30 BELOW CONSCIOUS Hanna Cushng It is so cold that the sewers are belching opaque white steam, ghosts emerging from the cockroach infested undergirdings of the city. I drive through them in my car that won't warm up until I reach wherever it is that I am going. At home, I hover around radiators,... Show more30 BELOW CONSCIOUS Hanna Cushng It is so cold that the sewers are belching opaque white steam, ghosts emerging from the cockroach infested undergirdings of the city. I drive through them in my car that won't warm up until I reach wherever it is that I am going. At home, I hover around radiators, wish my landlord would install new windows. The crispness of the frigid air amplifies each empty space, each cmnching footstep, each drip of the faucet, a reminder of absence, creeping slowness, and the unbearable lightness of air drifting through gaps left in windows unheeded. This cold it permeates everything it touches. The walls are cold. The floors are cold. It pierces to the foundation. At night the fn‘gidity radiates from the wall above my head. I shield myself with pillows, But my sheets won't warm up until well after I have gone to sleep, 28 Show less
A horrific crack shot in the air interrupted Javier, and the bullet from Hank‘s pistol dug deep into Javier’s back. His eyes rolled back deep within his head, and his body fell to the sand, Motionless and lifeless, his body lay face down in the sand. “Looks like there is no one here to protect you... Show moreA horrific crack shot in the air interrupted Javier, and the bullet from Hank‘s pistol dug deep into Javier’s back. His eyes rolled back deep within his head, and his body fell to the sand, Motionless and lifeless, his body lay face down in the sand. “Looks like there is no one here to protect you now chica," laughed Hank. VIII. They were both approaching her as she sat leaning over Javier‘s body. Teresa hurried to her feet and turned to run, but Hank grabbed a handful of her dark brown hair and threw her back down to the ground. “You can thank your cheap boyfriend for this," he said as he pinned her down again. “All I asked for was $500 more dollars and I guess you just weren’t worth it.” He trailed his hands down the slit of her blouse and ripped it at the seam. He brought his hands to her neck before he sat up to say, “Damn it, Marian! Can I get a little privacy?" Marian, visibly upset, turned and headed back for the SUV. “That’s better," Hank said. “Now where were we?" Hank lowered his face to Teresa‘s and smelt the perfume on her neck. His scarred tongue trailed up her neck and to her cheek. This was worse than any nightmare she had ever had. Her fiancé lay face down in the sand, dead, and she was on the cusp of the becoming the sexual release for these rapists. Javier would have never let this happen, but after all, he did let it happen. She felt betrayed by her fiancé, but she would not let herself die in the desert. She waited as Hank's tongue moved across her cheek to her lips. She waited forjust enough of the tongue to emerge before she reached out and bit down as hard as she could. She hit the whole way through. Her mouth was filled with blood which she spat back into his face. Hank reached for his mouth and rolled off Teresa as blood poured from both sides. “What happened?" called Marian as he ran toward Teresa. “She's getting away. Teresa rolled to her feet and sprinted to the only safe spot she could see, the black SUV, but Marian was still between them. As the two closed in on each oth— er. Teresa hurled her bag towards Marian's face. He caught the bag with a chuckle that was interrupted by Teresa's right foot connecting to his groin. Marian fell to the ground, and Teresa ran for the SUV. She got in and turned on the car. She shifted the car into drive and the tires spun as the SUV's headlights turned on. And there it was. The opening in the fence had been less than 100 yards away the entire time. The tires finally found traction in the sand and she sped off. lean'ng Hank and Marian, and Javier, behind. I 57 Show less
