were slanted diagonally towards them. I felt like I was flying through golden fields that melted into the end- less expanse of the sky. It was impossible to take in the enormity of the whole world that surrounded me. I couldn’t help but think about my trip to New York for a cross country meet at... Show morewere slanted diagonally towards them. I felt like I was flying through golden fields that melted into the end- less expanse of the sky. It was impossible to take in the enormity of the whole world that surrounded me. I couldn’t help but think about my trip to New York for a cross country meet at NYU in September. It reminded me of how little I liked to fly. The long lines at the airport. The cramped seats on the plane. To dis- tract myself from the humming of the air vents and the grumpy passenger next to me, I buried my ears in my headphones and cast my gaze outside the small, cir- cular, porthole window. The first half of the flight, we were above significant cloud cover. I couldn’t see any- thing but fields of fiocculent clouds. I admit that it was quite beautiful, but it adds to the illusion of traveling by plane. Somehow, one takes off from Point A and ar— rives at Point C, without ever really seeing much of B in between. Yes, I saw the clouds, and when they cleared away, I could see pockets of civilization, separated by the patchwork—quilt farm fields and property lines, but nothing was in real time—I was cruising above every— thing at nearly 500 miles per hour. I could see barns and farm houses surrounded by large oaks and pines—indi— vidual communities set off from one another. \Vhen it got dark, I also could see the glow ofcities and the dark- ness of the countryside—so separated and individual. On the train, I was in the midst of both nature and small civilization. I was not just watching them from afar, passing over them at tremendous speeds. I was strolling along at 70 miles per hour. I could see each cow, each horse, each house, each patch of dying grass, each gently rolling hill, and each telephone pole at earth-level. We never had to take an "exit" to pass through a town. Sometimes we coasted along their edg- es. Other times, we charged right through the centers of 4-1 them. There was no separation between the open prai- ries and the quiet settlements of Minot or \Villiston, North Dakota. Everything blended together. Nighttime on a train is hypnotic. Before falling asleep, I write in my journal. My notes are unusually messy— partially from thejarring motions of the train. partially because I am being lulled to sleep by the gentle undula— tions ot‘a giant cradle. I enter a sort ofliniinal stauhnot quite awake, but yet fully asleep. From my seat, I can see America pass silently by outside of my window as I finally drift off to sleep. Show less
STARI NG CONTEST Alon/w My family has reunited for my cousin Donny's wedding in Big Lake, Minnesota, the largest city in a county known for its hiin rates of incest. My home- town's name is oxymoronic: its lake is not big at all. 'l‘welve—year—olds can swim across it. Fish houses fight for space... Show moreSTARI NG CONTEST Alon/w My family has reunited for my cousin Donny's wedding in Big Lake, Minnesota, the largest city in a county known for its hiin rates of incest. My home- town's name is oxymoronic: its lake is not big at all. 'l‘welve—year—olds can swim across it. Fish houses fight for space every January. Pale bodies crowd its single decent beach every warm day of summer. It might not even be a lake—more like a glorified pond. A half—mile away, I twiddle my thumbs in time with cousins, aunts, uncles, and three sets of Scandina— vian grandparents. \Ve wait in the lobby of Big Lake's Saron Lutheran Church while the wedding planner skitters about, entertaining the idea of beginning the rehearsal This is the church in which my mom and dad were married and where I attended Sunday school un- til I was five. My parents divorced about then, and my departure from Big Lake brought a departure from the Church. Saron Lutheran has been remodeled since then; it feels as ifa soccer mom donned yellow rubber gloves and disinfected the already sterile building. She wanted the church to match the style of her recently built home—tight Berber carpet and flat eggshell walls that stand free of decoration except for lightly stained trim. A Jesus—free cross is stained to match the color of the pews. Twinkling above the tip of the cross is a single stained glass window made of large shards of color. There are no rosary beads dan— gling from rheumatic hands, no vat of holy water for sprinkling, no painting ofa virgin holding her child. Inside the newly bland lobby, I am reuniting with family I have not seen since I moved to London more than a year ago to spend my junior year of college abroad. I approach my grandparents before the rehears- al begins, shake hands with my grandpa and loosely hug my grandmother. Grandpa nods and mumbles, “How's .Ieffdoing?" Grandma says the same: “How’s Jeff?" I nod and tell them my summer has been busy; it will be good to start school again in a few