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MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART
& LITERARY MAGAZINE
ISSUE 42, 2017
EDITORIAL BOARD
Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief
Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor
Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor
Cassie Dong, Art Editor
Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor
Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor
Abigail Carpenter, Prose Ed...
Show more MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE ISSUE 42, 2017 EDITORIAL BOARD Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor Cassie Dong, Art Editor Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor Abigail Carpenter, Prose Editor Ryan Moore, Prose Editor Gabriel Benson, Poetry Editor Danny Polaschek, Poetry Editor Cary Waterman, Advisor 2 WITH THANKS TO Ivy Arts Copy and Print Augsburg College Student Government Augsburg College English Department Augsburg College Art Department The Echo Augsburg Honors Program QPA 3 TABLE OF CONTENTS 1 What Type of Black Girl Are You? Nikkyra Whittaker ........................................................................... 8 Simul Justus et Peccator, Andy Anderson .......................................................................................... 11 Queer, Eve Taft ....................................................................................................................................... 12 Jesus in a Cracker, A.Tetzlaff ................................................................................................................ 14 Grey Cloud Island, David Baboila ......................................................................................................... 17 Saint Paul Airport, David Baboila .......................................................................................................... 18 White Bear Lake, David Baboila ............................................................................................................ 19 Zips Coliseum, David Baboila ............................................................................................................... 20 Bridge, Jacob J. Miller ............................................................................................................................ 21 50 Feet Tall, Emilie Tomas ...................................................................................................................... 25 Meow, Ashley Waalen ............................................................................................................................ 26 Mousetrap, Halle Chambers .................................................................................................................. 27 Faces, Constance Klippen ..................................................................................................................... 29 I Don’t Always Feel Colored, Diamonique Walker ............................................................................... 30 Where I am From, Hannah Schmit ......................................................................................................... 32 Who Am I?, Ashley Waalen .................................................................................................................... 34 2 Gratitude, D.E Green .............................................................................................................................. CSBR, Gabriel Bergstrom ...................................................................................................................... The Fire, Elisabeth Beam ........................................................................................................................ Desert Drums, Abigail Carpenter .......................................................................................................... Colors, Hannah Schmit ........................................................................................................................... Urban Delight, Jazmin Crittenden ......................................................................................................... When Dad Wore Cologne, A. Tetzlaff .................................................................................................... Shitty Christmas Trees, Elisabeth Beam ............................................................................................... Summer Nights, Adam Ruff ................................................................................................................... 36 38 39 41 42 43 44 46 48 The People United, Adam Ruff .............................................................................................................. 49 After the Hike, Adam Ruff ..................................................................................................................... 50 Crumbs, Malena Larsen ......................................................................................................................... 51 Bloomed, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................................................... 55 Pruned, Audrey Campbell ...................................................................................................................... 56 Herman, Danny Polaschek ................................................................................................................... 57 El Barrio Suyo, Chad Berryman ............................................................................................................. 60 The Neighborhood, Chad Berryman ..................................................................................................... 61 Odyssey, Eve Taft .................................................................................................................................... 62 Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 63 Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 64 Counting Sheep, Danny Polaschek ...................................................................................................... 65 3 Sky Nights, Keeyonna Fox ...................................................................................................................... 67 Inner Self, Keeyonna Fox ....................................................................................................................... 68 Victory of the People, Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk ............................................................................. 69 An Open Letter to the Un-specials, Halle Chambers ...........................................................................76 Sorex Palustris, Emilie Tomas ................................................................................................................. 79 Woodsy Adam Ruff, Gabriel Bergstrom .................................................................................................. 80 Words, Malena Larsen ................................................................................................................................. 81 Malcom, Danny Polaschek ....................................................................................................................... 83 DRIVING AT ZERO ONE, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 85 DRIVING AT ZERO TWO, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 86 Placemakers, Diamonique Walker ........................................................................................................ 87 A Necessary Evil Thing Considered in any Light, Jacob J. Miller ....................................................... 88 1 WHAT TYPE OF BLACK GIRL ARE YOU? Nikkyra Whittaker On the spectrum of being black and female, we can only be what we appear to be. Take this quiz to find out what kind of black girl you really are! 1. You’re listening to the radio on the way to Target. You’re playing… a. Beyonce’s “****Flawless” b. Taylor Swift’s “Fifteen” or “You Belong With Me” or “Wildest Dreams” c. Chris Brown’s “Loyal” d. Keri Hilson’s “Pretty Girl Rock” 2. It’s your day off work. What will you be doing? a. Blowing off steam on Facebook. b. Watching old episodes of One Tree Hill c. Out for drinks and scoping eye candy d. Talking shit with the ladies while drinking Moscato! 3. What’s your dream home like? a. Full of books on systemic oppression b. Beverly Hills penthouse c. Some big shot rapper’s mansion d. Spacious New York Loft 8 4. Your favorite TV show is… a. Docu-series on race b. Sex in the City c. Bad Girls Club d. Love and Hip Hop 5. Finally, who’s your favorite female icon from this list? a. Angela Davis b. Taylor Swift c. New York from I Love New York d. Nicki Minaj Tally up how many of each letter you got and turn the page to find out who you really are! If you got mostly a’s...You’re an Angry Black Girl! Congratulations, you loud-mouthed, anger filled home-girl! I’m guessing there’s always some reason to be mad at someone, isn’t there? Do you just spend your days in a perpetual state of rage, angry at the world for reasons they don’t find important? Do you find yourself constantly snapping your fingers in that z-formation, pursing your lips at anyone who steps in your way? I bet people are telling you to just be quiet, huh? I mean, what issues could you, a black female, possibly have? Why should you care that your high school English teacher gives you a C+ on your essay because she thinks you copied it from the white man online? Why does it matter that your male co-worker at Target constantly teases you about your nappy hair, calling it a “brillo pad,” “cheeto puff,” or some other clever name? None of this should anger you! Be aware, you sassy Sapphire, in this world, your anger means nothing. If you got mostly b’s...You’re an Oreo! You grew up watching Lizzie McGuire and listening to Aaron Carter. You straightened your hair from the moment you were old enough to assert yourself and cried when it wouldn’t lay flat. Your friends were always shocked to see you bring collard greens and jambalaya to lunch so you stopped eating your favorite foods. They didn’t understand why you couldn’t just brush your hair, wash your hair everyday, why it suddenly grew or shrunk inches overnight. I’m certain you’ve heard from many of your friends how they just don’t see you as a black girl. They erase your black skin because it doesn’t fit the images of other black girls they see. You spend most of your time edging away from the loud black girls, the ghetto black girls who ate hot cheetos and drank kool aid and had corn rows and long braids and smelled like a mix of the jungle and your ancestors pain and you wished, maybe for a just a moment, but you did wish that you could be white. But honey, you can never wash off that melanin! It’s a permanent stain. Just because your friends can’t see the black on you, it doesn’t mean the rest of the world can’t. 9 If you got mostly c’s...You’re a Hip Hop Ho! You sexual deviant you! Let me guess—big breasts, small waist, and wide hips? You’ve got that original Betty Boop to you, something in your eyes that say yes to a question no one bothers to ask. You’re the black girl that white guys use as a notch in their belt. You are the exotic sexual being that men love to hate and hate to love. You became a sexual thing at a young age, when your breasts came in at ten years old and became d-cups at fourteen. They started looking at you differently, didn’t they? Your eyes stopped existing. Your words didn’t matter. Your body became the tool used to diminish your worth. How often did you get yelled at in school to put on something less revealing than your shorts? Did you ever wonder why the skinny, flat-assed white girls were never told the same thing? Honey, your wide hips wrapped in chocolate skin were never yours. You will never be yours. 10 If you got mostly d’s...You’re a Ghetto Fabulous Black Girl! You make what little money you can working at Walmart or doing nails. You make people waiting at the bus stop with you uncomfortable with your loud laughter and yellow and pink braids and long, bedazzled nails. You toss your weave around, remove your earrings, and square up to anyone that says shit about you. When you’re out, you are often told to stop yelling, screaming, taking up space. You’ve got baby daddy problems and you’re only 18. You grew up playing double dutch in the middle of the street with old rope. You accept your black, your ghetto, your Ebonics. But you are not supposed to accept yourself, honey! Don’t you see the fashion police spreads in the magazines? You are on all the pages! Don’t show your hips. Put on a shirt that conceals your stomach. Put your breasts away. Don’t wear bright lipstick. Stop standing out, being different. Get smaller, quieter, lesser, as you are supposed to be. You love your black too loudly and it makes others uncomfortable. Your job is to make people comfortable so do your best to limit the loudness of your melanin. simul justus et peccator andy anderson 11 QUEER Eve Taft You think there isn’t a sign on my ribs that says “stonewall inn”? You think Matthew Shepard doesn’t tug at my hair and warn me as I walk the streets of my city? You think I don’t choke on the smoke from the hellfire you spit from your pulpits with sparks that sear and heat branding irons which scar your names on me to mark me as danger? You think my veins don’t shiver when they think of the devastation wracking the cities that some called deliverance while Reagan fiddled as we burned You think that the prisons pink triangles asylums bullets spitting into a nightclub don’t whisper in my head as I make my way through the world? 12 You think that I don’t notice— I kiss her and kiss her —the headline blowing by with a death toll and I kiss her the skyline splashing out behind us the lights on the Washington Avenue bridge flicker on and I kiss her Putin criminalizes us, across the world I kiss her Vigils held too late for young suicides Corrupting, perverted, disgusting, an affront to family values— I kiss her in the rain and the sleet of Minnesota I kiss her, our lips tasting of chants from the protest that shut down I-94 handed down from our grandmothers hearts beating, eyes sparkling, alive I kiss her You think I forget the lists and the candles and the deaths and the pain and all that roars in my ears is a chorus screaming over and over again you were not able to kill us I kiss her and all is still 13 JESUS IN A CRACKER A. Tetzlaff Eucharist I hugged my father’s black, pleated pants while we waited for mass to start. He was beaming proudly and chatting with the rest of our family. I wore the only dress I allowed to touch my body: by then it was a year old and from my uncle’s wedding when I walked down the aisle carrying a bouquet, looking like a blonde deer caught in front of a semi truck. It had a black velvet top connected to a white skirt. All the girls wore white. My parents cut their losses. All the boys, shirt and tie. Eight-year-olds taking their first communion despite the fact that most of us had no idea what was happening. Understanding the sacraments isn’t really necessary when you grow up in a Catholic family. By the time you are aware of your burden, it’s too late anyway. Religion lived at Nativity of Our Lord Parish, in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Between church and home, I lived in a realm of contradiction. I came to visit religion, but it never went home with me. On Sundays when the game was in town, God would not judge you for wearing your Packer jersey to church. Sinning was bad, but you could tailgate and drink and carouse to your heart’s content. We should have taken beer at 14 that first communion. We would have appreciated it more than the wine. We took our places in the ritual that had been performed again and again. The time-worn ritual begins anew as I walk to the altar with my hands folded in front of me. I must remember to raise my hands high enough so the rheumatic priest doesn’t have to bend down. Right hand over left. I’m a blonde deer again. “The body of Christ.” This is the part where I say, “Amen,” whether I mean it or not, then put the communion wafer in my mouth. I must cross myself (right hand touching head, then left shoulder, then right shoulder) as I walk back up the aisle and toward my family. They liked to sit in the middle section, never too close to the altar. They didn’t like making direct eye-contact with the priest during his homily. To this day I skip the wine for fear of communicable diseases. It stuck to the roof of my mouth, this first communion wafer. It was stale. There was no substance. Maybe the parched flour and water, mixed with the lingering incense is actually what Jesus tastes like. The absorbent clump lasted into the next hymn. Saliva rushed into my mouth and eventually the wafer, heavy with mois- ture, fell from the roof of my mouth. I swallowed without chewing. Just go with it, I told myself. All these people believe in this, so one day, you will too. But I wasn’t sure. I didn’t get it. The power that kept me from running back up the aisle wasn’t the love of God gently pushing me along, but the ritual itself, and the expectation of my parents and grandparents watching proud and probably dewy-eyed as I joined their ranks. Hugs and smiles and congratulations as my family comes out of the first communion Mass, but I wasn’t sure what was such cause for celebration; I hadn’t had a great epiphany about God, nor had I felt any change at all. It was just like every Sunday late in October. head and tell me I was forgiven. “Sometimes, I’m not very nice to my mom or my brother,” I told him. Navitity didn’t own a confessional booth like the ones in movies. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a confessional booth at any Catholic church outside the movies. We sat quietly in a tiny room. Being small for my age, I circled the air below me with my feet. I sat facing him directly. He crossed his legs under the cassock he wore, clearly annoyed. After a silence and a slow nod, the priest said, “Sometimes, we hurt the people we love the most.” It was the only part I heard or remember hearing; he started talking about God’s forgiveness, I assume. I didn’t pay attention, because I didn’t feel different after admitting such a pitiful sin. Marriage I had no ill-feeling toward the physical place of church. In fact, the ritual, the sounds, the smell of incense, and the light that filtered through the stained-glass windows from an Easterly rising sun became familiar and comforting over the years. The nave, filled with old pews, had witnessed my parents’ wedding and my grandparents’ weddings. The organ towered over the choir. The smell of old patrons and Sunday cologne too liberally applied became a sensory memory of that place. However, religion has never been an inward practice; the practice and the scene never joined together. Anointing of the Sick When times are bad, I’ve pulled the fragments of ritual from my memory and recite the “Our Father.” I did this in the winter of my eighteenth year in days following my grandfather’s funeral. He died of bladder cancer, worsened by a communicable bacterial infection called C.Difficile. I became familiar with the ritual of funeral; I’d been to three or four for close relatives. But this time, the ritual felt different. Before, I was sad. My grandfather’s funeral confirmed that the only sacred part of my world had been ripped mercilessly from my arms. Reconciliation “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”As the words come out of my mouth, they themselves felt sinful. I hadn’t sinned, I was eleven. I barely knew what sin was. I had to stop a moment to think of a sin I had committed, so the priest could nod his Baptism I sat in the shower until the water hitting my face was colder than I could stand, reciting the “Our Father” over and over, sobbing. Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. I hoped, over so many repetitions, that my view 15 of God and heaven would change. Yet, it confused me more. Religion stopped looking like the patron blind to reality and became a place where I didn’t belong. Like I was missing out because I didn’t get that epiphany, and didn’t have that same faith. Confirmation Religion was so stale, that when my Mother would occasionally talk about faith, or God, or divine love at the dinner table I would blush with pity and embarrassment. How can you believe this? I thought, how can you be so blind to the real world? Perhaps, I’m the blind one. I continue to live in an intermediate space between faith and atheism. I can’t commit to either. The fence between atheism and faith is fraught with angst. Most days, I try to laugh away my uncertainty. I tell jokes about my Catholic past, chuckle when I hear of “recovering Catholics,” and tell friends, “It smells like a Catholic church in here,” whenever they burn incense. Religion is still stale to me. Religion has no nutritional value. Stale religion has no holy orders. 16 grey cloud island david baboila 17 saint paul airport david baboila 18 white bear lake david baboila 19 zips coliseum david baboila 20 BRIDGE Jacob J. Miller This was not way back when, as my dad would have you believe. It was more recent than that. If he can’t flat out deny it, which he no longer can, he will at least try to convince you that it was so long ago as to suggest it might have been a different lifetime, and he a different person. He has been, after all, Born Again. Except he was not the only person involved, and to carry along as if he was is an exercise in what I’ve heard philosophers call solipsism. For him, his transgression was between himself and the Holy Ghost: accountable not to those he wronged, only to an invisible spirit. But he doesn’t have sole authority in determining the past’s relevance or irrelevance to our lives today. My mother too pretends the past is only what has happened at a particular point in time, and not a factor in what determines what has happened since then and what is happening now. The slate wiper theory of forgiveness is what allowed them to wear their veneer of innocence and believe in its authenticity, and for that reason I resent their new-leaf turnover. My love for them may not be emergent in my words, I know, but I do love them, regardless of the fucked up traits they passed on to their children, which will become evident as this story unfolds You might be wondering, if you care at all, what could be so terrible. Well, it’s not so terrible, and not even very uncommon, but it happened to me, and my brothers and my sisters, and there was never anything we could really do about it. We watched it unfold almost every night to reveal its rotted pit. What was scariest was not when a half-full beer bottle would be hurled in our direction for us being too noisy, and then being held responsible for wasting the beer, and getting punished even more for that. What was scariest was when they fought with each other, mom and dad, when they were both liquored up. All of us children would be sitting in the living room, on our knees, in a line, with our hands folded and tucked inside our clenched thighs, having hitherto been fulfilling our playful, childish duties who couldn’t expect things to go so suddenly and intensely wrong. They would fight about anything, or nothing, for all we knew or cared. They would yell, swear, slam their fists on various surfaces, throw things across the room at each other as if rehearsed. One time, I remember, and this is what I’m talking about when I talk about how scary things got, my 21 dad had my mom pinned up against the refrigerator—after she threw three or four plates at him, one that hit his arm, but would have hit his face if he hadn’t been blocking, and cut it deep. He had the sharp kitchen knife pressed firmly under her chin. If she gulped too hard in fear, or if dad in his stupor lost balance, she would have been bleeding all over the family pictures held by magnets to the fridge. As we grew older, my big brother and I began working under dad instead of merely living under him. Our prospects in life weren’t substantial at that point. Whatever potential we had, it had never been encouraged, so entering into the family business, if it can even be called that, was the only viable option. I woke dad up most mornings from his typical collapse into a face-down, fetal heap on the kitchen floor, sometimes still wet, sometimes already crusted over. I’d say, “it’s time for work, dad,” and he’d drive me to the site where (drinking coffee with whiskey in it on the way) heavy machinery was waiting to be operated—even though we used hammers and nails whenever we could. Stonehenge-sized slabs of cement, wooden pillars, cinder blocks, and iron rods littered the landscape. It was all so disorderly that if a nomad wandered upon the scene, the indication would be of destruction rather than pre-construction. There were no piles of allocated materials or inventoried supply lists. It could have all been salvaged from past demolitions or by thievery from other project sites. We seemed to accrue it all without any kind of exchange or standard of accountability for use. Everything seemed to just show up wherever and whenever we needed it. Who actually made all this stuff? How did we move it from place to place to use from job to job? Who permitted my sodden father to oversee such potentially hazardous 22 projects? He was a self-made man outside the advent of auditing. What did I care then? I was making my way, fashioning for myself a future out of will power, and holding my breath until I could extricate myself from this grim farce. First day on the job, my dad said to me, don’t fuck up, or he’d make me test the bridge before the support beams were all in place. I believed him. That particular bridge wasn’t connecting two sides over a raging river or anything; more of a convenient pathway over a stream, but it was still a threat coming from dad. Second day on the job, my brother James tore partway through his leg with a chainsaw. I heard him yell, but it sounded more out of frustration than terror and pain. He sat down, ripped his immediately blood-soaked pants from where the initial tear was, delicately unlaced and removed his boot so as not to cause more pain, grunting as if he had done nothing more than step in dog shit, and lifted the nearly severed part of his leg that dangled lifelessly like a tube sock on a clothesline, to close the wound, from which I saw steam rising sacrificially to the wintery heavens. He reached forward to grab the excess of sock which, although bunched up at his toes, had a long, tortuous journey before being completely removed. He screamed as he stretched forward, more circumstantially appropriate this time, and this is when I dropped my— whatever, the thing I was holding, I can’t remember what, but I didn’t hear it land because I couldn’t assimilate anything else that may have been transpiring around me. I almost seemed to float over to him, not even aware of my legs propelling me forward. I saw all the blood, but I wasn’t put off by it as much as I thought I probably should have been, and I thought that as I stared at it pooling out. I observed it dispassionately, coldly, but I may not have been breathing. At first sight, it was just an organic pipe that sprung a leak. I think I asked if he was all right but I meant it more like did he think he was going to die. He said to go get dad and that’s when I became afraid. I stood there for I don’t know how long, until he repeated himself more urgently: “Walt!” he said, “Go! Get! Dad!” I listened that time, but I was still very afraid. I was trembling and began feeling like I might faint, and I almost hoped I wouldn’t find dad, that he’d be off drinking somewhere, but he wasn’t. He was drinking right there, over a small mound of dirt, holding a big piece of wood sturdy for someone to do something with. I saw his breath bellow out into the cold with a cough and evaporate as he took a swig from a bottle before sliding it back into his coat pocket, without so much as a pretense of inconspicuousness.The bottle neck stuck straight out and brushed against his elbow, a cumbersome lump sinking down and throwing off his equilibrium further than the ethanol already had. I slowed my pace, tried to regain some composure, and still hoped he wouldn’t notice me. I could claim an attempt at getting his attention, but he just couldn’t be bothered with me. I tried, I’d tell James, but I’ll carry you. I was sure I could have done that. Part of me still wished I could have avoided involving my dad at all. It was selfish, but I thought I might get slapped with the blame. But I yelled, Dad! Come quick! Dad, I yelled again, skidding on the gravel as I spun around, intent on not letting my dad’s impatient glare lock on me, and from that momentum, nearly ascending at a perfectly horizontal angle in the air before I landed face first on those same tiny rocks, a perfect reenactment of self-humiliation on the school playground at recess. I felt all those multiple points of impact, but wasted no time in catapulting myself back up—no time for embarrassment just yet—clawed off the pebbles that clung gently to the tiny dents they bore into my face and palms, and sped back to my brother who, when I reached the dirt-mound summit again, I could see was lying flat, surrounded by the thick, still-steaming purplish puddle which had, since I left him, at least quadrupled in circumference. Not looking back at all during my return sprint to see how far behind me dad was, or even if he followed me at all, I turned from the sight of my brother completely to see him, Dad, shuffling over the mound, bogged down by beer bottles, which could be heard clanging together in his pockets. He was wheezing inhalations of frozen air. He saw James right away, I know it, but he didn’t say anything until he got right up close to him, planting one clumsy boot in the blood puddle with a squelchy, meager splat, like an old-fashioned letter-sealing stamp on melted wax. He leaned over with outward turned elbows and hands on hips, looked at James’ face. James’ eyes were closed. Dad then scanned down to the butchered leg, grimaced, scanned back up to James’ face. James’ eyes were now open again, frigid with shock, and dad said, “pull yourself together, son,” erupting hysterically at his own clever buffoonery. James turned out to live, no real thanks to our father. I ended up having to run to the nearest phone anyway and call an ambulance. He didn’t even lose his leg. He did require a blood transfusion because he lost gallons of it, or at least it seemed like it when I stood there staring at the mess, but his gristly cheeks had their color restored right in front of me, resupplying and, it almost seemed, re-inflat23 ing him to human shape at the coercion of some stranger’s bodily elixir. It worked like sorcery, but far more astonishing because it was methodologically reliable. The warm fluid surged through his veins, and he was ensconced for a moment in a prodigious glow of newfound vitality. Back then, my dad, laughing, called him a lucky son-of-a-bitch, whereas telling the story now, upon reflection and suspension of rational thought, my brother was “touched by an angel.” Now, whenever this celestial creature of mercy is mentioned, who conveniently remains anonymous for humility’s sake I suppose, instead of our dad drunkenly laughing and mocking the situation, James does. An example of an aforementioned fucked up trait passed on in the family. 24 50 FEET TALL Emilie Tomas I was in 5th grade When my class went To see ‘The Human Body’ and I watched In childhood Horror as A 50 foot grin Unfurled, loomed Large enough To pull me Into orbit Devoured First a sandwich And then my Faith in humanity With deafening Smacks Like thunder If thunder Was made Of jelly and Dismay and I Knew it was a Crime to allow a Person to become This Inflated, With every pore Its own path to Hell and I knew I couldn’t trust Anyone because In our heads We are all 50 feet tall. 25 meow you see ashley waalen 26 MOUSETRAP Halle Chambers Minnie “Mousy” O’Mally knew she was invisible up here on her fire escape. This was her safeplace. With the ladder pulled up as it was now, almost no one could reach her here. Plus, even if someone did make it up here, she could easily get away. If she crawled rough the window, she’d be securely locked in the apartment. There, it was warm and dry and at least sometimes safe when her daddy…no, excuse her, correction, “Father or Sir” wasn’t home. He hated when she called him Daddy. He wasn’t home now, out doing illegal God knows what in the “family business,” but he would be back soon. Hence why she was out here. So, no apartment, not right now. If she dropped the ladder, she could slide down to street level in seconds and be down the block in under a minute. She knew, because she’d practiced and had timed herself. The only way to avoid getting hit in the face was to be quick on your feet. That was the first rule of fighting that Jase, her older brother, had taught her. With the life they lived, it was also a rule of survival. And they didn’t call her “Mousy” for nothing: she was small and fast… very fast. Jase could make a distraction, and Minnie could run. But, Jase was working a job that “Father” had given him out of town till this weekend, and she’d surely get caught if she didn’t have her usual head-start. So,“down” wouldn’t work either. If she scaled up the ladder above her, she’d be on the roof, where their oldest brother, Cobie, had often taken her and Jase to stargaze. She hadn’t known till six years into her still short life that he’d done it to keep his precious baby brother and sister away from their father’s sight when the man would come home satellite high or plastered. She hadn’t known till twelve years in that he’d take their father’s hungover backhand on the mornings after, so she and Jase didn’t. All she’d known as he’d taught her each constellation was that Cobie was braver than Orion and that she and her brothers were more inseparable than the Gemini twins. But, her world went as topsy-turvy as Cassiopeia when her father had sent Cobie away, saying he would not have a queer as a son. When Jase and Minnie hugged him, Cobie swore he’d come back for them in a year or so. Jase had given up when he’d been two years gone. That was two years ago, and now even Minnie 27 was starting to doubt. No, she couldn’t go up to the roo, not alone. She shivered in the October chill as she reviewed her options: “in” would be facing her father’s wrath, “down” would be facing being caught by a cop or a stranger, and “up” would be facing a reminder of the happiness, now heartbreak, brought by a brother who was likely never coming home again. So, maybe she couldn’t escape easily…or at all. She shivered again, this time more in frantic panic than from the frigid, near winter city wind. For not the first time in her life, Mousy felt trapped. 28 faces connie kilppen 29 *I DON’T ALWAYS FEEL COLORED Diamonique Walker Sometimes I find comfort in places I somehow know I don’t belong Never a full day, but hours will pass and I won’t consider my brown skin or kinky hair I’ll let the imminent fear of my black body being made into an example fall back to the depths of my mind My daughter’s safety in mixed company won’t occur to me I won’t juxtapose my blackness with any other’s identity confidence As if one chooses randomly from a pile of stock black girl names when they look at me He asks me if my hair is real I tell him he can’t ask me that He says oh it’s okay, my girlfriend is black I’m a dirty smudge on freshly ironed white linens Trying to blend in, trying to live my life I breathe, momentarily Suddenly, I’ll feel breathless, choked Stabbed in the chest Stung by a white hot micro aggressive slap in the face An unsolicited violation of my personal space A pale hand gently pulls a lock of my hair in white amazement Or a thin pair of lips will say “what’s upppppp” to me and not anyone else I’ll get called a name like Jasmine with such utter 30 *Line borrowed from Claudia Rankine, Citizen WHERE I AM FROM Hannah Schmit I am from the forest. From ruddy Maple and heady Pine. I am from the sunlit dust that refracts the life of the breeze. The rough wood of the trees are my bones, roots firmly planted deep in the depths of the cool black soil. Generations have taught me to live in the sun, tan weathered hands, calloused and worn cover small, break earth and sow seeds. Exhaling with the unfurling of new leaves whose first stretch welcomed life, I learned the importance of patience and nurturing. I am from dirt beneath my nails and gritty sand in my teeth. Sap painted hands and hot tar feet, blackened from short dashes across burning pavement that rippled with summer heat. Sandboxes were my kingdom, the layers of silt and sand familiar to my prodding hands. I climbed turreted towers of twisted bark and branches to survey the world and breath in time with the breeze. Twigs and leaves were my crown and a rusty tractor my carriage. My people were the songbirds and insistent cicadas whose songs filtered lazily together through the woods. Sometimes I called back, matching note for note, melodies and harmonies creating a canopy of familiarity. I am from wildflowers who nodded their velvet, satin, and paintbrush heads as I passed by. From dried grasses whose sweet scent rose from rolling waves that undulated under horse-tail clouds above. The gold-fringed top of the corn is my hair as it turns to brown under the autumn sun. I am from the passing of seasons, each marking the time as brilliant red and orange gave way to pristine white and serene gray. Freckles and sunburn traded for pale skin cold kissed cheeks. My life can be counted in scraped knees and bruises, and band-aids and scars, each a story unique unto itself. I am from the water. Clear and silted, still and rushing it surrounds me. The river courses through my veins, its steady pulse my heartbeat. I am from the muted silence of holding my breath. From letting go in the soft pixelated light that swirls lazily in the haze of a murky river. From the dew that rests in early mists that lay as a blanket over a newly purified earth, protecting the last of the dawn. I am from music. Love-strung tunes of lullabies rock 31 my past to sleep and call forth dog-eared memories. Treasured memories that float fragmented in my mind, I was waltzing with my darling… Goodnight, Irene… Then sings my soul… Black Forest I have come to be in this place. Knit sweaters and hand me downs weave the fabric of my personality. The black ink of the notes is stained on my fingers, the lyrics printed out as a map on my mind. My body is movement, ‘full of grace’ as I danced through recitals and music competitions. My history is composed of the ivory keys of a piano board, the metallic strings of a guitar, and the soft wheeze of a musty accordion. I am from survivors. From broken families and lives I was given the opportunity to begin. Out of the ashes of war and blood, death and pain I was taught compassion. The scars remind me of my privilege. A handful of ink-smeared letters, a fading tattoo, and relentless nightmares that went unspoken. Touched by shadows of heartbreak and longing I have learned the fears of disease and pain, the cruelty of man and the destruction of illness. I am from a legacy. Footsteps preceded my very first and taught me how to stand tall—to walk courageously. When I was tired of walking and needed to fly, strong hands lay behind me as I learned to test my own strength. I am from fading memories. From sweat and ploughs, rough tools and run down sheds. My past is a copper foundation of saved pennies stretched with love and trust. The polished wood of a hunter’s gun and tug of a taut fishing line tie me to the land of a generation gone by. I am from the creaking wood of a ship that ferried dreams. From the fjords and 32 I am from strength. From weary hands that sought to move forward. From songs crooned in different tongues, prayers tucked away from missed lives. I am from the sweet smell of tobacco. From a worn brown pipe laid in the top overall pocket. From tales of Shirley Temple and shiny black shoes. From the canoe as it passes over reeds and the click of a cane keeping time with shuffling shoes. From sterilized rooms and flowers with similarly fated owners. I am from loss and tears. I am from the Mississippi and the Great Lakes, from steam and coal. From concrete jungles and log cabins. I am a piece of the past, I am… The rooms of my mind are wallpapered with snapshots of a younger me. Sayings and phrases are the soundtrack of my life. I carry them with me. Tucked in locked and forgotten rooms they wait patiently, longingly for me to recall. future. I seek not where I am going only exist here, as I am. I am from the past. Shaped by the present I live for the future. I am from wanderlust. An incorrigible desire to explore that cannot be quelled with the stillness between heartbeats. I am from the excitement that teeters on the brink of the inevitable. I am pulled at by the gentle whisper of religions. Called to the beauty of holiness in the world, I am grounded in the church yet growing in the temple and the mosque. I am gentle hands that have learned to be useful—to give back. Well-used fingers taught to survive and protect. I am a collection of places and people that I have encountered. In love with humanity, I exchange comfort for experience. I am at home in the concrete jungles constructed from heat-cracked pavement and in the mudpatched hut of the desert. The mountains and caves call to me like the trees and fields of my youth. I am at home in the grand expanse of a world that knows no limits, understands no boundaries. A world that exists, simply to exist. My feet itch to travel down forgotten paths where the dust of ages can billow out from under me and cloud the clarity of the 33 who am i? ashley waalen 34 2 GRATITUDE: A POEM IN FOUR PARTS D.E. Green 1. Le Chaim 2. In Praise of Delusion Each day, my own sunrise, my own morning star: your red head radiates strange aerial spikes. When he walks down the sloping skyway from Memorial to the Music building on his way to a long evening class, he sees his reflection in the large classroom window at the base of the slope. He loves that mirror. In it, he is about a foot taller than his five-fiveand-a-half and twenty pounds lighter. He is younger than his sixty years. The silver hair is less telling. As he approaches, the Other ways slightly, moves with the elegant gait of an athlete or dancer. This, he imagines, is my Norwegian double—tall and slender and (at least from this distance) good-looking. Of course as man and image converge, his Other shrinks into an eastern-European, Semitic, rather compact, little old man. Perhaps (he wonders) I have seen the inner image of myself. Perhaps (he smiles) I am happy just to have illusions. Our son’s beard and long Hasidic locks on a head never bowed in prayer hover over his guitar and, till he gets it just so, a heavy-metal riff. The picture of Ollie, our old pup,— his face speaks love, love, love. Like the holiday meal you’ll pretend to let me cook. Or when your hand gently strokes my heaving shoulder: I am sobbing silently because the movie has ended well—a good death, timely reconciliation, vows revived, a renewed breath. 