GREY CARPET Eric Tankel The shades were drawn and the room was still. Light poured through the edges of the covered windows. I shifted slightly in bed. It was time to get up. The alarm clock sounded a chain of piercing beeps. I fumbled for the snooze button, sweeping my hand across the bedside... Show moreGREY CARPET Eric Tankel The shades were drawn and the room was still. Light poured through the edges of the covered windows. I shifted slightly in bed. It was time to get up. The alarm clock sounded a chain of piercing beeps. I fumbled for the snooze button, sweeping my hand across the bedside table. I heard a splash and then a thud. I sat up quickly and looked beneath the table in dismay. I had knocked over the tall cup of fluid that rested on the bed stand. I ran for the bathroom to grab a towel. The cup had been full, to the rim, with my urine. I had a rare condition called interstitial cystitis, a disease that affected the uri— nary tract. The doctor suggested that I abstain from spicy and acidic food, sodas and juices, and a whole list of other things that I enjoyed. I did, but more than a month after my diagnosis, I was still having problems. It seemed no matter what I put in my body my bladder and kidneys would swell and bleed. I had to get up to pee twenty times in a night. It was then I decided to keep a large cup by the bed. This was the second time I knocked over my piss receptacle that week. “Fucking shit,” I muttered as I sopped up the fluid from the carpet with my last good towel. The carpet was old shag that may have started its life twenty years ago as white. It had become more of a soiled gray color. My urine, a deep orange filled with clumps of white blood cells and small bits of bladder, had created a yel- low amoeba shaped stain by the bed. I thought, for a moment, what the future residents of this apartment would say as they arranged their bedroom set in the space. “Oh honey," the husband would say to his newlywed wife, “we should put the bed on the far wall. That way the armoire can hide this enormous piss stain." Hands moist, I tossed the soggy towel into the bathtub. I was running late. I yanked open the curtains. The sun was up past the horizon and the sky was light blue. I pulled some dirty clothes from the hamper and threw them on. The bus stop was half a mile away. It was a nice walk really, down a canal that ran behind a row of houses. Ijogged for a while until I was out of breath. The grass was wet with dew that soaked through my shoes and into my socks. I could feel sweat mnning down my back. I cut through an unfenced yard and walked the rest ofthe way on the street. People were leaving their homes to begin the day. There was a waitress in black pants and a stiff collared shirt. She carried a small black binder and folded apron at her side. There was a tradesman loading tools into the back of his pickup. A young businessman in an Italian suit set his briefcase in the back seat of a long black sedan. I walked dragging my feet in the pebbles along the side of street. I arrived at the bus stop early and sat down on the curb. I withdrew a small handful of change from my pocket and counted out the $1.30 fare. The coins were 44 Show less
cold in my sweaty hand. The bus came rumbling down the road, pulling a cloud of diesel smoke. It stopped by the sidewalk and the doors parted. I climbed inside and chose a seat next to a young Asian woman. “Hello,” I said offering the most sincere smile I could muster. “No English,” she replied... Show morecold in my sweaty hand. The bus came rumbling down the road, pulling a cloud of diesel smoke. It stopped by the sidewalk and the doors parted. I climbed inside and chose a seat next to a young Asian woman. “Hello,” I said offering the most sincere smile I could muster. “No English,” she replied and looked away, planting her gaze out the window. The bus was loud and dirty, every available surface covered in permanent marker. Scrawled on the back of the seat ahead of me was the word Obey, written in large stylized letters. Surrounded by cheerless and tired faces, I felt suffocated. Work was only three stops from my house. I could have easily walked there every- day ifI woke up a half hour earlier. It had been my New Year‘s resolution to stop taking the bus. I could save $2.60 every day and get back in shape. It was June, and I hadn’t walked to work once. I was employed at an electronics packaging plant. It was an enormous ware- house located in the back of a business development. Myjob was simple. I stood at one of thirty stations next to a long conveyer belt. Cell phones and cell phone accessories traveled down the belt and at each station they were boxed up and sent on their way. We were expected to package about three products a minute and our progress was logged on an elaborate computer system. Working there, I developed a new appreciation for consumer goods. Every time I purchased a package oflifesavers or a new pair of socks, I thought of the poor bastards that had thrown them into cardboard boxes to be shipped to retail- ers. I clocked in. The day had just begun and I was already dying to go home. I