eye contact and he ushered me over to his car. I took a deep breath, grabbed my sweater, and got my money ready. He rolled down the passenger side window. “You Nikita?” I said. He smiled at me. A smile that I would come to know. “You can call me Kita.” ~ He had really good drugs. I’m not sure that they were pure, but at the time I didn’t care. Neither did he. We just wanted to get high. We did his drugs together, sitting in a playground by the lake, talking about life and what we crave. He told me that he was applying to a college in London. I didn’t think anything of it. Before long we saw each other every day. He was a lifeguard who had to be on duty early in the morning, so he would take me out for coffee at eight in the morning. No makeup, sweatpants, my hair in a messy bun. He didn’t care. We would talk about things that we hadn’t shared with anyone else. He told me he struggled with his relationship with his father in Ukraine. I told him that I had struggled with eating disorders since I was thirteen. We would sneak out onto his back porch to smoke cigarettes late at night. His mother hated that we smoked. 70 “You need to quit smoking, love,” she’d tell me. “I smoked for twenty-five years and it took two pregnancies to get me to stop.” His mother loved me. She thought that I was spunky, independent, had a mind of my own. She did not like his last girlfriend. She made that very clear. She, like Nikita, was very tall. She had long curly black hair and eyes so intense that you would lose your appetite. Her Russian accent was thick and powerful. She had run away to the United States when she was twenty-one and seven months pregnant with her first son. Nikita. “Does it mean anything?” I asked him. “Your name.” He smiled when he answered. “My mom told me it means ‘victory of the people,’” he said. Oh Kita, you have no victory. You are the secret I keep from my mother the hidden disease that projectile vomits and digs with fingernails sharpened by teeth. Your fields of sunflowers told me a secret, your secrets so dark and beautiful and I killed myself with your gargantuan sunflowers. His mother was beautiful. She had been a professional figure skater that traveled the world, meeting people as she went. She met Kita’s father in her home country of Ukraine and according to the story, he was immediately drawn to her exuberant personality and her long legs. At twenty-one she was well on her way to continue pursuing a successful skating career until she got pregnant. According to Kita his father did not accompany her to her appointments.He did not send her flowers. He did not ask if she was okay. Instead Kita’s mother made her way to America to create a life of victory and hope. He took me to meet his grandmother. She said hello and came in and that was the last that I understood. The entire time I was there she would ask me questions in Russian and Kita would translate for me. He taught me how to say Hello (Privet) Yes (da) No (net) And thank you, which I don’t remember. We spent almost the entire time we were there trying to help his grandmother set up a new movie streaming program on her computer. I know nothing about computers in English, let alone in Russian. I was overwhelmed. The leather furniture just made my nervous sweat more noticeable. She told me about Ukraine a little bit. She said it was beautiful but troubled. She offered me chocolate and cookies. I sat, sweating, trying my hardest to pay attention. When I said anything to her, Kita would translate for me. I wanted to leave. After we left his grandmother’s house he told me to wait in his car while he talked privately with his grandmother. I thought it was strange but didn’t question it. I played mindless games on my phone while I waited for him. Some part of me knew that they were talking about me, but I continued to deny it. I was hungry, but I wasn’t planning on doing anything about it too soon. I was hungry often then. When he returned to the car I asked what they had talked about and with no hesitation he said, “You.” I paused, then asked him to elaborate. “She likes you,” he said. And that was that. How strange, I thought, to be liked by someone who never explicitly spoke a word to me. ~ Andrevich was Kita’s middle name. Named after his father. Kita’s father was very handsome. In his forties with tan skin and thick hair, he was a heartthrob that would make you look twice. He lived in a nice, expensive apartment in Kiev with his girlfriend who was twenty years younger than him. Apparently that was a theme. Kita had only seen his father a handful of times in his life. He had gone back to Ukraine to spend some time with him as a young boy, but didn’t have too much recollection of it. When he was sixteen he went back to live with his father and his twenty-yearold girlfriend for a while. Kita has always been tall, thin, and handsome. His father noticed this. “So what happened?” I asked him one day. 71 Kita shrugged. “He kicked me out and I came back to the states,” he said without a flinch. He said this as though it was a commonality. “He thought that I fucked his girlfriend,” he said as he lit a cigarette. There was a very long, uncomfortable silence. “Did you?” I asked. He laughed out loud and a cloud of smoke poured out of his mouth. “No, of course not,” he said. “My dad isn’t one to listen to a sixteen year old.” ~ “I’ll take you to Ukraine someday.” “Sunflowers. There are parts of Ukraine where there are endless fields of sunflowers wherever you look. They’re as tall as me and the flowers are bigger than my face.” He pulled me closer as he talked about Ukraine. He insisted that I learn all that I could about the Russia-Ukraine conflict, sending me innumerable articles daily. Through him I learned about the importance of the Ukrainian revolution and fights that had been fought, some as recent as 2011 and 2012. He told me that he wanted to fight for his people if he had to. When my eyes were flushed with concern, he pulled me in close and whispered in my ear, “I’ll survive for you.” His eyes lit up every time he talked about the fields of sunflowers in Ukraine. In the same way, his eyes lit up every time he got angry. Your golden eyes drew miners to starve and fight to abandon their homes. We were in his bed, naked, wrapped up in blankets and speckled by the corner light in his room. It was late, the kind of late that feels early. The air conditioner hummed in the place of our phones which were both off and hidden somewhere in the room. He did no wrong. He could not do any wrong. His eyes were blank but telling like a wall in a foreclosed home. All of his intentions were good. Yes. Good. “Where in Ukraine?” I asked. “Have you been eating?” he asks as he lifts up my shirt. “Kiev, the city squares. And to the huge fields of flowers.” “What kind of flowers?” 72 ~ I squirm away and pull my shirt down. “Yes, I ate just before I came here,” I say. I can still taste the salt in my mouth. “You look skinny,” he tells me with a hint of disdain in his voice. My heart soars. I look skinny. But he’s reaching for my stomach again and once again I’m backing away. We get into the car and drive to the gas station. I say that I need to go use the restroom. While Kita pumps the gas, I make my way into the small Holiday bathroom. I put my sweater on the ground and rest my knees on it, my usual routine. I stick my finger down my throat and vomit into the toilet. As I walk back outside, Kita is getting back into his car. I get in the front seat and sniffle slightly.Kita looks at me quizzically. “You okay?” he asks me. My eyes are watery, my nose is burning, and my breath is putrid. “I’m fine,” I say with a smile. ~ The elevator door was so cold against my cheek. I watched the red numbers blink as they rose. 8...9...10...11. My vision was going fuzzy and grey, my ears started ringing and throbbing. 11...12...13. Ding. The doors opened and my wobbly legs carried me down the seemingly endless hallway. My hands were barely working; as I watched them push my key into my apartment door I could not feel it. The door opened, I could see my living room window. I closed the door behind me and collapsed on the ground. “Why did you faint?” His words echoed behind the screen of my phone. “I just haven’t eaten a lot today.” There was a silence so deafening that it struck fear in my heart. Fear I had not known. “When did you eat last?” He had anger in his voice. I paused. He would know if I lied but he would hate the truth. “I had a little dinner last night,” I said quietly. “What did you eat?” His reply was sharp. I was shaking. “I had a little bit of salad I think,” I said with a quivering voice. I could hear his sigh. I can still hear his sigh. “How many times have we talked about this?” He exclaimed. “I know, I know, I’m sorry…” It didn’t matter. He didn’t listen. I had failed him again. “Do you know what it’s like to have a girlfriend that can’t even take care of herself ?” “What am I going to tell my friends?” “You’re not even trying.” I was sobbing, I was convulsing, I was sweating, all from my bed from which I could not move. My phone was glued to my ear and I had no energy to remove it. “So what are you going to do about this?” There was intense spite in his words. With a shaky voice I said, “I could send you a picture of everything I eat?” He laughed. With his full, angry throat he laughed 73 at my pain. “And do what? Post it on Facebook? Show all my friends that my girlfriend is an anorexic who can’t even feed herself ? You know what, go ahead. Maybe that’ll help you change.” I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to die. My stomach kept whispering “never again, never again, never again.” Opening my mouth made me panic because it reminded me of eating. I hung up my phone and with wobbly legs I walked outside in the snow and smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. ~ Months go by. Months. I watched him pack his bag with clothes that I had never seen him wear. He packed light, only a few shirts and two pairs of pants. “My dad will buy me more when I get to Ukraine,” he said. I sat on the edge of his bed and watched him focus on folding his clothes. His visa sat in the center of the bed, staring at me. I started to cry. “Babe, it’s going to be fine,” Kita said without breaking focus. I watched him form a pile of the shirts that I had grown used to him wearing. They looked like wilted flower petals. 74 “Why aren’t you taking those?” I asked, pointing to the wilted pile. “My father won’t like them,” he said. Later that night, we were drinking red wine in his bed. His room was bare and cold. I was curled against his side, my head on his chest. He stroked my bare back and played with my hair. I sighed, but not the kind of sigh that’s followed with kisses. Kita sighed too. “Petra,” he said, a tone of exasperation in his voice. “If I ever treat you like my father treats women, please leave me.” ~ I still remember how to say “I love you” in Russian. “я люблю тебя.” Ya lyublyu tebya. ~ My fingers were bones. Anything beyond mascara was too much, especially lipstick. He hated lipstick. He thought that it brought too much attention to my mouth. He didn’t like when other people noticed me. He stopped smoking cigarettes and instructed me to do so too. “They’ll make you age faster,”he would say. If I had a bad day and smoked a cigarette, he would tell me he was disappointed. I lived with three men at the time, something that Kita would never let me forget. He asked every few days to be sure I wasn’t sleeping with any of my roommates. If I was spending too much time with a friend, he would tell me that I was neglecting him. He sent me articles outlining how to be a better partner. He reminded me that he just wanted me to be the best that I could be. The screaming and hour-long phone calls were footnotes. You stripped me of my dignity and told me, “This is what you have.” Your monstrous arms crawl into my nightmares Your titanic stature collided with my glacier and though you claim I sank you You were a behemoth and I was a stone. At the end, I fell into the ground. His screams surrounded me in my echo chamber and suffocated me. My knees were bruised from kneeling in front of the toilet all night. How apt for the one accused of dropping to her knees for all men. I was free but I did not know it yet. All I knew was the cold floor of my bathroom and the tales of beautiful but troubled Ukraine. My goodbyes have been said, These addictions fed. It’s the cost that comes with the sickness. And your screams won’t be heeded anymore. 75 AN OPEN LETTER TO THE UN-SPECIALS Halle Chambers When we are little, even before we can speak We are told that we’re special and that we’re unique. That we all are made different and that none are the same Which fits quite nicely in a toddler’s mind frame. And we are told we should treasure what’s different inside, That what makes us different is not something to hide. But then quite soon after, things start to change; The word “different” stops meaning “special” and starts meaning “strange.” We’re sectioned off from our average peers In our own little category and told, “you belong here,” And then different is bad and normal is good, And for the different ones, nothing is working the way that it should The way we’ve been taught or the way we’ve been shown All we know is that we do not like being lost on our own. 76 So once again we are taken away To a place where things makes sense again and we’re ok: Where no one hurts us, Where no one can see, Where no one deserts us, Where we can be free. But because the un-specials can’t see what goes on, They decide to make things up and get so much wrong. And it’s happened for years because they can’t see through that door. So long they don’t even know that it’s wrong anymore. It’s so fixed in their heads that these lies are right; They judge each special kid by their stereotype. But today that will end. So you sit there and you wait, cause it’s about time someone set the dang record straight. You probably think that this poem won’t cut it, But today I’m gonna open the door and don’t you dare shut it! To start, let’s be clear: I am...I was in Special Ed. But just because I was in that room doesn’t mean I’m brain dead! So for Pete’s sake, don’t puppy dog guard me! Just give me a break, it isn’t that hard see: If I need your help, I will tell you I do. Just please, Please don’t mock me. In my place, would you want me to mock you? “Oh come on! Let her get it! Go easy on her!” Help, where not needed, is almost as bad as a slur. I’m not invalid So don’t play that card. Yeah, I’m a little quirky and oversensitive, But I’m not, and I quote, “A little retard.” Yeah, I’ve been called names. And those words? They hurt. They catch in the center, In your pit of self worth. And they tear and they rip, And those words are collective. Soon you start to believe that you are defective. I’ve dealt with them all, and surprisingly, I actually prefer the straight up bullies To those who pretend to like me. Fake friends and two-faces Of all genders and races. They’re only my friends so they don’t have to see me cry. Or they use me, abuse me, Oh, how they confuse me! Cause I can’t tell what’s truth and what’s lie. “Hey! He likes you. Go give him a kiss!” And because I don’t know better, I believe this. But soon I find they’re not playing Cupid, They just wanna make me look stupid. For their entertainment, they make me play the 77 fool; They pretend that they care for me When they’re really just cruel. It takes time and takes work to make you forget; Even now, I’m not quite there yet. I mean, here I am, in what’s supposed to be home, And yet here I am, still feeling alone. I’m still paranoid, it doesn’t just end; I still have to ask if someone’s my friend. I say one thing and mean another; I make a mistake, But you take it verbatim. Can’t you cut me a break? If we’re talking and I look like I’m lost, Don’t blow it off like it’s not worth the cost. Sarcasm and subtlety muddle in my brain, So please just take a minute to explain. Do these quirks make me broken? Is there something wrong with me? The way society has spoken, There would seem to be. 78 Stop poisoning the minds of “different” young women and men. I don’t like being defective.... Can I be special again? SOREX PALUSTRIS Emilie Tomas Did they name you for Your wit, pointed Nose of pointed judgement Who brought us fire; five to seven inches of shrewd truth? Or was it your mischief That Inspired them? Your Presence followed by screams And a three inch tail. I saw your likeness on a stage, Dirt in place of your midnight coat Though she is reformed now. Perhaps it was the gleam in your Eyes; whispered fortunes and A summer of silver birth. Maybe you are a messenger Of God, somehow in your Eighteen months you learned to walk On water, the second coming Of Christ. 79 woodsy adam ruff gabriel bergstrom 80 WORDS Malena Larsen The bathroom wall was covered in words. Words like fuck and love and song lyrics and names with hearts around them. His body looked peaceful, somehow, as he sat propped and slumped against the door. His head hung to his right shoulder and his mouth was open like he was about to say something but was interrupted. There was blood running down his left arm like a river and a needle hung loosely out of his skin. The words that he had heard her say several hours earlier were getting quieter and quieter. “It’s not working,” she had told him. “I’m sorry.” They were smoking cigarettes outside her apartment when she said it. She knew he had been trying to fix himself. After twenty-eight days of treatment and one week in a sober house on Lake and Fifth she barely recognized him. He was twenty-five pounds heavier and his skin looked clean and strong; there was no more grey in his cheeks. It wasn’t just his change in appearance that scared her. Lately, he had been telling her the difference between wrong and right and that she should stay in on the weekends. His family couldn’t stop talking about how proud they were of him and they would ask her, “Doesn’t he just seem so much better?” She would answer with yes but feel guilty because she wished he still liked to make mistakes. His family had a party after he got out of treatment and his grandfather kept saying things like, “Men in this family have always been strong!” and, “Now he can take care of you.” His grandfather didn’t care for her much but he felt that she was the least of the boy’s problems. He didn’t like the way she hung on him like a scarf or the way she agreed with everything he said without a second thought. As he sat on the bathroom floor the words she had said were getting quieter and quieter. They were almost gone. He had been sober for thirty-five days and he didn’t know why. He didn’t feel better or stronger or more loved. His hand lay loosely on the floor, palm up and open like he was waiting for somebody to hold it. Everyone was so proud of him but he couldn’t imagine living his life without her. Long after her words had faded completely, the bathroom door opened. He fell back onto the floor. His head hitting hard against the tile. 81 “Oh my gosh!” The man who opened the door yelled. “Can someone help?” He took out his phone to call 911. A crowd of people rushed over to where the man was dialing. A young man pushed past the group of people. “Move!” The boy got on his knees by the body on the floor. He reached into his pocket and took out something that looked like a pen. He stuck it into the arm of the body that was needle free. People gasped and murmured and watched. Sirens rang in the distance. The boy holding the pen looked up at the bathroom wall that had words like fuck and love and song lyrics and names with hearts around them. He looked up at the group of people. “It’s not working,” he said. 82 MALCOLM AND THE BLUE SIDE Danny Polaschek Brown leaves dragged past Malcolm’s feet in the wind. The bench underneath him felt like a rock and he had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He stared at the empty playground—the tire swing, the slide, the bridge and the fireman’s pole. Nikki rested her head on his shoulder. Each time a breeze swept through, Malcolm could feel her nuzzle slightly closer, her hair scratching and tickling his neck. When he was a kid, Malcolm had sat on this exact same bench many times with his mother. They lived in a little blue house just a few blocks away— “just a hop and a skip,” his mother would say and Malcolm would make it his mission to jump and bunny-hop the whole way there. When they arrived, they’d eat lunch, sitting together on the narrow, wooden bench. After each bite of his sandwich, Malcolm would beg his mother to let him go play, to which she would give in once she herself had finished eating. He always went straight for the slide. Once at the top, he’d yell, “I’m going under!” and swing himself down into the blue plastic tube. He imagined he was a deep-sea diver plunging into an underwater world of sunken pirate ships and forgotten chests of gold. On particularly sunny afternoons, he’d stop halfway down the slide and admire the shadows that moved about on the illuminated, blue plastic. He’d make believe that fish swam all around him as little blotchy shadows hovered whimsically over his head. He eventually got the idea to bring his crayons to the park with him. He’d sit lodged in the blue slide for most of the day, drawing exotic fish with bright oranges, yellows and reds. He knew fish didn’t smile but nevertheless gave them all wide grins and big eyes to match. When it was time to go home, his mother would knock from the bottom of the slide. “Time to come back to shore!” she’d announce. Malcolm would hide his crayons in his back pocket and slide down to his mother who would wait there with open arms grinning at him. The park seemed smaller now. Malcolm was just as tall as the fireman’s pole and half as long as the slide. He wondered if his fabricated underwater universe still existed. Probably not, he guessed. Although it was getting dark, Mal83 colm could see thick graffiti creeping out from the shadows inside the blue slide. Malcolm pulled his sweatshirt tighter around his neck, brushing Nikki away in the process. He felt her eyes on his face but refused to acknowledge her. Inside the slide, he could still make out the words “Bitch Ass” in thick spray paint. His crayon drawings would certainly be gone, he was sure of it now. Nikki picked up Malcolm’s hand and caressed it, her cold skin feeling leathery and smooth. “Malcolm,” she said. Malcolm turned and mustered a smile, taking Nikki’s hands to his face and kissing them awkwardly. “Malcolm, let’s go home.” The streetlights had not yet turned on for the evening. Malcolm noticed the shadows on the sides of the road stretching out and growing bigger as they walked quietly past. He missed the warm sunshine of summer and the hot nights spent lounging in the front yard listening to his mother’s radio; he missed the walks to the park, his mother laughing at him as he crouched and hopped along beside her. He remembered the secret thrill of the crayon box in his back pocket, then realized he’d forgotten his cigarettes on the bench at the park. He was too cold to turn back. He reached out silently for Nikki’s hand and, finding it much warmer than his own, held it stiffly the rest of the walk home. 84 driving at zero one john herbert 85 driving at zero two john herbert 86 PLACEMAKERS Diamonique Walker Near my home, Balloons dance in the wind. I have reconditioned myself — These are not balloons from a party, But they still celebrate a life. I drive by, sometimes I walk. And see a balloon or several With their heads bobbing away Positioned obscurely on the sidewalk. Or on the island in the middle of the highway. Sometimes on no one in particular’s grass. I don’t look for party decorations. At the feet of the balloon’s ribbons, candles, cards and little trinkets sit. Some kind of offering. Looking weathered and dull. His body bled some place close by. Probably killed within ten feet. A dancing, mocking balloon Somehow now gets to sway in his place. 87 NECESSARILY AN EVIL THING CONSIDERED IN ANY LIGHT Jacob J. Miller “You know what I hate about this most of all?” asked the first man. “Nobody’s going to be around to take responsibility. Nobody is going to have to answer for their crime.” “What crime is that?” the other man asked, sitting next to him in the middle of the cul-de-sac, both of them at perfect leisure in lawn chairs as if waiting for a parade to pass by. “Mass-murder, I suppose. Call it, oh, I don’t know. Call it, um, inciting the apocalypse.” “Ha.” “They deserve to be the ones left behind after they obliterate everyone else. They should be the ones who have to reap the aftermath, puke out their guts and feel their bile boil inside their stomachs, fend off marauding cannibals and giant insects. And they should have to live with the new world they created, or destroyed, rather.” Just then, the other man looked down and saw a lonely ant crawling up his pant leg. “Yeah, but I don’t think that giant bug stuff is true. That wouldn’t happen. The bugs’ll die like everything else.” “I mean, what do you think it’ll be like? I 88 know it’ll happen instantaneously, but they say the cerebral cortex functions after everything else has shut down and we linger in a sort of dream-state, which could last for, well, for who knows how long?” “Well, that’s if you’re in a hospital bed, or you have a heart attack or something, when you have time to die with a little bit of peace. Our brains are going to incinerate along with the rest of us. There won’t even be any stuff of thought anymore. I don’t think we have to worry about something like that.” “But what if that moment of pain before we go lasts longer, you know? What if time stands still? Nothing makes sense in a moment of such lunacy. Such catastrophe. What if we feel our tongues liquefying and spilling down our throats and scalding our internal organs? What if, all in that moment, we look down, and before our eyes boil and burst from the heat we see our bones glowing purple through our flesh as it begins dripping off like wax? What if you turn and look at me and the last image you see is my face melting off like those Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark?” “I’m not sure it’s the best time to be thinking like that,” his friend said, as the sirens began to wail their sorrowful last. “Why even bother with that fucking thing?” the man steamed. “It’s inconsiderate, a futile exhortation. We know what’s coming. We’re not going to hide in our basements from it like it’s a fucking tornado.” “Tornadoes aren’t so easy to hide from either.” The first man scanned the horizon for what he knew would be the last time. He took in the sight of the skyline he saw from his window every day and, with lamenting eyes, imaginatively anticipated its supplanting by a fiery mushroom climbing the sky. He closed his eyes and winced, unable to cope with the unthinkable thought, the impossible inevitability. Turning his head toward a neighbor’s yard whose household ran a daycare, he opened his eyes to a post-apocalyptic tableau of children’s toys scattered about the lawn. Nothing needed yet be aflame for the man to resent the picturesque cliché of innocence lost on display before him. “Remember when they used to tell kids to hide under their desks?” he inquired. “All that siren is doing is making sure that we spend our last moments in a panic, instead of dying gracefully, accepting that we’re all in the same sinking ship, in the middle of the ocean, if the ocean were the entire planet, and filled with lava instead of water. We should be spending our time reminiscing, because that’s all we have now.” “Well, we can’t talk about our plans for the future.” “We can’t discuss potential medical advancements.” “The coming cure for cancer.” “And cloning organs. Scholarships our children just received, the singularity and will the Matrix ever become a reality; would we ever make contact with life elsewhere in the universe, intercept an asteroid, mine them for resources? It’s all useless, man, meaningless. Every human achievement since the first spark made from one rock dragging against another, gone within the next hour,” he sighed heavily, draping a ribbon of helplessness over his words of outrage. “Why don’t you open that up?” He suggested, pointing at the bottle of scotch sitting at the leg of his friend’s chair. His friend took a swig before passing it over with a satisfied groan. “Here’s to everything we do being the last time it will ever be done,” the first man began. “That’s the best I can do.” “Yeah,” the other man raised an empty hand, toasting to the end and everything that came before it. “I suppose there’s something beautiful about the entire world—or nearly the entire world—going out the same way. There’s a kind of universal solidarity occurring right now, don’t you think? Some are praying, no doubt, some are exalting their various saviors, certain they will be raptured up any minute, but we’re all still going to be experiencing the same thing, at almost the exact same time; the same heat, the same instantaneous moment of searing pain before any trace of our molecules are imprinted as a shadow on the asphalt beneath us.” He had a complex contraption of a chair, one of the men—it doesn’t really matter which one now that the end was there; the kind of chair that folds upward from all four corners and was nearly 89 impossible to fit back into its cylindrical carrying sack—not that that mattered anymore either— complete with cup holders and a detachable headrest, which he was putting to use as he spoke. His friend’s chair was more old-fashioned, a conventional folding lawn chair with a checkered pattern of flimsy plastic wrapped taut around aluminum pipes, wobbly hard plastic armrests drilled in and not quite parallel to each other. Their chair legs began melting into the tar beneath them. One of the men hummed softly; a beautiful soundtrack to accompany him in the cut to black. The other man closed his eyes and, focusing on the sounds of the encroaching death rattle, heard them as the grunts and whinnies of the four horsemen’s horses as they galloped atop the planet’s rapidly spreading dust. 90
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Title: Murphy Square 2017: Murphy Square Visual Art and Literary Magazine
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE ISSUE 42, 2017 EDITORIAL BOARD Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor Cassie Dong, Art Editor Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor Abigail Carpenter, Prose Ed...
