Cathy’s Corner Judy Niemi Johnson I sat curled in the corner, where the two large windows met, behind the massive chair. My sister and I could both sit in it, but never did; at least not at the same time. It was Father’s chair, not a plaything. It was a wing back chair, dark gray with curved feet... Show moreCathy’s Corner Judy Niemi Johnson I sat curled in the corner, where the two large windows met, behind the massive chair. My sister and I could both sit in it, but never did; at least not at the same time. It was Father’s chair, not a plaything. It was a wing back chair, dark gray with curved feet the color of burnt caramel. I know because I crawled under- neath it often. The chair was nestled into the corner, leaving a small space for me. The red satin curtain cascaded down the corner, forming an iridescent waterfall behind the chair. I scurried under the chair and found enough room for myself and a book or two. It was my space; a perfect little hideaway with a silky cushion for my back and my legs stretched out under the skirting. No one could see me there. It was my own. I shared it with Father, although he did not know it. Mother would leave a scotch on the wood cabinet, cinnamon swirled with tall slender legs, next to the chair. Father kept his cigars there. On top was the heavy glass ashtray, crystal with two scoops cut out of the edges to hold the cigars while they burned. The feathery chunks of ash would fall into small smoky piles. When he opened the little front door, the dark spicy smell would fall out. He picked out a cigar, let his fingers roll it around a little bit, like he was feeling a pickle. Then he hit the very tip off and spit into the ashtray. He used the polished silver lighter, which looked like a magic genie lantern, held the flame at the tip and sucked, in and out, until the end began to glow red. Father laid his head back, closed his eyes, and let the velvet smoke circle the room. June was hotter than normal that summer. Mom thought I was outside playing with the neighbor kids, but they told me I was too young. So I hid be— hind the chair, where it was cool and Mom wouldn’t find me. I was reading all the World Book Encyclopedias, determined to get a head start on fourth grade next year. The letter “D” was a thin book; I was already up to “dogs.” It was late afternoon. The scotch was waiting. I had put my finger in it once, to taste, but it burned my tongue. So I just watched the drops form on the outside of the glass as we all waited for Father. I heard his keys in the front door, then the heavy thud as the door closed behind him. Mom’s voice came from the kitchen and joined him in the hall. They said low things to each other, things I never could hear. Father walked into the sunken living room; the gold carpet sucked the sound away from his footsteps. But I heard the chair groan slightly as he sunk into its folds, the gentle shudder as his back hit its frame. I heard his cufflinks drop onto the table; I think he had the silver square ones that day. The stiff cotton sounded like sand paper as he rolled up his sleeves. I carefully closed the World Book and set it down, listened to my father’s deep breathing, the clinking of the ice as he tipped the gold liquid down his throat. “Well, I’m glad you made it home,” Mom said as she came in from the kitchen. “Dinner is ready, but a bit cold from waiting.” I peeked around the side of the chair. She stood by the steps in her pale Murphy Square 21 Show less
Rise to Me Mark Woodley Bill is curled up in the chilly darkness, pulling a stiff piece of old carpet and a ripped tarp over himself. The cold is numbing, his coat is still wet from the fresh snow, hands arthritically aching, pressed to his chest. There is the dank aroma of dead plants and mossy... Show moreRise to Me Mark Woodley Bill is curled up in the chilly darkness, pulling a stiff piece of old carpet and a ripped tarp over himself. The cold is numbing, his coat is still wet from the fresh snow, hands arthritically aching, pressed to his chest. There is the dank aroma of dead plants and mossy decay, a winter freeze settling into the dormant earth. It has been some time since Bill has been here, deep in the jungled back- yard. Kathryn was the gardener, not him. He had let things get satisfyineg wild from the distance of the house, earth back to tangled earth. Now he is nestling his capped head under the dusty mildewed carpet, his body lying on the frozen ground of a former tomato bed in the greenhouse, quietly shivering. Julie had called him earlier that evening. He always felt vaguely chastised when he got off the phone with her. Who was the parent, and who was the child? She was coming in the morning, to lecture him about this and that, to tell him he was unable to take care of himself, to minimize his dissatisfactions, to attempt to take him from what he knew. After talking to her—rather, listening to her talk—he had kitted up, putting on his familiar black overcoat, cap, gloves, boots, and shuffled his way out the front door, pulling it firmly shut behind him, temper slightly heated. He needed some sharp air to knock into his skull, to breathe wetly into his lungs, clear his brain. He had sludged through the drifts of newly fallen snow down the front path, piling up, over shin-high. It had been snowing for the past twenty-four hours. Then he had been flat on his back on the driveway, sprawled out like the seventy-eight year old idiot he was. He had lain there, mildly surprised, cocooned by his bodily imprint. He watched the snowflakes drift down out of the blackness, becoming visible in the light from the front porch, the flakes sprinkling down, appearing out of noth- ing, slowly covering Bill like he was being gently blessed. It was terribly quiet. He could hear his breathing, see it appear in the air above him. He wanted to lie there forever. Minutes passed, the timer on the porch light went off, reducing everything to a flat darkness, and he became cold. He rolled over on his side and pulled himself up, his mood calmed. Unsteadily he made his way back to the front door, the light clicking on again, and he reached in his jacket for his keys. He felt deeply in the second pocket. Then in his pants. Going through pocket by pocket, crevice by crevice, searching for the hard push of metal. Soon he had exhausted all the places on his person. He looked back at the messy im- print he had made in the deepening snow, and physically winced. On his hands and knees he searched through the snow where he had fallen, digging with his gloved hands through the powder, until he had forgotten where he had searched already, and the light went out again. He slowly made his way around the house, sliding in the soft powdery wetness, trying the back door, hoping he had left a thoughtless window ajar somewhere. N 0 such luck. He sat on the back deck, not knowing what to do. He didn’t socialize with the neighbors anymore, only on head-nod terms these days, and what would they do anyway, call Julie? There 80 Murphy Square —.—~o.._Show less
Back Pocket Sandwich Tony Fremling Well she walked in the room and I came undone. As soon as I saw that girl I knew she was the one. And now I wanna’ put her picture in my locket, because she came to the party with a sandwich in her pocket. BACK POCKET SANDWICH. In the pocket, in the pocket in... Show moreBack Pocket Sandwich Tony Fremling Well she walked in the room and I came undone. As soon as I saw that girl I knew she was the one. And now I wanna’ put her picture in my locket, because she came to the party with a sandwich in her pocket. BACK POCKET SANDWICH. In the pocket, in the pocket in the back BACK POCKET SANDWICH. Prepared for anything, if she’s hungry. BACK POCKET SANDWICH. I think I saw some turkey on that BACK POCKET SANDWICH. Now I’m in love... Well she got on the floor and my jaw just dropped. I couldn’t believe my eyes how that booty popped. The best part, to my great surprise, was that hoagie in the rear of those Levi’s. BACK POCKET SANDWICH. In the pocket, in the pocket in the back. BACK POCKET SANDWICH. Prepared for anything, if she’s hungry. BACK POCKET SANDWICH. Where’s the tomato, gotta’ see tomato on that BACK POCKET SANDWICH. Now I’m in love... 68 Murphy Square Show less
Board of Editors Editor-in-Chief Brianna Olson—Carr Associate Editor Dalia Teodonno Layout Editor Josh Jones Fiction Editors William Trembley Laura Morales Poetry Editors Bryan Rassat N ou Yang Art Editors Rachel Kelly Josh Jones Faculty Advisor Cary Waterman \ 2 Murphy Square