shoved items into packages and tried to keep busy. Other employees labored slowly with their heads hung low. The fluorescent lights hummed and buzzed. I wasn‘t all that close to anyone I worked with, but most days at lunchtime we would retreat to the woods behind the building to get high. Being stoned almost made work tolerable. The worst part was the pay. A temp agency had found me the job in two days, but they skimmed 20 percent off my check. It was maddening to know that I was surrounded by people that all made four dollars more than me. I couldn‘t seem to find anotherjob. The dull pain in my bladder grew sharper. I was allowed two bathroom breaks a shift so I had to make them count. I would wait until the grief was too much to bear and I would dash to the restroom. The doctor had said that holding my urine would worsen the condition, but I was afraid to ask my manager for special treatment. I took my first pee break halfway through the morning. My hands were coarse and covered in paper cuts. The soap stung as I washed them in the sink. After lunch, I looked around and cringed. I wanted everyone to look miserable and depressed, but instead most appeared content. They were stoned. They stood at their stations working methodically. At the end of every day, sheets were posted in the lounge displzm'ng our pro— ductivity. I examined my standing before clocking out for the night. I traced my 45 Show less
distinct wet thudding sound of fists hitting skin. I could guess their numbers to be about 4 or 5 from the amount oflimbs striking and grabbing at my body. They continued to punch my face, head, and neck, as other officers grabbed my legs and kneed my ribs. I resisted none at all andjust took the... Show moredistinct wet thudding sound of fists hitting skin. I could guess their numbers to be about 4 or 5 from the amount oflimbs striking and grabbing at my body. They continued to punch my face, head, and neck, as other officers grabbed my legs and kneed my ribs. I resisted none at all andjust took the beating, for I knew what self-defense meant in this situation. I felt once again an explosion of electric pain course through the fibers of my body. Surprisingly, I never lost conscious- ness, and was well aware of what was happening: I was getting beaten. Knowing that if they wanted to arrest me they would have to stop beating me, the police stopped pumping my veins full of electricity and hitting my face. Lying there face down in the dirt, blood pouring from my nose and face, my eyes swollen shut, my skin burning from the mace, my hands contorted behind me, and an officer slamming my face repeatedly up and down with his knee in my neck, I could do nothing but laugh. I let out a tremendous roar oflaughter and couldn‘t stop. It probably wasn't the best of circumstances, but deep down I felt good about my choice not to lie down and submit. I turned my face a little when the mechanical like voice spewed out, “Stop re— sisting arrest.” I continued to laugh as to say fuck you, you can break my body but you can't break my spirits. And with that, he shoved the can towards my face and proceeded to unload its chemical contents onto it. After what seemed like a blurry dream, they began to drag me towards a car that had pulled up. I could hear residents in the apartments yelling at the police and telling them off, and I could hear them shouting encouragement and com- passion at me (can’t recall exact words, but could feel the intentions behind the voices). I could also hear the uneasy tension in the officers' voices as the crowd grew larger. They quickly shuttled me off. They drove for a while, then got out. It was hard to cognize anything at this point; my ears rang and my body trembled, still twitching with electricity. I was blind. All the physical feeling I had left was pain of some sort. I could feel the blood pouring from my face, and I had lost all my senses to some degree, but my inner voice was as clear as ever and I could feel something deep inside that was calm and peaceful. After a while, they got back in and began to berate me with false accusations and lies and were threatening me. “You were rioting, you had a weapon, you were throwing fireworks, you assaulted an officer, you damaged property..." I laughed and thought to myself, by weapon do you mean that apple that was in my pocket? By rioting do you mean running from people aiming assault rifles at me? By fireworks do you mean those exploding grenades that were being shot at me? By assault do you mean not letting someone hit me with a club and shoot me with a tazer? By damage to property do you mean that patch of dirt stained with my blood? My only response was silence. I sat in the back of the police cruiser, bloodied and bruised, refusing to be broken and still smiling through my newly chipped teeth as we drove off into the dark streets of St. Paul towards the concrete fortress known as jail. I 42 Show less