weeks. Silence creeps between us like an extended el— lipsis. Their eyes wander. I wait for my grandparents to pick up the Con- versation by asking about my year in London or the month I spent in Thailand teaching English, about my work at the Minnesota AIDS Project, about my upcom— ing senior year. About the grandson they haven't seen in a year. I watch their gazes flit everywhere but into my eyes. Just when the tension grows strong enmiin to feel like static electricity, the wedding planner steps forward to commence the rehearsal. She provides the convenient distraction for which my family members al— ways hope. They turn their attention to her and hang on every word. I remember a time when distractions like the one provided by the wedding planner weren’t sought out—or, more realistically, a time when I was too young to notice. This ideal age, around nine, allowed for a content view of the world. Almost every weekend of that summer we drove three hours north to our cabin on Horseshoe Lake. Except for my grandparents, we always arrived first, sometime late Friday afternoon. Aunts, uncles, and cousins—including Donny and his sister Chrissy—showed up later in the evening. Our grandparents wait inside the cabin to greet us. My grandma puts her arm around my shoulders and asks, “How's Jeff?" My grandpa ruffles my hair—a ges- ture that would evolve into a handshake in just a few years. 16 Show less
My father was a young man when he went to Vietnam. I remember as a child looking at the photo- graphs in the family album of my father in uniform and thinking that he must be someone very special and that it must have been a wonderful time to be alive. I still look through those albums when I go... Show moreMy father was a young man when he went to Vietnam. I remember as a child looking at the photo- graphs in the family album of my father in uniform and thinking that he must be someone very special and that it must have been a wonderful time to be alive. I still look through those albums when I go home. In one photograph, my father leans against a wall of sandbags, stacked just high enough to support the elbow of his bent left arm. A dirty t-shirt hangs around his thin waist. His dark black hair and brown eyes distract only slightly from his trademark smirk, the right corner of the lips turned up slightly, but not enough to reveal a dimple. I recognize his eyes as my own. I wonder who he sees behind the camera. The sandbags hide nothing. They stand rigid in front of a shallow gravel pit. It seems strange that there would be reason to protect it, but I think about it only for a moment before my attention returns to my father. His color is not quite right. The entire photo has a peculiar tint of green, shades of peas and fresh broken twigs and traffic lights. From it, I believe Vietnam must be entirely made of green, layered with some red for good measure. I don’t remember the first time I came across those photographs, tucked between baby pictures and Easter photos. A few were taken by the Army when he enlisted. They are choppy around the edges, tiny bits of white showing where they were cut from a sheet. He stands like any soldier, poised and proud before a midnight blue backdrop and a limp oversized American Flag. Others are Polaroids taken by people I know noth- ing about and are tinted like the sixties. My only acquaintance with the sixties is through war movies, stock footage, and political maga— zines. I was born in 1974-, one year and ten months after 6 R E E N H cal/Mr H [Willa/l US. troops began to pull out of Vietnam. Some fifty- eight thousand Americans died in the war. My father came home in 1969. My big sister was born in January of 197:5. That very month, the removal of troops began, and America began the post—Vietnam era. While the mourning of mothers slowly began to fade, my sister and I enjoyed our childhood. When I was eight, my sister and l pitched a big green tent. The box proclaimed that it would “sleep sev— en men." My father helped us pound in the stakes after we found just the right spot in the back yard along the tree line on our ten acre hobby farm in \Visconsin. It was not the first time we slept in the tent. “'e often made a camp there in an attempt to escape the overwhelming heat of our trailer home. We once tried to sleep there in a storm, but the wind raged and the trees seemed to hate us. I grabbed my sister's hand and dragged her screaming into the house. After that, we always asked Dad to come with us, but he always refused. Mom said he didn't like tents. My mom often explained my father. I found his Purple Heart in the top drawer ofour cherry wood cabi— net when I was ten. It was tucked away behind the num— ber two pencils and greeting cards and postage stamps. I opened the small velvet-lined ring box, but did not touch the medal. I knew what it meant, but I don't know how I knew. I brought it to my mother. She took it in the palm of her hand and held it out in front of her. “He was injured in a roadside explosion," she said. “He still has shrapnel in his back and his side." As we grew older, the war continued to come out sideways. Every time my dad identified a helicopter overhead by the sound of the blades, we were reminded. When I told him at the age of twenty-two about a trip I 2'7 Show less