36 3. Thanksgiving 4: To My Son This morning, as I drive from Northfield to Hampton past field after barren field, three wild turkeys foraging and gobbling at the edge of the road— their white-splashed wings, black-feathered trunks, It’s Friday, Z—, and (as always) time to say how much I love you (and your mom too, since I don’t say it often enough though I feel it every minute) and how much I miss you and hope you can spend a few hours with us and Grandma the first weekend in November. We worry about you every day, ‘cuz that’s our job, but we also have an abiding sense of how strong you are: How much you have been through, how far you’ve come, and how you face each day with grit—and, I hope, love. The latter is so hard to do: Over breakfast your mom and I sometimes sit around and whine about our work, about grading student papers. But a little later I’ll be walking across campus and the light will be just right and I’ll see a familiar face amid a group of young people and—I don’t know why—I feel love. I think that’s the word. And I felt it last time we picked you up downtown and you were talking to some scruffy stranger on the street. And the fact that you can still be open to such encounters—isn’t that love too?— filled me with wonder. It’s funny: Old people, among whom I am about to number, have proverbially been beyond wonder, such a romantic and old-fashioned word. But I swear that I still feel it—and that you are among the wonders of my world. red combs poking and pecking the gravel and weeds—surprise me. I flinch. The car swerves. I breathe. They range unruffled. 37 work in progress gabriel bergstrom 38 THE FIRE Elisabeth Beam I stood with my back to the crowd watching the house go up in flames. It happened faster than I had expected. It had taken less than a minute for the fire to spread from the kitchen to the living room and even less time for it to make its way upstairs and into the bedrooms where Grandma and the twins had been peacefully sleeping. Joel stood beside me; his face was dark with ash, his mouth tilted upwards in a sickeningly gleeful smile. Momma had never liked Joel. She said he was a troublemaker and I should do my best to stay away from him. Joel hadn’t always been mean. When I first met him he would bring me friends and make me laugh. He gave me my grey tabby cat, Walter, and my small white bunny, Snowy. We used to all run around the garden and play and laugh. I didn’t like it when Walter and Snowy played. Walter always hurt Snowy. Joel loved it. Snowy’s pain filled shrieks always brought a smile to his face. Joel would play tricks on Momma. He’d move the chair she was about to sit in and she’d tumble to the floor with a crash and a scream. He would put dead things in the twins’ crib for Momma to find. Once he brought a live snake into the house and slipped it into the shower when Momma was in it. She screamed something awful and had locked me in my room for a week. I always got blamed for Joel’s wicked tricks. Momma brought a lot of new friends to the house after that. She brought in men wearing long white coats who talked with me and asked questions about Joel and Walter and Snowy. Joel would stand behind them as they questioned me and make faces. I didn’t understand why they didn’t just talk to Joel and grew frustrated with their questions. Once Momma brought home a man in a black suit. He walked around the house mumbling in a strange language, throwing water on the walls and waving his cross around like a baton. I thought he was crazy. I told Momma and she told me to hush and sit down. The man stood in front of me yelling in his strange way and holding his cross on my forehead. It was cold and made me uncomfortable. Joel got upset. He didn’t like the man and the way he was 39 shouting. The next thing I knew the man was on the floor bleeding from a gash in his head and Joel was laughing loudly in my ear. A bunch of police officers showed up and Joel told me not to tell anyone what he’d done. He said I should blame it on Momma and she’d go away for a long time and stop bothering us. Momma shouted and cried and struggled as the police dragged her away to the sound of Joel’s gleeful laughter and the twins’ high pitched screams. Grandma came after Momma. She was mean. She locked me in my room and told me to stay there until I learned my lesson. I watched him stalk around the room at night mumbling darkly to himself. Grandma made me to go church with her every Sunday, she said I had to pray for my soul for what I’d done to that man and to Momma. I didn’t understand why everyone blamed me for Joel’s tricks and was tired of being punished for all the naughty things that he did. One night at supper, Joel made scary faces at the twins who started wailing. Grandma stood up and yelled at me as she tried desperately to calm the twins. She told me to go to my room. I said no. I pointed at Joel and yelled at him with all my might. This was all his fault. Grandma sent me to bed. Joel told me they were going to send me away. They would separate us and I would never be able to see him again. I told him I was fine with that because he was being horrible. That upset him. He got Walter and Snowy and made me watch as Walter ate Snowy. I cried. He laughed. Joel woke me up at midnight. He told me we could stay together. Me, him, and Walter, but we had to do 40 something first. He smelt like gasoline. He led me to the kitchen and pointed to the stove which was covered with a sticky, sweet smelling liquid. He told me to open my hands. I did. He handed me a lighter. I didn’t want to do it but Joel got angry when I tried to say no. He yelled and told me to do it for all the times Momma blamed me for something he did. That if I did this everyone would finally realize it was him doing all the bad things and not me. My hands were shaking so bad it took me five tries to get the lighter to ignite. When it did I froze and stared at the small flame in my hands. It flickered with every shuttering breath that came out of my mouth. Joel grew impatient and slapped the lighter out of my hand and onto the stove. There was a large whooshing noise and a blast of orange light. My arm hair stood on end and sweat trickled down my face. I backed away. Joel stood in front of the fire and laughed. He threw his arms out wide and danced in tune with the flames. He was crazy but his movements were so beautiful and fluid. It was frightening. The fire advanced toward me. I didn’t want to move. I wanted the fire to eat me like it was going to eat Grandma and the twins. Joel grabbed my hand and led me outside. We stood to the side and watched as the fire slowly ate up the house I had grown up in. The house that the priest, the twins, and Grandma had all died in. Sirens and smoke filled the night air. I looked to my side for Joel, but he had disappeared. DESERT DRUMS Abigail Carpenter When my London flatmate, Raoni, suggested we travel to Northern Africa because he was missing the heat of Brazil, we had no intention of visiting the Sahara Desert and the Atlas Mountains. But we quickly made friends with a generous and hospitable Moroccan man, Raxido, who invited us to a local drum circle at the edge of the Sahara Desert. After traveling on camelback against an orange-rayed sunset, we found ourselves among the sand dunes. We parked our camels single file near our camp, and I realized a place that once only existed in my dreams was now before me. I had to close my eyes for a long while. I opened them over and over again until I was sure of it. I had to reach down and let the sand fall between my fingers slowly. I had to breathe in the crisp, evening air. And when I looked up, the stars speckled in the sky like the summer freckles on my face, thousands and thousands of them. When the drum circle began, I let its music fill me up. It started in my toes and moved higher, tickled my fingers and sent goosebumps up my arms and back. The drums vibrated within my chest and when it reached my mouth, I screamed in laughter. My laugh echoed farther and farther across the desert, not meeting any person or town or house until it was miles and miles away. I wrapped my blanket a little tighter and watched my friends dance around the fire to the beat of the drums. Their legs moved up and down as their hands joined the ashes flying through the night air. For many hours, we sat around the fire, told our stories and spoke aloud our dreams. We danced and sang and took turns pounding the drums. We slept under the stars among the silence of the desert for only a few hours until the sun awoke us on the horizon. And moving through the deep sand, the sunrise at our backs, we rode our camels to the bus to escape the desert heat before it swallowed us up whole. 41 COLORS Hannah Schmit If I am a color call me red The color of passion and love Humanity worn on my sleeve The color of my blood, beating heart. Call me red. If I am a season call me fall With baited chilled breath I speak My words on whirlwind breezes fall An omen of changes to come Call me fall. If I am a sound call me silence. The chaos and stillness of calm My words lost yet encompassing In anticipation of something Call me silence If I am a thought call me hope The desire for something more A yearning call deep within me The need to breathe Call me hope. 42 urban delight jazmin crittenden 43 WHEN DAD WORE COLOGNE A. Tetzlaff “Did Grandpa Mike die?” My small voice broke a quiet that Dad and I carry easily between us. A radio frequency connecting our minds that communicates silently, so we don’t have to. Even at the age of three, I knew our sacred, noiseless space well. Dad took me to a park one day, nearby my childhood home. We rarely visited this park unless we intended to use its snowy slope for adrenaline rushes in our bright plastic sleds in the winter time. But it wasn’t wintertime now. My dad wore a blue t-shirt he’d owned since high school. Summer or spring, the season isn’t particularly distinct. The hills rose nakedly as we quietly approached. I’ve come back to the memory time and again; the images are blurred, like a positive photograph that didn’t come out of the darkroom correctly. I can’t recall how my father responded to my question, though I’m sure he patiently and painfully affirmed my query. In that moment I wasn’t shocked. I wasn’t sad. Presently, I regret that I can’t remember a man who loved me and was so dearly loved by others. I don’t know how he looked aside from the pictures I know. How he talked, laughed, 44 yelled, walked, I don’t recall. Did he wear cologne to work like Dad? When I was young, Dad wore cologne to work. He woke up around five in the morning in order to be at work five-thirty, and he still does, despite the fact that no one expects him in the office till eight. I’d hear his alarm from my bed and wait to smell the mix of dewy summer grass and the spicy knives of cologne in my nostrils. The smell lingered and pulled me back to sleep as Dad left the house. On the day at the park, Dad wasn’t wearing cologne. Dad didn’t wear cologne that day because it was either a weekend or he had the day off or had taken time away to grieve. I don’t remember the call to our corded telephone late one night. It was the hospital telling Mom and Dad that my grandfather died of a heart attack while showering. I don’t know if he died immediately or if the attack was slow, painful, cold, and wet. I will never ask. The thought of breaking the stitches grief so tenuously sewed incites trepidation. Was my young face one of his last images? I’m vain enough to assume so––grandparents always think of the grandbabies first. Was it a comfort? I can only hope. At my Grandfather’s funeral, I can’t remember Mom’s grief. I can’t remember the funeral either.She keeps the remnants of her love tended like a flower garden and tells me of her father often. I have nothing but the cemented walkway leading to the park that summer day deep in my mind. Mom tells me that my grandfather lived as long as he did because he was waiting for me. It was a miracle I was even born, but that’s not my story to tell. She calls me “the sparkle in his eye.” Christopher, my younger and only brother, inherited my grandfather’s bright, Anglo-blue irises. He was born the year after my grandfather died. Christopher joined the Army a few weeks ago; my grandfather was a Marine in the 60s. During his service in Asia, my grandfather collected each country’s currency. Grandma keeps the collection in a red leather box in her bedroom closet. I used to step onto a chair and carefully extract the artifact from the top shelf and touch each coin and each bill. Some of those tenders are much extinct now. The souvenirs of my grandfather’s life are far less valuable to me than those of my travels––those, at least, the mugs and the key chains, those have memories attached of the real thing. I’ve spent most of my life scouring photos and objects, trying to resurrect an authentic memory of my grandfather. Trying to find a sensation that brings him back to me like the early morning scent of Dad’s cologne because I only remember the hills and my words and Dad. The solvents of time washed away my grandfather. 45 SHITTY CHRISTMAS TREES AND SECONDHAND DOLLS Elisabeth Beam When I was a kid we didn’t have a lot of money. But we managed to survive. Mom worked a lot at the dingy looking Super 8 Motel just down the street from the elementary school. You know, the kind of motel that charges by the hour instead of night. She hated it but it was close to school and paid just enough. Around November she would start picking up shifts at other hotels in town to save up more money for Christmas. It was hard. The heat bill always went up mid-October when the chill started to set in and the snow began to fall. Presents were always an issue. Getting stuff for just me and Sarah was usually alright, but Mom came from a big family. Six brothers and sisters all of whom had kids. All of whom would be needing presents. That’s a lot of money. Money we just didn’t have. One year there was a huge blizzard and they canceled school for a week. Sarah was only six at the time and she couldn’t be left alone to take care of herself much less a five-year-old as well. So mom had to stay home from work and look after us. She tried to make it seem like she wasn’t stressed out about the money, but I knew she was. She would pace around the kitchen at night and mumble to 46 herself. She’d crouch over her checkbook and shake her head. She tried to hide it from us, but I noticed. I always noticed when she got like that. A week of work missed meant we wouldn’t be able to afford the gas to get to grandma’s house for Christmas. And a week with everyone at home meant that the heat bill was going to be rough. She was too proud to try and get food stamps. So money that would normally go towards presents went to buying our Christmas feast. We didn’t go to my grandma’s house that Christmas but it was probably the best Christmas of my life. The day before school let out our landlord took out all the carpet in the living room. He said it was due to be replaced and that someone would be over before the holiday to put down some new carpet. “Your feet will be so happy and thankful! That’s the best Christmas present you could ask for!” he had happily told us. No one came. The floor was cold and there were nails and sharp staples sticking up at weird angles. It hurt to step on them and small red dots appeared throughout the house as we all made the mistake of stepping in the living room without socks. Mom put down an old ratty green rug, one that our cats liked to pee on. She bought a small fake green tree from the thrift shop downtown. It was the saddest looking tree. Most of the branches were missing so it had random bald spots sporadically around its leaning trunk. A good number of the ornaments that we put on it fell off because it couldn’t support their weight. We made new ones out of paper and glitter. Mom wrapped tinsel she’d taken from work around it and Sarah and I sloppily placed string lights. We put an old family picture at the top of the tree because we were too scared that our expensive Christmas angel would fall and break if we tried to stick her up there. Thinking back on it now it was a pretty shitty looking tree, but back then I thought it was the best thing I’d ever seen in my life. I remember sitting on the floor amongst the nails and staples and looking at it glittering and glistening and thinking that it was a far better tree than anyone else could ever have. I thought that even if we’d spend a million dollars on a tree and all its dressings that it wouldn’t even be able to come close to this masterpiece sitting before me. For Christmas Eve we blasted holiday music and ran around the living room twirling and waving our arms above our heads. Mom had somehow found time to make new flannel pajamas for both me and Sarah and we had immediately put them on. She had also given us each a doll that she’d found at a thrift store. They looked ratty and dirty but I loved them both. Every bit of dust and matted patch of hair was a story waiting to be told. The dolls had character and I loved it.That shitty tree and our thrift store dolls were great but they weren’t what made that night so special. It was that we were all together, making the most out of what we had and not lamenting what we were missing. I think as we grow up we lose the magic in secondhand dolls and shitty Christmas trees. 