FALLING (Excerpt) David Siegfried Jed gripped the hard wooden armrests in both of his thick brawny hands. The arm rests were, he was sure, not made with the intent to be smashed under the grip of stress and fear. Jed knew he was gripping them far tighter than what was even good for his hands, but... Show moreFALLING (Excerpt) David Siegfried Jed gripped the hard wooden armrests in both of his thick brawny hands. The arm rests were, he was sure, not made with the intent to be smashed under the grip of stress and fear. Jed knew he was gripping them far tighter than what was even good for his hands, but he couldn’t help it. He knew she knew too. She was his psychologist. Jed was gripping the chair as hard as he could because he knew what he had to tell her, and he knew she would not rest; he would not rest until he spilled his guts, and told her everything. “So...” she continued, leaning in, in anticipation. The question on the table was about Jed's dreams. Every time he would tell her a dream he felt as if she was receiving not a dream, rather a piece of his very soul. As if she was a surgeon learning about the heart, when he told her a dream she would get her tools out and dissect it. However, Jed could not resist either. “I had another dream.” He began, not knowing how to make this particular dream sound rosy. Jed wanted her to know he was okay so he could leave this place. He wanted her to say he was better, but his dreams never led her to that conclusion. He scanned the office, perhaps in a last minute effort to forge a new dream out of his broken imagination. Her walls were dark wooden panels that sucked the life out of the room. The books on the shelves had maybe once been lightly colored, bright and filled with illumination. In the dark room lit by two dull brass floor lamps, the books looked old; they were dusty, they were books of spells she could use against him, and he hated her for it. Yet something pushed him on. Jed hesitantly set his gaze on her eyes. “I was falling." That was a bad way to begin. “Another falling dream, Jed?” Jed knew she would be disappointed that he hadn’t made any progress in the last few sessions. He was having the falling dream almost twice a week now. Jed glanced at the carpet; the bland brown and dark red bits were arranged in a pattern of tiny squares that made up bigger and bigger ones. “You know very well what falling dreams are about, Jed, right?" She said look— ing at him, her pointed glasses seeming only to aid her pointy nose as she stared , down over it. He could feel the heat of her glance but could not bring himself to i raise his head and allow himself to meet her menacing gaze again. i i “Is it bad?" Jed asked. hoping her answer would change. but not raising his head for fear that her answer would be the same as last week. He glanced up as she marked some notes on her legal pad. The yellow paper shone brightly and was the only thing in the dark room that reminded him of the free outside air and the sun. The rest of her office was a cave: she was a cave. She , dressed in all black, hair Cut like she was an army general, Short and jagged. Her eyes, Jed knew, were brown in the light; he had seen her in the courtyard. In the dark of the offiCe, however, they were as black as everything else. Show less
the molecules moving as slowly as the seconds passing. I lie huddled like the lightest of ghosts, dreams belching from the sewer of my consciousness. , I drive through them until I reach wherever it is that I am going, ‘ and hope that when I get there, i it is warm. 29
too wrinkled to contribute. Vilify me, make me my unholy religion—— that is wrong, ludicrous, dangerous. Vilify me, make me my color-coded skin-- that delimits who I am, what I believe, what I’ll do. Vilify me, make me make villains-- out of men, out of women, out of all our human blood. 51