A THURSDAY IN NOVEMBER AIM/10!!) RIM/mi Instinct reminds me to lauin approximately Every ’7 V2 minutes at thejokes that are not funny. I haven't heard a word these friends have spoke For the last 4 episodes, But ifl laugh. they will not notice. Every 23 minutes I walk to the kitchen and Subtract... Show moreA THURSDAY IN NOVEMBER AIM/10!!) RIM/mi Instinct reminds me to lauin approximately Every ’7 V2 minutes at thejokes that are not funny. I haven't heard a word these friends have spoke For the last 4 episodes, But ifl laugh. they will not notice. Every 23 minutes I walk to the kitchen and Subtract I from my 30 pack of Hamms. I have lost 11 pounds in the 2 weeks since you left. As a result, I try to eat and finish I thing every day. Today I ate 2 slices of wheat bread, 1 package of Rainen Noodles, And 1‘2 a cupcake. Went to :2 classes Smoked 16 cigarettes Drank 9 beers and 1 glass of whiskey that waited for me by the couch where I passed out last night. Burned + bowls 2 candles And 1 right thumb. “’rote 1 poem Did 0 homework And thought about you 1,387 times...1,388...1.:589... Show less
Cali” I mine He slowed to a walk. Then he stopped. He heard him— self breathing hard. Without thinking he gripped the buttons on either side of his Ironman and stopped the timer. This is it? he said out loud, and felt too dramatic for doing so. He wasn't a dramatic person by any means, but he... Show moreCali” I mine He slowed to a walk. Then he stopped. He heard him— self breathing hard. Without thinking he gripped the buttons on either side of his Ironman and stopped the timer. This is it? he said out loud, and felt too dramatic for doing so. He wasn't a dramatic person by any means, but he felt like feeling sorry for himself, he felt like tak— ing stock of his life. But then he became distracted. Looking around at the woods next to the path and the houses across the street from where he stood, he won— dered for second where he was. He gazed up the path as he would were he running and got his bearings again. Yes, he’d been here before, but before he'd been running past with his eyes on distant objects, using these mark— ers to help him hold his form and keep his tempo steady. He felt the wind for the first time and realized that it had grown cool. He'd been running for a while, he wasn't sure how long, and he'd been following a route along the road above the river, a route he followed al- most daily, almost religiously. He'd been running and thinking, mapping out the week, putting together to—do lists, thinking about the coming weeks, the due dates, the rest of the semester, the projects to get done. the papers to grade, and he had chugged to a stop when his thoughts returned to the book he hadn't written, the career he hadn’t had. It was what he was going to do when he got older, some time down the road. But here he was, down the road, older, a knee tender to the touch, and he hadn't done much. It had happened so fast that he missed most ofit somehow. He missed his late twenties and early thirties. And now he was doubt- ing it would ever happen. In recent months, when he opened a novel, he read the blurb about the writer, he checked the person's birth date against the book's pub- lication date, he did the math, and then grew anxious instantly-and again today, after pulling the blinds in his THE SHORT HAPPY LIFE OF THE NOVELIST office, and while quickly shrugging out of his slacks and dress shirt and hopping into his running clothes while eating part of bagel and downing ajug ofGatorade, he glanced at a crisp, hard, new book written by a local author. She’s six years younger than I am, he thought, setting it down on his desk with a thud before slipping out of his office to get in a quick run, feeling guilty for leaving, for not working, for not getting things done so that he could start getting other things done, so that he could do what this woman, this writer, had done. And what have I done? he asked himself now, coming back to that moment and that book and all others he'd read. It was growing dark and the wind smelled of snow. He was walking again, working back up to a slow, heavy jog. His body had taken over the controls. It had decided that to walk would take too long. He yielded. Besides, he knew his wife would wonder why he hadn't checked in, and he didn't have the energy to argue with her or even to lie to her. Then he remembered that they had fought this morning about who should pick up their daughter at daycare this afternoon, but he couldn't remember what they decided. He had better hurry. He lengthened his stride, felt himself push past his familiar pace, ad— justed his steps as he approached the curb at the edge of the road, looked to his right and saw a car coming, calculated, cleared the curb effortlessly, felt that famil- iar surge. that spring, that strength down in his legs and across his chest. He glided in front of the car, saw himself as he knew the driver saw him, sleek, power— ful. Three strides, one, two, three, and the car passed behind him. Confident, alive, he checked to see ifhe had restarted his stopwatch, which read 86:00 on the nose. Interesting, he thought, glancing to his left. The end. Show less