47 summer nights adam ruff 48 the people united adam ruff 49 after the hike adam ruff 50 CRUMBS Malena Larsen He’s looking for love In the crevices of his couch Like loose change. I saw him lift up the cushions And pull out crumbs His mother’s earring A quarter The spoon he dropped last week After eating ice cream out of the container. It was chocolate cookie dough and he ate the whole thing. I watched him put the quarter in his back pocket and the spoon back in the cushions. I told him I had been in love once And he said I like it when girls call me daddy. I had a dream that night that he was dating somebody and my stomach hurt when I woke up. I became a spoon in the couch cushion Who said words like Daddy And Fuck me And Hard. At the end of every night I was put back with the crumbs, and each day that he came to get me there was more cat hair or lint stuck to me I waited patiently Dirty For him to pick me up. It was 77 degrees the late summer night he stopped getting me from the cushions. He told me that he found somebody to love and we can’t be friends, because if I see you I’ll fuck you. I asked him why he couldn’t control himself if he was in love with somebody. The inside of my ribcage Was being scraped empty 51 Like the chocolate cookie dough ice cream container And my stomach hurt Like it did after the dream Where he wasn’t mine I can’t help it. He told me. I like it when girls call me daddy. When we met he was wearing a suit and it looked like he had spent a lot of time on his hair but I didn’t think he was attractive until the weekend when I was drunk. Across the table On the other side of red cups And puddles of water He stared at me In a grey tank top. His eyes And arms Were strong 52 And dark. Making eye contact felt like sex And he smelled like Fireball And somebody I shouldn’t be alone with And too much cologne. We went swimming at 6 am at the neighbor’s lakefront when everyone else fell asleep. He took off his shirt I kept mine on. The water fell off of him like it didn’t want to keep his body covered for too long. He picked me up and folded me over his right shoulder and threw me into the 6 am summer sweet lake water. He drove me home At 7 am Still drunk and Smitten. It was 88 degrees and my birthday the night I let him kiss me in the back hallway of our friend’s frat. I couldn’t wait anymore He told me In the house that smelled like Liquor and dust And damp wood. The first time we Fucked Was in the front seat of his White Pontiac Grand prix At 11 pm on a Tuesday. I saw him almost As an animal. His fists Were clenched And his eyebrows Like shelves Over his beetle eyes. Do you like fucking daddy? After that night I had to sneak him into my bedroom because he couldn’t do all of the positions he wanted to in his car. He needed to prove to me that he was the best fuck and that he could make me cum and that I should call him Daddy. I had never called fucking, fucking before. Before I was a dirty spoon it had only been called love. His eyes started to remind me Of Tiny Round Black beetles. There’s nobody else anymore We should just keep fucking. And when we fucked It was 66 degrees and almost fall when he came to my house in his white Pontiac Grand Prix and told me I remembered then, the quarter he put in his pants and how he used me to eat his ice cream and then put me back with all the crumbs in the cushions of 53 his couch Where he keeps looking for love Like it’s the loose change In his back pocket. 54 bloomed audrey campbell 55 pruned audrey campbell 56 HERMAN Danny Polaschek Grape juice dribbled down Herman’s chin and landed in scattered droplets down the front of his white T-shirt. He didn’t notice and, after setting down his half-emptied glass, picked up his spoon and started on his bowl of bran flakes. Sitting at the kitchen table, there was nothing in front of Herman —but a bare white wall. It seemed, however, that he wasn’t looking at it, but rather through it like a child looks through a window and, seeing nothing but gray skies and rain, is overwhelmed by disappointment because they will not be outdoors playing that day. As Herman sat there facing the white wall and chomping his cereal, his son entered the kitchen and began his morning ritual. Herman heard the coffee-maker start bubbling from somewhere behind him in the kitchen along with the quick and efficient pitter-pattering of his son’s feet, who Herman assumed had to be walking laps around the center island as some sort of new, trendy morning workout. Once the coffee maker’s burbling came to an end the footsteps stopped as well. Herman focused on the sound of the coffee being poured, the soft sound of liquid filling a ceramic mug. The sound stopped as quickly as it had started and Herman was further drawn from his relaxed, monotonous state by the sound of his son’s voice. “How are the flakes this morning, Dad?” Herman didn’t turn around to face his son, but continued with what he was doing, looking like a cow chewing cud. “Five star quality,” he replied in between spoonfuls. “Flaky as ever.” Herman’s son chuckled a bit and looked up from his fresh cup of coffee but the laugh died away when he noticed that his father was still turned away from him, eyes glued straight ahead. Taking another sip, Herman’s son pondered whether he would keep pursuing his father in conversation or not. He ultimately decided against it and left the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. A sigh escaped Herman’s throat as he set down his spoon, finished with his mushed and soggy cereal. Ain’t this the life, he thought to himself sarcastically. Finally turning away from the wall, Herman scooted himself back from the kitchen table and slowly stood up. He gripped the side of the table for balance and took a few deep breaths in an effort to steady himself. Just a few weeks before, Herman had 57 missed a stair descending to the basement and found himself tumbling clumsily down the rest of the way until crashing to a stop on the last few steps. Herman’s head still felt a bit shaky from time to time, which caused a bit of a tremble in his legs. Instead of walking from place to place, he grew accustomed to maneuvering his way to each destination by leaning on and grabbing anything he could for support and then flinging himself to another sturdy checkpoint, and so on and so forth until he reached his goal. It was much like a monkey swinging from vine to vine, but less precise and much less graceful. With his feet finally under him, legs steady, Herman pushed away from the kitchen table and launched himself to the kitchen counter, which caught him with cold indifference. Hunched over, Herman caught his breath for a few seconds before beginning to shuffle down the length of the marble counter towards the coffeemaker at the other end. “This better be a damn good cup of Joe,” he mumbled to himself, clearly exhausted. Halfway down the counter, Herman stopped. With a steady grip on the counter he reached up to the cupboard above his head and swung it open. He couldn’t see inside but he knew that what he was looking for was in there: his old blue coffee mug— one of the only things worth bringing with when he moved into his son’s house the year before. Feeling around the smooth, wooden interior, Herman eventually got a hold of his mug which distinguished itself by having only half of a handle still attached. With the partial handle hooked onto his ring and middle fingers, Herman pulled out his mug and brought it shakily down over his head, setting it on the counter with a soft “clink.” Herman was beginning to feel dizzy at this 58 point, and wished for a moment that he had listened to the doctor about getting a walker. “Mr. Huckley,” the doctor said, “even if you don’t think you’ll use it, take it anyways. Just in case.” Herman didn’t take the walker, and wouldn’t even let anyone help to walk him out of the hospital, not even his son. “I don’t need your damn help,” he snorted each time someone tried to take his arm to steady him. He was always a stubborn man and old age wasn’t going to change that. Continuing down the counter, Herman felt this same stubborn anger boiling in him. He was almost seventy years old and yet he felt like a child who was just learning to walk. He’d built his own home, and a garage to go with it, and now he could hardly make it to the opposite end of the room without feeling fatigued. Sweat was running hot from Herman’s forehead. He wiped it with a shaky hand and breathed in deeply, closing his eyes as he did so. He only had five or so more steps to go and he braced himself for the final stretch, determined to get there even if it killed him. With a focused balance and patient, shuffling steps Herman managed to get to the end of the counter and the coffee pot. He exhaled in relief, and a satisfied smile tugged the corners of his mouth up ever so slightly. With his blue mug in one hand, Herman picked up the coffeepot in the other, intent on pouring himself a well-deserved cup of coffee after his tiresome journey. His satisfaction was immediately replaced with bitterness as he lifted the pot and felt that it was nearly empty, only a few drops remained rolling around in the bottom. Herman’s minute smile had vanished and his brow hardened, scrunching up his forehead in small, tense knots. Setting the pot back on the counter, Herman hissed repeatedly under his breath, cursing his son for not leaving him any coffee. Herman’s hands were visibly trembling and he was having a difficult time keeping a grip on the edge of the counter. He contemplated making more coffee but dismissed the idea immediately, knowing that he could not remain standing and moving around the kitchen much longer. Herman felt a hot flush come over his face and could feel beads of sweat rolling down his temples and his cheeks. In one swift motion he wound up and threw his coffee mug across the room, where it shattered against the windowless, white wall. Slivers and shards of ceramic bounced all over the kitchen, the blue pieces scattered like shattered glass. Herman heard footsteps drumming down the staircase before his son entered the room,stopping in the doorway to avoid stepping on any of the pieces of blue ceramic. “Dad!” he exclaimed, “What happened? Herman was bent over, hunched with his hands on his knees. He was struggling for breath now, and sweat soaked through his shirt on his back. In between wheezes, Herman said exasperated, “You didn’t leave me any damn coffee, you son of a bitch.” His son stood there eyeing first his father and then the indent in the wall where the mug had hit. He shook his head in disbelief, which quickly turned to anger. With a clenched jaw, he left the room and returned a minute later with broom in hand. He began quietly sweeping the blue bits of coffee mug into a dustpan. After Herman had caught his breath and recomposed himself, he pulled his body back into a standing position, leaning against the counter. He glanced to his son, bent over and sweeping under the kitchen table. “I heard you on the phone last night,” he said. Herman kept his eyes on his son as he stood and turned to face him. His son raised an eyebrow at him but gave no verbal reply. “I heard you,” Herman repeated. His son bit his lip and continued sweeping, eyes trained on the floor. “It’s just not working, dad.” 59 EL BARRIO SUYO Chad Berryman El viento le envolvió al hombre como una manta de hielo. Él andaba por el barrio suyo pero los vecinos no lo saludaron. Caminaba delante de una casa grande con flores y grandes ventanas, y por esas ventanas podía oír una pelea entre dos padres y los lamentos penosos de sus hijos. Él seguía la acera que serpenteaba por un parque lindo donde había un banco solitario. Él Lo saludó con la cabeza. Recordaba unas noches del verano cuando este banco no había ofrecido insultos ni acusaciones, sino un lugar simpático para descansar mientras él le regalaba un uso admirable. Pero en el invierno el banco se congelaba como él, y ambos eran incapaces de ayudarse el uno al otro. Paseaba delante de una casa blanca de arquitectura maravillosa. Un coche altanero llegara la entrada. Un padre sincero apareció mientras acababa de contar los acontecimientos de su día. Su hija miraba su celular, y el silencio suspiró por la expresión herida de la cara del padre. Ellos entraron a la casa sin otra palabra. El hombre nómada seguía caminando, y pronto la nieve dentro de sus venas se derretía por una balada antigua que se tarareaba al ritmo de sus pasos. 60 No pido mucho, no vivo de prisa canto los himnos con risa bendita no tengo nada salvo alma amada y sin despedida no hay la llegada THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD Chad Berryman The frigid air wrapped around the man like a blanket of ice. He was travelling through his own neighborhood, but no neighbors acknowledged him. As he walked in front of a large, picturesque house, complete with flowers and giant windows, he could make out the sound of two parents fighting accompanied by the upsetting cries of their children. The sidewalk snaked its way through a park in which there stood one solitary bench. With a nod of his head, the man greeted it. Nights of summers past filled his mind, nights in which the bench had not offered insults or accusations but rather a consoling place of rest while he presented it with the gift of an honorable purpose. However, the bench froze and shivered in the winter the same as he, and neither could provide the other with any relief. He passed by a white house of grand construction. There, a flashy car had just pulled into the driveway. From it emerged an earnest father finishing the recounting of his day. His daughter, however, simply stared at her phone, and the wounded expression on her father’s face betrayed an unsung sigh. The two entered the house without another word. As the wandering man continued walking, the snow in his veins began to melt due to an old tune he commenced to hum in time with his steps. I don’t ask for much, or live in a rush in my blessed laughter the hymns come alive there’s nothing I own save a soul that is loved for without a farewell one could never arrive 61 ODYSSEY Eve Taft Thank you for the twisted pathways of your mind Which led to the streets and alleyways of Dublin James Joyce, do you understand that you opened floodgates? Your avalanche of babbling sentences, sans punctuation Buck Mulligan tossing form and style into the wind Your catechism, you, Daedalus, gave us sacrament Blood flow to wake up the numb limbs of literature You spoke with your soul to our souls Fearing not the noise in your skull but flinging it down in ink I understand you, “life is many days” I understand you, “god is a shout in the street” I understand you, “I am another now and yet the same” You understand me “everything speaks in its own way” Soon I’ll visit your beloved homeland Walking the streets of Dublin, writing and giving thanks to modernism Now as free of rigid form As Ireland of England 62 postcards from my bedroom audrey campbell 63 postcards from my bedroom audrey campbell 64 COUNTING SHEEP Danny Polaschek What can you do when the world is asleep? Go to sleep too? I’ve counted all my sheep. They jumped through the air gliding for 5 or 6 feet cleared the fence and then flew with not even a bleat. I didn’t focus however on these aerial sheep antics because far away in the distance was a sight oh so fantastic. A blue house, with a single light on in the window sat a girl a beauty no pencil could ever have drawn. I looked up at her and she down at me addicted to the eyesight too distracted to count sheep. 65 3 sky nights keeyonna fox 67 inner self keeyonna fox 68 VICTORY OF THE PEOPLE Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk Your worship was my refuge, your clay heart my focal point, your chelsea smile the apple of my eye. We were sick. We poisoned ourselves with amphetamines and pills until we didn’t recognize ourselves in the mirror. We walked miles just to feel accomplished in our space, we turned the cigarettes we shared into sentiments we thought we shared. I must possess the wrong innocence. Souls are fickle things that change when left to die in the cold. ~ He was outrageously tall. He towered over me like the Statue of Liberty and he talked to me as though I was a boat in the harbor. Standing five inches taller than six feet, he was an image of Ukrainian beauty. He stood like someone who knew things you didn’t know and this fascinated me. I was so naive, so optimistic. I saw the lust and want in his eyes and I mistook it for passion.The curve of his jaw and his long eyelashes crept into the screens behind my eyelids and ignited a fire in me that I didn’t know how to put out. I was the new girl in town struggling to keep my loneliness at bay. He was a gleaming light in that summer of darkness. I had just moved to Minnesota months before. After discovering drugs and promiscuous sex I became nothing short of a hurricane. Amphetamines kept me awake, cigarettes kept me skinny, and weed kept me sane. My GPA reflected exactly what they don’t tell you about functional depression: you can feel like a blank page, but as long as you fill it with words people will stop asking questions. He was selling me drugs. He offered me a good price. I had never met him but I figured what the hell, I could stand to meet new people. It was dark, long past sundown. We were meeting in a parking lot by a lake a few blocks away from my house. I was in my mom’s car. I waited and listened to Amy Winehouse until I saw an orange car pull into a parking spot a few yards away from me. The man driving fit the picture I had seen of him before. We 69 made eye contact and he ushered me over to his car. I took a deep breath, grabbed my sweater, and got my money ready. He rolled down the passenger side window. “You Nikita?” I said. He smiled at me. A smile that I would come to know. “You can call me Kita.” ~ He had really good drugs. I’m not sure that they were pure, but at the time I didn’t care. Neither did he. We just wanted to get high. We did his drugs together, sitting in a playground by the lake, talking about life and what we crave. He told me that he was applying to a college in London. I didn’t think anything of it. Before long we saw each other every day. He was a lifeguard who had to be on duty early in the morning, so he would take me out for coffee at eight in the morning. No makeup, sweatpants, my hair in a messy bun. He didn’t care. We would talk about things that we hadn’t shared with anyone else. He told me he struggled with his relationship with his father in Ukraine. I told him that I had struggled with eating disorders since I was thirteen. We would sneak out onto his back porch to smoke cigarettes late at night. His mother hated that we smoked. 