in Batzer Bay was as smooth as a stained glass window in a church, and as the colorful glass pictures of Bible characters, standing tall in a sanctuary, the water in Batzer Bay told a story. The bluffs absorbed the wind in the harsh wilderness, protecting the water below from any disturbance. I... Show morein Batzer Bay was as smooth as a stained glass window in a church, and as the colorful glass pictures of Bible characters, standing tall in a sanctuary, the water in Batzer Bay told a story. The bluffs absorbed the wind in the harsh wilderness, protecting the water below from any disturbance. I had never seen waves boil up on that protected water, as if there was magic at work. “The trout in here are very active because they are trapped," my dad ex— plained. “Your grandpa, Herald, was the first one to figure that out.“ I‘d heard the explanation many times. Every fall, just before the ice sealed Batzer Bay for many months, the trout journeyed through the shallow inlet to spawn. Batzer Bay was the perfect depth, and the many rounded football sized rocks lying on the bottom made for an ideal place to spawn. But by the time the eggs hatched in the spring, the shallow water in the entrance to the bay was too warm for the finicky trout to venture through. The narrow inlet was a wall, an impenetrable barrier for the lake trout, which were unable to tolerate water tem- peratures over fifty degrees Fahrenheit. It's as if the inlet to Batzer Bay sucked in the amorous trout for reproduction, but would not spit them back out into the spanning waters of the main lake. So, throughout the summer, the trapped fish stayed as deep as possible, seeking the nooks and crannies of Batzer Bay for water cool enough to keep their blood icy, hiding among the smooth rocks and decaying fallen trees on the bottom. As my father explained, my intuitive grandfather on my mother's side, Herald Batzer, discovered this oddity in the ecosystem of This—Man Lake. Forty years ago, in the quiet solitude of the Canadian wilderness, Herald Batzer and my grandmother, Teddy, wet their lines for the first time in the quiet little bay that was hard to find. “This spot looks good." My grandfather gave his approval to the silent water that expanded before them. It was 1968 and Herald and Teddie Batzer were on their summer canoe trip. My grandparents had never been to This—Man Lake before; they had fished all morning with only a few lake trout to show for their efforts. They hoped that this enchanting little bay they had discovered mo— ments ago would turn out to be a gem. Once through the inlet, where the bottom dropped quickly into the deep, something tugged at my grandmother's line. Being the wife of an outdoorsman and a skilled fisherman herself, my grandmother beat the three-pound lake trout with ease, even landing it herself without the aid of a net. Soon my grandfather hooked a fish of his own; the fish frenzied around my grandparents' baits for an hour or so. Herald and Teddie pulled fish into their canoe with such rapidity that they whooped with joy. Their yells echoed in the fish bowl that was the pit of the bay. The tall banks surrounding them sent their shouts back until the sound faded away among the chirping of birds and the whis— tling of wind that blew through the vast conifer forest. “I think we may have something here," my normally stoic grandfather beamed at my grandmother. She continued to fish without answering him and hooked another feisty trout; the fish was answer enough for Herald, who landed it with the net. “We should call this spot Batzer Bay." My grandfather said this almost to 15 Show less
W I// 0 5 7 l7) 5’ ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 9007 Editor: Joe Brown Associate Editor: Kayla Skarbakka Managing Editor: Bethany Hellerich Copy Editor: Andrea Sanow Cover Design: Joe Brown and Kayla Skarbakka Art and Literature Board: Dave Madsen Alissa Nollan Andrea Sanow Emily Kline Faculty Advisor: Robert... Show moreW I// 0 5 7 l7) 5’ ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 9007 Editor: Joe Brown Associate Editor: Kayla Skarbakka Managing Editor: Bethany Hellerich Copy Editor: Andrea Sanow Cover Design: Joe Brown and Kayla Skarbakka Art and Literature Board: Dave Madsen Alissa Nollan Andrea Sanow Emily Kline Faculty Advisor: Robert Cowgill Special Thanks: Printing Enterprises, Inc., Kristy Johnson, Glenna Lewis, Susan Boecher, John Finkler, Molly O’Donnell, Michele Roulet, Josiah Quick, Mason Mitchell, Kristine Tichich Murphy Square is a publication of Augsburg College Copyright 2009 by the authors and artists. All rights reserved. Reproduction without permission is prohibited. Show less