Show more MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE ISSUE 42, 2017 EDITORIAL BOARD Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor Cassie Dong, Art Editor Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor Abigail Carpenter, Prose Editor Ryan Moore, Prose Editor Gabriel Benson, Poetry Editor Danny Polaschek, Poetry Editor Cary Waterman, Advisor 2 WITH THANKS TO Ivy Arts Copy and Print Augsburg College Student Government Augsburg College English Department Augsburg College Art Department The Echo Augsburg Honors Program QPA 3 TABLE OF CONTENTS 1 What Type of Black Girl Are You? Nikkyra Whittaker ........................................................................... 8 Simul Justus et Peccator, Andy Anderson .......................................................................................... 11 Queer, Eve Taft ....................................................................................................................................... 12 Jesus in a Cracker, A.Tetzlaff ................................................................................................................ 14 Grey Cloud Island, David Baboila ......................................................................................................... 17 Saint Paul Airport, David Baboila .......................................................................................................... 18 White Bear Lake, David Baboila ............................................................................................................ 19 Zips Coliseum, David Baboila ............................................................................................................... 20 Bridge, Jacob J. Miller ............................................................................................................................ 21 50 Feet Tall, Emilie Tomas ...................................................................................................................... 25 Meow, Ashley Waalen ............................................................................................................................ 26 Mousetrap, Halle Chambers .................................................................................................................. 27 Faces, Constance Klippen ..................................................................................................................... 29 I Don’t Always Feel Colored, Diamonique Walker ............................................................................... 30 Where I am From, Hannah Schmit ......................................................................................................... 32 Who Am I?, Ashley Waalen .................................................................................................................... 34 2 Gratitude, D.E Green .............................................................................................................................. CSBR, Gabriel Bergstrom ...................................................................................................................... The Fire, Elisabeth Beam ........................................................................................................................ Desert Drums, Abigail Carpenter .......................................................................................................... Colors, Hannah Schmit ........................................................................................................................... Urban Delight, Jazmin Crittenden ......................................................................................................... When Dad Wore Cologne, A. Tetzlaff .................................................................................................... Shitty Christmas Trees, Elisabeth Beam ............................................................................................... Summer Nights, Adam Ruff ................................................................................................................... 36 38 39 41 42 43 44 46 48 The People United, Adam Ruff .............................................................................................................. 49 After the Hike, Adam Ruff ..................................................................................................................... 50 Crumbs, Malena Larsen ......................................................................................................................... 51 Bloomed, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................................................... 55 Pruned, Audrey Campbell ...................................................................................................................... 56 Herman, Danny Polaschek ................................................................................................................... 57 El Barrio Suyo, Chad Berryman ............................................................................................................. 60 The Neighborhood, Chad Berryman ..................................................................................................... 61 Odyssey, Eve Taft .................................................................................................................................... 62 Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 63 Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 64 Counting Sheep, Danny Polaschek ...................................................................................................... 65 3 Sky Nights, Keeyonna Fox ...................................................................................................................... 67 Inner Self, Keeyonna Fox ....................................................................................................................... 68 Victory of the People, Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk ............................................................................. 69 An Open Letter to the Un-specials, Halle Chambers ...........................................................................76 Sorex Palustris, Emilie Tomas ................................................................................................................. 79 Woodsy Adam Ruff, Gabriel Bergstrom .................................................................................................. 80 Words, Malena Larsen ................................................................................................................................. 81 Malcom, Danny Polaschek ....................................................................................................................... 83 DRIVING AT ZERO ONE, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 85 DRIVING AT ZERO TWO, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 86 Placemakers, Diamonique Walker ........................................................................................................ 87 A Necessary Evil Thing Considered in any Light, Jacob J. Miller ....................................................... 88 1 WHAT TYPE OF BLACK GIRL ARE YOU? Nikkyra Whittaker On the spectrum of being black and female, we can only be what we appear to be. Take this quiz to find out what kind of black girl you really are! 1. You’re listening to the radio on the way to Target. You’re playing… a. Beyonce’s “****Flawless” b. Taylor Swift’s “Fifteen” or “You Belong With Me” or “Wildest Dreams” c. Chris Brown’s “Loyal” d. Keri Hilson’s “Pretty Girl Rock” 2. It’s your day off work. What will you be doing? a. Blowing off steam on Facebook. b. Watching old episodes of One Tree Hill c. Out for drinks and scoping eye candy d. Talking shit with the ladies while drinking Moscato! 3. What’s your dream home like? a. Full of books on systemic oppression b. Beverly Hills penthouse c. Some big shot rapper’s mansion d. Spacious New York Loft 8 4. Your favorite TV show is… a. Docu-series on race b. Sex in the City c. Bad Girls Club d. Love and Hip Hop 5. Finally, who’s your favorite female icon from this list? a. Angela Davis b. Taylor Swift c. New York from I Love New York d. Nicki Minaj Tally up how many of each letter you got and turn the page to find out who you really are! If you got mostly a’s...You’re an Angry Black Girl! Congratulations, you loud-mouthed, anger filled home-girl! I’m guessing there’s always some reason to be mad at someone, isn’t there? Do you just spend your days in a perpetual state of rage, angry at the world for reasons they don’t find important? Do you find yourself constantly snapping your fingers in that z-formation, pursing your lips at anyone who steps in your way? I bet people are telling you to just be quiet, huh? I mean, what issues could you, a black female, possibly have? Why should you care that your high school English teacher gives you a C+ on your essay because she thinks you copied it from the white man online? Why does it matter that your male co-worker at Target constantly teases you about your nappy hair, calling it a “brillo pad,” “cheeto puff,” or some other clever name? None of this should anger you! Be aware, you sassy Sapphire, in this world, your anger means nothing. If you got mostly b’s...You’re an Oreo! You grew up watching Lizzie McGuire and listening to Aaron Carter. You straightened your hair from the moment you were old enough to assert yourself and cried when it wouldn’t lay flat. Your friends were always shocked to see you bring collard greens and jambalaya to lunch so you stopped eating your favorite foods. They didn’t understand why you couldn’t just brush your hair, wash your hair everyday, why it suddenly grew or shrunk inches overnight. I’m certain you’ve heard from many of your friends how they just don’t see you as a black girl. They erase your black skin because it doesn’t fit the images of other black girls they see. You spend most of your time edging away from the loud black girls, the ghetto black girls who ate hot cheetos and drank kool aid and had corn rows and long braids and smelled like a mix of the jungle and your ancestors pain and you wished, maybe for a just a moment, but you did wish that you could be white. But honey, you can never wash off that melanin! It’s a permanent stain. Just because your friends can’t see the black on you, it doesn’t mean the rest of the world can’t. 9 If you got mostly c’s...You’re a Hip Hop Ho! You sexual deviant you! Let me guess—big breasts, small waist, and wide hips? You’ve got that original Betty Boop to you, something in your eyes that say yes to a question no one bothers to ask. You’re the black girl that white guys use as a notch in their belt. You are the exotic sexual being that men love to hate and hate to love. You became a sexual thing at a young age, when your breasts came in at ten years old and became d-cups at fourteen. They started looking at you differently, didn’t they? Your eyes stopped existing. Your words didn’t matter. Your body became the tool used to diminish your worth. How often did you get yelled at in school to put on something less revealing than your shorts? Did you ever wonder why the skinny, flat-assed white girls were never told the same thing? Honey, your wide hips wrapped in chocolate skin were never yours. You will never be yours. 10 If you got mostly d’s...You’re a Ghetto Fabulous Black Girl! You make what little money you can working at Walmart or doing nails. You make people waiting at the bus stop with you uncomfortable with your loud laughter and yellow and pink braids and long, bedazzled nails. You toss your weave around, remove your earrings, and square up to anyone that says shit about you. When you’re out, you are often told to stop yelling, screaming, taking up space. You’ve got baby daddy problems and you’re only 18. You grew up playing double dutch in the middle of the street with old rope. You accept your black, your ghetto, your Ebonics. But you are not supposed to accept yourself, honey! Don’t you see the fashion police spreads in the magazines? You are on all the pages! Don’t show your hips. Put on a shirt that conceals your stomach. Put your breasts away. Don’t wear bright lipstick. Stop standing out, being different. Get smaller, quieter, lesser, as you are supposed to be. You love your black too loudly and it makes others uncomfortable. Your job is to make people comfortable so do your best to limit the loudness of your melanin. simul justus et peccator andy anderson 11 QUEER Eve Taft You think there isn’t a sign on my ribs that says “stonewall inn”? You think Matthew Shepard doesn’t tug at my hair and warn me as I walk the streets of my city? You think I don’t choke on the smoke from the hellfire you spit from your pulpits with sparks that sear and heat branding irons which scar your names on me to mark me as danger? You think my veins don’t shiver when they think of the devastation wracking the cities that some called deliverance while Reagan fiddled as we burned You think that the prisons pink triangles asylums bullets spitting into a nightclub don’t whisper in my head as I make my way through the world? 12 You think that I don’t notice— I kiss her and kiss her —the headline blowing by with a death toll and I kiss her the skyline splashing out behind us the lights on the Washington Avenue bridge flicker on and I kiss her Putin criminalizes us, across the world I kiss her Vigils held too late for young suicides Corrupting, perverted, disgusting, an affront to family values— I kiss her in the rain and the sleet of Minnesota I kiss her, our lips tasting of chants from the protest that shut down I-94 handed down from our grandmothers hearts beating, eyes sparkling, alive I kiss her You think I forget the lists and the candles and the deaths and the pain and all that roars in my ears is a chorus screaming over and over again you were not able to kill us I kiss her and all is still 13 JESUS IN A CRACKER A. Tetzlaff Eucharist I hugged my father’s black, pleated pants while we waited for mass to start. He was beaming proudly and chatting with the rest of our family. I wore the only dress I allowed to touch my body: by then it was a year old and from my uncle’s wedding when I walked down the aisle carrying a bouquet, looking like a blonde deer caught in front of a semi truck. It had a black velvet top connected to a white skirt. All the girls wore white. My parents cut their losses. All the boys, shirt and tie. Eight-year-olds taking their first communion despite the fact that most of us had no idea what was happening. Understanding the sacraments isn’t really necessary when you grow up in a Catholic family. By the time you are aware of your burden, it’s too late anyway. Religion lived at Nativity of Our Lord Parish, in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Between church and home, I lived in a realm of contradiction. I came to visit religion, but it never went home with me. On Sundays when the game was in town, God would not judge you for wearing your Packer jersey to church. Sinning was bad, but you could tailgate and drink and carouse to your heart’s content. We should have taken beer at 14 that first communion. We would have appreciated it more than the wine. We took our places in the ritual that had been performed again and again. The time-worn ritual begins anew as I walk to the altar with my hands folded in front of me. I must remember to raise my hands high enough so the rheumatic priest doesn’t have to bend down. Right hand over left. I’m a blonde deer again. “The body of Christ.” This is the part where I say, “Amen,” whether I mean it or not, then put the communion wafer in my mouth. I must cross myself (right hand touching head, then left shoulder, then right shoulder) as I walk back up the aisle and toward my family. They liked to sit in the middle section, never too close to the altar. They didn’t like making direct eye-contact with the priest during his homily. To this day I skip the wine for fear of communicable diseases. It stuck to the roof of my mouth, this first communion wafer. It was stale. There was no substance. Maybe the parched flour and water, mixed with the lingering incense is actually what Jesus tastes like. The absorbent clump lasted into the next hymn. Saliva rushed into my mouth and eventually the wafer, heavy with mois- ture, fell from the roof of my mouth. I swallowed without chewing. Just go with it, I told myself. All these people believe in this, so one day, you will too. But I wasn’t sure. I didn’t get it. The power that kept me from running back up the aisle wasn’t the love of God gently pushing me along, but the ritual itself, and the expectation of my parents and grandparents watching proud and probably dewy-eyed as I joined their ranks. Hugs and smiles and congratulations as my family comes out of the first communion Mass, but I wasn’t sure what was such cause for celebration; I hadn’t had a great epiphany about God, nor had I felt any change at all. It was just like every Sunday late in October. head and tell me I was forgiven. “Sometimes, I’m not very nice to my mom or my brother,” I told him. Navitity didn’t own a confessional booth like the ones in movies. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a confessional booth at any Catholic church outside the movies. We sat quietly in a tiny room. Being small for my age, I circled the air below me with my feet. I sat facing him directly. He crossed his legs under the cassock he wore, clearly annoyed. After a silence and a slow nod, the priest said, “Sometimes, we hurt the people we love the most.” It was the only part I heard or remember hearing; he started talking about God’s forgiveness, I assume. I didn’t pay attention, because I didn’t feel different after admitting such a pitiful sin. Marriage I had no ill-feeling toward the physical place of church. In fact, the ritual, the sounds, the smell of incense, and the light that filtered through the stained-glass windows from an Easterly rising sun became familiar and comforting over the years. The nave, filled with old pews, had witnessed my parents’ wedding and my grandparents’ weddings. The organ towered over the choir. The smell of old patrons and Sunday cologne too liberally applied became a sensory memory of that place. However, religion has never been an inward practice; the practice and the scene never joined together. Anointing of the Sick When times are bad, I’ve pulled the fragments of ritual from my memory and recite the “Our Father.” I did this in the winter of my eighteenth year in days following my grandfather’s funeral. He died of bladder cancer, worsened by a communicable bacterial infection called C.Difficile. I became familiar with the ritual of funeral; I’d been to three or four for close relatives. But this time, the ritual felt different. Before, I was sad. My grandfather’s funeral confirmed that the only sacred part of my world had been ripped mercilessly from my arms. Reconciliation “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”As the words come out of my mouth, they themselves felt sinful. I hadn’t sinned, I was eleven. I barely knew what sin was. I had to stop a moment to think of a sin I had committed, so the priest could nod his Baptism I sat in the shower until the water hitting my face was colder than I could stand, reciting the “Our Father” over and over, sobbing. Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. I hoped, over so many repetitions, that my view 15 of God and heaven would change. Yet, it confused me more. Religion stopped looking like the patron blind to reality and became a place where I didn’t belong. Like I was missing out because I didn’t get that epiphany, and didn’t have that same faith. Confirmation Religion was so stale, that when my Mother would occasionally talk about faith, or God, or divine love at the dinner table I would blush with pity and embarrassment. How can you believe this? I thought, how can you be so blind to the real world? Perhaps, I’m the blind one. I continue to live in an intermediate space between faith and atheism. I can’t commit to either. The fence between atheism and faith is fraught with angst. Most days, I try to laugh away my uncertainty. I tell jokes about my Catholic past, chuckle when I hear of “recovering Catholics,” and tell friends, “It smells like a Catholic church in here,” whenever they burn incense. Religion is still stale to me. Religion has no nutritional value. Stale religion has no holy orders. 16 grey cloud island david baboila 17 saint paul airport david baboila 18 white bear lake david baboila 19 zips coliseum david baboila 20 BRIDGE Jacob J. Miller This was not way back when, as my dad would have you believe. It was more recent than that. If he can’t flat out deny it, which he no longer can, he will at least try to convince you that it was so long ago as to suggest it might have been a different lifetime, and he a different person. He has been, after all, Born Again. Except he was not the only person involved, and to carry along as if he was is an exercise in what I’ve heard philosophers call solipsism. For him, his transgression was between himself and the Holy Ghost: accountable not to those he wronged, only to an invisible spirit. But he doesn’t have sole authority in determining the past’s relevance or irrelevance to our lives today. My mother too pretends the past is only what has happened at a particular point in time, and not a factor in what determines what has happened since then and what is happening now. The slate wiper theory of forgiveness is what allowed them to wear their veneer of innocence and believe in its authenticity, and for that reason I resent their new-leaf turnover. My love for them may not be emergent in my words, I know, but I do love them, regardless of the fucked up traits they passed on to their children, which will become evident as this story unfolds You might be wondering, if you care at all, what could be so terrible. Well, it’s not so terrible, and not even very uncommon, but it happened to me, and my brothers and my sisters, and there was never anything we could really do about it. We watched it unfold almost every night to reveal its rotted pit. What was scariest was not when a half-full beer bottle would be hurled in our direction for us being too noisy, and then being held responsible for wasting the beer, and getting punished even more for that. What was scariest was when they fought with each other, mom and dad, when they were both liquored up. All of us children would be sitting in the living room, on our knees, in a line, with our hands folded and tucked inside our clenched thighs, having hitherto been fulfilling our playful, childish duties who couldn’t expect things to go so suddenly and intensely wrong. They would fight about anything, or nothing, for all we knew or cared. They would yell, swear, slam their fists on various surfaces, throw things across the room at each other as if rehearsed. One time, I remember, and this is what I’m talking about when I talk about how scary things got, my 21 dad had my mom pinned up against the refrigerator—after she threw three or four plates at him, one that hit his arm, but would have hit his face if he hadn’t been blocking, and cut it deep. He had the sharp kitchen knife pressed firmly under her chin. If she gulped too hard in fear, or if dad in his stupor lost balance, she would have been bleeding all over the family pictures held by magnets to the fridge. As we grew older, my big brother and I began working under dad instead of merely living under him. Our prospects in life weren’t substantial at that point. Whatever potential we had, it had never been encouraged, so entering into the family business, if it can even be called that, was the only viable option. I woke dad up most mornings from his typical collapse into a face-down, fetal heap on the kitchen floor, sometimes still wet, sometimes already crusted over. I’d say, “it’s time for work, dad,” and he’d drive me to the site where (drinking coffee with whiskey in it on the way) heavy machinery was waiting to be operated—even though we used hammers and nails whenever we could. Stonehenge-sized slabs of cement, wooden pillars, cinder blocks, and iron rods littered the landscape. It was all so disorderly that if a nomad wandered upon the scene, the indication would be of destruction rather than pre-construction. There were no piles of allocated materials or inventoried supply lists. It could have all been salvaged from past demolitions or by thievery from other project sites. We seemed to accrue it all without any kind of exchange or standard of accountability for use. Everything seemed to just show up wherever and whenever we needed it. Who actually made all this stuff? How did we move it from place to place to use from job to job? Who permitted my sodden father to oversee such potentially hazardous 22 projects? He was a self-made man outside the advent of auditing. What did I care then? I was making my way, fashioning for myself a future out of will power, and holding my breath until I could extricate myself from this grim farce. First day on the job, my dad said to me, don’t fuck up, or he’d make me test the bridge before the support beams were all in place. I believed him. That particular bridge wasn’t connecting two sides over a raging river or anything; more of a convenient pathway over a stream, but it was still a threat coming from dad. Second day on the job, my brother James tore partway through his leg with a chainsaw. I heard him yell, but it sounded more out of frustration than terror and pain. He sat down, ripped his immediately blood-soaked pants from where the initial tear was, delicately unlaced and removed his boot so as not to cause more pain, grunting as if he had done nothing more than step in dog shit, and lifted the nearly severed part of his leg that dangled lifelessly like a tube sock on a clothesline, to close the wound, from which I saw steam rising sacrificially to the wintery heavens. He reached forward to grab the excess of sock which, although bunched up at his toes, had a long, tortuous journey before being completely removed. He screamed as he stretched forward, more circumstantially appropriate this time, and this is when I dropped my— whatever, the thing I was holding, I can’t remember what, but I didn’t hear it land because I couldn’t assimilate anything else that may have been transpiring around me. I almost seemed to float over to him, not even aware of my legs propelling me forward. I saw all the blood, but I wasn’t put off by it as much as I thought I probably should have been, and I thought that as I stared at it pooling out. I observed it dispassionately, coldly, but I may not have been breathing. At first sight, it was just an organic pipe that sprung a leak. I think I asked if he was all right but I meant it more like did he think he was going to die. He said to go get dad and that’s when I became afraid. I stood there for I don’t know how long, until he repeated himself more urgently: “Walt!” he said, “Go! Get! Dad!” I listened that time, but I was still very afraid. I was trembling and began feeling like I might faint, and I almost hoped I wouldn’t find dad, that he’d be off drinking somewhere, but he wasn’t. He was drinking right there, over a small mound of dirt, holding a big piece of wood sturdy for someone to do something with. I saw his breath bellow out into the cold with a cough and evaporate as he took a swig from a bottle before sliding it back into his coat pocket, without so much as a pretense of inconspicuousness.The bottle neck stuck straight out and brushed against his elbow, a cumbersome lump sinking down and throwing off his equilibrium further than the ethanol already had. I slowed my pace, tried to regain some composure, and still hoped he wouldn’t notice me. I could claim an attempt at getting his attention, but he just couldn’t be bothered with me. I tried, I’d tell James, but I’ll carry you. I was sure I could have done that. Part of me still wished I could have avoided involving my dad at all. It was selfish, but I thought I might get slapped with the blame. But I yelled, Dad! Come quick! Dad, I yelled again, skidding on the gravel as I spun around, intent on not letting my dad’s impatient glare lock on me, and from that momentum, nearly ascending at a perfectly horizontal angle in the air before I landed face first on those same tiny rocks, a perfect reenactment of self-humiliation on the school playground at recess. I felt all those multiple points of impact, but wasted no time in catapulting myself back up—no time for embarrassment just yet—clawed off the pebbles that clung gently to the tiny dents they bore into my face and palms, and sped back to my brother who, when I reached the dirt-mound summit again, I could see was lying flat, surrounded by the thick, still-steaming purplish puddle which had, since I left him, at least quadrupled in circumference. Not looking back at all during my return sprint to see how far behind me dad was, or even if he followed me at all, I turned from the sight of my brother completely to see him, Dad, shuffling over the mound, bogged down by beer bottles, which could be heard clanging together in his pockets. He was wheezing inhalations of frozen air. He saw James right away, I know it, but he didn’t say anything until he got right up close to him, planting one clumsy boot in the blood puddle with a squelchy, meager splat, like an old-fashioned letter-sealing stamp on melted wax. He leaned over with outward turned elbows and hands on hips, looked at James’ face. James’ eyes were closed. Dad then scanned down to the butchered leg, grimaced, scanned back up to James’ face. James’ eyes were now open again, frigid with shock, and dad said, “pull yourself together, son,” erupting hysterically at his own clever buffoonery. James turned out to live, no real thanks to our father. I ended up having to run to the nearest phone anyway and call an ambulance. He didn’t even lose his leg. He did require a blood transfusion because he lost gallons of it, or at least it seemed like it when I stood there staring at the mess, but his gristly cheeks had their color restored right in front of me, resupplying and, it almost seemed, re-inflat23 ing him to human shape at the coercion of some stranger’s bodily elixir. It worked like sorcery, but far more astonishing because it was methodologically reliable. The warm fluid surged through his veins, and he was ensconced for a moment in a prodigious glow of newfound vitality. Back then, my dad, laughing, called him a lucky son-of-a-bitch, whereas telling the story now, upon reflection and suspension of rational thought, my brother was “touched by an angel.” Now, whenever this celestial creature of mercy is mentioned, who conveniently remains anonymous for humility’s sake I suppose, instead of our dad drunkenly laughing and mocking the situation, James does. An example of an aforementioned fucked up trait passed on in the family. 