70 “You need to quit smoking, love,” she’d tell me. “I smoked for twenty-five years and it took two pregnancies to get me to stop.” His mother loved me. She thought that I was spunky, independent, had a mind of my own. She did not like his last girlfriend. She made that very clear. She, like Nikita, was very tall. She had long curly black hair and eyes so intense that you would lose your appetite. Her Russian accent was thick and powerful. She had run away to the United States when she was twenty-one and seven months pregnant with her first son. Nikita. “Does it mean anything?” I asked him. “Your name.” He smiled when he answered. “My mom told me it means ‘victory of the people,’” he said. Oh Kita, you have no victory. You are the secret I keep from my mother the hidden disease that projectile vomits and digs with fingernails sharpened by teeth. Your fields of sunflowers told me a secret, your secrets so dark and beautiful and I killed myself with your gargantuan sunflowers. His mother was beautiful. She had been a professional figure skater that traveled the world, meeting people as she went. She met Kita’s father in her home country of Ukraine and according to the story, he was immediately drawn to her exuberant personality and her long legs. At twenty-one she was well on her way to continue pursuing a successful skating career until she got pregnant. According to Kita his father did not accompany her to her appointments.He did not send her flowers. He did not ask if she was okay. Instead Kita’s mother made her way to America to create a life of victory and hope. He took me to meet his grandmother. She said hello and came in and that was the last that I understood. The entire time I was there she would ask me questions in Russian and Kita would translate for me. He taught me how to say Hello (Privet) Yes (da) No (net) And thank you, which I don’t remember. We spent almost the entire time we were there trying to help his grandmother set up a new movie streaming program on her computer. I know nothing about computers in English, let alone in Russian. I was overwhelmed. The leather furniture just made my nervous sweat more noticeable. She told me about Ukraine a little bit. She said it was beautiful but troubled. She offered me chocolate and cookies. I sat, sweating, trying my hardest to pay attention. When I said anything to her, Kita would translate for me. I wanted to leave. After we left his grandmother’s house he told me to wait in his car while he talked privately with his grandmother. I thought it was strange but didn’t question it. I played mindless games on my phone while I waited for him. Some part of me knew that they were talking about me, but I continued to deny it. I was hungry, but I wasn’t planning on doing anything about it too soon. I was hungry often then. When he returned to the car I asked what they had talked about and with no hesitation he said, “You.” I paused, then asked him to elaborate. “She likes you,” he said. And that was that. How strange, I thought, to be liked by someone who never explicitly spoke a word to me. ~ Andrevich was Kita’s middle name. Named after his father. Kita’s father was very handsome. In his forties with tan skin and thick hair, he was a heartthrob that would make you look twice. He lived in a nice, expensive apartment in Kiev with his girlfriend who was twenty years younger than him. Apparently that was a theme. Kita had only seen his father a handful of times in his life. He had gone back to Ukraine to spend some time with him as a young boy, but didn’t have too much recollection of it. When he was sixteen he went back to live with his father and his twenty-yearold girlfriend for a while. Kita has always been tall, thin, and handsome. His father noticed this. “So what happened?” I asked him one day. 71 Kita shrugged. “He kicked me out and I came back to the states,” he said without a flinch. He said this as though it was a commonality. “He thought that I fucked his girlfriend,” he said as he lit a cigarette. There was a very long, uncomfortable silence. “Did you?” I asked. He laughed out loud and a cloud of smoke poured out of his mouth. “No, of course not,” he said. “My dad isn’t one to listen to a sixteen year old.” ~ “I’ll take you to Ukraine someday.” “Sunflowers. There are parts of Ukraine where there are endless fields of sunflowers wherever you look. They’re as tall as me and the flowers are bigger than my face.” He pulled me closer as he talked about Ukraine. He insisted that I learn all that I could about the Russia-Ukraine conflict, sending me innumerable articles daily. Through him I learned about the importance of the Ukrainian revolution and fights that had been fought, some as recent as 2011 and 2012. He told me that he wanted to fight for his people if he had to. When my eyes were flushed with concern, he pulled me in close and whispered in my ear, “I’ll survive for you.” His eyes lit up every time he talked about the fields of sunflowers in Ukraine. In the same way, his eyes lit up every time he got angry. Your golden eyes drew miners to starve and fight to abandon their homes. We were in his bed, naked, wrapped up in blankets and speckled by the corner light in his room. It was late, the kind of late that feels early. The air conditioner hummed in the place of our phones which were both off and hidden somewhere in the room. He did no wrong. He could not do any wrong. His eyes were blank but telling like a wall in a foreclosed home. All of his intentions were good. Yes. Good. “Where in Ukraine?” I asked. “Have you been eating?” he asks as he lifts up my shirt. “Kiev, the city squares. And to the huge fields of flowers.” “What kind of flowers?” 72 ~ I squirm away and pull my shirt down. “Yes, I ate just before I came here,” I say. I can still taste the salt in my mouth. “You look skinny,” he tells me with a hint of disdain in his voice. My heart soars. I look skinny. But he’s reaching for my stomach again and once again I’m backing away. We get into the car and drive to the gas station. I say that I need to go use the restroom. While Kita pumps the gas, I make my way into the small Holiday bathroom. I put my sweater on the ground and rest my knees on it, my usual routine. I stick my finger down my throat and vomit into the toilet. As I walk back outside, Kita is getting back into his car. I get in the front seat and sniffle slightly.Kita looks at me quizzically. “You okay?” he asks me. My eyes are watery, my nose is burning, and my breath is putrid. “I’m fine,” I say with a smile. ~ The elevator door was so cold against my cheek. I watched the red numbers blink as they rose. 8...9...10...11. My vision was going fuzzy and grey, my ears started ringing and throbbing. 11...12...13. Ding. The doors opened and my wobbly legs carried me down the seemingly endless hallway. My hands were barely working; as I watched them push my key into my apartment door I could not feel it. The door opened, I could see my living room window. I closed the door behind me and collapsed on the ground. “Why did you faint?” His words echoed behind the screen of my phone. “I just haven’t eaten a lot today.” There was a silence so deafening that it struck fear in my heart. Fear I had not known. “When did you eat last?” He had anger in his voice. I paused. He would know if I lied but he would hate the truth. “I had a little dinner last night,” I said quietly. “What did you eat?” His reply was sharp. I was shaking. “I had a little bit of salad I think,” I said with a quivering voice. I could hear his sigh. I can still hear his sigh. “How many times have we talked about this?” He exclaimed. “I know, I know, I’m sorry…” It didn’t matter. He didn’t listen. I had failed him again. “Do you know what it’s like to have a girlfriend that can’t even take care of herself ?” “What am I going to tell my friends?” “You’re not even trying.” I was sobbing, I was convulsing, I was sweating, all from my bed from which I could not move. My phone was glued to my ear and I had no energy to remove it. “So what are you going to do about this?” There was intense spite in his words. With a shaky voice I said, “I could send you a picture of everything I eat?” He laughed. With his full, angry throat he laughed 73 at my pain. “And do what? Post it on Facebook? Show all my friends that my girlfriend is an anorexic who can’t even feed herself ? You know what, go ahead. Maybe that’ll help you change.” I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to die. My stomach kept whispering “never again, never again, never again.” Opening my mouth made me panic because it reminded me of eating. I hung up my phone and with wobbly legs I walked outside in the snow and smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. ~ Months go by. Months. I watched him pack his bag with clothes that I had never seen him wear. He packed light, only a few shirts and two pairs of pants. “My dad will buy me more when I get to Ukraine,” he said. I sat on the edge of his bed and watched him focus on folding his clothes. His visa sat in the center of the bed, staring at me. I started to cry. “Babe, it’s going to be fine,” Kita said without breaking focus. I watched him form a pile of the shirts that I had grown used to him wearing. They looked like wilted flower petals. 74 “Why aren’t you taking those?” I asked, pointing to the wilted pile. “My father won’t like them,” he said. Later that night, we were drinking red wine in his bed. His room was bare and cold. I was curled against his side, my head on his chest. He stroked my bare back and played with my hair. I sighed, but not the kind of sigh that’s followed with kisses. Kita sighed too. “Petra,” he said, a tone of exasperation in his voice. “If I ever treat you like my father treats women, please leave me.” ~ I still remember how to say “I love you” in Russian. “я люблю тебя.” Ya lyublyu tebya. ~ My fingers were bones. Anything beyond mascara was too much, especially lipstick. He hated lipstick. He thought that it brought too much attention to my mouth. He didn’t like when other people noticed me. He stopped smoking cigarettes and instructed me to do so too. “They’ll make you age faster,”he would say. If I had a bad day and smoked a cigarette, he would tell me he was disappointed. I lived with three men at the time, something that Kita would never let me forget. He asked every few days to be sure I wasn’t sleeping with any of my roommates. If I was spending too much time with a friend, he would tell me that I was neglecting him. He sent me articles outlining how to be a better partner. He reminded me that he just wanted me to be the best that I could be. The screaming and hour-long phone calls were footnotes. You stripped me of my dignity and told me, “This is what you have.” Your monstrous arms crawl into my nightmares Your titanic stature collided with my glacier and though you claim I sank you You were a behemoth and I was a stone. At the end, I fell into the ground. His screams surrounded me in my echo chamber and suffocated me. My knees were bruised from kneeling in front of the toilet all night. How apt for the one accused of dropping to her knees for all men. I was free but I did not know it yet. All I knew was the cold floor of my bathroom and the tales of beautiful but troubled Ukraine. My goodbyes have been said, These addictions fed. It’s the cost that comes with the sickness. And your screams won’t be heeded anymore. 75 AN OPEN LETTER TO THE UN-SPECIALS Halle Chambers When we are little, even before we can speak We are told that we’re special and that we’re unique. That we all are made different and that none are the same Which fits quite nicely in a toddler’s mind frame. And we are told we should treasure what’s different inside, That what makes us different is not something to hide. But then quite soon after, things start to change; The word “different” stops meaning “special” and starts meaning “strange.” We’re sectioned off from our average peers In our own little category and told, “you belong here,” And then different is bad and normal is good, And for the different ones, nothing is working the way that it should The way we’ve been taught or the way we’ve been shown All we know is that we do not like being lost on our own. 76 So once again we are taken away To a place where things makes sense again and we’re ok: Where no one hurts us, Where no one can see, Where no one deserts us, Where we can be free. But because the un-specials can’t see what goes on, They decide to make things up and get so much wrong. And it’s happened for years because they can’t see through that door. So long they don’t even know that it’s wrong anymore. It’s so fixed in their heads that these lies are right; They judge each special kid by their stereotype. But today that will end. So you sit there and you wait, cause it’s about time someone set the dang record straight. You probably think that this poem won’t cut it, But today I’m gonna open the door and don’t you dare shut it! To start, let’s be clear: I am...I was in Special Ed. But just because I was in that room doesn’t mean I’m brain dead! So for Pete’s sake, don’t puppy dog guard me! Just give me a break, it isn’t that hard see: If I need your help, I will tell you I do. Just please, Please don’t mock me. In my place, would you want me to mock you? “Oh come on! Let her get it! Go easy on her!” Help, where not needed, is almost as bad as a slur. I’m not invalid So don’t play that card. Yeah, I’m a little quirky and oversensitive, But I’m not, and I quote, “A little retard.” Yeah, I’ve been called names. And those words? They hurt. They catch in the center, In your pit of self worth. And they tear and they rip, And those words are collective. Soon you start to believe that you are defective. I’ve dealt with them all, and surprisingly, I actually prefer the straight up bullies To those who pretend to like me. Fake friends and two-faces Of all genders and races. They’re only my friends so they don’t have to see me cry. Or they use me, abuse me, Oh, how they confuse me! Cause I can’t tell what’s truth and what’s lie. “Hey! He likes you. Go give him a kiss!” And because I don’t know better, I believe this. But soon I find they’re not playing Cupid, They just wanna make me look stupid. For their entertainment, they make me play the 77 fool; They pretend that they care for me When they’re really just cruel. It takes time and takes work to make you forget; Even now, I’m not quite there yet. I mean, here I am, in what’s supposed to be home, And yet here I am, still feeling alone. I’m still paranoid, it doesn’t just end; I still have to ask if someone’s my friend. I say one thing and mean another; I make a mistake, But you take it verbatim. Can’t you cut me a break? If we’re talking and I look like I’m lost, Don’t blow it off like it’s not worth the cost. Sarcasm and subtlety muddle in my brain, So please just take a minute to explain. Do these quirks make me broken? Is there something wrong with me? The way society has spoken, There would seem to be. 78 Stop poisoning the minds of “different” young women and men. I don’t like being defective.... Can I be special again? SOREX PALUSTRIS Emilie Tomas Did they name you for Your wit, pointed Nose of pointed judgement Who brought us fire; five to seven inches of shrewd truth? Or was it your mischief That Inspired them? Your Presence followed by screams And a three inch tail. I saw your likeness on a stage, Dirt in place of your midnight coat Though she is reformed now. Perhaps it was the gleam in your Eyes; whispered fortunes and A summer of silver birth. Maybe you are a messenger Of God, somehow in your Eighteen months you learned to walk On water, the second coming Of Christ. 79 woodsy adam ruff gabriel bergstrom 80 WORDS Malena Larsen The bathroom wall was covered in words. Words like fuck and love and song lyrics and names with hearts around them. His body looked peaceful, somehow, as he sat propped and slumped against the door. His head hung to his right shoulder and his mouth was open like he was about to say something but was interrupted. There was blood running down his left arm like a river and a needle hung loosely out of his skin. The words that he had heard her say several hours earlier were getting quieter and quieter. “It’s not working,” she had told him. “I’m sorry.” They were smoking cigarettes outside her apartment when she said it. She knew he had been trying to fix himself. After twenty-eight days of treatment and one week in a sober house on Lake and Fifth she barely recognized him. He was twenty-five pounds heavier and his skin looked clean and strong; there was no more grey in his cheeks. It wasn’t just his change in appearance that scared her. Lately, he had been telling her the difference between wrong and right and that she should stay in on the weekends. His family couldn’t stop talking about how proud they were of him and they would ask her, “Doesn’t he just seem so much better?” She would answer with yes but feel guilty because she wished he still liked to make mistakes. His family had a party after he got out of treatment and his grandfather kept saying things like, “Men in this family have always been strong!” and, “Now he can take care of you.” His grandfather didn’t care for her much but he felt that she was the least of the boy’s problems. He didn’t like the way she hung on him like a scarf or the way she agreed with everything he said without a second thought. As he sat on the bathroom floor the words she had said were getting quieter and quieter. They were almost gone. He had been sober for thirty-five days and he didn’t know why. He didn’t feel better or stronger or more loved. His hand lay loosely on the floor, palm up and open like he was waiting for somebody to hold it. Everyone was so proud of him but he couldn’t imagine living his life without her. Long after her words had faded completely, the bathroom door opened. He fell back onto the floor. His head hitting hard against the tile. 81 “Oh my gosh!” The man who opened the door yelled. “Can someone help?” He took out his phone to call 911. A crowd of people rushed over to where the man was dialing. A young man pushed past the group of people. “Move!” The boy got on his knees by the body on the floor. He reached into his pocket and took out something that looked like a pen. He stuck it into the arm of the body that was needle free. People gasped and murmured and watched. Sirens rang in the distance. The boy holding the pen looked up at the bathroom wall that had words like fuck and love and song lyrics and names with hearts around them. He looked up at the group of people. “It’s not working,” he said. 82 MALCOLM AND THE BLUE SIDE Danny Polaschek Brown leaves dragged past Malcolm’s feet in the wind. The bench underneath him felt like a rock and he had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He stared at the empty playground—the tire swing, the slide, the bridge and the fireman’s pole. Nikki rested her head on his shoulder. Each time a breeze swept through, Malcolm could feel her nuzzle slightly closer, her hair scratching and tickling his neck. When he was a kid, Malcolm had sat on this exact same bench many times with his mother. They lived in a little blue house just a few blocks away— “just a hop and a skip,” his mother would say and Malcolm would make it his mission to jump and bunny-hop the whole way there. When they arrived, they’d eat lunch, sitting together on the narrow, wooden bench. After each bite of his sandwich, Malcolm would beg his mother to let him go play, to which she would give in once she herself had finished eating. He always went straight for the slide. Once at the top, he’d yell, “I’m going under!” and swing himself down into the blue plastic tube. He imagined he was a deep-sea diver plunging into an underwater world of sunken pirate ships and forgotten chests of gold. On particularly sunny afternoons, he’d stop halfway down the slide and admire the shadows that moved about on the illuminated, blue plastic. He’d make believe that fish swam all around him as little blotchy shadows hovered whimsically over his head. He eventually got the idea to bring his crayons to the park with him. He’d sit lodged in the blue slide for most of the day, drawing exotic fish with bright oranges, yellows and reds. He knew fish didn’t smile but nevertheless gave them all wide grins and big eyes to match. When it was time to go home, his mother would knock from the bottom of the slide. “Time to come back to shore!” she’d announce. Malcolm would hide his crayons in his back pocket and slide down to his mother who would wait there with open arms grinning at him. The park seemed smaller now. Malcolm was just as tall as the fireman’s pole and half as long as the slide. He wondered if his fabricated underwater universe still existed. Probably not, he guessed. Although it was getting dark, Mal83 colm could see thick graffiti creeping out from the shadows inside the blue slide. Malcolm pulled his sweatshirt tighter around his neck, brushing Nikki away in the process. He felt her eyes on his face but refused to acknowledge her. Inside the slide, he could still make out the words “Bitch Ass” in thick spray paint. His crayon drawings would certainly be gone, he was sure of it now. Nikki picked up Malcolm’s hand and caressed it, her cold skin feeling leathery and smooth. “Malcolm,” she said. Malcolm turned and mustered a smile, taking Nikki’s hands to his face and kissing them awkwardly. “Malcolm, let’s go home.” The streetlights had not yet turned on for the evening. Malcolm noticed the shadows on the sides of the road stretching out and growing bigger as they walked quietly past. He missed the warm sunshine of summer and the hot nights spent lounging in the front yard listening to his mother’s radio; he missed the walks to the park, his mother laughing at him as he crouched and hopped along beside her. He remembered the secret thrill of the crayon box in his back pocket, then realized he’d forgotten his cigarettes on the bench at the park. He was too cold to turn back. He reached out silently for Nikki’s hand and, finding it much warmer than his own, held it stiffly the rest of the walk home. 84 driving at zero one john herbert 85 driving at zero two john herbert 86 PLACEMAKERS Diamonique Walker Near my home, Balloons dance in the wind. I have reconditioned myself — These are not balloons from a party, But they still celebrate a life. I drive by, sometimes I walk. And see a balloon or several With their heads bobbing away Positioned obscurely on the sidewalk. Or on the island in the middle of the highway. Sometimes on no one in particular’s grass. I don’t look for party decorations. At the feet of the balloon’s ribbons, candles, cards and little trinkets sit. Some kind of offering. Looking weathered and dull. His body bled some place close by. Probably killed within ten feet. A dancing, mocking balloon Somehow now gets to sway in his place. 