they came to a stop. “Are we across?" Teresa asked. Hank didn‘t answer. He looked at Marian and they exchanged a nod. Hank turned around and said to Javier: “We need to have a word.” Hank opened his door and got out. He opened the back door, and told Javier to step out. Teresa had to stay. VII.... Show morethey came to a stop. “Are we across?" Teresa asked. Hank didn‘t answer. He looked at Marian and they exchanged a nod. Hank turned around and said to Javier: “We need to have a word.” Hank opened his door and got out. He opened the back door, and told Javier to step out. Teresa had to stay. VII. There was no need to worry; Hankjust had to give Javier advice for when they crossed. Teresa sat and watched as Javier's body reacted to whatever Hank had said. His arms flailed and pointed every which way. Marian was also watching the two converse, and after Javier’s movements became less than composed, he too got out of the SUV. Alone in the back seat, Teresa sat and watched. Marian had taken ground be- side Hank, arms crossed. Then, quicker than any man of his size should be able to move, Marian lunged and grabbed Javier from behind. He held him with his feet dangling as Hank threw fist after fist at him. “Javier!” she screamed. Punch after punch. She couldn‘t watch any more. She opened her door and ran for Hank with her bag in her arms. She wound up and swung at the pasty Ameri- can as he beat her fiancé. The bag bounced off his head, and Hank turned around. “So you want to play too," he said as the back of his palm ripped across her face. Teresa fell to the ground, and Hank mounted her, arms pinned by his knees. “You’re too pretty to cut, but struggling only makes it worse," he said as he stared into her eyes and sniffed her hair. “Let go of her!” Javier screamed. “As you wish,” Hank yelled, then with one swift fist he punched Teresa harder than she had ever been hit before. She lay in the sand, and Hank got up. “Hold him," he said to Marian as he walked back to the SUV. “Teresa. Teresa. Levantate! Levantate!" Javier screamed for her to get up, but she could barely move. Laying there her face on the sand, she saw Javier held immobile by Marian, and how could she save him? He was supposed to protect her. How had this even happened? She knew it was a bad idea. As he struggled, finally Javier connected with a head thrust backwards into Marian’s face. He recoiled from the hit, dropping Javier, who ran straight for Teresa. He bent down and sat her up to look at the bruise that already started to form. “We have to go, can you get up?“ Javier asked her. She never had heard his voice so shaky. “I'm sorr—" 56 Show less
Glories, Rebecca Reilly 36 Recipe, Rebecca Reilly 37 A Shrimp Dinner, Sammie Guck 38 Republican National Convention 2008, B. A. * 40 School of the America Faces, Jakob Anderson 43 Grey Carpet, Eric Tankel 44 Solitude, Jesse Seward 47 Man, Upon the Discovery of Garbage, Sammie Guck 48 Epidemic,... Show moreGlories, Rebecca Reilly 36 Recipe, Rebecca Reilly 37 A Shrimp Dinner, Sammie Guck 38 Republican National Convention 2008, B. A. * 40 School of the America Faces, Jakob Anderson 43 Grey Carpet, Eric Tankel 44 Solitude, Jesse Seward 47 Man, Upon the Discovery of Garbage, Sammie Guck 48 Epidemic, Malena Thoson* 50 Bridge, Makoto Abe 52 Sea Glass, Cobh, Kayla Skarbakka 53 Hue on the Horizon, Joe Brown 54 My Dream, Cam N. Le 58 Walk, Don’t Run, D. E. Green 59 * Winners of the 2008 faculty—juried John Engman Writing Prize. Murphy Square also congratulates the following Engman winning writers: Honorable Mention: Becca Reilly (Poetry) Andrea Sanow (Prose) Amanda Symes (Creative Nonfiction) Betsy Collins (Creative Nonfiction) Notice of Merit: Laura Vitzthum (Fiction) Emily Hanson (Fiction) Unfortunately, due to space constraints, we are unable to publish these pieces. Show less
FOX TROT Andrea Sanow My aunt Aggie told me to never go into the cornfield because I would get lost and never be able to find my way back out. The field was right across the gravel road from her house. The gravel road served as the end point to a one mile by one mile section of com. I would watch it... Show moreFOX TROT Andrea Sanow My aunt Aggie told me to never go into the cornfield because I would get lost and never be able to find my way back out. The field was right across the gravel road from her house. The gravel road served as the end point to a one mile by one mile section of com. I would watch it shrivel and contract in the summer; it was a field of sea urchins on those hot July days. There were always birds, grasshop- pers, ants and mice going in and out. I would stand at the edge of the field, the tassel of the com a foot higher than my five-year old head, and wait for a mouse to scurry out. I never caught one. Most of the time, I watched it run into the gravel road and then into her driveway straight towards the egg-shell blue house. Then it would turn, sharp, and run into the