24 50 FEET TALL Emilie Tomas I was in 5th grade When my class went To see ‘The Human Body’ and I watched In childhood Horror as A 50 foot grin Unfurled, loomed Large enough To pull me Into orbit Devoured First a sandwich And then my Faith in humanity With deafening Smacks Like thunder If thunder Was made Of jelly and Dismay and I Knew it was a Crime to allow a Person to become This Inflated, With every pore Its own path to Hell and I knew I couldn’t trust Anyone because In our heads We are all 50 feet tall. 25 meow you see ashley waalen 26 MOUSETRAP Halle Chambers Minnie “Mousy” O’Mally knew she was invisible up here on her fire escape. This was her safeplace. With the ladder pulled up as it was now, almost no one could reach her here. Plus, even if someone did make it up here, she could easily get away. If she crawled rough the window, she’d be securely locked in the apartment. There, it was warm and dry and at least sometimes safe when her daddy…no, excuse her, correction, “Father or Sir” wasn’t home. He hated when she called him Daddy. He wasn’t home now, out doing illegal God knows what in the “family business,” but he would be back soon. Hence why she was out here. So, no apartment, not right now. If she dropped the ladder, she could slide down to street level in seconds and be down the block in under a minute. She knew, because she’d practiced and had timed herself. The only way to avoid getting hit in the face was to be quick on your feet. That was the first rule of fighting that Jase, her older brother, had taught her. With the life they lived, it was also a rule of survival. And they didn’t call her “Mousy” for nothing: she was small and fast… very fast. Jase could make a distraction, and Minnie could run. But, Jase was working a job that “Father” had given him out of town till this weekend, and she’d surely get caught if she didn’t have her usual head-start. So,“down” wouldn’t work either. If she scaled up the ladder above her, she’d be on the roof, where their oldest brother, Cobie, had often taken her and Jase to stargaze. She hadn’t known till six years into her still short life that he’d done it to keep his precious baby brother and sister away from their father’s sight when the man would come home satellite high or plastered. She hadn’t known till twelve years in that he’d take their father’s hungover backhand on the mornings after, so she and Jase didn’t. All she’d known as he’d taught her each constellation was that Cobie was braver than Orion and that she and her brothers were more inseparable than the Gemini twins. But, her world went as topsy-turvy as Cassiopeia when her father had sent Cobie away, saying he would not have a queer as a son. When Jase and Minnie hugged him, Cobie swore he’d come back for them in a year or so. Jase had given up when he’d been two years gone. That was two years ago, and now even Minnie 27 was starting to doubt. No, she couldn’t go up to the roo, not alone. She shivered in the October chill as she reviewed her options: “in” would be facing her father’s wrath, “down” would be facing being caught by a cop or a stranger, and “up” would be facing a reminder of the happiness, now heartbreak, brought by a brother who was likely never coming home again. So, maybe she couldn’t escape easily…or at all. She shivered again, this time more in frantic panic than from the frigid, near winter city wind. For not the first time in her life, Mousy felt trapped. 28 faces connie kilppen 29 *I DON’T ALWAYS FEEL COLORED Diamonique Walker Sometimes I find comfort in places I somehow know I don’t belong Never a full day, but hours will pass and I won’t consider my brown skin or kinky hair I’ll let the imminent fear of my black body being made into an example fall back to the depths of my mind My daughter’s safety in mixed company won’t occur to me I won’t juxtapose my blackness with any other’s identity confidence As if one chooses randomly from a pile of stock black girl names when they look at me He asks me if my hair is real I tell him he can’t ask me that He says oh it’s okay, my girlfriend is black I’m a dirty smudge on freshly ironed white linens Trying to blend in, trying to live my life I breathe, momentarily Suddenly, I’ll feel breathless, choked Stabbed in the chest Stung by a white hot micro aggressive slap in the face An unsolicited violation of my personal space A pale hand gently pulls a lock of my hair in white amazement Or a thin pair of lips will say “what’s upppppp” to me and not anyone else I’ll get called a name like Jasmine with such utter 30 *Line borrowed from Claudia Rankine, Citizen WHERE I AM FROM Hannah Schmit I am from the forest. From ruddy Maple and heady Pine. I am from the sunlit dust that refracts the life of the breeze. The rough wood of the trees are my bones, roots firmly planted deep in the depths of the cool black soil. Generations have taught me to live in the sun, tan weathered hands, calloused and worn cover small, break earth and sow seeds. Exhaling with the unfurling of new leaves whose first stretch welcomed life, I learned the importance of patience and nurturing. I am from dirt beneath my nails and gritty sand in my teeth. Sap painted hands and hot tar feet, blackened from short dashes across burning pavement that rippled with summer heat. Sandboxes were my kingdom, the layers of silt and sand familiar to my prodding hands. I climbed turreted towers of twisted bark and branches to survey the world and breath in time with the breeze. Twigs and leaves were my crown and a rusty tractor my carriage. My people were the songbirds and insistent cicadas whose songs filtered lazily together through the woods. Sometimes I called back, matching note for note, melodies and harmonies creating a canopy of familiarity. I am from wildflowers who nodded their velvet, satin, and paintbrush heads as I passed by. From dried grasses whose sweet scent rose from rolling waves that undulated under horse-tail clouds above. The gold-fringed top of the corn is my hair as it turns to brown under the autumn sun. I am from the passing of seasons, each marking the time as brilliant red and orange gave way to pristine white and serene gray. Freckles and sunburn traded for pale skin cold kissed cheeks. My life can be counted in scraped knees and bruises, and band-aids and scars, each a story unique unto itself. I am from the water. Clear and silted, still and rushing it surrounds me. The river courses through my veins, its steady pulse my heartbeat. I am from the muted silence of holding my breath. From letting go in the soft pixelated light that swirls lazily in the haze of a murky river. From the dew that rests in early mists that lay as a blanket over a newly purified earth, protecting the last of the dawn. I am from music. Love-strung tunes of lullabies rock 31 my past to sleep and call forth dog-eared memories. Treasured memories that float fragmented in my mind, I was waltzing with my darling… Goodnight, Irene… Then sings my soul… Black Forest I have come to be in this place. Knit sweaters and hand me downs weave the fabric of my personality. The black ink of the notes is stained on my fingers, the lyrics printed out as a map on my mind. My body is movement, ‘full of grace’ as I danced through recitals and music competitions. My history is composed of the ivory keys of a piano board, the metallic strings of a guitar, and the soft wheeze of a musty accordion. I am from survivors. From broken families and lives I was given the opportunity to begin. Out of the ashes of war and blood, death and pain I was taught compassion. The scars remind me of my privilege. A handful of ink-smeared letters, a fading tattoo, and relentless nightmares that went unspoken. Touched by shadows of heartbreak and longing I have learned the fears of disease and pain, the cruelty of man and the destruction of illness. I am from a legacy. Footsteps preceded my very first and taught me how to stand tall—to walk courageously. When I was tired of walking and needed to fly, strong hands lay behind me as I learned to test my own strength. I am from fading memories. From sweat and ploughs, rough tools and run down sheds. My past is a copper foundation of saved pennies stretched with love and trust. The polished wood of a hunter’s gun and tug of a taut fishing line tie me to the land of a generation gone by. I am from the creaking wood of a ship that ferried dreams. From the fjords and 32 I am from strength. From weary hands that sought to move forward. From songs crooned in different tongues, prayers tucked away from missed lives. I am from the sweet smell of tobacco. From a worn brown pipe laid in the top overall pocket. From tales of Shirley Temple and shiny black shoes. From the canoe as it passes over reeds and the click of a cane keeping time with shuffling shoes. From sterilized rooms and flowers with similarly fated owners. I am from loss and tears. I am from the Mississippi and the Great Lakes, from steam and coal. From concrete jungles and log cabins. I am a piece of the past, I am… The rooms of my mind are wallpapered with snapshots of a younger me. Sayings and phrases are the soundtrack of my life. I carry them with me. Tucked in locked and forgotten rooms they wait patiently, longingly for me to recall. future. I seek not where I am going only exist here, as I am. I am from the past. Shaped by the present I live for the future. I am from wanderlust. An incorrigible desire to explore that cannot be quelled with the stillness between heartbeats. I am from the excitement that teeters on the brink of the inevitable. I am pulled at by the gentle whisper of religions. Called to the beauty of holiness in the world, I am grounded in the church yet growing in the temple and the mosque. I am gentle hands that have learned to be useful—to give back. Well-used fingers taught to survive and protect. I am a collection of places and people that I have encountered. In love with humanity, I exchange comfort for experience. I am at home in the concrete jungles constructed from heat-cracked pavement and in the mudpatched hut of the desert. The mountains and caves call to me like the trees and fields of my youth. I am at home in the grand expanse of a world that knows no limits, understands no boundaries. A world that exists, simply to exist. My feet itch to travel down forgotten paths where the dust of ages can billow out from under me and cloud the clarity of the 33 who am i? ashley waalen 34 2 GRATITUDE: A POEM IN FOUR PARTS D.E. Green 1. Le Chaim 2. In Praise of Delusion Each day, my own sunrise, my own morning star: your red head radiates strange aerial spikes. When he walks down the sloping skyway from Memorial to the Music building on his way to a long evening class, he sees his reflection in the large classroom window at the base of the slope. He loves that mirror. In it, he is about a foot taller than his five-fiveand-a-half and twenty pounds lighter. He is younger than his sixty years. The silver hair is less telling. As he approaches, the Other ways slightly, moves with the elegant gait of an athlete or dancer. This, he imagines, is my Norwegian double—tall and slender and (at least from this distance) good-looking. Of course as man and image converge, his Other shrinks into an eastern-European, Semitic, rather compact, little old man. Perhaps (he wonders) I have seen the inner image of myself. Perhaps (he smiles) I am happy just to have illusions. Our son’s beard and long Hasidic locks on a head never bowed in prayer hover over his guitar and, till he gets it just so, a heavy-metal riff. The picture of Ollie, our old pup,— his face speaks love, love, love. Like the holiday meal you’ll pretend to let me cook. Or when your hand gently strokes my heaving shoulder: I am sobbing silently because the movie has ended well—a good death, timely reconciliation, vows revived, a renewed breath. 36 3. Thanksgiving 4: To My Son This morning, as I drive from Northfield to Hampton past field after barren field, three wild turkeys foraging and gobbling at the edge of the road— their white-splashed wings, black-feathered trunks, It’s Friday, Z—, and (as always) time to say how much I love you (and your mom too, since I don’t say it often enough though I feel it every minute) and how much I miss you and hope you can spend a few hours with us and Grandma the first weekend in November. We worry about you every day, ‘cuz that’s our job, but we also have an abiding sense of how strong you are: How much you have been through, how far you’ve come, and how you face each day with grit—and, I hope, love. The latter is so hard to do: Over breakfast your mom and I sometimes sit around and whine about our work, about grading student papers. But a little later I’ll be walking across campus and the light will be just right and I’ll see a familiar face amid a group of young people and—I don’t know why—I feel love. I think that’s the word. And I felt it last time we picked you up downtown and you were talking to some scruffy stranger on the street. And the fact that you can still be open to such encounters—isn’t that love too?— filled me with wonder. It’s funny: Old people, among whom I am about to number, have proverbially been beyond wonder, such a romantic and old-fashioned word. But I swear that I still feel it—and that you are among the wonders of my world. red combs poking and pecking the gravel and weeds—surprise me. I flinch. The car swerves. I breathe. They range unruffled. 37 work in progress gabriel bergstrom 38 THE FIRE Elisabeth Beam I stood with my back to the crowd watching the house go up in flames. It happened faster than I had expected. It had taken less than a minute for the fire to spread from the kitchen to the living room and even less time for it to make its way upstairs and into the bedrooms where Grandma and the twins had been peacefully sleeping. Joel stood beside me; his face was dark with ash, his mouth tilted upwards in a sickeningly gleeful smile. Momma had never liked Joel. She said he was a troublemaker and I should do my best to stay away from him. Joel hadn’t always been mean. When I first met him he would bring me friends and make me laugh. He gave me my grey tabby cat, Walter, and my small white bunny, Snowy. We used to all run around the garden and play and laugh. I didn’t like it when Walter and Snowy played. Walter always hurt Snowy. Joel loved it. Snowy’s pain filled shrieks always brought a smile to his face. Joel would play tricks on Momma. He’d move the chair she was about to sit in and she’d tumble to the floor with a crash and a scream. He would put dead things in the twins’ crib for Momma to find. Once he brought a live snake into the house and slipped it into the shower when Momma was in it. She screamed something awful and had locked me in my room for a week. I always got blamed for Joel’s wicked tricks. Momma brought a lot of new friends to the house after that. She brought in men wearing long white coats who talked with me and asked questions about Joel and Walter and Snowy. Joel would stand behind them as they questioned me and make faces. I didn’t understand why they didn’t just talk to Joel and grew frustrated with their questions. Once Momma brought home a man in a black suit. He walked around the house mumbling in a strange language, throwing water on the walls and waving his cross around like a baton. I thought he was crazy. I told Momma and she told me to hush and sit down. The man stood in front of me yelling in his strange way and holding his cross on my forehead. It was cold and made me uncomfortable. Joel got upset. He didn’t like the man and the way he was 39 shouting. The next thing I knew the man was on the floor bleeding from a gash in his head and Joel was laughing loudly in my ear. A bunch of police officers showed up and Joel told me not to tell anyone what he’d done. He said I should blame it on Momma and she’d go away for a long time and stop bothering us. Momma shouted and cried and struggled as the police dragged her away to the sound of Joel’s gleeful laughter and the twins’ high pitched screams. Grandma came after Momma. She was mean. She locked me in my room and told me to stay there until I learned my lesson. I watched him stalk around the room at night mumbling darkly to himself. Grandma made me to go church with her every Sunday, she said I had to pray for my soul for what I’d done to that man and to Momma. I didn’t understand why everyone blamed me for Joel’s tricks and was tired of being punished for all the naughty things that he did. One night at supper, Joel made scary faces at the twins who started wailing. Grandma stood up and yelled at me as she tried desperately to calm the twins. She told me to go to my room. I said no. I pointed at Joel and yelled at him with all my might. This was all his fault. Grandma sent me to bed. Joel told me they were going to send me away. They would separate us and I would never be able to see him again. I told him I was fine with that because he was being horrible. That upset him. He got Walter and Snowy and made me watch as Walter ate Snowy. I cried. He laughed. Joel woke me up at midnight. He told me we could stay together. Me, him, and Walter, but we had to do 40 something first. He smelt like gasoline. He led me to the kitchen and pointed to the stove which was covered with a sticky, sweet smelling liquid. He told me to open my hands. I did. He handed me a lighter. I didn’t want to do it but Joel got angry when I tried to say no. He yelled and told me to do it for all the times Momma blamed me for something he did. That if I did this everyone would finally realize it was him doing all the bad things and not me. My hands were shaking so bad it took me five tries to get the lighter to ignite. When it did I froze and stared at the small flame in my hands. It flickered with every shuttering breath that came out of my mouth. Joel grew impatient and slapped the lighter out of my hand and onto the stove. There was a large whooshing noise and a blast of orange light. My arm hair stood on end and sweat trickled down my face. I backed away. Joel stood in front of the fire and laughed. He threw his arms out wide and danced in tune with the flames. He was crazy but his movements were so beautiful and fluid. It was frightening. The fire advanced toward me. I didn’t want to move. I wanted the fire to eat me like it was going to eat Grandma and the twins. Joel grabbed my hand and led me outside. We stood to the side and watched as the fire slowly ate up the house I had grown up in. The house that the priest, the twins, and Grandma had all died in. Sirens and smoke filled the night air. I looked to my side for Joel, but he had disappeared. DESERT DRUMS Abigail Carpenter When my London flatmate, Raoni, suggested we travel to Northern Africa because he was missing the heat of Brazil, we had no intention of visiting the Sahara Desert and the Atlas Mountains. But we quickly made friends with a generous and hospitable Moroccan man, Raxido, who invited us to a local drum circle at the edge of the Sahara Desert. After traveling on camelback against an orange-rayed sunset, we found ourselves among the sand dunes. We parked our camels single file near our camp, and I realized a place that once only existed in my dreams was now before me. I had to close my eyes for a long while. I opened them over and over again until I was sure of it. I had to reach down and let the sand fall between my fingers slowly. I had to breathe in the crisp, evening air. And when I looked up, the stars speckled in the sky like the summer freckles on my face, thousands and thousands of them. When the drum circle began, I let its music fill me up. It started in my toes and moved higher, tickled my fingers and sent goosebumps up my arms and back. The drums vibrated within my chest and when it reached my mouth, I screamed in laughter. My laugh echoed farther and farther across the desert, not meeting any person or town or house until it was miles and miles away. I wrapped my blanket a little tighter and watched my friends dance around the fire to the beat of the drums. Their legs moved up and down as their hands joined the ashes flying through the night air. For many hours, we sat around the fire, told our stories and spoke aloud our dreams. We danced and sang and took turns pounding the drums. We slept under the stars among the silence of the desert for only a few hours until the sun awoke us on the horizon. And moving through the deep sand, the sunrise at our backs, we rode our camels to the bus to escape the desert heat before it swallowed us up whole. 41 COLORS Hannah Schmit If I am a color call me red The color of passion and love Humanity worn on my sleeve The color of my blood, beating heart. Call me red. If I am a season call me fall With baited chilled breath I speak My words on whirlwind breezes fall An omen of changes to come Call me fall. If I am a sound call me silence. The chaos and stillness of calm My words lost yet encompassing In anticipation of something Call me silence If I am a thought call me hope The desire for something more A yearning call deep within me The need to breathe Call me hope. 42 urban delight jazmin crittenden 43 WHEN DAD WORE COLOGNE A. Tetzlaff “Did Grandpa Mike die?” My small voice broke a quiet that Dad and I carry easily between us. A radio frequency connecting our minds that communicates silently, so we don’t have to. Even at the age of three, I knew our sacred, noiseless space well. Dad took me to a park one day, nearby my childhood home. We rarely visited this park unless we intended to use its snowy slope for adrenaline rushes in our bright plastic sleds in the winter time. But it wasn’t wintertime now. My dad wore a blue t-shirt he’d owned since high school. Summer or spring, the season isn’t particularly distinct. The hills rose nakedly as we quietly approached. I’ve come back to the memory time and again; the images are blurred, like a positive photograph that didn’t come out of the darkroom correctly. I can’t recall how my father responded to my question, though I’m sure he patiently and painfully affirmed my query. In that moment I wasn’t shocked. I wasn’t sad. Presently, I regret that I can’t remember a man who loved me and was so dearly loved by others. I don’t know how he looked aside from the pictures I know. How he talked, laughed, 44 yelled, walked, I don’t recall. Did he wear cologne to work like Dad? When I was young, Dad wore cologne to work. He woke up around five in the morning in order to be at work five-thirty, and he still does, despite the fact that no one expects him in the office till eight. I’d hear his alarm from my bed and wait to smell the mix of dewy summer grass and the spicy knives of cologne in my nostrils. The smell lingered and pulled me back to sleep as Dad left the house. On the day at the park, Dad wasn’t wearing cologne. Dad didn’t wear cologne that day because it was either a weekend or he had the day off or had taken time away to grieve. I don’t remember the call to our corded telephone late one night. It was the hospital telling Mom and Dad that my grandfather died of a heart attack while showering. I don’t know if he died immediately or if the attack was slow, painful, cold, and wet. I will never ask. The thought of breaking the stitches grief so tenuously sewed incites trepidation. Was my young face one of his last images? I’m vain enough to assume so––grandparents always think of the grandbabies first. Was it a comfort? I can only hope. At my Grandfather’s funeral, I can’t remember Mom’s grief. I can’t remember the funeral either.She keeps the remnants of her love tended like a flower garden and tells me of her father often. I have nothing but the cemented walkway leading to the park that summer day deep in my mind. Mom tells me that my grandfather lived as long as he did because he was waiting for me. It was a miracle I was even born, but that’s not my story to tell. She calls me “the sparkle in his eye.” Christopher, my younger and only brother, inherited my grandfather’s bright, Anglo-blue irises. He was born the year after my grandfather died. Christopher joined the Army a few weeks ago; my grandfather was a Marine in the 60s. During his service in Asia, my grandfather collected each country’s currency. Grandma keeps the collection in a red leather box in her bedroom closet. I used to step onto a chair and carefully extract the artifact from the top shelf and touch each coin and each bill. Some of those tenders are much extinct now. The souvenirs of my grandfather’s life are far less valuable to me than those of my travels––those, at least, the mugs and the key chains, those have memories attached of the real thing. I’ve spent most of my life scouring photos and objects, trying to resurrect an authentic memory of my grandfather. Trying to find a sensation that brings him back to me like the early morning scent of Dad’s cologne because I only remember the hills and my words and Dad. The solvents of time washed away my grandfather. 45 SHITTY CHRISTMAS TREES AND SECONDHAND DOLLS Elisabeth Beam When I was a kid we didn’t have a lot of money. But we managed to survive. Mom worked a lot at the dingy looking Super 8 Motel just down the street from the elementary school. You know, the kind of motel that charges by the hour instead of night. She hated it but it was close to school and paid just enough. Around November she would start picking up shifts at other hotels in town to save up more money for Christmas. It was hard. The heat bill always went up mid-October when the chill started to set in and the snow began to fall. Presents were always an issue. Getting stuff for just me and Sarah was usually alright, but Mom came from a big family. Six brothers and sisters all of whom had kids. All of whom would be needing presents. That’s a lot of money. Money we just didn’t have. One year there was a huge blizzard and they canceled school for a week. Sarah was only six at the time and she couldn’t be left alone to take care of herself much less a five-year-old as well. So mom had to stay home from work and look after us. She tried to make it seem like she wasn’t stressed out about the money, but I knew she was. She would pace around the kitchen at night and mumble to 46 herself. She’d crouch over her checkbook and shake her head. She tried to hide it from us, but I noticed. I always noticed when she got like that. A week of work missed meant we wouldn’t be able to afford the gas to get to grandma’s house for Christmas. And a week with everyone at home meant that the heat bill was going to be rough. She was too proud to try and get food stamps. So money that would normally go towards presents went to buying our Christmas feast. We didn’t go to my grandma’s house that Christmas but it was probably the best Christmas of my life. The day before school let out our landlord took out all the carpet in the living room. He said it was due to be replaced and that someone would be over before the holiday to put down some new carpet. “Your feet will be so happy and thankful! That’s the best Christmas present you could ask for!” he had happily told us. No one came. The floor was cold and there were nails and sharp staples sticking up at weird angles. It hurt to step on them and small red dots appeared throughout the house as we all made the mistake of stepping in the living room without socks. Mom put down an old ratty green rug, one that our cats liked to pee on. She bought a small fake green tree from the thrift shop downtown. It was the saddest looking tree. Most of the branches were missing so it had random bald spots sporadically around its leaning trunk. A good number of the ornaments that we put on it fell off because it couldn’t support their weight. We made new ones out of paper and glitter. Mom wrapped tinsel she’d taken from work around it and Sarah and I sloppily placed string lights. We put an old family picture at the top of the tree because we were too scared that our expensive Christmas angel would fall and break if we tried to stick her up there. Thinking back on it now it was a pretty shitty looking tree, but back then I thought it was the best thing I’d ever seen in my life. I remember sitting on the floor amongst the nails and staples and looking at it glittering and glistening and thinking that it was a far better tree than anyone else could ever have. I thought that even if we’d spend a million dollars on a tree and all its dressings that it wouldn’t even be able to come close to this masterpiece sitting before me. For Christmas Eve we blasted holiday music and ran around the living room twirling and waving our arms above our heads. Mom had somehow found time to make new flannel pajamas for both me and Sarah and we had immediately put them on. She had also given us each a doll that she’d found at a thrift store. They looked ratty and dirty but I loved them both. Every bit of dust and matted patch of hair was a story waiting to be told. The dolls had character and I loved it.That shitty tree and our thrift store dolls were great but they weren’t what made that night so special. It was that we were all together, making the most out of what we had and not lamenting what we were missing. I think as we grow up we lose the magic in secondhand dolls and shitty Christmas trees. 