87 NECESSARILY AN EVIL THING CONSIDERED IN ANY LIGHT Jacob J. Miller “You know what I hate about this most of all?” asked the first man. “Nobody’s going to be around to take responsibility. Nobody is going to have to answer for their crime.” “What crime is that?” the other man asked, sitting next to him in the middle of the cul-de-sac, both of them at perfect leisure in lawn chairs as if waiting for a parade to pass by. “Mass-murder, I suppose. Call it, oh, I don’t know. Call it, um, inciting the apocalypse.” “Ha.” “They deserve to be the ones left behind after they obliterate everyone else. They should be the ones who have to reap the aftermath, puke out their guts and feel their bile boil inside their stomachs, fend off marauding cannibals and giant insects. And they should have to live with the new world they created, or destroyed, rather.” Just then, the other man looked down and saw a lonely ant crawling up his pant leg. “Yeah, but I don’t think that giant bug stuff is true. That wouldn’t happen. The bugs’ll die like everything else.” “I mean, what do you think it’ll be like? I 88 know it’ll happen instantaneously, but they say the cerebral cortex functions after everything else has shut down and we linger in a sort of dream-state, which could last for, well, for who knows how long?” “Well, that’s if you’re in a hospital bed, or you have a heart attack or something, when you have time to die with a little bit of peace. Our brains are going to incinerate along with the rest of us. There won’t even be any stuff of thought anymore. I don’t think we have to worry about something like that.” “But what if that moment of pain before we go lasts longer, you know? What if time stands still? Nothing makes sense in a moment of such lunacy. Such catastrophe. What if we feel our tongues liquefying and spilling down our throats and scalding our internal organs? What if, all in that moment, we look down, and before our eyes boil and burst from the heat we see our bones glowing purple through our flesh as it begins dripping off like wax? What if you turn and look at me and the last image you see is my face melting off like those Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark?” “I’m not sure it’s the best time to be thinking like that,” his friend said, as the sirens began to wail their sorrowful last. “Why even bother with that fucking thing?” the man steamed. “It’s inconsiderate, a futile exhortation. We know what’s coming. We’re not going to hide in our basements from it like it’s a fucking tornado.” “Tornadoes aren’t so easy to hide from either.” The first man scanned the horizon for what he knew would be the last time. He took in the sight of the skyline he saw from his window every day and, with lamenting eyes, imaginatively anticipated its supplanting by a fiery mushroom climbing the sky. He closed his eyes and winced, unable to cope with the unthinkable thought, the impossible inevitability. Turning his head toward a neighbor’s yard whose household ran a daycare, he opened his eyes to a post-apocalyptic tableau of children’s toys scattered about the lawn. Nothing needed yet be aflame for the man to resent the picturesque cliché of innocence lost on display before him. “Remember when they used to tell kids to hide under their desks?” he inquired. “All that siren is doing is making sure that we spend our last moments in a panic, instead of dying gracefully, accepting that we’re all in the same sinking ship, in the middle of the ocean, if the ocean were the entire planet, and filled with lava instead of water. We should be spending our time reminiscing, because that’s all we have now.” “Well, we can’t talk about our plans for the future.” “We can’t discuss potential medical advancements.” “The coming cure for cancer.” “And cloning organs. Scholarships our children just received, the singularity and will the Matrix ever become a reality; would we ever make contact with life elsewhere in the universe, intercept an asteroid, mine them for resources? It’s all useless, man, meaningless. Every human achievement since the first spark made from one rock dragging against another, gone within the next hour,” he sighed heavily, draping a ribbon of helplessness over his words of outrage. “Why don’t you open that up?” He suggested, pointing at the bottle of scotch sitting at the leg of his friend’s chair. His friend took a swig before passing it over with a satisfied groan. “Here’s to everything we do being the last time it will ever be done,” the first man began. “That’s the best I can do.” “Yeah,” the other man raised an empty hand, toasting to the end and everything that came before it. “I suppose there’s something beautiful about the entire world—or nearly the entire world—going out the same way. There’s a kind of universal solidarity occurring right now, don’t you think? Some are praying, no doubt, some are exalting their various saviors, certain they will be raptured up any minute, but we’re all still going to be experiencing the same thing, at almost the exact same time; the same heat, the same instantaneous moment of searing pain before any trace of our molecules are imprinted as a shadow on the asphalt beneath us.” He had a complex contraption of a chair, one of the men—it doesn’t really matter which one now that the end was there; the kind of chair that folds upward from all four corners and was nearly 89 impossible to fit back into its cylindrical carrying sack—not that that mattered anymore either— complete with cup holders and a detachable headrest, which he was putting to use as he spoke. His friend’s chair was more old-fashioned, a conventional folding lawn chair with a checkered pattern of flimsy plastic wrapped taut around aluminum pipes, wobbly hard plastic armrests drilled in and not quite parallel to each other. Their chair legs began melting into the tar beneath them. One of the men hummed softly; a beautiful soundtrack to accompany him in the cut to black. The other man closed his eyes and, focusing on the sounds of the encroaching death rattle, heard them as the grunts and whinnies of the four horsemen’s horses as they galloped atop the planet’s rapidly spreading dust. 90
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MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART
& LITERARY MAGAZINE
ISSUE 42, 2017
EDITORIAL BOARD
Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief
Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor
Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor
Cassie Dong, Art Editor
Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor
Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor
Abigail Carpenter, Prose Ed...
Show more MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE ISSUE 42, 2017 EDITORIAL BOARD Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor Cassie Dong, Art Editor Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor Abigail Carpenter, Prose Editor Ryan Moore, Prose Editor Gabriel Benson, Poetry Editor Danny Polaschek, Poetry Editor Cary Waterman, Advisor 2 WITH THANKS TO Ivy Arts Copy and Print Augsburg College Student Government Augsburg College English Department Augsburg College Art Department The Echo Augsburg Honors Program QPA 3 TABLE OF CONTENTS 1 What Type of Black Girl Are You? Nikkyra Whittaker ........................................................................... 8 Simul Justus et Peccator, Andy Anderson .......................................................................................... 11 Queer, Eve Taft ....................................................................................................................................... 12 Jesus in a Cracker, A.Tetzlaff ................................................................................................................ 14 Grey Cloud Island, David Baboila ......................................................................................................... 17 Saint Paul Airport, David Baboila .......................................................................................................... 18 White Bear Lake, David Baboila ............................................................................................................ 19 Zips Coliseum, David Baboila ............................................................................................................... 20 Bridge, Jacob J. Miller ............................................................................................................................ 21 50 Feet Tall, Emilie Tomas ...................................................................................................................... 25 Meow, Ashley Waalen ............................................................................................................................ 26 Mousetrap, Halle Chambers .................................................................................................................. 27 Faces, Constance Klippen ..................................................................................................................... 29 I Don’t Always Feel Colored, Diamonique Walker ............................................................................... 30 Where I am From, Hannah Schmit ......................................................................................................... 32 Who Am I?, Ashley Waalen .................................................................................................................... 34 2 Gratitude, D.E Green .............................................................................................................................. CSBR, Gabriel Bergstrom ...................................................................................................................... The Fire, Elisabeth Beam ........................................................................................................................ Desert Drums, Abigail Carpenter .......................................................................................................... Colors, Hannah Schmit ........................................................................................................................... Urban Delight, Jazmin Crittenden ......................................................................................................... When Dad Wore Cologne, A. Tetzlaff .................................................................................................... Shitty Christmas Trees, Elisabeth Beam ............................................................................................... Summer Nights, Adam Ruff ................................................................................................................... 36 38 39 41 42 43 44 46 48 The People United, Adam Ruff .............................................................................................................. 49 After the Hike, Adam Ruff ..................................................................................................................... 50 Crumbs, Malena Larsen ......................................................................................................................... 51 Bloomed, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................................................... 55 Pruned, Audrey Campbell ...................................................................................................................... 56 Herman, Danny Polaschek ................................................................................................................... 57 El Barrio Suyo, Chad Berryman ............................................................................................................. 60 The Neighborhood, Chad Berryman ..................................................................................................... 61 Odyssey, Eve Taft .................................................................................................................................... 62 Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 63 Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 64 Counting Sheep, Danny Polaschek ...................................................................................................... 65 3 Sky Nights, Keeyonna Fox ...................................................................................................................... 67 Inner Self, Keeyonna Fox ....................................................................................................................... 68 Victory of the People, Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk ............................................................................. 69 An Open Letter to the Un-specials, Halle Chambers ...........................................................................76 Sorex Palustris, Emilie Tomas ................................................................................................................. 79 Woodsy Adam Ruff, Gabriel Bergstrom .................................................................................................. 80 Words, Malena Larsen ................................................................................................................................. 81 Malcom, Danny Polaschek ....................................................................................................................... 83 DRIVING AT ZERO ONE, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 85 DRIVING AT ZERO TWO, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 86 Placemakers, Diamonique Walker ........................................................................................................ 87 A Necessary Evil Thing Considered in any Light, Jacob J. Miller ....................................................... 88 1 WHAT TYPE OF BLACK GIRL ARE YOU? Nikkyra Whittaker On the spectrum of being black and female, we can only be what we appear to be. Take this quiz to find out what kind of black girl you really are! 1. You’re listening to the radio on the way to Target. You’re playing… a. Beyonce’s “****Flawless” b. Taylor Swift’s “Fifteen” or “You Belong With Me” or “Wildest Dreams” c. Chris Brown’s “Loyal” d. Keri Hilson’s “Pretty Girl Rock” 2. It’s your day off work. What will you be doing? a. Blowing off steam on Facebook. b. Watching old episodes of One Tree Hill c. Out for drinks and scoping eye candy d. Talking shit with the ladies while drinking Moscato! 3. What’s your dream home like? a. Full of books on systemic oppression b. Beverly Hills penthouse c. Some big shot rapper’s mansion d. Spacious New York Loft 8 4. Your favorite TV show is… a. Docu-series on race b. Sex in the City c. Bad Girls Club d. Love and Hip Hop 5. Finally, who’s your favorite female icon from this list? a. Angela Davis b. Taylor Swift c. New York from I Love New York d. Nicki Minaj Tally up how many of each letter you got and turn the page to find out who you really are! If you got mostly a’s...You’re an Angry Black Girl! Congratulations, you loud-mouthed, anger filled home-girl! I’m guessing there’s always some reason to be mad at someone, isn’t there? Do you just spend your days in a perpetual state of rage, angry at the world for reasons they don’t find important? Do you find yourself constantly snapping your fingers in that z-formation, pursing your lips at anyone who steps in your way? I bet people are telling you to just be quiet, huh? I mean, what issues could you, a black female, possibly have? Why should you care that your high school English teacher gives you a C+ on your essay because she thinks you copied it from the white man online? Why does it matter that your male co-worker at Target constantly teases you about your nappy hair, calling it a “brillo pad,” “cheeto puff,” or some other clever name? None of this should anger you! Be aware, you sassy Sapphire, in this world, your anger means nothing. If you got mostly b’s...You’re an Oreo! You grew up watching Lizzie McGuire and listening to Aaron Carter. You straightened your hair from the moment you were old enough to assert yourself and cried when it wouldn’t lay flat. Your friends were always shocked to see you bring collard greens and jambalaya to lunch so you stopped eating your favorite foods. They didn’t understand why you couldn’t just brush your hair, wash your hair everyday, why it suddenly grew or shrunk inches overnight. I’m certain you’ve heard from many of your friends how they just don’t see you as a black girl. They erase your black skin because it doesn’t fit the images of other black girls they see. You spend most of your time edging away from the loud black girls, the ghetto black girls who ate hot cheetos and drank kool aid and had corn rows and long braids and smelled like a mix of the jungle and your ancestors pain and you wished, maybe for a just a moment, but you did wish that you could be white. But honey, you can never wash off that melanin! It’s a permanent stain. Just because your friends can’t see the black on you, it doesn’t mean the rest of the world can’t. 9 If you got mostly c’s...You’re a Hip Hop Ho! You sexual deviant you! Let me guess—big breasts, small waist, and wide hips? You’ve got that original Betty Boop to you, something in your eyes that say yes to a question no one bothers to ask. You’re the black girl that white guys use as a notch in their belt. You are the exotic sexual being that men love to hate and hate to love. You became a sexual thing at a young age, when your breasts came in at ten years old and became d-cups at fourteen. They started looking at you differently, didn’t they? Your eyes stopped existing. Your words didn’t matter. Your body became the tool used to diminish your worth. How often did you get yelled at in school to put on something less revealing than your shorts? Did you ever wonder why the skinny, flat-assed white girls were never told the same thing? Honey, your wide hips wrapped in chocolate skin were never yours. You will never be yours. 10 If you got mostly d’s...You’re a Ghetto Fabulous Black Girl! You make what little money you can working at Walmart or doing nails. You make people waiting at the bus stop with you uncomfortable with your loud laughter and yellow and pink braids and long, bedazzled nails. You toss your weave around, remove your earrings, and square up to anyone that says shit about you. When you’re out, you are often told to stop yelling, screaming, taking up space. You’ve got baby daddy problems and you’re only 18. You grew up playing double dutch in the middle of the street with old rope. You accept your black, your ghetto, your Ebonics. But you are not supposed to accept yourself, honey! Don’t you see the fashion police spreads in the magazines? You are on all the pages! Don’t show your hips. Put on a shirt that conceals your stomach. Put your breasts away. Don’t wear bright lipstick. Stop standing out, being different. Get smaller, quieter, lesser, as you are supposed to be. You love your black too loudly and it makes others uncomfortable. Your job is to make people comfortable so do your best to limit the loudness of your melanin. simul justus et peccator andy anderson 11 QUEER Eve Taft You think there isn’t a sign on my ribs that says “stonewall inn”? You think Matthew Shepard doesn’t tug at my hair and warn me as I walk the streets of my city? You think I don’t choke on the smoke from the hellfire you spit from your pulpits with sparks that sear and heat branding irons which scar your names on me to mark me as danger? You think my veins don’t shiver when they think of the devastation wracking the cities that some called deliverance while Reagan fiddled as we burned You think that the prisons pink triangles asylums bullets spitting into a nightclub don’t whisper in my head as I make my way through the world? 