Back Porch: Northfield, MN D.E. Green Squirrels and the red note of cardinals softened by screens— pollen silt— A square of morning light— on the white plastic table a coffee cup, half full an open book, face down an uncapped pen—and the empty Adirondack chair. ’This poem is modeled on William... Show moreBack Porch: Northfield, MN D.E. Green Squirrels and the red note of cardinals softened by screens— pollen silt— A square of morning light— on the white plastic table a coffee cup, half full an open book, face down an uncapped pen—and the empty Adirondack chair. ’This poem is modeled on William Carlos Williams’s “Nantucket.” Murphy Square 77 Show less
no snow on the ground but dead brown grass covered the lawns of the perfectly similar houses staring out at me as I walked down the center of the street. It was Christmas Day and there wasn't a car in the road save those idle machines parked in front of the celebratory houses. My feet moved of... Show moreno snow on the ground but dead brown grass covered the lawns of the perfectly similar houses staring out at me as I walked down the center of the street. It was Christmas Day and there wasn't a car in the road save those idle machines parked in front of the celebratory houses. My feet moved of their own will, taking me back and I don’t know why I stopped in front of that same house. There I was standing in the street once again and I stared up at this house and I couldn’t help but crv. A silent tearless cry. And who would love a man that won’t look in the mirror? Not for shame of who he is but for shame of what people see him to be. He is not embarrassed of himself. He is embarrassed for the people that cannot understand and he pities them because they cannot see. And he stood outside of a house that holds just one memory that has been so strong and he is glad. So he cried a silent tearless cry. Then a hand touched my hand. I jumped in surprise and she smiled at me. Talk to me, she said. I looked at her and her eyes spoke to me. So I told her a story of a boy. He and his friend hadn’t seen the man standing in the crack of the doorway. They hadn’t smelled the whisky that they both eventually recognized. They hadn't heard his rattling breath, not until after he spoke. He slammed the door open all the way. What the fuck are you doing. It wasn’t a question. Both boys were shocked and embarrassed but his friend was petrified. The boy got 03 his knees and reached for his clothes but before he could pull on his pants he felt the man’s rough hands on him. One grripped his left bicep, the other squeeeezed hard around the back of his neck. He was forced down the hallway, out the door and he suddenly felt himselfthrust out into the night air. The door shut and from inside the house he heard the man’s muffled shout. A moment later the man burst through the screen door again and stood face to face with the boy, towering over him. Listen to me you little faggot, the man said. Don’t you come near my son ever again. The man threw the boys clothes down in the dewy grass and strode back into the house. The door slammed behind him and the deadbolt snapped. And with the chcclck of the lock that night was silent. The boy's pale skin glowed dimly in the light of the neighborhood street lamps and the cool air raised goose- bumps all over his body. He shivered slightly but didn’t move. His throat burned hot, and slowly he bent over to pick up his clothes. He pulled the shirt over his skinny chest and stepped through his pants. His socks and shoes were still inside but he turned and walked down the street anyways. 30 Murphy Square Show less
Contributed Curse Bryan Rassat. Sweet simple is not the irony I give to you, the soaking stain; the aromatic acid Spurting down like rain tartly tasted on your lips like lethal lemon weapons, just like the faulty flavor you left behind a raunchy rotten egg nailed to the tongue; the sorrowing... Show moreContributed Curse Bryan Rassat. Sweet simple is not the irony I give to you, the soaking stain; the aromatic acid Spurting down like rain tartly tasted on your lips like lethal lemon weapons, just like the faulty flavor you left behind a raunchy rotten egg nailed to the tongue; the sorrowing soreness I leave for you unbearably undeniably existent; that final fatal gift, darkened prayers of the most obscure, your comatose conclusion of blinding fear. Murphy Square 75 Show less