My father built his house, so he had the right to control its color—brown carpet, brown cabinetry, brown curtains, brown end tables. It was a split—level with an unfinished basement and a two-car garage, the idyllic family home on three acres surrounded by deciduous forest just outside Big Lake,... Show moreMy father built his house, so he had the right to control its color—brown carpet, brown cabinetry, brown curtains, brown end tables. It was a split—level with an unfinished basement and a two-car garage, the idyllic family home on three acres surrounded by deciduous forest just outside Big Lake, Minnesota. The town is now home to commuters who vacate to Minneapolis and St. Paul each day. But when I grew up, a trip to the “the cities" was for one of three reasons: a death, a de— parture from the airport, or new clothes for school. The town was drab and stagnant like a field left dead for a season. The house I grew up in seemed to match. I remember telling my dad I hated the brown. "There's too much,” I said. “It looks too dirty." The man who dug his own basement and poured the gravel of his own driveway didn't care for a six—year—old's com— ments. “So?” he said. The argument was over. The house would eventually receive updates. Beige Berber replaced shag. Stone colored laminate flooring covered over the interlocking tan and brown patterned linoleum of the kitchen. These changes had nothing to do with my design advice as a kindergar— tener; they happened after the house I grew up in bifur- cated. My parents divorced. An atom splits and kills millions. An atom splits and powers a tri—state area. When my mother and father Split, not much happened. They were merely ionic, two opposites easily drawn apart. I remember my mother telling me about the di— vorce on a long walk down a service road beside a corn— field. “We’re going to be moving," she said. My broth— er, then seven, looked confused. As a five year old, I was excited. 59 POLAR FORCES illoorex "Do we get a new dish washer?" I asked. "And I get a new room?" My brother may have started crying. Maybe I didn't understand what it meant; maybe I didn't care. Ten years later, remodeling began on the brown house. Rooms changed one at a time, emerging from the 70s and 805 like pop stars looking for comebacks. Meanwhile, I grew up in the next town over, Monticello, which was larger by a few thousand people and prettier. Thanks to the Mississippi River and a very chic nuclear power plant, the town boasted more pres- tige than Big Lake, where high school graduates hung around and worked at gas stations. Still, "Monti" \\ asn't as nice as Bufifalo, the county seat on Highway 5:3. In Buffalo, girls took riding lessons and sold antiques from their parents’ shops. In Monticello, we were math club nerds. band geeks, cheerleaders, and junkies. \\'e lived everywhere from trailer parks (there were two to choose from) to riverside communities with names like Sleepy Hollow and RiverCrest. Monticello felt better, greener, than Big Lake. I felt assured by the sign that still hangs near I— 94, welcoming drivers heading southeast toward Min— neapolis: “Monticello: Gateway to the Twin Cities". I still spent weekends at my dad‘s hrown house, mostly sitting on the brown couch with my feet on the brown coffee table, watching TV as my dad and brother hunted or went to boat shows. It seemed like a nice life— all the Mountain Dew I could drink, all the Soft Batch cookies I could eat. I never wondered ifl should feel guilty for not showing excitement for my dad‘s pastimes, as ifI should be hunting geese or practicing my drive with the old golf clubs in the garage. As a six-year-old I told him I wasn't interested in his brown house. As I got older, I repeatedly told him I wasn't interested in him. Show less
KILLING TIME (710/er Nil/g Drinking in my brain Full of blossoms and fruits Sweetness that mixes well with smirs Containing the essences of passion Soaking up the wetness of time Humming nonsense grammar Twisting to the beat of rhyme Giving the anL'fit of the doubt To breathe on
ORPHANED STARES jermgy Alli/(ITO!) shifting through her melancholy eyes her eyes stay dry as she stares aimlessly as l break down entrapped by what she hides and begin to cry her pigtails seem to leap out toward the sun the same one that she feels so far from her tricycle wheels stand halted in... Show moreORPHANED STARES jermgy Alli/(ITO!) shifting through her melancholy eyes her eyes stay dry as she stares aimlessly as l break down entrapped by what she hides and begin to cry her pigtails seem to leap out toward the sun the same one that she feels so far from her tricycle wheels stand halted in parallel with her youth as the other kids ride by exalted she stares mute wearing a bright purple dress that dulls into her gloom as the sun beats down with open space that she's not ready to grow into staring through the darkness with her heart trapped in a cast suffocating to grow but without the foresight to ask her daddy sold his soul so long ago only saw her as a monetary crutch and pawned her off to another man's touch so instead of her dream of being treated like a queen she fell victim to a fiend now she stares into her prison cause her four year old mouth has no one to listen ifl could capture the spanglisties maybe I could trick her into a smile free her mind with a moment of denial but her stare drains my sense of speak realizing I can't help feeling stranded and weak and in her stare 68 Show less