12 You think that I don’t notice— I kiss her and kiss her —the headline blowing by with a death toll and I kiss her the skyline splashing out behind us the lights on the Washington Avenue bridge flicker on and I kiss her Putin criminalizes us, across the world I kiss her Vigils held too late for young suicides Corrupting, perverted, disgusting, an affront to family values— I kiss her in the rain and the sleet of Minnesota I kiss her, our lips tasting of chants from the protest that shut down I-94 handed down from our grandmothers hearts beating, eyes sparkling, alive I kiss her You think I forget the lists and the candles and the deaths and the pain and all that roars in my ears is a chorus screaming over and over again you were not able to kill us I kiss her and all is still 13 JESUS IN A CRACKER A. Tetzlaff Eucharist I hugged my father’s black, pleated pants while we waited for mass to start. He was beaming proudly and chatting with the rest of our family. I wore the only dress I allowed to touch my body: by then it was a year old and from my uncle’s wedding when I walked down the aisle carrying a bouquet, looking like a blonde deer caught in front of a semi truck. It had a black velvet top connected to a white skirt. All the girls wore white. My parents cut their losses. All the boys, shirt and tie. Eight-year-olds taking their first communion despite the fact that most of us had no idea what was happening. Understanding the sacraments isn’t really necessary when you grow up in a Catholic family. By the time you are aware of your burden, it’s too late anyway. Religion lived at Nativity of Our Lord Parish, in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Between church and home, I lived in a realm of contradiction. I came to visit religion, but it never went home with me. On Sundays when the game was in town, God would not judge you for wearing your Packer jersey to church. Sinning was bad, but you could tailgate and drink and carouse to your heart’s content. We should have taken beer at 14 that first communion. We would have appreciated it more than the wine. We took our places in the ritual that had been performed again and again. The time-worn ritual begins anew as I walk to the altar with my hands folded in front of me. I must remember to raise my hands high enough so the rheumatic priest doesn’t have to bend down. Right hand over left. I’m a blonde deer again. “The body of Christ.” This is the part where I say, “Amen,” whether I mean it or not, then put the communion wafer in my mouth. I must cross myself (right hand touching head, then left shoulder, then right shoulder) as I walk back up the aisle and toward my family. They liked to sit in the middle section, never too close to the altar. They didn’t like making direct eye-contact with the priest during his homily. To this day I skip the wine for fear of communicable diseases. It stuck to the roof of my mouth, this first communion wafer. It was stale. There was no substance. Maybe the parched flour and water, mixed with the lingering incense is actually what Jesus tastes like. The absorbent clump lasted into the next hymn. Saliva rushed into my mouth and eventually the wafer, heavy with mois- ture, fell from the roof of my mouth. I swallowed without chewing. Just go with it, I told myself. All these people believe in this, so one day, you will too. But I wasn’t sure. I didn’t get it. The power that kept me from running back up the aisle wasn’t the love of God gently pushing me along, but the ritual itself, and the expectation of my parents and grandparents watching proud and probably dewy-eyed as I joined their ranks. Hugs and smiles and congratulations as my family comes out of the first communion Mass, but I wasn’t sure what was such cause for celebration; I hadn’t had a great epiphany about God, nor had I felt any change at all. It was just like every Sunday late in October. head and tell me I was forgiven. “Sometimes, I’m not very nice to my mom or my brother,” I told him. Navitity didn’t own a confessional booth like the ones in movies. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a confessional booth at any Catholic church outside the movies. We sat quietly in a tiny room. Being small for my age, I circled the air below me with my feet. I sat facing him directly. He crossed his legs under the cassock he wore, clearly annoyed. After a silence and a slow nod, the priest said, “Sometimes, we hurt the people we love the most.” It was the only part I heard or remember hearing; he started talking about God’s forgiveness, I assume. I didn’t pay attention, because I didn’t feel different after admitting such a pitiful sin. Marriage I had no ill-feeling toward the physical place of church. In fact, the ritual, the sounds, the smell of incense, and the light that filtered through the stained-glass windows from an Easterly rising sun became familiar and comforting over the years. The nave, filled with old pews, had witnessed my parents’ wedding and my grandparents’ weddings. The organ towered over the choir. The smell of old patrons and Sunday cologne too liberally applied became a sensory memory of that place. However, religion has never been an inward practice; the practice and the scene never joined together. Anointing of the Sick When times are bad, I’ve pulled the fragments of ritual from my memory and recite the “Our Father.” I did this in the winter of my eighteenth year in days following my grandfather’s funeral. He died of bladder cancer, worsened by a communicable bacterial infection called C.Difficile. I became familiar with the ritual of funeral; I’d been to three or four for close relatives. But this time, the ritual felt different. Before, I was sad. My grandfather’s funeral confirmed that the only sacred part of my world had been ripped mercilessly from my arms. Reconciliation “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”As the words come out of my mouth, they themselves felt sinful. I hadn’t sinned, I was eleven. I barely knew what sin was. I had to stop a moment to think of a sin I had committed, so the priest could nod his Baptism I sat in the shower until the water hitting my face was colder than I could stand, reciting the “Our Father” over and over, sobbing. Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. I hoped, over so many repetitions, that my view 15 of God and heaven would change. Yet, it confused me more. Religion stopped looking like the patron blind to reality and became a place where I didn’t belong. Like I was missing out because I didn’t get that epiphany, and didn’t have that same faith. Confirmation Religion was so stale, that when my Mother would occasionally talk about faith, or God, or divine love at the dinner table I would blush with pity and embarrassment. How can you believe this? I thought, how can you be so blind to the real world? Perhaps, I’m the blind one. I continue to live in an intermediate space between faith and atheism. I can’t commit to either. The fence between atheism and faith is fraught with angst. Most days, I try to laugh away my uncertainty. I tell jokes about my Catholic past, chuckle when I hear of “recovering Catholics,” and tell friends, “It smells like a Catholic church in here,” whenever they burn incense. Religion is still stale to me. Religion has no nutritional value. Stale religion has no holy orders. 16 grey cloud island david baboila 17 saint paul airport david baboila 18 white bear lake david baboila 19 zips coliseum david baboila 20 BRIDGE Jacob J. Miller This was not way back when, as my dad would have you believe. It was more recent than that. If he can’t flat out deny it, which he no longer can, he will at least try to convince you that it was so long ago as to suggest it might have been a different lifetime, and he a different person. He has been, after all, Born Again. Except he was not the only person involved, and to carry along as if he was is an exercise in what I’ve heard philosophers call solipsism. For him, his transgression was between himself and the Holy Ghost: accountable not to those he wronged, only to an invisible spirit. But he doesn’t have sole authority in determining the past’s relevance or irrelevance to our lives today. My mother too pretends the past is only what has happened at a particular point in time, and not a factor in what determines what has happened since then and what is happening now. The slate wiper theory of forgiveness is what allowed them to wear their veneer of innocence and believe in its authenticity, and for that reason I resent their new-leaf turnover. My love for them may not be emergent in my words, I know, but I do love them, regardless of the fucked up traits they passed on to their children, which will become evident as this story unfolds You might be wondering, if you care at all, what could be so terrible. Well, it’s not so terrible, and not even very uncommon, but it happened to me, and my brothers and my sisters, and there was never anything we could really do about it. We watched it unfold almost every night to reveal its rotted pit. What was scariest was not when a half-full beer bottle would be hurled in our direction for us being too noisy, and then being held responsible for wasting the beer, and getting punished even more for that. What was scariest was when they fought with each other, mom and dad, when they were both liquored up. All of us children would be sitting in the living room, on our knees, in a line, with our hands folded and tucked inside our clenched thighs, having hitherto been fulfilling our playful, childish duties who couldn’t expect things to go so suddenly and intensely wrong. They would fight about anything, or nothing, for all we knew or cared. They would yell, swear, slam their fists on various surfaces, throw things across the room at each other as if rehearsed. One time, I remember, and this is what I’m talking about when I talk about how scary things got, my 21 dad had my mom pinned up against the refrigerator—after she threw three or four plates at him, one that hit his arm, but would have hit his face if he hadn’t been blocking, and cut it deep. He had the sharp kitchen knife pressed firmly under her chin. If she gulped too hard in fear, or if dad in his stupor lost balance, she would have been bleeding all over the family pictures held by magnets to the fridge. As we grew older, my big brother and I began working under dad instead of merely living under him. Our prospects in life weren’t substantial at that point. Whatever potential we had, it had never been encouraged, so entering into the family business, if it can even be called that, was the only viable option. I woke dad up most mornings from his typical collapse into a face-down, fetal heap on the kitchen floor, sometimes still wet, sometimes already crusted over. I’d say, “it’s time for work, dad,” and he’d drive me to the site where (drinking coffee with whiskey in it on the way) heavy machinery was waiting to be operated—even though we used hammers and nails whenever we could. Stonehenge-sized slabs of cement, wooden pillars, cinder blocks, and iron rods littered the landscape. It was all so disorderly that if a nomad wandered upon the scene, the indication would be of destruction rather than pre-construction. There were no piles of allocated materials or inventoried supply lists. It could have all been salvaged from past demolitions or by thievery from other project sites. We seemed to accrue it all without any kind of exchange or standard of accountability for use. Everything seemed to just show up wherever and whenever we needed it. Who actually made all this stuff? How did we move it from place to place to use from job to job? Who permitted my sodden father to oversee such potentially hazardous 22 projects? He was a self-made man outside the advent of auditing. What did I care then? I was making my way, fashioning for myself a future out of will power, and holding my breath until I could extricate myself from this grim farce. First day on the job, my dad said to me, don’t fuck up, or he’d make me test the bridge before the support beams were all in place. I believed him. That particular bridge wasn’t connecting two sides over a raging river or anything; more of a convenient pathway over a stream, but it was still a threat coming from dad. Second day on the job, my brother James tore partway through his leg with a chainsaw. I heard him yell, but it sounded more out of frustration than terror and pain. He sat down, ripped his immediately blood-soaked pants from where the initial tear was, delicately unlaced and removed his boot so as not to cause more pain, grunting as if he had done nothing more than step in dog shit, and lifted the nearly severed part of his leg that dangled lifelessly like a tube sock on a clothesline, to close the wound, from which I saw steam rising sacrificially to the wintery heavens. He reached forward to grab the excess of sock which, although bunched up at his toes, had a long, tortuous journey before being completely removed. He screamed as he stretched forward, more circumstantially appropriate this time, and this is when I dropped my— whatever, the thing I was holding, I can’t remember what, but I didn’t hear it land because I couldn’t assimilate anything else that may have been transpiring around me. I almost seemed to float over to him, not even aware of my legs propelling me forward. I saw all the blood, but I wasn’t put off by it as much as I thought I probably should have been, and I thought that as I stared at it pooling out. I observed it dispassionately, coldly, but I may not have been breathing. At first sight, it was just an organic pipe that sprung a leak. I think I asked if he was all right but I meant it more like did he think he was going to die. He said to go get dad and that’s when I became afraid. I stood there for I don’t know how long, until he repeated himself more urgently: “Walt!” he said, “Go! Get! Dad!” I listened that time, but I was still very afraid. I was trembling and began feeling like I might faint, and I almost hoped I wouldn’t find dad, that he’d be off drinking somewhere, but he wasn’t. He was drinking right there, over a small mound of dirt, holding a big piece of wood sturdy for someone to do something with. I saw his breath bellow out into the cold with a cough and evaporate as he took a swig from a bottle before sliding it back into his coat pocket, without so much as a pretense of inconspicuousness.The bottle neck stuck straight out and brushed against his elbow, a cumbersome lump sinking down and throwing off his equilibrium further than the ethanol already had. I slowed my pace, tried to regain some composure, and still hoped he wouldn’t notice me. I could claim an attempt at getting his attention, but he just couldn’t be bothered with me. I tried, I’d tell James, but I’ll carry you. I was sure I could have done that. Part of me still wished I could have avoided involving my dad at all. It was selfish, but I thought I might get slapped with the blame. But I yelled, Dad! Come quick! Dad, I yelled again, skidding on the gravel as I spun around, intent on not letting my dad’s impatient glare lock on me, and from that momentum, nearly ascending at a perfectly horizontal angle in the air before I landed face first on those same tiny rocks, a perfect reenactment of self-humiliation on the school playground at recess. I felt all those multiple points of impact, but wasted no time in catapulting myself back up—no time for embarrassment just yet—clawed off the pebbles that clung gently to the tiny dents they bore into my face and palms, and sped back to my brother who, when I reached the dirt-mound summit again, I could see was lying flat, surrounded by the thick, still-steaming purplish puddle which had, since I left him, at least quadrupled in circumference. Not looking back at all during my return sprint to see how far behind me dad was, or even if he followed me at all, I turned from the sight of my brother completely to see him, Dad, shuffling over the mound, bogged down by beer bottles, which could be heard clanging together in his pockets. He was wheezing inhalations of frozen air. He saw James right away, I know it, but he didn’t say anything until he got right up close to him, planting one clumsy boot in the blood puddle with a squelchy, meager splat, like an old-fashioned letter-sealing stamp on melted wax. He leaned over with outward turned elbows and hands on hips, looked at James’ face. James’ eyes were closed. Dad then scanned down to the butchered leg, grimaced, scanned back up to James’ face. James’ eyes were now open again, frigid with shock, and dad said, “pull yourself together, son,” erupting hysterically at his own clever buffoonery. James turned out to live, no real thanks to our father. I ended up having to run to the nearest phone anyway and call an ambulance. He didn’t even lose his leg. He did require a blood transfusion because he lost gallons of it, or at least it seemed like it when I stood there staring at the mess, but his gristly cheeks had their color restored right in front of me, resupplying and, it almost seemed, re-inflat23 ing him to human shape at the coercion of some stranger’s bodily elixir. It worked like sorcery, but far more astonishing because it was methodologically reliable. The warm fluid surged through his veins, and he was ensconced for a moment in a prodigious glow of newfound vitality. Back then, my dad, laughing, called him a lucky son-of-a-bitch, whereas telling the story now, upon reflection and suspension of rational thought, my brother was “touched by an angel.” Now, whenever this celestial creature of mercy is mentioned, who conveniently remains anonymous for humility’s sake I suppose, instead of our dad drunkenly laughing and mocking the situation, James does. An example of an aforementioned fucked up trait passed on in the family. 24 50 FEET TALL Emilie Tomas I was in 5th grade When my class went To see ‘The Human Body’ and I watched In childhood Horror as A 50 foot grin Unfurled, loomed Large enough To pull me Into orbit Devoured First a sandwich And then my Faith in humanity With deafening Smacks Like thunder If thunder Was made Of jelly and Dismay and I Knew it was a Crime to allow a Person to become This Inflated, With every pore Its own path to Hell and I knew I couldn’t trust Anyone because In our heads We are all 50 feet tall. 25 meow you see ashley waalen 26 MOUSETRAP Halle Chambers Minnie “Mousy” O’Mally knew she was invisible up here on her fire escape. This was her safeplace. With the ladder pulled up as it was now, almost no one could reach her here. Plus, even if someone did make it up here, she could easily get away. If she crawled rough the window, she’d be securely locked in the apartment. There, it was warm and dry and at least sometimes safe when her daddy…no, excuse her, correction, “Father or Sir” wasn’t home. He hated when she called him Daddy. He wasn’t home now, out doing illegal God knows what in the “family business,” but he would be back soon. Hence why she was out here. So, no apartment, not right now. If she dropped the ladder, she could slide down to street level in seconds and be down the block in under a minute. She knew, because she’d practiced and had timed herself. The only way to avoid getting hit in the face was to be quick on your feet. That was the first rule of fighting that Jase, her older brother, had taught her. With the life they lived, it was also a rule of survival. And they didn’t call her “Mousy” for nothing: she was small and fast… very fast. Jase could make a distraction, and Minnie could run. But, Jase was working a job that “Father” had given him out of town till this weekend, and she’d surely get caught if she didn’t have her usual head-start. So,“down” wouldn’t work either. If she scaled up the ladder above her, she’d be on the roof, where their oldest brother, Cobie, had often taken her and Jase to stargaze. She hadn’t known till six years into her still short life that he’d done it to keep his precious baby brother and sister away from their father’s sight when the man would come home satellite high or plastered. She hadn’t known till twelve years in that he’d take their father’s hungover backhand on the mornings after, so she and Jase didn’t. All she’d known as he’d taught her each constellation was that Cobie was braver than Orion and that she and her brothers were more inseparable than the Gemini twins. But, her world went as topsy-turvy as Cassiopeia when her father had sent Cobie away, saying he would not have a queer as a son. When Jase and Minnie hugged him, Cobie swore he’d come back for them in a year or so. Jase had given up when he’d been two years gone. That was two years ago, and now even Minnie 27 was starting to doubt. No, she couldn’t go up to the roo, not alone. She shivered in the October chill as she reviewed her options: “in” would be facing her father’s wrath, “down” would be facing being caught by a cop or a stranger, and “up” would be facing a reminder of the happiness, now heartbreak, brought by a brother who was likely never coming home again. So, maybe she couldn’t escape easily…or at all. She shivered again, this time more in frantic panic than from the frigid, near winter city wind. For not the first time in her life, Mousy felt trapped. 