DR. SEUSS FUCKED ME UP Drew DeGennaro I once had daffodils, they sat on my windowsill. GROWING UP cats would jump over hats landing on moons it’s the story of bears and Jews who walked into a bar, last May or the hairy, hairy man I grew up with who blew all the homes down like fire I drag him to... Show moreDR. SEUSS FUCKED ME UP Drew DeGennaro I once had daffodils, they sat on my windowsill. GROWING UP cats would jump over hats landing on moons it’s the story of bears and Jews who walked into a bar, last May or the hairy, hairy man I grew up with who blew all the homes down like fire I drag him to the grave. Murphy Square 67 Show less
Color Tree Jake Don't Study With Friends Rebecca Samurai Silhouette Drip A Looming Memory Disappearing Act Defiance Inconsistent Clichés Santeria Get Right Back On From Another’s Lens The Dishes Are What Caused It Patience Painting, a Portrait I am DRt SEUSS FUCKED ME UP Back Pocket Sandwich My... Show moreColor Tree Jake Don't Study With Friends Rebecca Samurai Silhouette Drip A Looming Memory Disappearing Act Defiance Inconsistent Clichés Santeria Get Right Back On From Another’s Lens The Dishes Are What Caused It Patience Painting, a Portrait I am DRt SEUSS FUCKED ME UP Back Pocket Sandwich My Buddy glass half empty Contributed Curse Go To Mecca Back Porch: Northfield, MN Fevers Rise to Me Pain Funeral by a river 4 Murphy Square Farhia Omar Jared Sundvall Mary Stewart Lauren Johnson Cameron Alt Tony Fremling Lauren Johnson Mark Woodley Whitney Blount Smith Iaura Morales Elise Estrada Susan Woehrle Whitney Blount Smith Laura Morales Adrian Waters Eric Moen Esther Abrahamson Drew DeGennaro Tony Fremling Cory Madeleine Roe Adrian Waters Bryan Rassat Laun'e Akermark D.E. Green Elise Estrada Mark Woodley Abeni Hill Steven Saari 49 so 51 52 53 55 56 57 58 59 60 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 74 75 76 78 80 85 86 Show less
After the Summer Barbecue Judy Niemi Johnson Ihave a bag of garbage juice in my hand. The black plastic is heavy, sagging at the bottom, stretched to deep gray where the beer bottles poke through. The sweet, sticky syrup drips out, leaving dark circles on the ashen sidewalk. But I am afraid.... Show moreAfter the Summer Barbecue Judy Niemi Johnson Ihave a bag of garbage juice in my hand. The black plastic is heavy, sagging at the bottom, stretched to deep gray where the beer bottles poke through. The sweet, sticky syrup drips out, leaving dark circles on the ashen sidewalk. But I am afraid. Inside, hurling against the thin layer of plastic are angry bees. Their tiny roars vibrate, as they bump against the black. They shake my hand, fingers afraid of let- ting go and unleashing their drowning anger. Desperate, hot bees. Murphy Square 31 Show less
Crows Eric Moen She told me they were old, that their average age was eighty. I imagined them watching me when I was a child. They remembered how I used to try to play Frisbee alone in the backyard, but now I just pluck weeds or smoke. Sometimes on early mornings they decide I have slept enough,... Show moreCrows Eric Moen She told me they were old, that their average age was eighty. I imagined them watching me when I was a child. They remembered how I used to try to play Frisbee alone in the backyard, but now I just pluck weeds or smoke. Sometimes on early mornings they decide I have slept enough, measuring my sleep, knowing what I need. They hop to the middle of a busy street to breakfast on a run-over bag of french-fries. They never get hit by cars. Crows are smarter than any other thing. Older, experienced, smarter. Smarter than me. Smarter than you. I watch them from inside and think they don’t see me. But they know I‘m in here, as they saw me come in and I have not come out. My location has been pinpointed by black brains behind their black bead eyes. Their beaks are witches fingernails. They whisper their “nevermore” and I shiver. Agitated, I feverishly feel the need to dispel the myth and I google them. She was apparently wrong about them being old, they only live a few years. They are not ancient and unimaginany wise. And black cats are just cats. Ghosts are also not real. All day I just googled everything and it turns out we have nothing to fear. But later, while I sleep, the mice collapse their skeletons to squeeze beneath the door Murphy Square 7 Show less