47 summer nights adam ruff 48 the people united adam ruff 49 after the hike adam ruff 50 CRUMBS Malena Larsen He’s looking for love In the crevices of his couch Like loose change. I saw him lift up the cushions And pull out crumbs His mother’s earring A quarter The spoon he dropped last week After eating ice cream out of the container. It was chocolate cookie dough and he ate the whole thing. I watched him put the quarter in his back pocket and the spoon back in the cushions. I told him I had been in love once And he said I like it when girls call me daddy. I had a dream that night that he was dating somebody and my stomach hurt when I woke up. I became a spoon in the couch cushion Who said words like Daddy And Fuck me And Hard. At the end of every night I was put back with the crumbs, and each day that he came to get me there was more cat hair or lint stuck to me I waited patiently Dirty For him to pick me up. It was 77 degrees the late summer night he stopped getting me from the cushions. He told me that he found somebody to love and we can’t be friends, because if I see you I’ll fuck you. I asked him why he couldn’t control himself if he was in love with somebody. The inside of my ribcage Was being scraped empty 51 Like the chocolate cookie dough ice cream container And my stomach hurt Like it did after the dream Where he wasn’t mine I can’t help it. He told me. I like it when girls call me daddy. When we met he was wearing a suit and it looked like he had spent a lot of time on his hair but I didn’t think he was attractive until the weekend when I was drunk. Across the table On the other side of red cups And puddles of water He stared at me In a grey tank top. His eyes And arms Were strong 52 And dark. Making eye contact felt like sex And he smelled like Fireball And somebody I shouldn’t be alone with And too much cologne. We went swimming at 6 am at the neighbor’s lakefront when everyone else fell asleep. He took off his shirt I kept mine on. The water fell off of him like it didn’t want to keep his body covered for too long. He picked me up and folded me over his right shoulder and threw me into the 6 am summer sweet lake water. He drove me home At 7 am Still drunk and Smitten. It was 88 degrees and my birthday the night I let him kiss me in the back hallway of our friend’s frat. I couldn’t wait anymore He told me In the house that smelled like Liquor and dust And damp wood. The first time we Fucked Was in the front seat of his White Pontiac Grand prix At 11 pm on a Tuesday. I saw him almost As an animal. His fists Were clenched And his eyebrows Like shelves Over his beetle eyes. Do you like fucking daddy? After that night I had to sneak him into my bedroom because he couldn’t do all of the positions he wanted to in his car. He needed to prove to me that he was the best fuck and that he could make me cum and that I should call him Daddy. I had never called fucking, fucking before. Before I was a dirty spoon it had only been called love. His eyes started to remind me Of Tiny Round Black beetles. There’s nobody else anymore We should just keep fucking. And when we fucked It was 66 degrees and almost fall when he came to my house in his white Pontiac Grand Prix and told me I remembered then, the quarter he put in his pants and how he used me to eat his ice cream and then put me back with all the crumbs in the cushions of 53 his couch Where he keeps looking for love Like it’s the loose change In his back pocket. 54 bloomed audrey campbell 55 pruned audrey campbell 56 HERMAN Danny Polaschek Grape juice dribbled down Herman’s chin and landed in scattered droplets down the front of his white T-shirt. He didn’t notice and, after setting down his half-emptied glass, picked up his spoon and started on his bowl of bran flakes. Sitting at the kitchen table, there was nothing in front of Herman —but a bare white wall. It seemed, however, that he wasn’t looking at it, but rather through it like a child looks through a window and, seeing nothing but gray skies and rain, is overwhelmed by disappointment because they will not be outdoors playing that day. As Herman sat there facing the white wall and chomping his cereal, his son entered the kitchen and began his morning ritual. Herman heard the coffee-maker start bubbling from somewhere behind him in the kitchen along with the quick and efficient pitter-pattering of his son’s feet, who Herman assumed had to be walking laps around the center island as some sort of new, trendy morning workout. Once the coffee maker’s burbling came to an end the footsteps stopped as well. Herman focused on the sound of the coffee being poured, the soft sound of liquid filling a ceramic mug. The sound stopped as quickly as it had started and Herman was further drawn from his relaxed, monotonous state by the sound of his son’s voice. “How are the flakes this morning, Dad?” Herman didn’t turn around to face his son, but continued with what he was doing, looking like a cow chewing cud. “Five star quality,” he replied in between spoonfuls. “Flaky as ever.” Herman’s son chuckled a bit and looked up from his fresh cup of coffee but the laugh died away when he noticed that his father was still turned away from him, eyes glued straight ahead. Taking another sip, Herman’s son pondered whether he would keep pursuing his father in conversation or not. He ultimately decided against it and left the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. A sigh escaped Herman’s throat as he set down his spoon, finished with his mushed and soggy cereal. Ain’t this the life, he thought to himself sarcastically. Finally turning away from the wall, Herman scooted himself back from the kitchen table and slowly stood up. He gripped the side of the table for balance and took a few deep breaths in an effort to steady himself. Just a few weeks before, Herman had 57 missed a stair descending to the basement and found himself tumbling clumsily down the rest of the way until crashing to a stop on the last few steps. Herman’s head still felt a bit shaky from time to time, which caused a bit of a tremble in his legs. Instead of walking from place to place, he grew accustomed to maneuvering his way to each destination by leaning on and grabbing anything he could for support and then flinging himself to another sturdy checkpoint, and so on and so forth until he reached his goal. It was much like a monkey swinging from vine to vine, but less precise and much less graceful. With his feet finally under him, legs steady, Herman pushed away from the kitchen table and launched himself to the kitchen counter, which caught him with cold indifference. Hunched over, Herman caught his breath for a few seconds before beginning to shuffle down the length of the marble counter towards the coffeemaker at the other end. “This better be a damn good cup of Joe,” he mumbled to himself, clearly exhausted. Halfway down the counter, Herman stopped. With a steady grip on the counter he reached up to the cupboard above his head and swung it open. He couldn’t see inside but he knew that what he was looking for was in there: his old blue coffee mug— one of the only things worth bringing with when he moved into his son’s house the year before. Feeling around the smooth, wooden interior, Herman eventually got a hold of his mug which distinguished itself by having only half of a handle still attached. With the partial handle hooked onto his ring and middle fingers, Herman pulled out his mug and brought it shakily down over his head, setting it on the counter with a soft “clink.” Herman was beginning to feel dizzy at this 58 point, and wished for a moment that he had listened to the doctor about getting a walker. “Mr. Huckley,” the doctor said, “even if you don’t think you’ll use it, take it anyways. Just in case.” Herman didn’t take the walker, and wouldn’t even let anyone help to walk him out of the hospital, not even his son. “I don’t need your damn help,” he snorted each time someone tried to take his arm to steady him. He was always a stubborn man and old age wasn’t going to change that. Continuing down the counter, Herman felt this same stubborn anger boiling in him. He was almost seventy years old and yet he felt like a child who was just learning to walk. He’d built his own home, and a garage to go with it, and now he could hardly make it to the opposite end of the room without feeling fatigued. Sweat was running hot from Herman’s forehead. He wiped it with a shaky hand and breathed in deeply, closing his eyes as he did so. He only had five or so more steps to go and he braced himself for the final stretch, determined to get there even if it killed him. With a focused balance and patient, shuffling steps Herman managed to get to the end of the counter and the coffee pot. He exhaled in relief, and a satisfied smile tugged the corners of his mouth up ever so slightly. With his blue mug in one hand, Herman picked up the coffeepot in the other, intent on pouring himself a well-deserved cup of coffee after his tiresome journey. His satisfaction was immediately replaced with bitterness as he lifted the pot and felt that it was nearly empty, only a few drops remained rolling around in the bottom. Herman’s minute smile had vanished and his brow hardened, scrunching up his forehead in small, tense knots. Setting the pot back on the counter, Herman hissed repeatedly under his breath, cursing his son for not leaving him any coffee. Herman’s hands were visibly trembling and he was having a difficult time keeping a grip on the edge of the counter. He contemplated making more coffee but dismissed the idea immediately, knowing that he could not remain standing and moving around the kitchen much longer. Herman felt a hot flush come over his face and could feel beads of sweat rolling down his temples and his cheeks. In one swift motion he wound up and threw his coffee mug across the room, where it shattered against the windowless, white wall. Slivers and shards of ceramic bounced all over the kitchen, the blue pieces scattered like shattered glass. Herman heard footsteps drumming down the staircase before his son entered the room,stopping in the doorway to avoid stepping on any of the pieces of blue ceramic. “Dad!” he exclaimed, “What happened? Herman was bent over, hunched with his hands on his knees. He was struggling for breath now, and sweat soaked through his shirt on his back. In between wheezes, Herman said exasperated, “You didn’t leave me any damn coffee, you son of a bitch.” His son stood there eyeing first his father and then the indent in the wall where the mug had hit. He shook his head in disbelief, which quickly turned to anger. With a clenched jaw, he left the room and returned a minute later with broom in hand. He began quietly sweeping the blue bits of coffee mug into a dustpan. After Herman had caught his breath and recomposed himself, he pulled his body back into a standing position, leaning against the counter. He glanced to his son, bent over and sweeping under the kitchen table. “I heard you on the phone last night,” he said. Herman kept his eyes on his son as he stood and turned to face him. His son raised an eyebrow at him but gave no verbal reply. “I heard you,” Herman repeated. His son bit his lip and continued sweeping, eyes trained on the floor. “It’s just not working, dad.” 59 EL BARRIO SUYO Chad Berryman El viento le envolvió al hombre como una manta de hielo. Él andaba por el barrio suyo pero los vecinos no lo saludaron. Caminaba delante de una casa grande con flores y grandes ventanas, y por esas ventanas podía oír una pelea entre dos padres y los lamentos penosos de sus hijos. Él seguía la acera que serpenteaba por un parque lindo donde había un banco solitario. Él Lo saludó con la cabeza. Recordaba unas noches del verano cuando este banco no había ofrecido insultos ni acusaciones, sino un lugar simpático para descansar mientras él le regalaba un uso admirable. Pero en el invierno el banco se congelaba como él, y ambos eran incapaces de ayudarse el uno al otro. Paseaba delante de una casa blanca de arquitectura maravillosa. Un coche altanero llegara la entrada. Un padre sincero apareció mientras acababa de contar los acontecimientos de su día. Su hija miraba su celular, y el silencio suspiró por la expresión herida de la cara del padre. Ellos entraron a la casa sin otra palabra. El hombre nómada seguía caminando, y pronto la nieve dentro de sus venas se derretía por una balada antigua que se tarareaba al ritmo de sus pasos. 60 No pido mucho, no vivo de prisa canto los himnos con risa bendita no tengo nada salvo alma amada y sin despedida no hay la llegada THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD Chad Berryman The frigid air wrapped around the man like a blanket of ice. He was travelling through his own neighborhood, but no neighbors acknowledged him. As he walked in front of a large, picturesque house, complete with flowers and giant windows, he could make out the sound of two parents fighting accompanied by the upsetting cries of their children. The sidewalk snaked its way through a park in which there stood one solitary bench. With a nod of his head, the man greeted it. Nights of summers past filled his mind, nights in which the bench had not offered insults or accusations but rather a consoling place of rest while he presented it with the gift of an honorable purpose. However, the bench froze and shivered in the winter the same as he, and neither could provide the other with any relief. He passed by a white house of grand construction. There, a flashy car had just pulled into the driveway. From it emerged an earnest father finishing the recounting of his day. His daughter, however, simply stared at her phone, and the wounded expression on her father’s face betrayed an unsung sigh. The two entered the house without another word. As the wandering man continued walking, the snow in his veins began to melt due to an old tune he commenced to hum in time with his steps. I don’t ask for much, or live in a rush in my blessed laughter the hymns come alive there’s nothing I own save a soul that is loved for without a farewell one could never arrive 61 ODYSSEY Eve Taft Thank you for the twisted pathways of your mind Which led to the streets and alleyways of Dublin James Joyce, do you understand that you opened floodgates? Your avalanche of babbling sentences, sans punctuation Buck Mulligan tossing form and style into the wind Your catechism, you, Daedalus, gave us sacrament Blood flow to wake up the numb limbs of literature You spoke with your soul to our souls Fearing not the noise in your skull but flinging it down in ink I understand you, “life is many days” I understand you, “god is a shout in the street” I understand you, “I am another now and yet the same” You understand me “everything speaks in its own way” Soon I’ll visit your beloved homeland Walking the streets of Dublin, writing and giving thanks to modernism Now as free of rigid form As Ireland of England 62 postcards from my bedroom audrey campbell 63 postcards from my bedroom audrey campbell 64 COUNTING SHEEP Danny Polaschek What can you do when the world is asleep? Go to sleep too? I’ve counted all my sheep. They jumped through the air gliding for 5 or 6 feet cleared the fence and then flew with not even a bleat. I didn’t focus however on these aerial sheep antics because far away in the distance was a sight oh so fantastic. A blue house, with a single light on in the window sat a girl a beauty no pencil could ever have drawn. I looked up at her and she down at me addicted to the eyesight too distracted to count sheep. 65 3 sky nights keeyonna fox 67 inner self keeyonna fox 68 VICTORY OF THE PEOPLE Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk Your worship was my refuge, your clay heart my focal point, your chelsea smile the apple of my eye. We were sick. We poisoned ourselves with amphetamines and pills until we didn’t recognize ourselves in the mirror. We walked miles just to feel accomplished in our space, we turned the cigarettes we shared into sentiments we thought we shared. I must possess the wrong innocence. Souls are fickle things that change when left to die in the cold. ~ He was outrageously tall. He towered over me like the Statue of Liberty and he talked to me as though I was a boat in the harbor. Standing five inches taller than six feet, he was an image of Ukrainian beauty. He stood like someone who knew things you didn’t know and this fascinated me. I was so naive, so optimistic. I saw the lust and want in his eyes and I mistook it for passion.The curve of his jaw and his long eyelashes crept into the screens behind my eyelids and ignited a fire in me that I didn’t know how to put out. I was the new girl in town struggling to keep my loneliness at bay. He was a gleaming light in that summer of darkness. I had just moved to Minnesota months before. After discovering drugs and promiscuous sex I became nothing short of a hurricane. Amphetamines kept me awake, cigarettes kept me skinny, and weed kept me sane. My GPA reflected exactly what they don’t tell you about functional depression: you can feel like a blank page, but as long as you fill it with words people will stop asking questions. He was selling me drugs. He offered me a good price. I had never met him but I figured what the hell, I could stand to meet new people. It was dark, long past sundown. We were meeting in a parking lot by a lake a few blocks away from my house. I was in my mom’s car. I waited and listened to Amy Winehouse until I saw an orange car pull into a parking spot a few yards away from me. The man driving fit the picture I had seen of him before. We 69 made eye contact and he ushered me over to his car. I took a deep breath, grabbed my sweater, and got my money ready. He rolled down the passenger side window. “You Nikita?” I said. He smiled at me. A smile that I would come to know. “You can call me Kita.” ~ He had really good drugs. I’m not sure that they were pure, but at the time I didn’t care. Neither did he. We just wanted to get high. We did his drugs together, sitting in a playground by the lake, talking about life and what we crave. He told me that he was applying to a college in London. I didn’t think anything of it. Before long we saw each other every day. He was a lifeguard who had to be on duty early in the morning, so he would take me out for coffee at eight in the morning. No makeup, sweatpants, my hair in a messy bun. He didn’t care. We would talk about things that we hadn’t shared with anyone else. He told me he struggled with his relationship with his father in Ukraine. I told him that I had struggled with eating disorders since I was thirteen. We would sneak out onto his back porch to smoke cigarettes late at night. His mother hated that we smoked. 70 “You need to quit smoking, love,” she’d tell me. “I smoked for twenty-five years and it took two pregnancies to get me to stop.” His mother loved me. She thought that I was spunky, independent, had a mind of my own. She did not like his last girlfriend. She made that very clear. She, like Nikita, was very tall. She had long curly black hair and eyes so intense that you would lose your appetite. Her Russian accent was thick and powerful. She had run away to the United States when she was twenty-one and seven months pregnant with her first son. Nikita. “Does it mean anything?” I asked him. “Your name.” He smiled when he answered. “My mom told me it means ‘victory of the people,’” he said. Oh Kita, you have no victory. You are the secret I keep from my mother the hidden disease that projectile vomits and digs with fingernails sharpened by teeth. Your fields of sunflowers told me a secret, your secrets so dark and beautiful and I killed myself with your gargantuan sunflowers. His mother was beautiful. She had been a professional figure skater that traveled the world, meeting people as she went. She met Kita’s father in her home country of Ukraine and according to the story, he was immediately drawn to her exuberant personality and her long legs. At twenty-one she was well on her way to continue pursuing a successful skating career until she got pregnant. According to Kita his father did not accompany her to her appointments.He did not send her flowers. He did not ask if she was okay. Instead Kita’s mother made her way to America to create a life of victory and hope. He took me to meet his grandmother. She said hello and came in and that was the last that I understood. The entire time I was there she would ask me questions in Russian and Kita would translate for me. He taught me how to say Hello (Privet) Yes (da) No (net) And thank you, which I don’t remember. We spent almost the entire time we were there trying to help his grandmother set up a new movie streaming program on her computer. I know nothing about computers in English, let alone in Russian. I was overwhelmed. The leather furniture just made my nervous sweat more noticeable. She told me about Ukraine a little bit. She said it was beautiful but troubled. She offered me chocolate and cookies. I sat, sweating, trying my hardest to pay attention. When I said anything to her, Kita would translate for me. I wanted to leave. After we left his grandmother’s house he told me to wait in his car while he talked privately with his grandmother. I thought it was strange but didn’t question it. I played mindless games on my phone while I waited for him. Some part of me knew that they were talking about me, but I continued to deny it. I was hungry, but I wasn’t planning on doing anything about it too soon. I was hungry often then. When he returned to the car I asked what they had talked about and with no hesitation he said, “You.” I paused, then asked him to elaborate. “She likes you,” he said. And that was that. How strange, I thought, to be liked by someone who never explicitly spoke a word to me. ~ Andrevich was Kita’s middle name. Named after his father. Kita’s father was very handsome. In his forties with tan skin and thick hair, he was a heartthrob that would make you look twice. He lived in a nice, expensive apartment in Kiev with his girlfriend who was twenty years younger than him. Apparently that was a theme. Kita had only seen his father a handful of times in his life. He had gone back to Ukraine to spend some time with him as a young boy, but didn’t have too much recollection of it. When he was sixteen he went back to live with his father and his twenty-yearold girlfriend for a while. Kita has always been tall, thin, and handsome. His father noticed this. “So what happened?” I asked him one day. 71 Kita shrugged. “He kicked me out and I came back to the states,” he said without a flinch. He said this as though it was a commonality. “He thought that I fucked his girlfriend,” he said as he lit a cigarette. There was a very long, uncomfortable silence. “Did you?” I asked. He laughed out loud and a cloud of smoke poured out of his mouth. “No, of course not,” he said. “My dad isn’t one to listen to a sixteen year old.” ~ “I’ll take you to Ukraine someday.” “Sunflowers. There are parts of Ukraine where there are endless fields of sunflowers wherever you look. They’re as tall as me and the flowers are bigger than my face.” He pulled me closer as he talked about Ukraine. He insisted that I learn all that I could about the Russia-Ukraine conflict, sending me innumerable articles daily. Through him I learned about the importance of the Ukrainian revolution and fights that had been fought, some as recent as 2011 and 2012. He told me that he wanted to fight for his people if he had to. When my eyes were flushed with concern, he pulled me in close and whispered in my ear, “I’ll survive for you.” His eyes lit up every time he talked about the fields of sunflowers in Ukraine. In the same way, his eyes lit up every time he got angry. Your golden eyes drew miners to starve and fight to abandon their homes. We were in his bed, naked, wrapped up in blankets and speckled by the corner light in his room. It was late, the kind of late that feels early. The air conditioner hummed in the place of our phones which were both off and hidden somewhere in the room. He did no wrong. He could not do any wrong. His eyes were blank but telling like a wall in a foreclosed home. All of his intentions were good. Yes. Good. “Where in Ukraine?” I asked. “Have you been eating?” he asks as he lifts up my shirt. “Kiev, the city squares. And to the huge fields of flowers.” “What kind of flowers?” 72 ~ I squirm away and pull my shirt down. “Yes, I ate just before I came here,” I say. I can still taste the salt in my mouth. “You look skinny,” he tells me with a hint of disdain in his voice. My heart soars. I look skinny. But he’s reaching for my stomach again and once again I’m backing away. We get into the car and drive to the gas station. I say that I need to go use the restroom. While Kita pumps the gas, I make my way into the small Holiday bathroom. I put my sweater on the ground and rest my knees on it, my usual routine. I stick my finger down my throat and vomit into the toilet. As I walk back outside, Kita is getting back into his car. I get in the front seat and sniffle slightly.Kita looks at me quizzically. “You okay?” he asks me. My eyes are watery, my nose is burning, and my breath is putrid. “I’m fine,” I say with a smile. ~ The elevator door was so cold against my cheek. I watched the red numbers blink as they rose. 8...9...10...11. My vision was going fuzzy and grey, my ears started ringing and throbbing. 11...12...13. Ding. The doors opened and my wobbly legs carried me down the seemingly endless hallway. My hands were barely working; as I watched them push my key into my apartment door I could not feel it. The door opened, I could see my living room window. I closed the door behind me and collapsed on the ground. “Why did you faint?” His words echoed behind the screen of my phone. “I just haven’t eaten a lot today.” There was a silence so deafening that it struck fear in my heart. Fear I had not known. “When did you eat last?” He had anger in his voice. I paused. He would know if I lied but he would hate the truth. “I had a little dinner last night,” I said quietly. “What did you eat?” His reply was sharp. I was shaking. “I had a little bit of salad I think,” I said with a quivering voice. I could hear his sigh. I can still hear his sigh. “How many times have we talked about this?” He exclaimed. “I know, I know, I’m sorry…” It didn’t matter. He didn’t listen. I had failed him again. “Do you know what it’s like to have a girlfriend that can’t even take care of herself ?” “What am I going to tell my friends?” “You’re not even trying.” I was sobbing, I was convulsing, I was sweating, all from my bed from which I could not move. My phone was glued to my ear and I had no energy to remove it. “So what are you going to do about this?” There was intense spite in his words. With a shaky voice I said, “I could send you a picture of everything I eat?” He laughed. With his full, angry throat he laughed 73 at my pain. “And do what? Post it on Facebook? Show all my friends that my girlfriend is an anorexic who can’t even feed herself ? You know what, go ahead. Maybe that’ll help you change.” I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to die. My stomach kept whispering “never again, never again, never again.” Opening my mouth made me panic because it reminded me of eating. I hung up my phone and with wobbly legs I walked outside in the snow and smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. ~ Months go by. Months. I watched him pack his bag with clothes that I had never seen him wear. He packed light, only a few shirts and two pairs of pants. “My dad will buy me more when I get to Ukraine,” he said. I sat on the edge of his bed and watched him focus on folding his clothes. His visa sat in the center of the bed, staring at me. I started to cry. “Babe, it’s going to be fine,” Kita said without breaking focus. I watched him form a pile of the shirts that I had grown used to him wearing. They looked like wilted flower petals. 74 “Why aren’t you taking those?” I asked, pointing to the wilted pile. “My father won’t like them,” he said. Later that night, we were drinking red wine in his bed. His room was bare and cold. I was curled against his side, my head on his chest. He stroked my bare back and played with my hair. I sighed, but not the kind of sigh that’s followed with kisses. Kita sighed too. “Petra,” he said, a tone of exasperation in his voice. “If I ever treat you like my father treats women, please leave me.” ~ I still remember how to say “I love you” in Russian. “я люблю тебя.” Ya lyublyu tebya. ~ My fingers were bones. Anything beyond mascara was too much, especially lipstick. He hated lipstick. He thought that it brought too much attention to my mouth. He didn’t like when other people noticed me. He stopped smoking cigarettes and instructed me to do so too. “They’ll make you age faster,”he would say. If I had a bad day and smoked a cigarette, he would tell me he was disappointed. I lived with three men at the time, something that Kita would never let me forget. He asked every few days to be sure I wasn’t sleeping with any of my roommates. If I was spending too much time with a friend, he would tell me that I was neglecting him. He sent me articles outlining how to be a better partner. He reminded me that he just wanted me to be the best that I could be. The screaming and hour-long phone calls were footnotes. You stripped me of my dignity and told me, “This is what you have.” Your monstrous arms crawl into my nightmares Your titanic stature collided with my glacier and though you claim I sank you You were a behemoth and I was a stone. At the end, I fell into the ground. His screams surrounded me in my echo chamber and suffocated me. My knees were bruised from kneeling in front of the toilet all night. How apt for the one accused of dropping to her knees for all men. I was free but I did not know it yet. All I knew was the cold floor of my bathroom and the tales of beautiful but troubled Ukraine. My goodbyes have been said, These addictions fed. It’s the cost that comes with the sickness. And your screams won’t be heeded anymore. 75 AN OPEN LETTER TO THE UN-SPECIALS Halle Chambers When we are little, even before we can speak We are told that we’re special and that we’re unique. That we all are made different and that none are the same Which fits quite nicely in a toddler’s mind frame. And we are told we should treasure what’s different inside, That what makes us different is not something to hide. But then quite soon after, things start to change; The word “different” stops meaning “special” and starts meaning “strange.” We’re sectioned off from our average peers In our own little category and told, “you belong here,” And then different is bad and normal is good, And for the different ones, nothing is working the way that it should The way we’ve been taught or the way we’ve been shown All we know is that we do not like being lost on our own. 76 So once again we are taken away To a place where things makes sense again and we’re ok: Where no one hurts us, Where no one can see, Where no one deserts us, Where we can be free. But because the un-specials can’t see what goes on, They decide to make things up and get so much wrong. And it’s happened for years because they can’t see through that door. So long they don’t even know that it’s wrong anymore. It’s so fixed in their heads that these lies are right; They judge each special kid by their stereotype. But today that will end. So you sit there and you wait, cause it’s about time someone set the dang record straight. You probably think that this poem won’t cut it, But today I’m gonna open the door and don’t you dare shut it! To start, let’s be clear: I am...I was in Special Ed. But just because I was in that room doesn’t mean I’m brain dead! So for Pete’s sake, don’t puppy dog guard me! Just give me a break, it isn’t that hard see: If I need your help, I will tell you I do. Just please, Please don’t mock me. In my place, would you want me to mock you? “Oh come on! Let her get it! Go easy on her!” Help, where not needed, is almost as bad as a slur. I’m not invalid So don’t play that card. Yeah, I’m a little quirky and oversensitive, But I’m not, and I quote, “A little retard.” Yeah, I’ve been called names. And those words? They hurt. They catch in the center, In your pit of self worth. And they tear and they rip, And those words are collective. Soon you start to believe that you are defective. I’ve dealt with them all, and surprisingly, I actually prefer the straight up bullies To those who pretend to like me. Fake friends and two-faces Of all genders and races. They’re only my friends so they don’t have to see me cry. Or they use me, abuse me, Oh, how they confuse me! Cause I can’t tell what’s truth and what’s lie. “Hey! He likes you. Go give him a kiss!” And because I don’t know better, I believe this. But soon I find they’re not playing Cupid, They just wanna make me look stupid. For their entertainment, they make me play the 77 fool; They pretend that they care for me When they’re really just cruel. It takes time and takes work to make you forget; Even now, I’m not quite there yet. I mean, here I am, in what’s supposed to be home, And yet here I am, still feeling alone. I’m still paranoid, it doesn’t just end; I still have to ask if someone’s my friend. I say one thing and mean another; I make a mistake, But you take it verbatim. Can’t you cut me a break? If we’re talking and I look like I’m lost, Don’t blow it off like it’s not worth the cost. Sarcasm and subtlety muddle in my brain, So please just take a minute to explain. Do these quirks make me broken? Is there something wrong with me? The way society has spoken, There would seem to be. 78 Stop poisoning the minds of “different” young women and men. I don’t like being defective.... Can I be special again? SOREX PALUSTRIS Emilie Tomas Did they name you for Your wit, pointed Nose of pointed judgement Who brought us fire; five to seven inches of shrewd truth? Or was it your mischief That Inspired them? Your Presence followed by screams And a three inch tail. I saw your likeness on a stage, Dirt in place of your midnight coat Though she is reformed now. Perhaps it was the gleam in your Eyes; whispered fortunes and A summer of silver birth. Maybe you are a messenger Of God, somehow in your Eighteen months you learned to walk On water, the second coming Of Christ. 