we stand out our fair skin radiates like the Vegas strip stumbling by the dozen with our cameras cocked and ready we don‘t fit the scene we attempt to dress down and abandon the commercial trademarks that blanket our egos but even our down to earth homage feels like a manipulated statement fasting... Show morewe stand out our fair skin radiates like the Vegas strip stumbling by the dozen with our cameras cocked and ready we don‘t fit the scene we attempt to dress down and abandon the commercial trademarks that blanket our egos but even our down to earth homage feels like a manipulated statement fasting from fashion like a Lenten sacrifice and as time waddles forward I can't seem to alienate from what I am walking the streets devoid of signs navigation becomes enticing each turn slips away from the awkward apprehensiveness only captivated by the journey motion becomes free and l descend from all premonition of returning ON THE STREETS OF SAN SALVADOR jw‘mgy AIM/0mm; there's black M-sixteens guarding every coming and through their silence they blend into white noise while the reverend’s white collar transcends into his black shirt I traveled through the grey before but never conceived of the vastness saw the contradiction as merely a nuisance but now I lose myself wandering through it each strand of black or white only shows me how much more grey exists I don't seem to stand out anymore instead ofexamining myself I begin to observe the pain sorrow courage and resourcefulness we all share and then I blend into oblivion Show less
Ln FIRST T|M§_BLADE 'Il'r/q’)’ Hllxrl Be careful on thejaw line It is your first time \Vith a blade Cracking the egg of manhood You are a Cowboy Reflection As simple as they all said But you can still grunt Feel, smell musk Your sandy neck melts to glass From a pridc's heat or From the blade
They shake their heads, At those poor Asian women, Who wrapped their feet so tightly, To keep them from growing. They could almost cry just thinking about it. If only their eyes were healed completely from the last surgery, If only their eyeliner wouldn’t smudge, If only the tears wouldn't loosen... Show moreThey shake their heads, At those poor Asian women, Who wrapped their feet so tightly, To keep them from growing. They could almost cry just thinking about it. If only their eyes were healed completely from the last surgery, If only their eyeliner wouldn’t smudge, If only the tears wouldn't loosen the adhesive on their new imported Panda hair eyelashes. They could almost shed a tear for those poor Asian feet. Perfect on the outside, While they slowly rot within. (II in Show less
RAIN DE. Crew Rain pelts the screen of my office window So hard I have to shut it for the first time Since the start of classes: these bullet Drops are straining to get in. but I won't Have them swelling my file folders Or diluting the handouts for my PM class. Still, it's grand—the clicking, the... Show moreRAIN DE. Crew Rain pelts the screen of my office window So hard I have to shut it for the first time Since the start of classes: these bullet Drops are straining to get in. but I won't Have them swelling my file folders Or diluting the handouts for my PM class. Still, it's grand—the clicking, the ping Of heaven coming to earth after such a dry spell. Little wonder we have missed it, longed To hear its beat, to awaken from the hum Of the computer, the phone's beep. the electronic Slumber into which we have been cast. These leaden skies are promising, renew Our arid lives: Before the sun, the dew. 2,:an 999;“03 gum IO Show less
Early on, before I started high school, he'd ask a new set ofquestions as each season started. All the trees stood empty and brown—do you want to come to the duck slough with us? Snow began falling—are you sure you don't want your own deer stand this year? Frostbite claimed fingers and toes—want... Show moreEarly on, before I started high school, he'd ask a new set ofquestions as each season started. All the trees stood empty and brown—do you want to come to the duck slough with us? Snow began falling—are you sure you don't want your own deer stand this year? Frostbite claimed fingers and toes—want to come sit in the fish house with us? I answered "no" every time, abhorring the thought of sitting outside for hours just to kill an ani— mal. I waited until the weekend was over, took my legs down from the brown coffee table, and went back to Monticello, where the