grass. I loved to watch them disap- pear and wondered if they ever found their way back out. I didn’t have any friends aside from my brother, so I spent my mornings waiting for Aggie to come home from cleaning other people's houses. My brother was there most of the time; other times he was off playing with friends. Almost always I would end up watching the “The Price is Right” or staring at the corn as it swayed outside of the living room window. It was breathing, and moving, never still. It could have swallowed the town. “Mary,” David said one day when he was sick of watching TV. “Let’s go in the sandbox." We got up lazily and went through the backdoor, through the garage and out- side. We set up the G.I. Joes on the edge. We built a castle with our one blue pail and then dug a moat around it with our hands. David got the hose, I set the army men in their lookouts, and then we flooded the sandbox until it was mud. We sat with our feet in the mud, squishing it through the spaces between our toes in the silence. “Race you," David said, and ran to the garage. I followed his muddy trail and got on my big wheel. We set out down the driveway, onto the gravel. Five min- utes later we were walking our big wheels back, exhausted by the rocks. The only paved road was the highway that was up the street. It led to bigger towns, but we rarely went on it. We weren't allowed to be near it; it was dangerous and longer than any cornfield we could wander into. Aggie popped her head out of the house across the street. “Watch the weather, you two," she said with a vacuum cord in her hand. “It might rain.” She looked towards the clouds and I followed her eyes to the sky. Across the cornfields and county roads, miles away, the sky was dark gray. It looked like night was creeping across the prairie. I felt like I had been awake for hours. My hair was sticking to my face. The backs of my hands were wet from sweating. The bug bite on my forehead stung. To escape the humidity and oncom- ing storm, David and I went inside to watch “Power Rangers." We were sprawled across the brown living room carpet when I saw something move in the cornfield. 4 Show less
MAN, UPON THE DISCOVERY OF GARBAGE Sammie Guck Abraham said to God, “Discard this Earth And make me a new one ifyou love me So much, for the whole thing is swelling with Waste, and some of the colors Are not as bright as I want." And the Lord replied, “Child, would you Really have Me destroy it... Show moreMAN, UPON THE DISCOVERY OF GARBAGE Sammie Guck Abraham said to God, “Discard this Earth And make me a new one ifyou love me So much, for the whole thing is swelling with Waste, and some of the colors Are not as bright as I want." And the Lord replied, “Child, would you Really have Me destroy it all? Suppose I were to show You ten night skies: cool, smooth black and Clean white light. Would you not spare the place For the sake of the ten?" And Abraham replied, “Lord, you must Destroy it all, because the sun is incessantly Hot, even when I desire to be cool, and The wind blows Someone Else’s garbage And rotting Styrofoam into my yard.” And the Lord, whose voice was beginning To crack, replied, “Please, you whom I love Most, do not make Me. Suppose I were To show you thirty forests, of such deep And dusky richness that you would forget The sound of an engine. Would you not Spare the place for the sake of the thirty?" And Abraham replied, “Lord you are not Listening. I tire of this world. I find that there are not Nearly enough games to be played and too many Rough patches where I cannot even make a Phone call. All ofit must go." And the Lord, His eyes shining With tears, pleaded, “Dearest one, please let Me Keep it. Suppose I were to show you Sixty people: the wisest women, the Bravest boys, a man who can sing so clearly That you would swear his voice was made of Water. Would you not spare the place for the Sake of the sixty? For these, my children?” 48 Show less
THE WEDDING PICTURE Alissa Nollan In a purple satin dress, I peer out under Poppa‘s chin, only four years old. He holds me tight on his lap, while he looks away, faded faces frozen in time. In the dark room behind us, we nearly glow, in the Polaroid's flash. I've scrawled our names beneath it, as... Show moreTHE WEDDING PICTURE Alissa Nollan In a purple satin dress, I peer out under Poppa‘s chin, only four years old. He holds me tight on his lap, while he looks away, faded faces frozen in time. In the dark room behind us, we nearly glow, in the Polaroid's flash. I've scrawled our names beneath it, as though I’d forget who we were. 12 Show less