79 woodsy adam ruff gabriel bergstrom 80 WORDS Malena Larsen The bathroom wall was covered in words. Words like fuck and love and song lyrics and names with hearts around them. His body looked peaceful, somehow, as he sat propped and slumped against the door. His head hung to his right shoulder and his mouth was open like he was about to say something but was interrupted. There was blood running down his left arm like a river and a needle hung loosely out of his skin. The words that he had heard her say several hours earlier were getting quieter and quieter. “It’s not working,” she had told him. “I’m sorry.” They were smoking cigarettes outside her apartment when she said it. She knew he had been trying to fix himself. After twenty-eight days of treatment and one week in a sober house on Lake and Fifth she barely recognized him. He was twenty-five pounds heavier and his skin looked clean and strong; there was no more grey in his cheeks. It wasn’t just his change in appearance that scared her. Lately, he had been telling her the difference between wrong and right and that she should stay in on the weekends. His family couldn’t stop talking about how proud they were of him and they would ask her, “Doesn’t he just seem so much better?” She would answer with yes but feel guilty because she wished he still liked to make mistakes. His family had a party after he got out of treatment and his grandfather kept saying things like, “Men in this family have always been strong!” and, “Now he can take care of you.” His grandfather didn’t care for her much but he felt that she was the least of the boy’s problems. He didn’t like the way she hung on him like a scarf or the way she agreed with everything he said without a second thought. As he sat on the bathroom floor the words she had said were getting quieter and quieter. They were almost gone. He had been sober for thirty-five days and he didn’t know why. He didn’t feel better or stronger or more loved. His hand lay loosely on the floor, palm up and open like he was waiting for somebody to hold it. Everyone was so proud of him but he couldn’t imagine living his life without her. Long after her words had faded completely, the bathroom door opened. He fell back onto the floor. His head hitting hard against the tile. 81 “Oh my gosh!” The man who opened the door yelled. “Can someone help?” He took out his phone to call 911. A crowd of people rushed over to where the man was dialing. A young man pushed past the group of people. “Move!” The boy got on his knees by the body on the floor. He reached into his pocket and took out something that looked like a pen. He stuck it into the arm of the body that was needle free. People gasped and murmured and watched. Sirens rang in the distance. The boy holding the pen looked up at the bathroom wall that had words like fuck and love and song lyrics and names with hearts around them. He looked up at the group of people. “It’s not working,” he said. 82 MALCOLM AND THE BLUE SIDE Danny Polaschek Brown leaves dragged past Malcolm’s feet in the wind. The bench underneath him felt like a rock and he had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He stared at the empty playground—the tire swing, the slide, the bridge and the fireman’s pole. Nikki rested her head on his shoulder. Each time a breeze swept through, Malcolm could feel her nuzzle slightly closer, her hair scratching and tickling his neck. When he was a kid, Malcolm had sat on this exact same bench many times with his mother. They lived in a little blue house just a few blocks away— “just a hop and a skip,” his mother would say and Malcolm would make it his mission to jump and bunny-hop the whole way there. When they arrived, they’d eat lunch, sitting together on the narrow, wooden bench. After each bite of his sandwich, Malcolm would beg his mother to let him go play, to which she would give in once she herself had finished eating. He always went straight for the slide. Once at the top, he’d yell, “I’m going under!” and swing himself down into the blue plastic tube. He imagined he was a deep-sea diver plunging into an underwater world of sunken pirate ships and forgotten chests of gold. On particularly sunny afternoons, he’d stop halfway down the slide and admire the shadows that moved about on the illuminated, blue plastic. He’d make believe that fish swam all around him as little blotchy shadows hovered whimsically over his head. He eventually got the idea to bring his crayons to the park with him. He’d sit lodged in the blue slide for most of the day, drawing exotic fish with bright oranges, yellows and reds. He knew fish didn’t smile but nevertheless gave them all wide grins and big eyes to match. When it was time to go home, his mother would knock from the bottom of the slide. “Time to come back to shore!” she’d announce. Malcolm would hide his crayons in his back pocket and slide down to his mother who would wait there with open arms grinning at him. The park seemed smaller now. Malcolm was just as tall as the fireman’s pole and half as long as the slide. He wondered if his fabricated underwater universe still existed. Probably not, he guessed. Although it was getting dark, Mal83 colm could see thick graffiti creeping out from the shadows inside the blue slide. Malcolm pulled his sweatshirt tighter around his neck, brushing Nikki away in the process. He felt her eyes on his face but refused to acknowledge her. Inside the slide, he could still make out the words “Bitch Ass” in thick spray paint. His crayon drawings would certainly be gone, he was sure of it now. Nikki picked up Malcolm’s hand and caressed it, her cold skin feeling leathery and smooth. “Malcolm,” she said. Malcolm turned and mustered a smile, taking Nikki’s hands to his face and kissing them awkwardly. “Malcolm, let’s go home.” The streetlights had not yet turned on for the evening. Malcolm noticed the shadows on the sides of the road stretching out and growing bigger as they walked quietly past. He missed the warm sunshine of summer and the hot nights spent lounging in the front yard listening to his mother’s radio; he missed the walks to the park, his mother laughing at him as he crouched and hopped along beside her. He remembered the secret thrill of the crayon box in his back pocket, then realized he’d forgotten his cigarettes on the bench at the park. He was too cold to turn back. He reached out silently for Nikki’s hand and, finding it much warmer than his own, held it stiffly the rest of the walk home. 84 driving at zero one john herbert 85 driving at zero two john herbert 86 PLACEMAKERS Diamonique Walker Near my home, Balloons dance in the wind. I have reconditioned myself — These are not balloons from a party, But they still celebrate a life. I drive by, sometimes I walk. And see a balloon or several With their heads bobbing away Positioned obscurely on the sidewalk. Or on the island in the middle of the highway. Sometimes on no one in particular’s grass. I don’t look for party decorations. At the feet of the balloon’s ribbons, candles, cards and little trinkets sit. Some kind of offering. Looking weathered and dull. His body bled some place close by. Probably killed within ten feet. A dancing, mocking balloon Somehow now gets to sway in his place. 87 NECESSARILY AN EVIL THING CONSIDERED IN ANY LIGHT Jacob J. Miller “You know what I hate about this most of all?” asked the first man. “Nobody’s going to be around to take responsibility. Nobody is going to have to answer for their crime.” “What crime is that?” the other man asked, sitting next to him in the middle of the cul-de-sac, both of them at perfect leisure in lawn chairs as if waiting for a parade to pass by. “Mass-murder, I suppose. Call it, oh, I don’t know. Call it, um, inciting the apocalypse.” “Ha.” “They deserve to be the ones left behind after they obliterate everyone else. They should be the ones who have to reap the aftermath, puke out their guts and feel their bile boil inside their stomachs, fend off marauding cannibals and giant insects. And they should have to live with the new world they created, or destroyed, rather.” Just then, the other man looked down and saw a lonely ant crawling up his pant leg. “Yeah, but I don’t think that giant bug stuff is true. That wouldn’t happen. The bugs’ll die like everything else.” “I mean, what do you think it’ll be like? I 88 know it’ll happen instantaneously, but they say the cerebral cortex functions after everything else has shut down and we linger in a sort of dream-state, which could last for, well, for who knows how long?” “Well, that’s if you’re in a hospital bed, or you have a heart attack or something, when you have time to die with a little bit of peace. Our brains are going to incinerate along with the rest of us. There won’t even be any stuff of thought anymore. I don’t think we have to worry about something like that.” “But what if that moment of pain before we go lasts longer, you know? What if time stands still? Nothing makes sense in a moment of such lunacy. Such catastrophe. What if we feel our tongues liquefying and spilling down our throats and scalding our internal organs? What if, all in that moment, we look down, and before our eyes boil and burst from the heat we see our bones glowing purple through our flesh as it begins dripping off like wax? What if you turn and look at me and the last image you see is my face melting off like those Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark?” “I’m not sure it’s the best time to be thinking like that,” his friend said, as the sirens began to wail their sorrowful last. “Why even bother with that fucking thing?” the man steamed. “It’s inconsiderate, a futile exhortation. We know what’s coming. We’re not going to hide in our basements from it like it’s a fucking tornado.” “Tornadoes aren’t so easy to hide from either.” The first man scanned the horizon for what he knew would be the last time. He took in the sight of the skyline he saw from his window every day and, with lamenting eyes, imaginatively anticipated its supplanting by a fiery mushroom climbing the sky. He closed his eyes and winced, unable to cope with the unthinkable thought, the impossible inevitability. Turning his head toward a neighbor’s yard whose household ran a daycare, he opened his eyes to a post-apocalyptic tableau of children’s toys scattered about the lawn. Nothing needed yet be aflame for the man to resent the picturesque cliché of innocence lost on display before him. “Remember when they used to tell kids to hide under their desks?” he inquired. “All that siren is doing is making sure that we spend our last moments in a panic, instead of dying gracefully, accepting that we’re all in the same sinking ship, in the middle of the ocean, if the ocean were the entire planet, and filled with lava instead of water. We should be spending our time reminiscing, because that’s all we have now.” “Well, we can’t talk about our plans for the future.” “We can’t discuss potential medical advancements.” “The coming cure for cancer.” “And cloning organs. Scholarships our children just received, the singularity and will the Matrix ever become a reality; would we ever make contact with life elsewhere in the universe, intercept an asteroid, mine them for resources? It’s all useless, man, meaningless. Every human achievement since the first spark made from one rock dragging against another, gone within the next hour,” he sighed heavily, draping a ribbon of helplessness over his words of outrage. “Why don’t you open that up?” He suggested, pointing at the bottle of scotch sitting at the leg of his friend’s chair. His friend took a swig before passing it over with a satisfied groan. “Here’s to everything we do being the last time it will ever be done,” the first man began. “That’s the best I can do.” “Yeah,” the other man raised an empty hand, toasting to the end and everything that came before it. “I suppose there’s something beautiful about the entire world—or nearly the entire world—going out the same way. There’s a kind of universal solidarity occurring right now, don’t you think? Some are praying, no doubt, some are exalting their various saviors, certain they will be raptured up any minute, but we’re all still going to be experiencing the same thing, at almost the exact same time; the same heat, the same instantaneous moment of searing pain before any trace of our molecules are imprinted as a shadow on the asphalt beneath us.” He had a complex contraption of a chair, one of the men—it doesn’t really matter which one now that the end was there; the kind of chair that folds upward from all four corners and was nearly 89 impossible to fit back into its cylindrical carrying sack—not that that mattered anymore either— complete with cup holders and a detachable headrest, which he was putting to use as he spoke. His friend’s chair was more old-fashioned, a conventional folding lawn chair with a checkered pattern of flimsy plastic wrapped taut around aluminum pipes, wobbly hard plastic armrests drilled in and not quite parallel to each other. Their chair legs began melting into the tar beneath them. One of the men hummed softly; a beautiful soundtrack to accompany him in the cut to black. The other man closed his eyes and, focusing on the sounds of the encroaching death rattle, heard them as the grunts and whinnies of the four horsemen’s horses as they galloped atop the planet’s rapidly spreading dust. 90
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Title: Murphy Square 2017: Murphy Square Visual Art and Literary Magazine
Collection: Literary Journals
Search Result: MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE ISSUE 42, 2017 EDITORIAL BOARD Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor Cassie Dong, Art Editor Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor Abigail Carpenter, Prose Ed...
Show more MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE ISSUE 42, 2017 EDITORIAL BOARD Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor Cassie Dong, Art Editor Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor Abigail Carpenter, Prose Editor Ryan Moore, Prose Editor Gabriel Benson, Poetry Editor Danny Polaschek, Poetry Editor Cary Waterman, Advisor 2 WITH THANKS TO Ivy Arts Copy and Print Augsburg College Student Government Augsburg College English Department Augsburg College Art Department The Echo Augsburg Honors Program QPA 3 TABLE OF CONTENTS 1 What Type of Black Girl Are You? Nikkyra Whittaker ........................................................................... 8 Simul Justus et Peccator, Andy Anderson .......................................................................................... 11 Queer, Eve Taft ....................................................................................................................................... 12 Jesus in a Cracker, A.Tetzlaff ................................................................................................................ 14 Grey Cloud Island, David Baboila ......................................................................................................... 17 Saint Paul Airport, David Baboila .......................................................................................................... 18 White Bear Lake, David Baboila ............................................................................................................ 19 Zips Coliseum, David Baboila ............................................................................................................... 20 Bridge, Jacob J. Miller ............................................................................................................................ 21 50 Feet Tall, Emilie Tomas ...................................................................................................................... 25 Meow, Ashley Waalen ............................................................................................................................ 26 Mousetrap, Halle Chambers .................................................................................................................. 27 Faces, Constance Klippen ..................................................................................................................... 29 I Don’t Always Feel Colored, Diamonique Walker ............................................................................... 30 Where I am From, Hannah Schmit ......................................................................................................... 32 Who Am I?, Ashley Waalen .................................................................................................................... 34 2 Gratitude, D.E Green .............................................................................................................................. CSBR, Gabriel Bergstrom ...................................................................................................................... The Fire, Elisabeth Beam ........................................................................................................................ Desert Drums, Abigail Carpenter .......................................................................................................... Colors, Hannah Schmit ........................................................................................................................... Urban Delight, Jazmin Crittenden ......................................................................................................... When Dad Wore Cologne, A. Tetzlaff .................................................................................................... Shitty Christmas Trees, Elisabeth Beam ............................................................................................... Summer Nights, Adam Ruff ................................................................................................................... 36 38 39 41 42 43 44 46 48 The People United, Adam Ruff .............................................................................................................. 49 After the Hike, Adam Ruff ..................................................................................................................... 50 Crumbs, Malena Larsen ......................................................................................................................... 51 Bloomed, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................................................... 55 Pruned, Audrey Campbell ...................................................................................................................... 56 Herman, Danny Polaschek ................................................................................................................... 57 El Barrio Suyo, Chad Berryman ............................................................................................................. 60 The Neighborhood, Chad Berryman ..................................................................................................... 61 Odyssey, Eve Taft .................................................................................................................................... 62 Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 63 Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 64 Counting Sheep, Danny Polaschek ...................................................................................................... 65 3 Sky Nights, Keeyonna Fox ...................................................................................................................... 67 Inner Self, Keeyonna Fox ....................................................................................................................... 68 Victory of the People, Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk ............................................................................. 69 An Open Letter to the Un-specials, Halle Chambers ...........................................................................76 Sorex Palustris, Emilie Tomas ................................................................................................................. 79 Woodsy Adam Ruff, Gabriel Bergstrom .................................................................................................. 80 Words, Malena Larsen ................................................................................................................................. 81 Malcom, Danny Polaschek ....................................................................................................................... 83 DRIVING AT ZERO ONE, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 85 DRIVING AT ZERO TWO, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 86 Placemakers, Diamonique Walker ........................................................................................................ 87 A Necessary Evil Thing Considered in any Light, Jacob J. Miller ....................................................... 88 1 WHAT TYPE OF BLACK GIRL ARE YOU? Nikkyra Whittaker On the spectrum of being black and female, we can only be what we appear to be. Take this quiz to find out what kind of black girl you really are! 1. You’re listening to the radio on the way to Target. You’re playing… a. Beyonce’s “****Flawless” b. Taylor Swift’s “Fifteen” or “You Belong With Me” or “Wildest Dreams” c. Chris Brown’s “Loyal” d. Keri Hilson’s “Pretty Girl Rock” 2. It’s your day off work. What will you be doing? a. Blowing off steam on Facebook. b. Watching old episodes of One Tree Hill c. Out for drinks and scoping eye candy d. Talking shit with the ladies while drinking Moscato! 3. What’s your dream home like? a. Full of books on systemic oppression b. Beverly Hills penthouse c. Some big shot rapper’s mansion d. Spacious New York Loft 8 4. Your favorite TV show is… a. Docu-series on race b. Sex in the City c. Bad Girls Club d. Love and Hip Hop 5. Finally, who’s your favorite female icon from this list? a. Angela Davis b. Taylor Swift c. New York from I Love New York d. Nicki Minaj Tally up how many of each letter you got and turn the page to find out who you really are! If you got mostly a’s...You’re an Angry Black Girl! Congratulations, you loud-mouthed, anger filled home-girl! I’m guessing there’s always some reason to be mad at someone, isn’t there? Do you just spend your days in a perpetual state of rage, angry at the world for reasons they don’t find important? Do you find yourself constantly snapping your fingers in that z-formation, pursing your lips at anyone who steps in your way? I bet people are telling you to just be quiet, huh? I mean, what issues could you, a black female, possibly have? Why should you care that your high school English teacher gives you a C+ on your essay because she thinks you copied it from the white man online? Why does it matter that your male co-worker at Target constantly teases you about your nappy hair, calling it a “brillo pad,” “cheeto puff,” or some other clever name? None of this should anger you! Be aware, you sassy Sapphire, in this world, your anger means nothing. If you got mostly b’s...You’re an Oreo! You grew up watching Lizzie McGuire and listening to Aaron Carter. You straightened your hair from the moment you were old enough to assert yourself and cried when it wouldn’t lay flat. Your friends were always shocked to see you bring collard greens and jambalaya to lunch so you stopped eating your favorite foods. They didn’t understand why you couldn’t just brush your hair, wash your hair everyday, why it suddenly grew or shrunk inches overnight. I’m certain you’ve heard from many of your friends how they just don’t see you as a black girl. They erase your black skin because it doesn’t fit the images of other black girls they see. You spend most of your time edging away from the loud black girls, the ghetto black girls who ate hot cheetos and drank kool aid and had corn rows and long braids and smelled like a mix of the jungle and your ancestors pain and you wished, maybe for a just a moment, but you did wish that you could be white. But honey, you can never wash off that melanin! It’s a permanent stain. Just because your friends can’t see the black on you, it doesn’t mean the rest of the world can’t. 9 If you got mostly c’s...You’re a Hip Hop Ho! You sexual deviant you! Let me guess—big breasts, small waist, and wide hips? You’ve got that original Betty Boop to you, something in your eyes that say yes to a question no one bothers to ask. You’re the black girl that white guys use as a notch in their belt. You are the exotic sexual being that men love to hate and hate to love. You became a sexual thing at a young age, when your breasts came in at ten years old and became d-cups at fourteen. They started looking at you differently, didn’t they? Your eyes stopped existing. Your words didn’t matter. Your body became the tool used to diminish your worth. How often did you get yelled at in school to put on something less revealing than your shorts? Did you ever wonder why the skinny, flat-assed white girls were never told the same thing? Honey, your wide hips wrapped in chocolate skin were never yours. You will never be yours. 10 If you got mostly d’s...You’re a Ghetto Fabulous Black Girl! You make what little money you can working at Walmart or doing nails. You make people waiting at the bus stop with you uncomfortable with your loud laughter and yellow and pink braids and long, bedazzled nails. You toss your weave around, remove your earrings, and square up to anyone that says shit about you. When you’re out, you are often told to stop yelling, screaming, taking up space. You’ve got baby daddy problems and you’re only 18. You grew up playing double dutch in the middle of the street with old rope. You accept your black, your ghetto, your Ebonics. But you are not supposed to accept yourself, honey! Don’t you see the fashion police spreads in the magazines? You are on all the pages! Don’t show your hips. Put on a shirt that conceals your stomach. Put your breasts away. Don’t wear bright lipstick. Stop standing out, being different. Get smaller, quieter, lesser, as you are supposed to be. You love your black too loudly and it makes others uncomfortable. Your job is to make people comfortable so do your best to limit the loudness of your melanin. simul justus et peccator andy anderson 11 QUEER Eve Taft You think there isn’t a sign on my ribs that says “stonewall inn”? You think Matthew Shepard doesn’t tug at my hair and warn me as I walk the streets of my city? You think I don’t choke on the smoke from the hellfire you spit from your pulpits with sparks that sear and heat branding irons which scar your names on me to mark me as danger? You think my veins don’t shiver when they think of the devastation wracking the cities that some called deliverance while Reagan fiddled as we burned You think that the prisons pink triangles asylums bullets spitting into a nightclub don’t whisper in my head as I make my way through the world? 12 You think that I don’t notice— I kiss her and kiss her —the headline blowing by with a death toll and I kiss her the skyline splashing out behind us the lights on the Washington Avenue bridge flicker on and I kiss her Putin criminalizes us, across the world I kiss her Vigils held too late for young suicides Corrupting, perverted, disgusting, an affront to family values— I kiss her in the rain and the sleet of Minnesota I kiss her, our lips tasting of chants from the protest that shut down I-94 handed down from our grandmothers hearts beating, eyes sparkling, alive I kiss her You think I forget the lists and the candles and the deaths and the pain and all that roars in my ears is a chorus screaming over and over again you were not able to kill us I kiss her and all is still 13 JESUS IN A CRACKER A. Tetzlaff Eucharist I hugged my father’s black, pleated pants while we waited for mass to start. He was beaming proudly and chatting with the rest of our family. I wore the only dress I allowed to touch my body: by then it was a year old and from my uncle’s wedding when I walked down the aisle carrying a bouquet, looking like a blonde deer caught in front of a semi truck. It had a black velvet top connected to a white skirt. All the girls wore white. My parents cut their losses. All the boys, shirt and tie. Eight-year-olds taking their first communion despite the fact that most of us had no idea what was happening. Understanding the sacraments isn’t really necessary when you grow up in a Catholic family. By the time you are aware of your burden, it’s too late anyway. Religion lived at Nativity of Our Lord Parish, in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Between church and home, I lived in a realm of contradiction. I came to visit religion, but it never went home with me. On Sundays when the game was in town, God would not judge you for wearing your Packer jersey to church. Sinning was bad, but you could tailgate and drink and carouse to your heart’s content. We should have taken beer at 14 that first communion. We would have appreciated it more than the wine. We took our places in the ritual that had been performed again and again. The time-worn ritual begins anew as I walk to the altar with my hands folded in front of me. I must remember to raise my hands high enough so the rheumatic priest doesn’t have to bend down. Right hand over left. I’m a blonde deer again. “The body of Christ.” This is the part where I say, “Amen,” whether I mean it or not, then put the communion wafer in my mouth. I must cross myself (right hand touching head, then left shoulder, then right shoulder) as I walk back up the aisle and toward my family. They liked to sit in the middle section, never too close to the altar. They didn’t like making direct eye-contact with the priest during his homily. To this day I skip the wine for fear of communicable diseases. It stuck to the roof of my mouth, this first communion wafer. It was stale. There was no substance. Maybe the parched flour and water, mixed with the lingering incense is actually what Jesus tastes like. The absorbent clump lasted into the next hymn. Saliva rushed into my mouth and eventually the wafer, heavy with mois- ture, fell from the roof of my mouth. I swallowed without chewing. Just go with it, I told myself. All these people believe in this, so one day, you will too. But I wasn’t sure. I didn’t get it. The power that kept me from running back up the aisle wasn’t the love of God gently pushing me along, but the ritual itself, and the expectation of my parents and grandparents watching proud and probably dewy-eyed as I joined their ranks. Hugs and smiles and congratulations as my family comes out of the first communion Mass, but I wasn’t sure what was such cause for celebration; I hadn’t had a great epiphany about God, nor had I felt any change at all. It was just like every Sunday late in October. head and tell me I was forgiven. “Sometimes, I’m not very nice to my mom or my brother,” I told him. Navitity didn’t own a confessional booth like the ones in movies. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a confessional booth at any Catholic church outside the movies. We sat quietly in a tiny room. Being small for my age, I circled the air below me with my feet. I sat facing him directly. He crossed his legs under the cassock he wore, clearly annoyed. After a silence and a slow nod, the priest said, “Sometimes, we hurt the people we love the most.” It was the only part I heard or remember hearing; he started talking about God’s forgiveness, I assume. I didn’t pay attention, because I didn’t feel different after admitting such a pitiful sin. Marriage I had no ill-feeling toward the physical place of church. In fact, the ritual, the sounds, the smell of incense, and the light that filtered through the stained-glass windows from an Easterly rising sun became familiar and comforting over the years. The nave, filled with old pews, had witnessed my parents’ wedding and my grandparents’ weddings. The organ towered over the choir. The smell of old patrons and Sunday cologne too liberally applied became a sensory memory of that place. However, religion has never been an inward practice; the practice and the scene never joined together. Anointing of the Sick When times are bad, I’ve pulled the fragments of ritual from my memory and recite the “Our Father.” I did this in the winter of my eighteenth year in days following my grandfather’s funeral. He died of bladder cancer, worsened by a communicable bacterial infection called C.Difficile. I became familiar with the ritual of funeral; I’d been to three or four for close relatives. But this time, the ritual felt different. Before, I was sad. My grandfather’s funeral confirmed that the only sacred part of my world had been ripped mercilessly from my arms. Reconciliation “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”As the words come out of my mouth, they themselves felt sinful. I hadn’t sinned, I was eleven. I barely knew what sin was. I had to stop a moment to think of a sin I had committed, so the priest could nod his Baptism I sat in the shower until the water hitting my face was colder than I could stand, reciting the “Our Father” over and over, sobbing. Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. I hoped, over so many repetitions, that my view 15 of God and heaven would change. Yet, it confused me more. Religion stopped looking like the patron blind to reality and became a place where I didn’t belong. Like I was missing out because I didn’t get that epiphany, and didn’t have that same faith. Confirmation Religion was so stale, that when my Mother would occasionally talk about faith, or God, or divine love at the dinner table I would blush with pity and embarrassment. How can you believe this? I thought, how can you be so blind to the real world? Perhaps, I’m the blind one. I continue to live in an intermediate space between faith and atheism. I can’t commit to either. The fence between atheism and faith is fraught with angst. Most days, I try to laugh away my uncertainty. I tell jokes about my Catholic past, chuckle when I hear of “recovering Catholics,” and tell friends, “It smells like a Catholic church in here,” whenever they burn incense. Religion is still stale to me. Religion has no nutritional value. Stale religion has no holy orders. 16 grey cloud island david baboila 17 saint paul airport david baboila 18 white bear lake david baboila 19 zips coliseum david baboila 20 BRIDGE Jacob J. Miller This was not way back when, as my dad would have you believe. It was more recent than that. If he can’t flat out deny it, which he no longer can, he will at least try to convince you that it was so long ago as to suggest it might have been a different lifetime, and he a different person. He has been, after all, Born Again. Except he was not the only person involved, and to carry along as if he was is an exercise in what I’ve heard philosophers call solipsism. For him, his transgression was between himself and the Holy Ghost: accountable not to those he wronged, only to an invisible spirit. But he doesn’t have sole authority in determining the past’s relevance or irrelevance to our lives today. My mother too pretends the past is only what has happened at a particular point in time, and not a factor in what determines what has happened since then and what is happening now. The slate wiper theory of forgiveness is what allowed them to wear their veneer of innocence and believe in its authenticity, and for that reason I resent their new-leaf turnover. My love for them may not be emergent in my words, I know, but I do love them, regardless of the fucked up traits they passed on to their children, which will become evident as this story unfolds You might be wondering, if you care at all, what could be so terrible. Well, it’s not so terrible, and not even very uncommon, but it happened to me, and my brothers and my sisters, and there was never anything we could really do about it. We watched it unfold almost every night to reveal its rotted pit. What was scariest was not when a half-full beer bottle would be hurled in our direction for us being too noisy, and then being held responsible for wasting the beer, and getting punished even more for that. What was scariest was when they fought with each other, mom and dad, when they were both liquored up. All of us children would be sitting in the living room, on our knees, in a line, with our hands folded and tucked inside our clenched thighs, having hitherto been fulfilling our playful, childish duties who couldn’t expect things to go so suddenly and intensely wrong. They would fight about anything, or nothing, for all we knew or cared. They would yell, swear, slam their fists on various surfaces, throw things across the room at each other as if rehearsed. One time, I remember, and this is what I’m talking about when I talk about how scary things got, my 21 dad had my mom pinned up against the refrigerator—after she threw three or four plates at him, one that hit his arm, but would have hit his face if he hadn’t been blocking, and cut it deep. He had the sharp kitchen knife pressed firmly under her chin. If she gulped too hard in fear, or if dad in his stupor lost balance, she would have been bleeding all over the family pictures held by magnets to the fridge. As we grew older, my big brother and I began working under dad instead of merely living under him. Our prospects in life weren’t substantial at that point. Whatever potential we had, it had never been encouraged, so entering into the family business, if it can even be called that, was the only viable option. I woke dad up most mornings from his typical collapse into a face-down, fetal heap on the kitchen floor, sometimes still wet, sometimes already crusted over. I’d say, “it’s time for work, dad,” and he’d drive me to the site where (drinking coffee with whiskey in it on the way) heavy machinery was waiting to be operated—even though we used hammers and nails whenever we could. Stonehenge-sized slabs of cement, wooden pillars, cinder blocks, and iron rods littered the landscape. It was all so disorderly that if a nomad wandered upon the scene, the indication would be of destruction rather than pre-construction. There were no piles of allocated materials or inventoried supply lists. It could have all been salvaged from past demolitions or by thievery from other project sites. We seemed to accrue it all without any kind of exchange or standard of accountability for use. Everything seemed to just show up wherever and whenever we needed it. Who actually made all this stuff? How did we move it from place to place to use from job to job? Who permitted my sodden father to oversee such potentially hazardous 22 projects? He was a self-made man outside the advent of auditing. What did I care then? I was making my way, fashioning for myself a future out of will power, and holding my breath until I could extricate myself from this grim farce. First day on the job, my dad said to me, don’t fuck up, or he’d make me test the bridge before the support beams were all in place. I believed him. That particular bridge wasn’t connecting two sides over a raging river or anything; more of a convenient pathway over a stream, but it was still a threat coming from dad. Second day on the job, my brother James tore partway through his leg with a chainsaw. I heard him yell, but it sounded more out of frustration than terror and pain. He sat down, ripped his immediately blood-soaked pants from where the initial tear was, delicately unlaced and removed his boot so as not to cause more pain, grunting as if he had done nothing more than step in dog shit, and lifted the nearly severed part of his leg that dangled lifelessly like a tube sock on a clothesline, to close the wound, from which I saw steam rising sacrificially to the wintery heavens. He reached forward to grab the excess of sock which, although bunched up at his toes, had a long, tortuous journey before being completely removed. He screamed as he stretched forward, more circumstantially appropriate this time, and this is when I dropped my— whatever, the thing I was holding, I can’t remember what, but I didn’t hear it land because I couldn’t assimilate anything else that may have been transpiring around me. I almost seemed to float over to him, not even aware of my legs propelling me forward. I saw all the blood, but I wasn’t put off by it as much as I thought I probably should have been, and I thought that as I stared at it pooling out. I observed it dispassionately, coldly, but I may not have been breathing. At first sight, it was just an organic pipe that sprung a leak. I think I asked if he was all right but I meant it more like did he think he was going to die. He said to go get dad and that’s when I became afraid. I stood there for I don’t know how long, until he repeated himself more urgently: “Walt!” he said, “Go! Get! Dad!” I listened that time, but I was still very afraid. I was trembling and began feeling like I might faint, and I almost hoped I wouldn’t find dad, that he’d be off drinking somewhere, but he wasn’t. He was drinking right there, over a small mound of dirt, holding a big piece of wood sturdy for someone to do something with. I saw his breath bellow out into the cold with a cough and evaporate as he took a swig from a bottle before sliding it back into his coat pocket, without so much as a pretense of inconspicuousness.The bottle neck stuck straight out and brushed against his elbow, a cumbersome lump sinking down and throwing off his equilibrium further than the ethanol already had. I slowed my pace, tried to regain some composure, and still hoped he wouldn’t notice me. I could claim an attempt at getting his attention, but he just couldn’t be bothered with me. I tried, I’d tell James, but I’ll carry you. I was sure I could have done that. Part of me still wished I could have avoided involving my dad at all. It was selfish, but I thought I might get slapped with the blame. But I yelled, Dad! Come quick! Dad, I yelled again, skidding on the gravel as I spun around, intent on not letting my dad’s impatient glare lock on me, and from that momentum, nearly ascending at a perfectly horizontal angle in the air before I landed face first on those same tiny rocks, a perfect reenactment of self-humiliation on the school playground at recess. I felt all those multiple points of impact, but wasted no time in catapulting myself back up—no time for embarrassment just yet—clawed off the pebbles that clung gently to the tiny dents they bore into my face and palms, and sped back to my brother who, when I reached the dirt-mound summit again, I could see was lying flat, surrounded by the thick, still-steaming purplish puddle which had, since I left him, at least quadrupled in circumference. Not looking back at all during my return sprint to see how far behind me dad was, or even if he followed me at all, I turned from the sight of my brother completely to see him, Dad, shuffling over the mound, bogged down by beer bottles, which could be heard clanging together in his pockets. He was wheezing inhalations of frozen air. He saw James right away, I know it, but he didn’t say anything until he got right up close to him, planting one clumsy boot in the blood puddle with a squelchy, meager splat, like an old-fashioned letter-sealing stamp on melted wax. He leaned over with outward turned elbows and hands on hips, looked at James’ face. James’ eyes were closed. Dad then scanned down to the butchered leg, grimaced, scanned back up to James’ face. James’ eyes were now open again, frigid with shock, and dad said, “pull yourself together, son,” erupting hysterically at his own clever buffoonery. James turned out to live, no real thanks to our father. I ended up having to run to the nearest phone anyway and call an ambulance. He didn’t even lose his leg. He did require a blood transfusion because he lost gallons of it, or at least it seemed like it when I stood there staring at the mess, but his gristly cheeks had their color restored right in front of me, resupplying and, it almost seemed, re-inflat23 ing him to human shape at the coercion of some stranger’s bodily elixir. It worked like sorcery, but far more astonishing because it was methodologically reliable. The warm fluid surged through his veins, and he was ensconced for a moment in a prodigious glow of newfound vitality. Back then, my dad, laughing, called him a lucky son-of-a-bitch, whereas telling the story now, upon reflection and suspension of rational thought, my brother was “touched by an angel.” Now, whenever this celestial creature of mercy is mentioned, who conveniently remains anonymous for humility’s sake I suppose, instead of our dad drunkenly laughing and mocking the situation, James does. An example of an aforementioned fucked up trait passed on in the family. 24 50 FEET TALL Emilie Tomas I was in 5th grade When my class went To see ‘The Human Body’ and I watched In childhood Horror as A 50 foot grin Unfurled, loomed Large enough To pull me Into orbit Devoured First a sandwich And then my Faith in humanity With deafening Smacks Like thunder If thunder Was made Of jelly and Dismay and I Knew it was a Crime to allow a Person to become This Inflated, With every pore Its own path to Hell and I knew I couldn’t trust Anyone because In our heads We are all 50 feet tall. 25 meow you see ashley waalen 26 MOUSETRAP Halle Chambers Minnie “Mousy” O’Mally knew she was invisible up here on her fire escape. This was her safeplace. With the ladder pulled up as it was now, almost no one could reach her here. Plus, even if someone did make it up here, she could easily get away. If she crawled rough the window, she’d be securely locked in the apartment. There, it was warm and dry and at least sometimes safe when her daddy…no, excuse her, correction, “Father or Sir” wasn’t home. He hated when she called him Daddy. He wasn’t home now, out doing illegal God knows what in the “family business,” but he would be back soon. Hence why she was out here. So, no apartment, not right now. If she dropped the ladder, she could slide down to street level in seconds and be down the block in under a minute. She knew, because she’d practiced and had timed herself. The only way to avoid getting hit in the face was to be quick on your feet. That was the first rule of fighting that Jase, her older brother, had taught her. With the life they lived, it was also a rule of survival. And they didn’t call her “Mousy” for nothing: she was small and fast… very fast. Jase could make a distraction, and Minnie could run. But, Jase was working a job that “Father” had given him out of town till this weekend, and she’d surely get caught if she didn’t have her usual head-start. So,“down” wouldn’t work either. If she scaled up the ladder above her, she’d be on the roof, where their oldest brother, Cobie, had often taken her and Jase to stargaze. She hadn’t known till six years into her still short life that he’d done it to keep his precious baby brother and sister away from their father’s sight when the man would come home satellite high or plastered. She hadn’t known till twelve years in that he’d take their father’s hungover backhand on the mornings after, so she and Jase didn’t. All she’d known as he’d taught her each constellation was that Cobie was braver than Orion and that she and her brothers were more inseparable than the Gemini twins. But, her world went as topsy-turvy as Cassiopeia when her father had sent Cobie away, saying he would not have a queer as a son. When Jase and Minnie hugged him, Cobie swore he’d come back for them in a year or so. Jase had given up when he’d been two years gone. That was two years ago, and now even Minnie 27 was starting to doubt. No, she couldn’t go up to the roo, not alone. She shivered in the October chill as she reviewed her options: “in” would be facing her father’s wrath, “down” would be facing being caught by a cop or a stranger, and “up” would be facing a reminder of the happiness, now heartbreak, brought by a brother who was likely never coming home again. So, maybe she couldn’t escape easily…or at all. She shivered again, this time more in frantic panic than from the frigid, near winter city wind. For not the first time in her life, Mousy felt trapped. 28 faces connie kilppen 29 *I DON’T ALWAYS FEEL COLORED Diamonique Walker Sometimes I find comfort in places I somehow know I don’t belong Never a full day, but hours will pass and I won’t consider my brown skin or kinky hair I’ll let the imminent fear of my black body being made into an example fall back to the depths of my mind My daughter’s safety in mixed company won’t occur to me I won’t juxtapose my blackness with any other’s identity confidence As if one chooses randomly from a pile of stock black girl names when they look at me He asks me if my hair is real I tell him he can’t ask me that He says oh it’s okay, my girlfriend is black I’m a dirty smudge on freshly ironed white linens Trying to blend in, trying to live my life I breathe, momentarily Suddenly, I’ll feel breathless, choked Stabbed in the chest Stung by a white hot micro aggressive slap in the face An unsolicited violation of my personal space A pale hand gently pulls a lock of my hair in white amazement Or a thin pair of lips will say “what’s upppppp” to me and not anyone else I’ll get called a name like Jasmine with such utter 30 *Line borrowed from Claudia Rankine, Citizen WHERE I AM FROM Hannah Schmit I am from the forest. From ruddy Maple and heady Pine. I am from the sunlit dust that refracts the life of the breeze. The rough wood of the trees are my bones, roots firmly planted deep in the depths of the cool black soil. Generations have taught me to live in the sun, tan weathered hands, calloused and worn cover small, break earth and sow seeds. Exhaling with the unfurling of new leaves whose first stretch welcomed life, I learned the importance of patience and nurturing. I am from dirt beneath my nails and gritty sand in my teeth. Sap painted hands and hot tar feet, blackened from short dashes across burning pavement that rippled with summer heat. Sandboxes were my kingdom, the layers of silt and sand familiar to my prodding hands. I climbed turreted towers of twisted bark and branches to survey the world and breath in time with the breeze. Twigs and leaves were my crown and a rusty tractor my carriage. My people were the songbirds and insistent cicadas whose songs filtered lazily together through the woods. Sometimes I called back, matching note for note, melodies and harmonies creating a canopy of familiarity. I am from wildflowers who nodded their velvet, satin, and paintbrush heads as I passed by. From dried grasses whose sweet scent rose from rolling waves that undulated under horse-tail clouds above. The gold-fringed top of the corn is my hair as it turns to brown under the autumn sun. I am from the passing of seasons, each marking the time as brilliant red and orange gave way to pristine white and serene gray. Freckles and sunburn traded for pale skin cold kissed cheeks. My life can be counted in scraped knees and bruises, and band-aids and scars, each a story unique unto itself. I am from the water. Clear and silted, still and rushing it surrounds me. The river courses through my veins, its steady pulse my heartbeat. I am from the muted silence of holding my breath. From letting go in the soft pixelated light that swirls lazily in the haze of a murky river. From the dew that rests in early mists that lay as a blanket over a newly purified earth, protecting the last of the dawn. I am from music. Love-strung tunes of lullabies rock 31 my past to sleep and call forth dog-eared memories. Treasured memories that float fragmented in my mind, I was waltzing with my darling… Goodnight, Irene… Then sings my soul… Black Forest I have come to be in this place. Knit sweaters and hand me downs weave the fabric of my personality. The black ink of the notes is stained on my fingers, the lyrics printed out as a map on my mind. My body is movement, ‘full of grace’ as I danced through recitals and music competitions. My history is composed of the ivory keys of a piano board, the metallic strings of a guitar, and the soft wheeze of a musty accordion. I am from survivors. From broken families and lives I was given the opportunity to begin. Out of the ashes of war and blood, death and pain I was taught compassion. The scars remind me of my privilege. A handful of ink-smeared letters, a fading tattoo, and relentless nightmares that went unspoken. Touched by shadows of heartbreak and longing I have learned the fears of disease and pain, the cruelty of man and the destruction of illness. I am from a legacy. Footsteps preceded my very first and taught me how to stand tall—to walk courageously. When I was tired of walking and needed to fly, strong hands lay behind me as I learned to test my own strength. I am from fading memories. From sweat and ploughs, rough tools and run down sheds. My past is a copper foundation of saved pennies stretched with love and trust. The polished wood of a hunter’s gun and tug of a taut fishing line tie me to the land of a generation gone by. I am from the creaking wood of a ship that ferried dreams. From the fjords and 32 I am from strength. From weary hands that sought to move forward. From songs crooned in different tongues, prayers tucked away from missed lives. I am from the sweet smell of tobacco. From a worn brown pipe laid in the top overall pocket. From tales of Shirley Temple and shiny black shoes. From the canoe as it passes over reeds and the click of a cane keeping time with shuffling shoes. From sterilized rooms and flowers with similarly fated owners. I am from loss and tears. I am from the Mississippi and the Great Lakes, from steam and coal. From concrete jungles and log cabins. I am a piece of the past, I am… The rooms of my mind are wallpapered with snapshots of a younger me. Sayings and phrases are the soundtrack of my life. I carry them with me. Tucked in locked and forgotten rooms they wait patiently, longingly for me to recall. future. I seek not where I am going only exist here, as I am. I am from the past. Shaped by the present I live for the future. I am from wanderlust. An incorrigible desire to explore that cannot be quelled with the stillness between heartbeats. I am from the excitement that teeters on the brink of the inevitable. I am pulled at by the gentle whisper of religions. Called to the beauty of holiness in the world, I am grounded in the church yet growing in the temple and the mosque. I am gentle hands that have learned to be useful—to give back. Well-used fingers taught to survive and protect. I am a collection of places and people that I have encountered. In love with humanity, I exchange comfort for experience. I am at home in the concrete jungles constructed from heat-cracked pavement and in the mudpatched hut of the desert. The mountains and caves call to me like the trees and fields of my youth. I am at home in the grand expanse of a world that knows no limits, understands no boundaries. A world that exists, simply to exist. My feet itch to travel down forgotten paths where the dust of ages can billow out from under me and cloud the clarity of the 33 who am i? ashley waalen 34 2 GRATITUDE: A POEM IN FOUR PARTS D.E. Green 1. Le Chaim 2. In Praise of Delusion Each day, my own sunrise, my own morning star: your red head radiates strange aerial spikes. When he walks down the sloping skyway from Memorial to the Music building on his way to a long evening class, he sees his reflection in the large classroom window at the base of the slope. He loves that mirror. In it, he is about a foot taller than his five-fiveand-a-half and twenty pounds lighter. He is younger than his sixty years. The silver hair is less telling. As he approaches, the Other ways slightly, moves with the elegant gait of an athlete or dancer. This, he imagines, is my Norwegian double—tall and slender and (at least from this distance) good-looking. Of course as man and image converge, his Other shrinks into an eastern-European, Semitic, rather compact, little old man. Perhaps (he wonders) I have seen the inner image of myself. Perhaps (he smiles) I am happy just to have illusions. Our son’s beard and long Hasidic locks on a head never bowed in prayer hover over his guitar and, till he gets it just so, a heavy-metal riff. The picture of Ollie, our old pup,— his face speaks love, love, love. Like the holiday meal you’ll pretend to let me cook. Or when your hand gently strokes my heaving shoulder: I am sobbing silently because the movie has ended well—a good death, timely reconciliation, vows revived, a renewed breath. 36 3. Thanksgiving 4: To My Son This morning, as I drive from Northfield to Hampton past field after barren field, three wild turkeys foraging and gobbling at the edge of the road— their white-splashed wings, black-feathered trunks, It’s Friday, Z—, and (as always) time to say how much I love you (and your mom too, since I don’t say it often enough though I feel it every minute) and how much I miss you and hope you can spend a few hours with us and Grandma the first weekend in November. We worry about you every day, ‘cuz that’s our job, but we also have an abiding sense of how strong you are: How much you have been through, how far you’ve come, and how you face each day with grit—and, I hope, love. The latter is so hard to do: Over breakfast your mom and I sometimes sit around and whine about our work, about grading student papers. But a little later I’ll be walking across campus and the light will be just right and I’ll see a familiar face amid a group of young people and—I don’t know why—I feel love. I think that’s the word. And I felt it last time we picked you up downtown and you were talking to some scruffy stranger on the street. And the fact that you can still be open to such encounters—isn’t that love too?— filled me with wonder. It’s funny: Old people, among whom I am about to number, have proverbially been beyond wonder, such a romantic and old-fashioned word. But I swear that I still feel it—and that you are among the wonders of my world. red combs poking and pecking the gravel and weeds—surprise me. I flinch. The car swerves. I breathe. They range unruffled. 