only brown in my house was the wooden floor. Everything else was white—the walls, the linoleum siding and matching detached garage, even the gray concrete of the driveway contrasted the copper— colored pebbles of my father's gravel. My new home, my second home, sat in the middle of town, six blocks from my elementary school, seven blocks from my high school, three blocks from the Mississippi, and eight blocks from the freeway. Every year I spent in Monticello meant more digression from my history in Big Lake. I stopped spending weekends at my dad's altogether. [joined activities he and his family had never heard of—mock trial and speech team. Before that, I had been in activities they knew of but avoid— ed—musicals and boys choir concerts. I played piccolo in my marching band. My father saw one or two of these concerts or parades, but generally expressed muted in— terest. He sometimes asked me about my life. “So, you have a band concert coming up or anything?" “Yeah, next Tuesday. Remember? I told you about it two weeks ago." “Oh, well I'll see ifI can make it. I might have to plow if it snows next week." “Okay. Whatever." I pretended not to care. “Well, just be sure to let me know about these things, you know, so I know ahead of time, ya know," he added a Minnesotan ending to most of his phrases, the ambiguous and passive “ya know." I stared at the TV or kept my eyes in the book I was reading. This pattern continued in college. "So...what are you studying again?" “English, Dad, I'm majoring in English." “Hm.” His sentences started with some hem or haw. "Well what are you going to do with that? You go- ing to teach, or...?" His sentences ended with a drawn out “orrrr,” descending unintelligibly at the end. I used to answer, before I lost patience. Then I'd give my spiel: graduate, work a while, grad school, maybe a PhD. I fed him “world is my oyster" crap that makes soon-to—be graduates feel comfortable with feel- ing absolutely lost. But my dad had never tasted oysters. And he wasn't concerned with seeing the world. He had Big Lake, a brown house, and a solid blacktop driveway he had paved a few years after updating the linoleum and carpet. I lived across the river next to the freeway, which I drove down soon after graduating high school, toward a nucleus ofa city that allows me expression, creativity, free thought, and color. My parents divorced when I was five, and it seemed the break was well contained, mutual even. But at least one particle has been constantly repelled from my father since that divide. I am his son; I will always be his creation; but I am, simultaneously. his opposite. 60 Show less
Finally, I like the title and purpose of Alum/iv Square because it is neither pretentious nor timid. It isjust what it is. take it or leave it. Certainly there is pride in competitive publication, but, I trust, not a false pride nor an overweening one. And the truth is, the literary magazine is... Show moreFinally, I like the title and purpose of Alum/iv Square because it is neither pretentious nor timid. It isjust what it is. take it or leave it. Certainly there is pride in competitive publication, but, I trust, not a false pride nor an overweening one. And the truth is, the literary magazine is an institution in and of itself. Check the archive in the library. It was here before we arrived (going back to the Roaring £205 and The Jazz Age) and will be here long after we have passed. And there our poems and stories and photographs and art works and recogni- tions of editorial contributions will be manifested, speaking of our living and feeling presence to the future from the past. There's not much in our studious lives that performs such a cherished role and acquires such a persistent value. John Mitchell is an associate professor at Augsburg College and faculty adviser emeritus to Wimp/1y Square. vi Show less
63 M I L L I CA N jail/8t” B/ixt She is a witch — Crack grinned and jut jawed Standing erect against crooked moon. Carrion arms encased by dry skin bark crevasse and crease telling tales of reaching tree—branch up, scraping blood from the sky. She rides in rejuvenating red rinse — and the death... Show more63 M I L L I CA N jail/8t” B/ixt She is a witch — Crack grinned and jut jawed Standing erect against crooked moon. Carrion arms encased by dry skin bark crevasse and crease telling tales of reaching tree—branch up, scraping blood from the sky. She rides in rejuvenating red rinse — and the death of Her (told by Beauties plucked and prodded, shaped and misshapen, scratched and clawed by iron and rod) is scarcely a story uttered among fainting hearts Pretty Pet — Venerable Victim! She is not a iniserly martyr She does not die for the name for the sake of his name She dies for the sake of her forsaken womb. Punished for the life She would give but now cannot—the death of Her So She falls — Her broomstick tears the sky and brings with her a thousand stars one for every tear. And all the remains is black, black. The Usurper, stolen Cassiopeia's sparkling crown, lies in darkness. Waiting for the next witch to burn. Show less