Fevers Elise Estrada The Royal Inn on 5th was not royal at all it was a faded poppy pink, the paint peeling off in tongues, bleached out from the sun. The owner—a stunted Indian man with a glare ‘cause he knew what we do, thin glasses and silver hair bristled out like the wires on a broom. In... Show moreFevers Elise Estrada The Royal Inn on 5th was not royal at all it was a faded poppy pink, the paint peeling off in tongues, bleached out from the sun. The owner—a stunted Indian man with a glare ‘cause he knew what we do, thin glasses and silver hair bristled out like the wires on a broom. In room #9 there is sad-faced Rich, who shared half his shot when you were dope sick & his girl— calamity-eyed and quiet, spends all day working the street their 8 year-old stares at the TV, eyes fixed and tight lipped. Back then, you didn‘t feel bad about shooting up on their bathroom floor with a truant kid watching cartoons on the other side of the door. Back then all you wanted was what made you forget A prick of the skin, the sink of oblivion. A year later and my hands are black from holding three grand in cash, the keys to a rental car and a tank full of gas, the crumpled folds of a Colorado state map— but still, I feel lost and tied down and trapped. Sun shifts in the sky and Denver is only an hour East, and even though I know right where to go on 16th street, I can remember the fever, the heat it brings to your bones, too deep to sweat out— I’ve gone down too many times to count. 78 Murphy Square Show less
You go to your closet and dig out the backpack Mrs. Wilson gave you, the last foster mom you had. The sight of the backpack almost makes you throw up. You swear you can smell the foul breath of her Neanderthal son George, you can feel him grunting on top of you, holding a sock in your mouth. His... Show moreYou go to your closet and dig out the backpack Mrs. Wilson gave you, the last foster mom you had. The sight of the backpack almost makes you throw up. You swear you can smell the foul breath of her Neanderthal son George, you can feel him grunting on top of you, holding a sock in your mouth. His thin creepy lips and bloodshot eyes. You had to run. You had to. No matter how much Mrs. Wilson loved Jesus, no matter how much she thought Jesus could save you through her, you had to get the fuck out of there. And you almost made it that time. But the conductor spotted you trying to haul Mark over the edge of the freight car. The cops were waiting for you at the next stop. And that’s how you wound up back with the Old Man. He had six months left of his three-year probation. They decided to let him have custody of you and Mark, with the warning that if he broke any of his probation rules, you’d be taken away. That basically meant he could keep you if he didn’t drink. But that was like asking the grass to not grow. You knew it was only a matter of time. The police arrive fifteen minutes later. Your old man has gone inside and is probably passed out on the toilet. From your window, you see Lt. Swanson and his partner walk dutifully up the sidewalk and onto the porch, their Billy clubs swinging at their hips as they walk. You can’t let them find you. You can’t let them send you to more foster parents, more hell. The foster parents act like they’re such do-gooders, but you know they’re only in it for the money. They’re like mini-dictators, just looking for power and control. They treat you like slaves and then want you to feel grateful to them for saving you. You want to tell them to fuck off. Downstairs you hear a knock on the screen door. “Mr. Cortez?" The old man doesn’t answer. You hear him stumble into the john. An— other knock. “Mr. Cortez, this is Lt. Swanson of the Starkville Police Department. Offi— cer Jacobsen is with me. We need to talk to you. May we come in? Looks like your door is open.” You hear the old man slur something that the police take as an invitation. You hear the screen door bang shut. “Mr. Cortez?” you hear Swanson call out. You know it’s only a matter of time before they find him slumped on the toilet, one of his typical moments of dignity. You shush Mark with your finger to your lips and a sharp look from your eyes. Mark’s eyes are as big as saucers, his young little innocent brain trying to sort out all the fucked-upedness of the situation around him. You hear the creaking of the floor as they walk towards the bathroom, then a flush of the toilet, and then the sound of your father’s belt buckle hitting the porcelain, his belt swinging as the police have to help him pull up his pants. You can hear him slurring in protest, but by now he’s just a puddle. You know they’re coming for you next, or that any minute some social worker will be driving up, ready to whisk you and Mark away. You know Mrs. Swanson told her son everything and then some, Mark up at the window, the broken-down ladder, the old man drunk and screaming. She doesn’t like you, she doesn’t want you in her neighborhood. She pities you, that’s the best she can do. Your mind starts to race, you know you’ve got to run, and you’ve got to make it this time. You think about what to do with Mark. Do you leave him there, Augsburg College Library Murphy square 11 Show less
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