37 work in progress gabriel bergstrom 38 THE FIRE Elisabeth Beam I stood with my back to the crowd watching the house go up in flames. It happened faster than I had expected. It had taken less than a minute for the fire to spread from the kitchen to the living room and even less time for it to make its way upstairs and into the bedrooms where Grandma and the twins had been peacefully sleeping. Joel stood beside me; his face was dark with ash, his mouth tilted upwards in a sickeningly gleeful smile. Momma had never liked Joel. She said he was a troublemaker and I should do my best to stay away from him. Joel hadn’t always been mean. When I first met him he would bring me friends and make me laugh. He gave me my grey tabby cat, Walter, and my small white bunny, Snowy. We used to all run around the garden and play and laugh. I didn’t like it when Walter and Snowy played. Walter always hurt Snowy. Joel loved it. Snowy’s pain filled shrieks always brought a smile to his face. Joel would play tricks on Momma. He’d move the chair she was about to sit in and she’d tumble to the floor with a crash and a scream. He would put dead things in the twins’ crib for Momma to find. Once he brought a live snake into the house and slipped it into the shower when Momma was in it. She screamed something awful and had locked me in my room for a week. I always got blamed for Joel’s wicked tricks. Momma brought a lot of new friends to the house after that. She brought in men wearing long white coats who talked with me and asked questions about Joel and Walter and Snowy. Joel would stand behind them as they questioned me and make faces. I didn’t understand why they didn’t just talk to Joel and grew frustrated with their questions. Once Momma brought home a man in a black suit. He walked around the house mumbling in a strange language, throwing water on the walls and waving his cross around like a baton. I thought he was crazy. I told Momma and she told me to hush and sit down. The man stood in front of me yelling in his strange way and holding his cross on my forehead. It was cold and made me uncomfortable. Joel got upset. He didn’t like the man and the way he was 39 shouting. The next thing I knew the man was on the floor bleeding from a gash in his head and Joel was laughing loudly in my ear. A bunch of police officers showed up and Joel told me not to tell anyone what he’d done. He said I should blame it on Momma and she’d go away for a long time and stop bothering us. Momma shouted and cried and struggled as the police dragged her away to the sound of Joel’s gleeful laughter and the twins’ high pitched screams. Grandma came after Momma. She was mean. She locked me in my room and told me to stay there until I learned my lesson. I watched him stalk around the room at night mumbling darkly to himself. Grandma made me to go church with her every Sunday, she said I had to pray for my soul for what I’d done to that man and to Momma. I didn’t understand why everyone blamed me for Joel’s tricks and was tired of being punished for all the naughty things that he did. One night at supper, Joel made scary faces at the twins who started wailing. Grandma stood up and yelled at me as she tried desperately to calm the twins. She told me to go to my room. I said no. I pointed at Joel and yelled at him with all my might. This was all his fault. Grandma sent me to bed. Joel told me they were going to send me away. They would separate us and I would never be able to see him again. I told him I was fine with that because he was being horrible. That upset him. He got Walter and Snowy and made me watch as Walter ate Snowy. I cried. He laughed. Joel woke me up at midnight. He told me we could stay together. Me, him, and Walter, but we had to do 40 something first. He smelt like gasoline. He led me to the kitchen and pointed to the stove which was covered with a sticky, sweet smelling liquid. He told me to open my hands. I did. He handed me a lighter. I didn’t want to do it but Joel got angry when I tried to say no. He yelled and told me to do it for all the times Momma blamed me for something he did. That if I did this everyone would finally realize it was him doing all the bad things and not me. My hands were shaking so bad it took me five tries to get the lighter to ignite. When it did I froze and stared at the small flame in my hands. It flickered with every shuttering breath that came out of my mouth. Joel grew impatient and slapped the lighter out of my hand and onto the stove. There was a large whooshing noise and a blast of orange light. My arm hair stood on end and sweat trickled down my face. I backed away. Joel stood in front of the fire and laughed. He threw his arms out wide and danced in tune with the flames. He was crazy but his movements were so beautiful and fluid. It was frightening. The fire advanced toward me. I didn’t want to move. I wanted the fire to eat me like it was going to eat Grandma and the twins. Joel grabbed my hand and led me outside. We stood to the side and watched as the fire slowly ate up the house I had grown up in. The house that the priest, the twins, and Grandma had all died in. Sirens and smoke filled the night air. I looked to my side for Joel, but he had disappeared. DESERT DRUMS Abigail Carpenter When my London flatmate, Raoni, suggested we travel to Northern Africa because he was missing the heat of Brazil, we had no intention of visiting the Sahara Desert and the Atlas Mountains. But we quickly made friends with a generous and hospitable Moroccan man, Raxido, who invited us to a local drum circle at the edge of the Sahara Desert. After traveling on camelback against an orange-rayed sunset, we found ourselves among the sand dunes. We parked our camels single file near our camp, and I realized a place that once only existed in my dreams was now before me. I had to close my eyes for a long while. I opened them over and over again until I was sure of it. I had to reach down and let the sand fall between my fingers slowly. I had to breathe in the crisp, evening air. And when I looked up, the stars speckled in the sky like the summer freckles on my face, thousands and thousands of them. When the drum circle began, I let its music fill me up. It started in my toes and moved higher, tickled my fingers and sent goosebumps up my arms and back. The drums vibrated within my chest and when it reached my mouth, I screamed in laughter. My laugh echoed farther and farther across the desert, not meeting any person or town or house until it was miles and miles away. I wrapped my blanket a little tighter and watched my friends dance around the fire to the beat of the drums. Their legs moved up and down as their hands joined the ashes flying through the night air. For many hours, we sat around the fire, told our stories and spoke aloud our dreams. We danced and sang and took turns pounding the drums. We slept under the stars among the silence of the desert for only a few hours until the sun awoke us on the horizon. And moving through the deep sand, the sunrise at our backs, we rode our camels to the bus to escape the desert heat before it swallowed us up whole. 41 COLORS Hannah Schmit If I am a color call me red The color of passion and love Humanity worn on my sleeve The color of my blood, beating heart. Call me red. If I am a season call me fall With baited chilled breath I speak My words on whirlwind breezes fall An omen of changes to come Call me fall. If I am a sound call me silence. The chaos and stillness of calm My words lost yet encompassing In anticipation of something Call me silence If I am a thought call me hope The desire for something more A yearning call deep within me The need to breathe Call me hope. 42 urban delight jazmin crittenden 43 WHEN DAD WORE COLOGNE A. Tetzlaff “Did Grandpa Mike die?” My small voice broke a quiet that Dad and I carry easily between us. A radio frequency connecting our minds that communicates silently, so we don’t have to. Even at the age of three, I knew our sacred, noiseless space well. Dad took me to a park one day, nearby my childhood home. We rarely visited this park unless we intended to use its snowy slope for adrenaline rushes in our bright plastic sleds in the winter time. But it wasn’t wintertime now. My dad wore a blue t-shirt he’d owned since high school. Summer or spring, the season isn’t particularly distinct. The hills rose nakedly as we quietly approached. I’ve come back to the memory time and again; the images are blurred, like a positive photograph that didn’t come out of the darkroom correctly. I can’t recall how my father responded to my question, though I’m sure he patiently and painfully affirmed my query. In that moment I wasn’t shocked. I wasn’t sad. Presently, I regret that I can’t remember a man who loved me and was so dearly loved by others. I don’t know how he looked aside from the pictures I know. How he talked, laughed, 44 yelled, walked, I don’t recall. Did he wear cologne to work like Dad? When I was young, Dad wore cologne to work. He woke up around five in the morning in order to be at work five-thirty, and he still does, despite the fact that no one expects him in the office till eight. I’d hear his alarm from my bed and wait to smell the mix of dewy summer grass and the spicy knives of cologne in my nostrils. The smell lingered and pulled me back to sleep as Dad left the house. On the day at the park, Dad wasn’t wearing cologne. Dad didn’t wear cologne that day because it was either a weekend or he had the day off or had taken time away to grieve. I don’t remember the call to our corded telephone late one night. It was the hospital telling Mom and Dad that my grandfather died of a heart attack while showering. I don’t know if he died immediately or if the attack was slow, painful, cold, and wet. I will never ask. The thought of breaking the stitches grief so tenuously sewed incites trepidation. Was my young face one of his last images? I’m vain enough to assume so––grandparents always think of the grandbabies first. Was it a comfort? I can only hope. At my Grandfather’s funeral, I can’t remember Mom’s grief. I can’t remember the funeral either.She keeps the remnants of her love tended like a flower garden and tells me of her father often. I have nothing but the cemented walkway leading to the park that summer day deep in my mind. Mom tells me that my grandfather lived as long as he did because he was waiting for me. It was a miracle I was even born, but that’s not my story to tell. She calls me “the sparkle in his eye.” Christopher, my younger and only brother, inherited my grandfather’s bright, Anglo-blue irises. He was born the year after my grandfather died. Christopher joined the Army a few weeks ago; my grandfather was a Marine in the 60s. During his service in Asia, my grandfather collected each country’s currency. Grandma keeps the collection in a red leather box in her bedroom closet. I used to step onto a chair and carefully extract the artifact from the top shelf and touch each coin and each bill. Some of those tenders are much extinct now. The souvenirs of my grandfather’s life are far less valuable to me than those of my travels––those, at least, the mugs and the key chains, those have memories attached of the real thing. I’ve spent most of my life scouring photos and objects, trying to resurrect an authentic memory of my grandfather. Trying to find a sensation that brings him back to me like the early morning scent of Dad’s cologne because I only remember the hills and my words and Dad. The solvents of time washed away my grandfather. 45 SHITTY CHRISTMAS TREES AND SECONDHAND DOLLS Elisabeth Beam When I was a kid we didn’t have a lot of money. But we managed to survive. Mom worked a lot at the dingy looking Super 8 Motel just down the street from the elementary school. You know, the kind of motel that charges by the hour instead of night. She hated it but it was close to school and paid just enough. Around November she would start picking up shifts at other hotels in town to save up more money for Christmas. It was hard. The heat bill always went up mid-October when the chill started to set in and the snow began to fall. Presents were always an issue. Getting stuff for just me and Sarah was usually alright, but Mom came from a big family. Six brothers and sisters all of whom had kids. All of whom would be needing presents. That’s a lot of money. Money we just didn’t have. One year there was a huge blizzard and they canceled school for a week. Sarah was only six at the time and she couldn’t be left alone to take care of herself much less a five-year-old as well. So mom had to stay home from work and look after us. She tried to make it seem like she wasn’t stressed out about the money, but I knew she was. She would pace around the kitchen at night and mumble to 46 herself. She’d crouch over her checkbook and shake her head. She tried to hide it from us, but I noticed. I always noticed when she got like that. A week of work missed meant we wouldn’t be able to afford the gas to get to grandma’s house for Christmas. And a week with everyone at home meant that the heat bill was going to be rough. She was too proud to try and get food stamps. So money that would normally go towards presents went to buying our Christmas feast. We didn’t go to my grandma’s house that Christmas but it was probably the best Christmas of my life. The day before school let out our landlord took out all the carpet in the living room. He said it was due to be replaced and that someone would be over before the holiday to put down some new carpet. “Your feet will be so happy and thankful! That’s the best Christmas present you could ask for!” he had happily told us. No one came. The floor was cold and there were nails and sharp staples sticking up at weird angles. It hurt to step on them and small red dots appeared throughout the house as we all made the mistake of stepping in the living room without socks. Mom put down an old ratty green rug, one that our cats liked to pee on. She bought a small fake green tree from the thrift shop downtown. It was the saddest looking tree. Most of the branches were missing so it had random bald spots sporadically around its leaning trunk. A good number of the ornaments that we put on it fell off because it couldn’t support their weight. We made new ones out of paper and glitter. Mom wrapped tinsel she’d taken from work around it and Sarah and I sloppily placed string lights. We put an old family picture at the top of the tree because we were too scared that our expensive Christmas angel would fall and break if we tried to stick her up there. Thinking back on it now it was a pretty shitty looking tree, but back then I thought it was the best thing I’d ever seen in my life. I remember sitting on the floor amongst the nails and staples and looking at it glittering and glistening and thinking that it was a far better tree than anyone else could ever have. I thought that even if we’d spend a million dollars on a tree and all its dressings that it wouldn’t even be able to come close to this masterpiece sitting before me. For Christmas Eve we blasted holiday music and ran around the living room twirling and waving our arms above our heads. Mom had somehow found time to make new flannel pajamas for both me and Sarah and we had immediately put them on. She had also given us each a doll that she’d found at a thrift store. They looked ratty and dirty but I loved them both. Every bit of dust and matted patch of hair was a story waiting to be told. The dolls had character and I loved it.That shitty tree and our thrift store dolls were great but they weren’t what made that night so special. It was that we were all together, making the most out of what we had and not lamenting what we were missing. I think as we grow up we lose the magic in secondhand dolls and shitty Christmas trees. 47 summer nights adam ruff 48 the people united adam ruff 49 after the hike adam ruff 50 CRUMBS Malena Larsen He’s looking for love In the crevices of his couch Like loose change. I saw him lift up the cushions And pull out crumbs His mother’s earring A quarter The spoon he dropped last week After eating ice cream out of the container. It was chocolate cookie dough and he ate the whole thing. I watched him put the quarter in his back pocket and the spoon back in the cushions. I told him I had been in love once And he said I like it when girls call me daddy. I had a dream that night that he was dating somebody and my stomach hurt when I woke up. I became a spoon in the couch cushion Who said words like Daddy And Fuck me And Hard. At the end of every night I was put back with the crumbs, and each day that he came to get me there was more cat hair or lint stuck to me I waited patiently Dirty For him to pick me up. It was 77 degrees the late summer night he stopped getting me from the cushions. He told me that he found somebody to love and we can’t be friends, because if I see you I’ll fuck you. I asked him why he couldn’t control himself if he was in love with somebody. The inside of my ribcage Was being scraped empty 51 Like the chocolate cookie dough ice cream container And my stomach hurt Like it did after the dream Where he wasn’t mine I can’t help it. He told me. I like it when girls call me daddy. When we met he was wearing a suit and it looked like he had spent a lot of time on his hair but I didn’t think he was attractive until the weekend when I was drunk. Across the table On the other side of red cups And puddles of water He stared at me In a grey tank top. His eyes And arms Were strong 52 And dark. Making eye contact felt like sex And he smelled like Fireball And somebody I shouldn’t be alone with And too much cologne. We went swimming at 6 am at the neighbor’s lakefront when everyone else fell asleep. He took off his shirt I kept mine on. The water fell off of him like it didn’t want to keep his body covered for too long. He picked me up and folded me over his right shoulder and threw me into the 6 am summer sweet lake water. He drove me home At 7 am Still drunk and Smitten. It was 88 degrees and my birthday the night I let him kiss me in the back hallway of our friend’s frat. I couldn’t wait anymore He told me In the house that smelled like Liquor and dust And damp wood. The first time we Fucked Was in the front seat of his White Pontiac Grand prix At 11 pm on a Tuesday. I saw him almost As an animal. His fists Were clenched And his eyebrows Like shelves Over his beetle eyes. Do you like fucking daddy? After that night I had to sneak him into my bedroom because he couldn’t do all of the positions he wanted to in his car. He needed to prove to me that he was the best fuck and that he could make me cum and that I should call him Daddy. I had never called fucking, fucking before. Before I was a dirty spoon it had only been called love. His eyes started to remind me Of Tiny Round Black beetles. There’s nobody else anymore We should just keep fucking. And when we fucked It was 66 degrees and almost fall when he came to my house in his white Pontiac Grand Prix and told me I remembered then, the quarter he put in his pants and how he used me to eat his ice cream and then put me back with all the crumbs in the cushions of 53 his couch Where he keeps looking for love Like it’s the loose change In his back pocket. 54 bloomed audrey campbell 55 pruned audrey campbell 56 HERMAN Danny Polaschek Grape juice dribbled down Herman’s chin and landed in scattered droplets down the front of his white T-shirt. He didn’t notice and, after setting down his half-emptied glass, picked up his spoon and started on his bowl of bran flakes. Sitting at the kitchen table, there was nothing in front of Herman —but a bare white wall. It seemed, however, that he wasn’t looking at it, but rather through it like a child looks through a window and, seeing nothing but gray skies and rain, is overwhelmed by disappointment because they will not be outdoors playing that day. As Herman sat there facing the white wall and chomping his cereal, his son entered the kitchen and began his morning ritual. Herman heard the coffee-maker start bubbling from somewhere behind him in the kitchen along with the quick and efficient pitter-pattering of his son’s feet, who Herman assumed had to be walking laps around the center island as some sort of new, trendy morning workout. Once the coffee maker’s burbling came to an end the footsteps stopped as well. Herman focused on the sound of the coffee being poured, the soft sound of liquid filling a ceramic mug. The sound stopped as quickly as it had started and Herman was further drawn from his relaxed, monotonous state by the sound of his son’s voice. “How are the flakes this morning, Dad?” Herman didn’t turn around to face his son, but continued with what he was doing, looking like a cow chewing cud. “Five star quality,” he replied in between spoonfuls. “Flaky as ever.” Herman’s son chuckled a bit and looked up from his fresh cup of coffee but the laugh died away when he noticed that his father was still turned away from him, eyes glued straight ahead. Taking another sip, Herman’s son pondered whether he would keep pursuing his father in conversation or not. He ultimately decided against it and left the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. A sigh escaped Herman’s throat as he set down his spoon, finished with his mushed and soggy cereal. Ain’t this the life, he thought to himself sarcastically. Finally turning away from the wall, Herman scooted himself back from the kitchen table and slowly stood up. He gripped the side of the table for balance and took a few deep breaths in an effort to steady himself. Just a few weeks before, Herman had 57 missed a stair descending to the basement and found himself tumbling clumsily down the rest of the way until crashing to a stop on the last few steps. Herman’s head still felt a bit shaky from time to time, which caused a bit of a tremble in his legs. Instead of walking from place to place, he grew accustomed to maneuvering his way to each destination by leaning on and grabbing anything he could for support and then flinging himself to another sturdy checkpoint, and so on and so forth until he reached his goal. It was much like a monkey swinging from vine to vine, but less precise and much less graceful. With his feet finally under him, legs steady, Herman pushed away from the kitchen table and launched himself to the kitchen counter, which caught him with cold indifference. Hunched over, Herman caught his breath for a few seconds before beginning to shuffle down the length of the marble counter towards the coffeemaker at the other end. “This better be a damn good cup of Joe,” he mumbled to himself, clearly exhausted. Halfway down the counter, Herman stopped. With a steady grip on the counter he reached up to the cupboard above his head and swung it open. He couldn’t see inside but he knew that what he was looking for was in there: his old blue coffee mug— one of the only things worth bringing with when he moved into his son’s house the year before. Feeling around the smooth, wooden interior, Herman eventually got a hold of his mug which distinguished itself by having only half of a handle still attached. With the partial handle hooked onto his ring and middle fingers, Herman pulled out his mug and brought it shakily down over his head, setting it on the counter with a soft “clink.” Herman was beginning to feel dizzy at this 58 point, and wished for a moment that he had listened to the doctor about getting a walker. “Mr. Huckley,” the doctor said, “even if you don’t think you’ll use it, take it anyways. Just in case.” Herman didn’t take the walker, and wouldn’t even let anyone help to walk him out of the hospital, not even his son. “I don’t need your damn help,” he snorted each time someone tried to take his arm to steady him. He was always a stubborn man and old age wasn’t going to change that. Continuing down the counter, Herman felt this same stubborn anger boiling in him. He was almost seventy years old and yet he felt like a child who was just learning to walk. He’d built his own home, and a garage to go with it, and now he could hardly make it to the opposite end of the room without feeling fatigued. Sweat was running hot from Herman’s forehead. He wiped it with a shaky hand and breathed in deeply, closing his eyes as he did so. He only had five or so more steps to go and he braced himself for the final stretch, determined to get there even if it killed him. With a focused balance and patient, shuffling steps Herman managed to get to the end of the counter and the coffee pot. He exhaled in relief, and a satisfied smile tugged the corners of his mouth up ever so slightly. With his blue mug in one hand, Herman picked up the coffeepot in the other, intent on pouring himself a well-deserved cup of coffee after his tiresome journey. His satisfaction was immediately replaced with bitterness as he lifted the pot and felt that it was nearly empty, only a few drops remained rolling around in the bottom. Herman’s minute smile had vanished and his brow hardened, scrunching up his forehead in small, tense knots. Setting the pot back on the counter, Herman hissed repeatedly under his breath, cursing his son for not leaving him any coffee. Herman’s hands were visibly trembling and he was having a difficult time keeping a grip on the edge of the counter. He contemplated making more coffee but dismissed the idea immediately, knowing that he could not remain standing and moving around the kitchen much longer. Herman felt a hot flush come over his face and could feel beads of sweat rolling down his temples and his cheeks. In one swift motion he wound up and threw his coffee mug across the room, where it shattered against the windowless, white wall. Slivers and shards of ceramic bounced all over the kitchen, the blue pieces scattered like shattered glass. Herman heard footsteps drumming down the staircase before his son entered the room,stopping in the doorway to avoid stepping on any of the pieces of blue ceramic. “Dad!” he exclaimed, “What happened? Herman was bent over, hunched with his hands on his knees. He was struggling for breath now, and sweat soaked through his shirt on his back. In between wheezes, Herman said exasperated, “You didn’t leave me any damn coffee, you son of a bitch.” His son stood there eyeing first his father and then the indent in the wall where the mug had hit. He shook his head in disbelief, which quickly turned to anger. With a clenched jaw, he left the room and returned a minute later with broom in hand. He began quietly sweeping the blue bits of coffee mug into a dustpan. After Herman had caught his breath and recomposed himself, he pulled his body back into a standing position, leaning against the counter. He glanced to his son, bent over and sweeping under the kitchen table. “I heard you on the phone last night,” he said. Herman kept his eyes on his son as he stood and turned to face him. His son raised an eyebrow at him but gave no verbal reply. “I heard you,” Herman repeated. His son bit his lip and continued sweeping, eyes trained on the floor. “It’s just not working, dad.” 59 EL BARRIO SUYO Chad Berryman El viento le envolvió al hombre como una manta de hielo. Él andaba por el barrio suyo pero los vecinos no lo saludaron. Caminaba delante de una casa grande con flores y grandes ventanas, y por esas ventanas podía oír una pelea entre dos padres y los lamentos penosos de sus hijos. Él seguía la acera que serpenteaba por un parque lindo donde había un banco solitario. Él Lo saludó con la cabeza. Recordaba unas noches del verano cuando este banco no había ofrecido insultos ni acusaciones, sino un lugar simpático para descansar mientras él le regalaba un uso admirable. Pero en el invierno el banco se congelaba como él, y ambos eran incapaces de ayudarse el uno al otro. Paseaba delante de una casa blanca de arquitectura maravillosa. Un coche altanero llegara la entrada. Un padre sincero apareció mientras acababa de contar los acontecimientos de su día. Su hija miraba su celular, y el silencio suspiró por la expresión herida de la cara del padre. Ellos entraron a la casa sin otra palabra. El hombre nómada seguía caminando, y pronto la nieve dentro de sus venas se derretía por una balada antigua que se tarareaba al ritmo de sus pasos. 60 No pido mucho, no vivo de prisa canto los himnos con risa bendita no tengo nada salvo alma amada y sin despedida no hay la llegada THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD Chad Berryman The frigid air wrapped around the man like a blanket of ice. He was travelling through his own neighborhood, but no neighbors acknowledged him. As he walked in front of a large, picturesque house, complete with flowers and giant windows, he could make out the sound of two parents fighting accompanied by the upsetting cries of their children. The sidewalk snaked its way through a park in which there stood one solitary bench. With a nod of his head, the man greeted it. Nights of summers past filled his mind, nights in which the bench had not offered insults or accusations but rather a consoling place of rest while he presented it with the gift of an honorable purpose. However, the bench froze and shivered in the winter the same as he, and neither could provide the other with any relief. He passed by a white house of grand construction. There, a flashy car had just pulled into the driveway. From it emerged an earnest father finishing the recounting of his day. His daughter, however, simply stared at her phone, and the wounded expression on her father’s face betrayed an unsung sigh. The two entered the house without another word. As the wandering man continued walking, the snow in his veins began to melt due to an old tune he commenced to hum in time with his steps. I don’t ask for much, or live in a rush in my blessed laughter the hymns come alive there’s nothing I own save a soul that is loved for without a farewell one could never arrive 61 ODYSSEY Eve Taft Thank you for the twisted pathways of your mind Which led to the streets and alleyways of Dublin James Joyce, do you understand that you opened floodgates? Your avalanche of babbling sentences, sans punctuation Buck Mulligan tossing form and style into the wind Your catechism, you, Daedalus, gave us sacrament Blood flow to wake up the numb limbs of literature You spoke with your soul to our souls Fearing not the noise in your skull but flinging it down in ink I understand you, “life is many days” I understand you, “god is a shout in the street” I understand you, “I am another now and yet the same” You understand me “everything speaks in its own way” Soon I’ll visit your beloved homeland Walking the streets of Dublin, writing and giving thanks to modernism Now as free of rigid form As Ireland of England 62 postcards from my bedroom audrey campbell 63 postcards from my bedroom audrey campbell 64 COUNTING SHEEP Danny Polaschek What can you do when the world is asleep? Go to sleep too? I’ve counted all my sheep. They jumped through the air gliding for 5 or 6 feet cleared the fence and then flew with not even a bleat. I didn’t focus however on these aerial sheep antics because far away in the distance was a sight oh so fantastic. A blue house, with a single light on in the window sat a girl a beauty no pencil could ever have drawn. I looked up at her and she down at me addicted to the eyesight too distracted to count sheep. 65 3 sky nights keeyonna fox 67 inner self keeyonna fox 68 VICTORY OF THE PEOPLE Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk Your worship was my refuge, your clay heart my focal point, your chelsea smile the apple of my eye. We were sick. We poisoned ourselves with amphetamines and pills until we didn’t recognize ourselves in the mirror. We walked miles just to feel accomplished in our space, we turned the cigarettes we shared into sentiments we thought we shared. I must possess the wrong innocence. Souls are fickle things that change when left to die in the cold. ~ He was outrageously tall. He towered over me like the Statue of Liberty and he talked to me as though I was a boat in the harbor. Standing five inches taller than six feet, he was an image of Ukrainian beauty. He stood like someone who knew things you didn’t know and this fascinated me. I was so naive, so optimistic. I saw the lust and want in his eyes and I mistook it for passion.The curve of his jaw and his long eyelashes crept into the screens behind my eyelids and ignited a fire in me that I didn’t know how to put out. I was the new girl in town struggling to keep my loneliness at bay. He was a gleaming light in that summer of darkness. I had just moved to Minnesota months before. After discovering drugs and promiscuous sex I became nothing short of a hurricane. Amphetamines kept me awake, cigarettes kept me skinny, and weed kept me sane. My GPA reflected exactly what they don’t tell you about functional depression: you can feel like a blank page, but as long as you fill it with words people will stop asking questions. He was selling me drugs. He offered me a good price. I had never met him but I figured what the hell, I could stand to meet new people. It was dark, long past sundown. We were meeting in a parking lot by a lake a few blocks away from my house. I was in my mom’s car. I waited and listened to Amy Winehouse until I saw an orange car pull into a parking spot a few yards away from me. The man driving fit the picture I had seen of him before. We 69 made eye contact and he ushered me over to his car. I took a deep breath, grabbed my sweater, and got my money ready. He rolled down the passenger side window. “You Nikita?” I said. He smiled at me. A smile that I would come to know. “You can call me Kita.” ~ He had really good drugs. I’m not sure that they were pure, but at the time I didn’t care. Neither did he. We just wanted to get high. We did his drugs together, sitting in a playground by the lake, talking about life and what we crave. He told me that he was applying to a college in London. I didn’t think anything of it. Before long we saw each other every day. He was a lifeguard who had to be on duty early in the morning, so he would take me out for coffee at eight in the morning. No makeup, sweatpants, my hair in a messy bun. He didn’t care. We would talk about things that we hadn’t shared with anyone else. He told me he struggled with his relationship with his father in Ukraine. I told him that I had struggled with eating disorders since I was thirteen. We would sneak out onto his back porch to smoke cigarettes late at night. His mother hated that we smoked. 70 “You need to quit smoking, love,” she’d tell me. “I smoked for twenty-five years and it took two pregnancies to get me to stop.” His mother loved me. She thought that I was spunky, independent, had a mind of my own. She did not like his last girlfriend. She made that very clear. She, like Nikita, was very tall. She had long curly black hair and eyes so intense that you would lose your appetite. Her Russian accent was thick and powerful. She had run away to the United States when she was twenty-one and seven months pregnant with her first son. Nikita. “Does it mean anything?” I asked him. “Your name.” He smiled when he answered. “My mom told me it means ‘victory of the people,’” he said. Oh Kita, you have no victory. You are the secret I keep from my mother the hidden disease that projectile vomits and digs with fingernails sharpened by teeth. Your fields of sunflowers told me a secret, your secrets so dark and beautiful and I killed myself with your gargantuan sunflowers. His mother was beautiful. She had been a professional figure skater that traveled the world, meeting people as she went. She met Kita’s father in her home country of Ukraine and according to the story, he was immediately drawn to her exuberant personality and her long legs. At twenty-one she was well on her way to continue pursuing a successful skating career until she got pregnant. According to Kita his father did not accompany her to her appointments.He did not send her flowers. He did not ask if she was okay. Instead Kita’s mother made her way to America to create a life of victory and hope. He took me to meet his grandmother. She said hello and came in and that was the last that I understood. The entire time I was there she would ask me questions in Russian and Kita would translate for me. He taught me how to say Hello (Privet) Yes (da) No (net) And thank you, which I don’t remember. We spent almost the entire time we were there trying to help his grandmother set up a new movie streaming program on her computer. I know nothing about computers in English, let alone in Russian. I was overwhelmed. The leather furniture just made my nervous sweat more noticeable. She told me about Ukraine a little bit. She said it was beautiful but troubled. She offered me chocolate and cookies. I sat, sweating, trying my hardest to pay attention. When I said anything to her, Kita would translate for me. I wanted to leave. After we left his grandmother’s house he told me to wait in his car while he talked privately with his grandmother. I thought it was strange but didn’t question it. I played mindless games on my phone while I waited for him. Some part of me knew that they were talking about me, but I continued to deny it. I was hungry, but I wasn’t planning on doing anything about it too soon. I was hungry often then. When he returned to the car I asked what they had talked about and with no hesitation he said, “You.” I paused, then asked him to elaborate. “She likes you,” he said. And that was that. How strange, I thought, to be liked by someone who never explicitly spoke a word to me. ~ Andrevich was Kita’s middle name. Named after his father. Kita’s father was very handsome. In his forties with tan skin and thick hair, he was a heartthrob that would make you look twice. He lived in a nice, expensive apartment in Kiev with his girlfriend who was twenty years younger than him. Apparently that was a theme. Kita had only seen his father a handful of times in his life. He had gone back to Ukraine to spend some time with him as a young boy, but didn’t have too much recollection of it. When he was sixteen he went back to live with his father and his twenty-yearold girlfriend for a while. Kita has always been tall, thin, and handsome. His father noticed this. “So what happened?” I asked him one day. 71 Kita shrugged. “He kicked me out and I came back to the states,” he said without a flinch. He said this as though it was a commonality. “He thought that I fucked his girlfriend,” he said as he lit a cigarette. There was a very long, uncomfortable silence. “Did you?” I asked. He laughed out loud and a cloud of smoke poured out of his mouth. “No, of course not,” he said. “My dad isn’t one to listen to a sixteen year old.” ~ “I’ll take you to Ukraine someday.” “Sunflowers. There are parts of Ukraine where there are endless fields of sunflowers wherever you look. They’re as tall as me and the flowers are bigger than my face.” He pulled me closer as he talked about Ukraine. He insisted that I learn all that I could about the Russia-Ukraine conflict, sending me innumerable articles daily. Through him I learned about the importance of the Ukrainian revolution and fights that had been fought, some as recent as 2011 and 2012. He told me that he wanted to fight for his people if he had to. When my eyes were flushed with concern, he pulled me in close and whispered in my ear, “I’ll survive for you.” His eyes lit up every time he talked about the fields of sunflowers in Ukraine. In the same way, his eyes lit up every time he got angry. Your golden eyes drew miners to starve and fight to abandon their homes. We were in his bed, naked, wrapped up in blankets and speckled by the corner light in his room. It was late, the kind of late that feels early. The air conditioner hummed in the place of our phones which were both off and hidden somewhere in the room. He did no wrong. He could not do any wrong. His eyes were blank but telling like a wall in a foreclosed home. All of his intentions were good. Yes. Good. “Where in Ukraine?” I asked. “Have you been eating?” he asks as he lifts up my shirt. “Kiev, the city squares. And to the huge fields of flowers.” “What kind of flowers?” 72 ~ I squirm away and pull my shirt down. “Yes, I ate just before I came here,” I say. I can still taste the salt in my mouth. “You look skinny,” he tells me with a hint of disdain in his voice. My heart soars. I look skinny. But he’s reaching for my stomach again and once again I’m backing away. We get into the car and drive to the gas station. I say that I need to go use the restroom. While Kita pumps the gas, I make my way into the small Holiday bathroom. I put my sweater on the ground and rest my knees on it, my usual routine. I stick my finger down my throat and vomit into the toilet. As I walk back outside, Kita is getting back into his car. I get in the front seat and sniffle slightly.Kita looks at me quizzically. “You okay?” he asks me. My eyes are watery, my nose is burning, and my breath is putrid. “I’m fine,” I say with a smile. ~ The elevator door was so cold against my cheek. I watched the red numbers blink as they rose. 8...9...10...11. My vision was going fuzzy and grey, my ears started ringing and throbbing. 11...12...13. Ding. The doors opened and my wobbly legs carried me down the seemingly endless hallway. My hands were barely working; as I watched them push my key into my apartment door I could not feel it. The door opened, I could see my living room window. I closed the door behind me and collapsed on the ground. “Why did you faint?” His words echoed behind the screen of my phone. “I just haven’t eaten a lot today.” There was a silence so deafening that it struck fear in my heart. Fear I had not known. “When did you eat last?” He had anger in his voice. I paused. He would know if I lied but he would hate the truth. “I had a little dinner last night,” I said quietly. “What did you eat?” His reply was sharp. I was shaking. “I had a little bit of salad I think,” I said with a quivering voice. I could hear his sigh. I can still hear his sigh. “How many times have we talked about this?” He exclaimed. “I know, I know, I’m sorry…” It didn’t matter. He didn’t listen. I had failed him again. “Do you know what it’s like to have a girlfriend that can’t even take care of herself ?” “What am I going to tell my friends?” “You’re not even trying.” I was sobbing, I was convulsing, I was sweating, all from my bed from which I could not move. My phone was glued to my ear and I had no energy to remove it. “So what are you going to do about this?” There was intense spite in his words. With a shaky voice I said, “I could send you a picture of everything I eat?” He laughed. With his full, angry throat he laughed 73 at my pain. “And do what? Post it on Facebook? Show all my friends that my girlfriend is an anorexic who can’t even feed herself ? You know what, go ahead. Maybe that’ll help you change.” I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to die. My stomach kept whispering “never again, never again, never again.” Opening my mouth made me panic because it reminded me of eating. I hung up my phone and with wobbly legs I walked outside in the snow and smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. ~ Months go by. Months. I watched him pack his bag with clothes that I had never seen him wear. He packed light, only a few shirts and two pairs of pants. “My dad will buy me more when I get to Ukraine,” he said. I sat on the edge of his bed and watched him focus on folding his clothes. His visa sat in the center of the bed, staring at me. I started to cry. “Babe, it’s going to be fine,” Kita said without breaking focus. I watched him form a pile of the shirts that I had grown used to him wearing. They looked like wilted flower petals. 74 “Why aren’t you taking those?” I asked, pointing to the wilted pile. “My father won’t like them,” he said. Later that night, we were drinking red wine in his bed. His room was bare and cold. I was curled against his side, my head on his chest. He stroked my bare back and played with my hair. I sighed, but not the kind of sigh that’s followed with kisses. Kita sighed too. “Petra,” he said, a tone of exasperation in his voice. “If I ever treat you like my father treats women, please leave me.” ~ I still remember how to say “I love you” in Russian. “я люблю тебя.” Ya lyublyu tebya. ~ My fingers were bones. Anything beyond mascara was too much, especially lipstick. He hated lipstick. He thought that it brought too much attention to my mouth. He didn’t like when other people noticed me. He stopped smoking cigarettes and instructed me to do so too. “They’ll make you age faster,”he would say. If I had a bad day and smoked a cigarette, he would tell me he was disappointed. I lived with three men at the time, something that Kita would never let me forget. He asked every few days to be sure I wasn’t sleeping with any of my roommates. If I was spending too much time with a friend, he would tell me that I was neglecting him. He sent me articles outlining how to be a better partner. He reminded me that he just wanted me to be the best that I could be. The screaming and hour-long phone calls were footnotes. You stripped me of my dignity and told me, “This is what you have.” Your monstrous arms crawl into my nightmares Your titanic stature collided with my glacier and though you claim I sank you You were a behemoth and I was a stone. At the end, I fell into the ground. His screams surrounded me in my echo chamber and suffocated me. My knees were bruised from kneeling in front of the toilet all night. How apt for the one accused of dropping to her knees for all men. I was free but I did not know it yet. All I knew was the cold floor of my bathroom and the tales of beautiful but troubled Ukraine. My goodbyes have been said, These addictions fed. It’s the cost that comes with the sickness. And your screams won’t be heeded anymore. 75 AN OPEN LETTER TO THE UN-SPECIALS Halle Chambers When we are little, even before we can speak We are told that we’re special and that we’re unique. That we all are made different and that none are the same Which fits quite nicely in a toddler’s mind frame. And we are told we should treasure what’s different inside, That what makes us different is not something to hide. But then quite soon after, things start to change; The word “different” stops meaning “special” and starts meaning “strange.” We’re sectioned off from our average peers In our own little category and told, “you belong here,” And then different is bad and normal is good, And for the different ones, nothing is working the way that it should The way we’ve been taught or the way we’ve been shown All we know is that we do not like being lost on our own. 76 So once again we are taken away To a place where things makes sense again and we’re ok: Where no one hurts us, Where no one can see, Where no one deserts us, Where we can be free. But because the un-specials can’t see what goes on, They decide to make things up and get so much wrong. And it’s happened for years because they can’t see through that door. So long they don’t even know that it’s wrong anymore. It’s so fixed in their heads that these lies are right; They judge each special kid by their stereotype. But today that will end. So you sit there and you wait, cause it’s about time someone set the dang record straight. You probably think that this poem won’t cut it, But today I’m gonna open the door and don’t you dare shut it! To start, let’s be clear: I am...I was in Special Ed. But just because I was in that room doesn’t mean I’m brain dead! So for Pete’s sake, don’t puppy dog guard me! Just give me a break, it isn’t that hard see: If I need your help, I will tell you I do. Just please, Please don’t mock me. In my place, would you want me to mock you? “Oh come on! Let her get it! Go easy on her!” Help, where not needed, is almost as bad as a slur. I’m not invalid So don’t play that card. Yeah, I’m a little quirky and oversensitive, But I’m not, and I quote, “A little retard.” Yeah, I’ve been called names. And those words? They hurt. They catch in the center, In your pit of self worth. And they tear and they rip, And those words are collective. Soon you start to believe that you are defective. I’ve dealt with them all, and surprisingly, I actually prefer the straight up bullies To those who pretend to like me. Fake friends and two-faces Of all genders and races. They’re only my friends so they don’t have to see me cry. Or they use me, abuse me, Oh, how they confuse me! Cause I can’t tell what’s truth and what’s lie. “Hey! He likes you. Go give him a kiss!” And because I don’t know better, I believe this. But soon I find they’re not playing Cupid, They just wanna make me look stupid. For their entertainment, they make me play the 77 fool; They pretend that they care for me When they’re really just cruel. It takes time and takes work to make you forget; Even now, I’m not quite there yet. I mean, here I am, in what’s supposed to be home, And yet here I am, still feeling alone. I’m still paranoid, it doesn’t just end; I still have to ask if someone’s my friend. I say one thing and mean another; I make a mistake, But you take it verbatim. Can’t you cut me a break? If we’re talking and I look like I’m lost, Don’t blow it off like it’s not worth the cost. Sarcasm and subtlety muddle in my brain, So please just take a minute to explain. Do these quirks make me broken? Is there something wrong with me? The way society has spoken, There would seem to be. 78 Stop poisoning the minds of “different” young women and men. I don’t like being defective.... Can I be special again? SOREX PALUSTRIS Emilie Tomas Did they name you for Your wit, pointed Nose of pointed judgement Who brought us fire; five to seven inches of shrewd truth? Or was it your mischief That Inspired them? Your Presence followed by screams And a three inch tail. I saw your likeness on a stage, Dirt in place of your midnight coat Though she is reformed now. Perhaps it was the gleam in your Eyes; whispered fortunes and A summer of silver birth. Maybe you are a messenger Of God, somehow in your Eighteen months you learned to walk On water, the second coming Of Christ. 79 woodsy adam ruff gabriel bergstrom 80 WORDS Malena Larsen The bathroom wall was covered in words. Words like fuck and love and song lyrics and names with hearts around them. His body looked peaceful, somehow, as he sat propped and slumped against the door. His head hung to his right shoulder and his mouth was open like he was about to say something but was interrupted. There was blood running down his left arm like a river and a needle hung loosely out of his skin. The words that he had heard her say several hours earlier were getting quieter and quieter. “It’s not working,” she had told him. “I’m sorry.” They were smoking cigarettes outside her apartment when she said it. She knew he had been trying to fix himself. After twenty-eight days of treatment and one week in a sober house on Lake and Fifth she barely recognized him. He was twenty-five pounds heavier and his skin looked clean and strong; there was no more grey in his cheeks. It wasn’t just his change in appearance that scared her. Lately, he had been telling her the difference between wrong and right and that she should stay in on the weekends. His family couldn’t stop talking about how proud they were of him and they would ask her, “Doesn’t he just seem so much better?” She would answer with yes but feel guilty because she wished he still liked to make mistakes. His family had a party after he got out of treatment and his grandfather kept saying things like, “Men in this family have always been strong!” and, “Now he can take care of you.” His grandfather didn’t care for her much but he felt that she was the least of the boy’s problems. He didn’t like the way she hung on him like a scarf or the way she agreed with everything he said without a second thought. As he sat on the bathroom floor the words she had said were getting quieter and quieter. They were almost gone. He had been sober for thirty-five days and he didn’t know why. He didn’t feel better or stronger or more loved. His hand lay loosely on the floor, palm up and open like he was waiting for somebody to hold it. Everyone was so proud of him but he couldn’t imagine living his life without her. Long after her words had faded completely, the bathroom door opened. He fell back onto the floor. His head hitting hard against the tile. 81 “Oh my gosh!” The man who opened the door yelled. “Can someone help?” He took out his phone to call 911. A crowd of people rushed over to where the man was dialing. A young man pushed past the group of people. “Move!” The boy got on his knees by the body on the floor. He reached into his pocket and took out something that looked like a pen. He stuck it into the arm of the body that was needle free. People gasped and murmured and watched. Sirens rang in the distance. The boy holding the pen looked up at the bathroom wall that had words like fuck and love and song lyrics and names with hearts around them. He looked up at the group of people. “It’s not working,” he said. 82 MALCOLM AND THE BLUE SIDE Danny Polaschek Brown leaves dragged past Malcolm’s feet in the wind. The bench underneath him felt like a rock and he had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He stared at the empty playground—the tire swing, the slide, the bridge and the fireman’s pole. Nikki rested her head on his shoulder. Each time a breeze swept through, Malcolm could feel her nuzzle slightly closer, her hair scratching and tickling his neck. When he was a kid, Malcolm had sat on this exact same bench many times with his mother. They lived in a little blue house just a few blocks away— “just a hop and a skip,” his mother would say and Malcolm would make it his mission to jump and bunny-hop the whole way there. When they arrived, they’d eat lunch, sitting together on the narrow, wooden bench. After each bite of his sandwich, Malcolm would beg his mother to let him go play, to which she would give in once she herself had finished eating. He always went straight for the slide. Once at the top, he’d yell, “I’m going under!” and swing himself down into the blue plastic tube. He imagined he was a deep-sea diver plunging into an underwater world of sunken pirate ships and forgotten chests of gold. On particularly sunny afternoons, he’d stop halfway down the slide and admire the shadows that moved about on the illuminated, blue plastic. He’d make believe that fish swam all around him as little blotchy shadows hovered whimsically over his head. He eventually got the idea to bring his crayons to the park with him. He’d sit lodged in the blue slide for most of the day, drawing exotic fish with bright oranges, yellows and reds. He knew fish didn’t smile but nevertheless gave them all wide grins and big eyes to match. When it was time to go home, his mother would knock from the bottom of the slide. “Time to come back to shore!” she’d announce. Malcolm would hide his crayons in his back pocket and slide down to his mother who would wait there with open arms grinning at him. The park seemed smaller now. Malcolm was just as tall as the fireman’s pole and half as long as the slide. He wondered if his fabricated underwater universe still existed. Probably not, he guessed. Although it was getting dark, Mal83 colm could see thick graffiti creeping out from the shadows inside the blue slide. Malcolm pulled his sweatshirt tighter around his neck, brushing Nikki away in the process. He felt her eyes on his face but refused to acknowledge her. Inside the slide, he could still make out the words “Bitch Ass” in thick spray paint. His crayon drawings would certainly be gone, he was sure of it now. Nikki picked up Malcolm’s hand and caressed it, her cold skin feeling leathery and smooth. “Malcolm,” she said. Malcolm turned and mustered a smile, taking Nikki’s hands to his face and kissing them awkwardly. “Malcolm, let’s go home.” The streetlights had not yet turned on for the evening. Malcolm noticed the shadows on the sides of the road stretching out and growing bigger as they walked quietly past. He missed the warm sunshine of summer and the hot nights spent lounging in the front yard listening to his mother’s radio; he missed the walks to the park, his mother laughing at him as he crouched and hopped along beside her. He remembered the secret thrill of the crayon box in his back pocket, then realized he’d forgotten his cigarettes on the bench at the park. He was too cold to turn back. He reached out silently for Nikki’s hand and, finding it much warmer than his own, held it stiffly the rest of the walk home. 84 driving at zero one john herbert 85 driving at zero two john herbert 86 PLACEMAKERS Diamonique Walker Near my home, Balloons dance in the wind. I have reconditioned myself — These are not balloons from a party, But they still celebrate a life. I drive by, sometimes I walk. And see a balloon or several With their heads bobbing away Positioned obscurely on the sidewalk. Or on the island in the middle of the highway. Sometimes on no one in particular’s grass. I don’t look for party decorations. At the feet of the balloon’s ribbons, candles, cards and little trinkets sit. Some kind of offering. Looking weathered and dull. His body bled some place close by. Probably killed within ten feet. A dancing, mocking balloon Somehow now gets to sway in his place. 87 NECESSARILY AN EVIL THING CONSIDERED IN ANY LIGHT Jacob J. Miller “You know what I hate about this most of all?” asked the first man. “Nobody’s going to be around to take responsibility. Nobody is going to have to answer for their crime.” “What crime is that?” the other man asked, sitting next to him in the middle of the cul-de-sac, both of them at perfect leisure in lawn chairs as if waiting for a parade to pass by. “Mass-murder, I suppose. Call it, oh, I don’t know. Call it, um, inciting the apocalypse.” “Ha.” “They deserve to be the ones left behind after they obliterate everyone else. They should be the ones who have to reap the aftermath, puke out their guts and feel their bile boil inside their stomachs, fend off marauding cannibals and giant insects. And they should have to live with the new world they created, or destroyed, rather.” Just then, the other man looked down and saw a lonely ant crawling up his pant leg. “Yeah, but I don’t think that giant bug stuff is true. That wouldn’t happen. The bugs’ll die like everything else.” “I mean, what do you think it’ll be like? I 88 know it’ll happen instantaneously, but they say the cerebral cortex functions after everything else has shut down and we linger in a sort of dream-state, which could last for, well, for who knows how long?” “Well, that’s if you’re in a hospital bed, or you have a heart attack or something, when you have time to die with a little bit of peace. Our brains are going to incinerate along with the rest of us. There won’t even be any stuff of thought anymore. I don’t think we have to worry about something like that.” “But what if that moment of pain before we go lasts longer, you know? What if time stands still? Nothing makes sense in a moment of such lunacy. Such catastrophe. What if we feel our tongues liquefying and spilling down our throats and scalding our internal organs? What if, all in that moment, we look down, and before our eyes boil and burst from the heat we see our bones glowing purple through our flesh as it begins dripping off like wax? What if you turn and look at me and the last image you see is my face melting off like those Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark?” “I’m not sure it’s the best time to be thinking like that,” his friend said, as the sirens began to wail their sorrowful last. “Why even bother with that fucking thing?” the man steamed. “It’s inconsiderate, a futile exhortation. We know what’s coming. We’re not going to hide in our basements from it like it’s a fucking tornado.” “Tornadoes aren’t so easy to hide from either.” The first man scanned the horizon for what he knew would be the last time. He took in the sight of the skyline he saw from his window every day and, with lamenting eyes, imaginatively anticipated its supplanting by a fiery mushroom climbing the sky. He closed his eyes and winced, unable to cope with the unthinkable thought, the impossible inevitability. Turning his head toward a neighbor’s yard whose household ran a daycare, he opened his eyes to a post-apocalyptic tableau of children’s toys scattered about the lawn. Nothing needed yet be aflame for the man to resent the picturesque cliché of innocence lost on display before him. “Remember when they used to tell kids to hide under their desks?” he inquired. “All that siren is doing is making sure that we spend our last moments in a panic, instead of dying gracefully, accepting that we’re all in the same sinking ship, in the middle of the ocean, if the ocean were the entire planet, and filled with lava instead of water. We should be spending our time reminiscing, because that’s all we have now.” “Well, we can’t talk about our plans for the future.” “We can’t discuss potential medical advancements.” “The coming cure for cancer.” “And cloning organs. Scholarships our children just received, the singularity and will the Matrix ever become a reality; would we ever make contact with life elsewhere in the universe, intercept an asteroid, mine them for resources? It’s all useless, man, meaningless. Every human achievement since the first spark made from one rock dragging against another, gone within the next hour,” he sighed heavily, draping a ribbon of helplessness over his words of outrage. “Why don’t you open that up?” He suggested, pointing at the bottle of scotch sitting at the leg of his friend’s chair. His friend took a swig before passing it over with a satisfied groan. “Here’s to everything we do being the last time it will ever be done,” the first man began. “That’s the best I can do.” “Yeah,” the other man raised an empty hand, toasting to the end and everything that came before it. “I suppose there’s something beautiful about the entire world—or nearly the entire world—going out the same way. There’s a kind of universal solidarity occurring right now, don’t you think? Some are praying, no doubt, some are exalting their various saviors, certain they will be raptured up any minute, but we’re all still going to be experiencing the same thing, at almost the exact same time; the same heat, the same instantaneous moment of searing pain before any trace of our molecules are imprinted as a shadow on the asphalt beneath us.” He had a complex contraption of a chair, one of the men—it doesn’t really matter which one now that the end was there; the kind of chair that folds upward from all four corners and was nearly 89 impossible to fit back into its cylindrical carrying sack—not that that mattered anymore either— complete with cup holders and a detachable headrest, which he was putting to use as he spoke. His friend’s chair was more old-fashioned, a conventional folding lawn chair with a checkered pattern of flimsy plastic wrapped taut around aluminum pipes, wobbly hard plastic armrests drilled in and not quite parallel to each other. Their chair legs began melting into the tar beneath them. One of the men hummed softly; a beautiful soundtrack to accompany him in the cut to black. The other man closed his eyes and, focusing on the sounds of the encroaching death rattle, heard them as the grunts and whinnies of the four horsemen’s horses as they galloped atop the planet’s rapidly spreading dust. 90
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