28 faces connie kilppen 29 *I DON’T ALWAYS FEEL COLORED Diamonique Walker Sometimes I find comfort in places I somehow know I don’t belong Never a full day, but hours will pass and I won’t consider my brown skin or kinky hair I’ll let the imminent fear of my black body being made into an example fall back to the depths of my mind My daughter’s safety in mixed company won’t occur to me I won’t juxtapose my blackness with any other’s identity confidence As if one chooses randomly from a pile of stock black girl names when they look at me He asks me if my hair is real I tell him he can’t ask me that He says oh it’s okay, my girlfriend is black I’m a dirty smudge on freshly ironed white linens Trying to blend in, trying to live my life I breathe, momentarily Suddenly, I’ll feel breathless, choked Stabbed in the chest Stung by a white hot micro aggressive slap in the face An unsolicited violation of my personal space A pale hand gently pulls a lock of my hair in white amazement Or a thin pair of lips will say “what’s upppppp” to me and not anyone else I’ll get called a name like Jasmine with such utter 30 *Line borrowed from Claudia Rankine, Citizen WHERE I AM FROM Hannah Schmit I am from the forest. From ruddy Maple and heady Pine. I am from the sunlit dust that refracts the life of the breeze. The rough wood of the trees are my bones, roots firmly planted deep in the depths of the cool black soil. Generations have taught me to live in the sun, tan weathered hands, calloused and worn cover small, break earth and sow seeds. Exhaling with the unfurling of new leaves whose first stretch welcomed life, I learned the importance of patience and nurturing. I am from dirt beneath my nails and gritty sand in my teeth. Sap painted hands and hot tar feet, blackened from short dashes across burning pavement that rippled with summer heat. Sandboxes were my kingdom, the layers of silt and sand familiar to my prodding hands. I climbed turreted towers of twisted bark and branches to survey the world and breath in time with the breeze. Twigs and leaves were my crown and a rusty tractor my carriage. My people were the songbirds and insistent cicadas whose songs filtered lazily together through the woods. Sometimes I called back, matching note for note, melodies and harmonies creating a canopy of familiarity. I am from wildflowers who nodded their velvet, satin, and paintbrush heads as I passed by. From dried grasses whose sweet scent rose from rolling waves that undulated under horse-tail clouds above. The gold-fringed top of the corn is my hair as it turns to brown under the autumn sun. I am from the passing of seasons, each marking the time as brilliant red and orange gave way to pristine white and serene gray. Freckles and sunburn traded for pale skin cold kissed cheeks. My life can be counted in scraped knees and bruises, and band-aids and scars, each a story unique unto itself. I am from the water. Clear and silted, still and rushing it surrounds me. The river courses through my veins, its steady pulse my heartbeat. I am from the muted silence of holding my breath. From letting go in the soft pixelated light that swirls lazily in the haze of a murky river. From the dew that rests in early mists that lay as a blanket over a newly purified earth, protecting the last of the dawn. I am from music. Love-strung tunes of lullabies rock 31 my past to sleep and call forth dog-eared memories. Treasured memories that float fragmented in my mind, I was waltzing with my darling… Goodnight, Irene… Then sings my soul… Black Forest I have come to be in this place. Knit sweaters and hand me downs weave the fabric of my personality. The black ink of the notes is stained on my fingers, the lyrics printed out as a map on my mind. My body is movement, ‘full of grace’ as I danced through recitals and music competitions. My history is composed of the ivory keys of a piano board, the metallic strings of a guitar, and the soft wheeze of a musty accordion. I am from survivors. From broken families and lives I was given the opportunity to begin. Out of the ashes of war and blood, death and pain I was taught compassion. The scars remind me of my privilege. A handful of ink-smeared letters, a fading tattoo, and relentless nightmares that went unspoken. Touched by shadows of heartbreak and longing I have learned the fears of disease and pain, the cruelty of man and the destruction of illness. I am from a legacy. Footsteps preceded my very first and taught me how to stand tall—to walk courageously. When I was tired of walking and needed to fly, strong hands lay behind me as I learned to test my own strength. I am from fading memories. From sweat and ploughs, rough tools and run down sheds. My past is a copper foundation of saved pennies stretched with love and trust. The polished wood of a hunter’s gun and tug of a taut fishing line tie me to the land of a generation gone by. I am from the creaking wood of a ship that ferried dreams. From the fjords and 32 I am from strength. From weary hands that sought to move forward. From songs crooned in different tongues, prayers tucked away from missed lives. I am from the sweet smell of tobacco. From a worn brown pipe laid in the top overall pocket. From tales of Shirley Temple and shiny black shoes. From the canoe as it passes over reeds and the click of a cane keeping time with shuffling shoes. From sterilized rooms and flowers with similarly fated owners. I am from loss and tears. I am from the Mississippi and the Great Lakes, from steam and coal. From concrete jungles and log cabins. I am a piece of the past, I am… The rooms of my mind are wallpapered with snapshots of a younger me. Sayings and phrases are the soundtrack of my life. I carry them with me. Tucked in locked and forgotten rooms they wait patiently, longingly for me to recall. future. I seek not where I am going only exist here, as I am. I am from the past. Shaped by the present I live for the future. I am from wanderlust. An incorrigible desire to explore that cannot be quelled with the stillness between heartbeats. I am from the excitement that teeters on the brink of the inevitable. I am pulled at by the gentle whisper of religions. Called to the beauty of holiness in the world, I am grounded in the church yet growing in the temple and the mosque. I am gentle hands that have learned to be useful—to give back. Well-used fingers taught to survive and protect. I am a collection of places and people that I have encountered. In love with humanity, I exchange comfort for experience. I am at home in the concrete jungles constructed from heat-cracked pavement and in the mudpatched hut of the desert. The mountains and caves call to me like the trees and fields of my youth. I am at home in the grand expanse of a world that knows no limits, understands no boundaries. A world that exists, simply to exist. My feet itch to travel down forgotten paths where the dust of ages can billow out from under me and cloud the clarity of the 33 who am i? ashley waalen 34 2 GRATITUDE: A POEM IN FOUR PARTS D.E. Green 1. Le Chaim 2. In Praise of Delusion Each day, my own sunrise, my own morning star: your red head radiates strange aerial spikes. When he walks down the sloping skyway from Memorial to the Music building on his way to a long evening class, he sees his reflection in the large classroom window at the base of the slope. He loves that mirror. In it, he is about a foot taller than his five-fiveand-a-half and twenty pounds lighter. He is younger than his sixty years. The silver hair is less telling. As he approaches, the Other ways slightly, moves with the elegant gait of an athlete or dancer. This, he imagines, is my Norwegian double—tall and slender and (at least from this distance) good-looking. Of course as man and image converge, his Other shrinks into an eastern-European, Semitic, rather compact, little old man. Perhaps (he wonders) I have seen the inner image of myself. Perhaps (he smiles) I am happy just to have illusions. Our son’s beard and long Hasidic locks on a head never bowed in prayer hover over his guitar and, till he gets it just so, a heavy-metal riff. The picture of Ollie, our old pup,— his face speaks love, love, love. Like the holiday meal you’ll pretend to let me cook. Or when your hand gently strokes my heaving shoulder: I am sobbing silently because the movie has ended well—a good death, timely reconciliation, vows revived, a renewed breath. 36 3. Thanksgiving 4: To My Son This morning, as I drive from Northfield to Hampton past field after barren field, three wild turkeys foraging and gobbling at the edge of the road— their white-splashed wings, black-feathered trunks, It’s Friday, Z—, and (as always) time to say how much I love you (and your mom too, since I don’t say it often enough though I feel it every minute) and how much I miss you and hope you can spend a few hours with us and Grandma the first weekend in November. We worry about you every day, ‘cuz that’s our job, but we also have an abiding sense of how strong you are: How much you have been through, how far you’ve come, and how you face each day with grit—and, I hope, love. The latter is so hard to do: Over breakfast your mom and I sometimes sit around and whine about our work, about grading student papers. But a little later I’ll be walking across campus and the light will be just right and I’ll see a familiar face amid a group of young people and—I don’t know why—I feel love. I think that’s the word. And I felt it last time we picked you up downtown and you were talking to some scruffy stranger on the street. And the fact that you can still be open to such encounters—isn’t that love too?— filled me with wonder. It’s funny: Old people, among whom I am about to number, have proverbially been beyond wonder, such a romantic and old-fashioned word. But I swear that I still feel it—and that you are among the wonders of my world. red combs poking and pecking the gravel and weeds—surprise me. I flinch. The car swerves. I breathe. They range unruffled. 37 work in progress gabriel bergstrom 38 THE FIRE Elisabeth Beam I stood with my back to the crowd watching the house go up in flames. It happened faster than I had expected. It had taken less than a minute for the fire to spread from the kitchen to the living room and even less time for it to make its way upstairs and into the bedrooms where Grandma and the twins had been peacefully sleeping. Joel stood beside me; his face was dark with ash, his mouth tilted upwards in a sickeningly gleeful smile. Momma had never liked Joel. She said he was a troublemaker and I should do my best to stay away from him. Joel hadn’t always been mean. When I first met him he would bring me friends and make me laugh. He gave me my grey tabby cat, Walter, and my small white bunny, Snowy. We used to all run around the garden and play and laugh. I didn’t like it when Walter and Snowy played. Walter always hurt Snowy. Joel loved it. Snowy’s pain filled shrieks always brought a smile to his face. Joel would play tricks on Momma. He’d move the chair she was about to sit in and she’d tumble to the floor with a crash and a scream. He would put dead things in the twins’ crib for Momma to find. Once he brought a live snake into the house and slipped it into the shower when Momma was in it. She screamed something awful and had locked me in my room for a week. I always got blamed for Joel’s wicked tricks. Momma brought a lot of new friends to the house after that. She brought in men wearing long white coats who talked with me and asked questions about Joel and Walter and Snowy. Joel would stand behind them as they questioned me and make faces. I didn’t understand why they didn’t just talk to Joel and grew frustrated with their questions. Once Momma brought home a man in a black suit. He walked around the house mumbling in a strange language, throwing water on the walls and waving his cross around like a baton. I thought he was crazy. I told Momma and she told me to hush and sit down. The man stood in front of me yelling in his strange way and holding his cross on my forehead. It was cold and made me uncomfortable. Joel got upset. He didn’t like the man and the way he was 39 shouting. The next thing I knew the man was on the floor bleeding from a gash in his head and Joel was laughing loudly in my ear. A bunch of police officers showed up and Joel told me not to tell anyone what he’d done. He said I should blame it on Momma and she’d go away for a long time and stop bothering us. Momma shouted and cried and struggled as the police dragged her away to the sound of Joel’s gleeful laughter and the twins’ high pitched screams. Grandma came after Momma. She was mean. She locked me in my room and told me to stay there until I learned my lesson. I watched him stalk around the room at night mumbling darkly to himself. Grandma made me to go church with her every Sunday, she said I had to pray for my soul for what I’d done to that man and to Momma. I didn’t understand why everyone blamed me for Joel’s tricks and was tired of being punished for all the naughty things that he did. One night at supper, Joel made scary faces at the twins who started wailing. Grandma stood up and yelled at me as she tried desperately to calm the twins. She told me to go to my room. I said no. I pointed at Joel and yelled at him with all my might. This was all his fault. Grandma sent me to bed. Joel told me they were going to send me away. They would separate us and I would never be able to see him again. I told him I was fine with that because he was being horrible. That upset him. He got Walter and Snowy and made me watch as Walter ate Snowy. I cried. He laughed. Joel woke me up at midnight. He told me we could stay together. Me, him, and Walter, but we had to do 40 something first. He smelt like gasoline. He led me to the kitchen and pointed to the stove which was covered with a sticky, sweet smelling liquid. He told me to open my hands. I did. He handed me a lighter. I didn’t want to do it but Joel got angry when I tried to say no. He yelled and told me to do it for all the times Momma blamed me for something he did. That if I did this everyone would finally realize it was him doing all the bad things and not me. My hands were shaking so bad it took me five tries to get the lighter to ignite. When it did I froze and stared at the small flame in my hands. It flickered with every shuttering breath that came out of my mouth. Joel grew impatient and slapped the lighter out of my hand and onto the stove. There was a large whooshing noise and a blast of orange light. My arm hair stood on end and sweat trickled down my face. I backed away. Joel stood in front of the fire and laughed. He threw his arms out wide and danced in tune with the flames. He was crazy but his movements were so beautiful and fluid. It was frightening. The fire advanced toward me. I didn’t want to move. I wanted the fire to eat me like it was going to eat Grandma and the twins. Joel grabbed my hand and led me outside. We stood to the side and watched as the fire slowly ate up the house I had grown up in. The house that the priest, the twins, and Grandma had all died in. Sirens and smoke filled the night air. I looked to my side for Joel, but he had disappeared. DESERT DRUMS Abigail Carpenter When my London flatmate, Raoni, suggested we travel to Northern Africa because he was missing the heat of Brazil, we had no intention of visiting the Sahara Desert and the Atlas Mountains. But we quickly made friends with a generous and hospitable Moroccan man, Raxido, who invited us to a local drum circle at the edge of the Sahara Desert. After traveling on camelback against an orange-rayed sunset, we found ourselves among the sand dunes. We parked our camels single file near our camp, and I realized a place that once only existed in my dreams was now before me. I had to close my eyes for a long while. I opened them over and over again until I was sure of it. I had to reach down and let the sand fall between my fingers slowly. I had to breathe in the crisp, evening air. And when I looked up, the stars speckled in the sky like the summer freckles on my face, thousands and thousands of them. When the drum circle began, I let its music fill me up. It started in my toes and moved higher, tickled my fingers and sent goosebumps up my arms and back. The drums vibrated within my chest and when it reached my mouth, I screamed in laughter. My laugh echoed farther and farther across the desert, not meeting any person or town or house until it was miles and miles away. I wrapped my blanket a little tighter and watched my friends dance around the fire to the beat of the drums. Their legs moved up and down as their hands joined the ashes flying through the night air. For many hours, we sat around the fire, told our stories and spoke aloud our dreams. We danced and sang and took turns pounding the drums. We slept under the stars among the silence of the desert for only a few hours until the sun awoke us on the horizon. And moving through the deep sand, the sunrise at our backs, we rode our camels to the bus to escape the desert heat before it swallowed us up whole. 41 COLORS Hannah Schmit If I am a color call me red The color of passion and love Humanity worn on my sleeve The color of my blood, beating heart. Call me red. If I am a season call me fall With baited chilled breath I speak My words on whirlwind breezes fall An omen of changes to come Call me fall. If I am a sound call me silence. The chaos and stillness of calm My words lost yet encompassing In anticipation of something Call me silence If I am a thought call me hope The desire for something more A yearning call deep within me The need to breathe Call me hope. 42 urban delight jazmin crittenden 43 WHEN DAD WORE COLOGNE A. Tetzlaff “Did Grandpa Mike die?” My small voice broke a quiet that Dad and I carry easily between us. A radio frequency connecting our minds that communicates silently, so we don’t have to. Even at the age of three, I knew our sacred, noiseless space well. Dad took me to a park one day, nearby my childhood home. We rarely visited this park unless we intended to use its snowy slope for adrenaline rushes in our bright plastic sleds in the winter time. But it wasn’t wintertime now. My dad wore a blue t-shirt he’d owned since high school. Summer or spring, the season isn’t particularly distinct. The hills rose nakedly as we quietly approached. I’ve come back to the memory time and again; the images are blurred, like a positive photograph that didn’t come out of the darkroom correctly. I can’t recall how my father responded to my question, though I’m sure he patiently and painfully affirmed my query. In that moment I wasn’t shocked. I wasn’t sad. Presently, I regret that I can’t remember a man who loved me and was so dearly loved by others. I don’t know how he looked aside from the pictures I know. How he talked, laughed, 44 yelled, walked, I don’t recall. Did he wear cologne to work like Dad? When I was young, Dad wore cologne to work. He woke up around five in the morning in order to be at work five-thirty, and he still does, despite the fact that no one expects him in the office till eight. I’d hear his alarm from my bed and wait to smell the mix of dewy summer grass and the spicy knives of cologne in my nostrils. The smell lingered and pulled me back to sleep as Dad left the house. On the day at the park, Dad wasn’t wearing cologne. Dad didn’t wear cologne that day because it was either a weekend or he had the day off or had taken time away to grieve. I don’t remember the call to our corded telephone late one night. It was the hospital telling Mom and Dad that my grandfather died of a heart attack while showering. I don’t know if he died immediately or if the attack was slow, painful, cold, and wet. I will never ask. The thought of breaking the stitches grief so tenuously sewed incites trepidation. Was my young face one of his last images? I’m vain enough to assume so––grandparents always think of the grandbabies first. Was it a comfort? I can only hope. At my Grandfather’s funeral, I can’t remember Mom’s grief. I can’t remember the funeral either.She keeps the remnants of her love tended like a flower garden and tells me of her father often. I have nothing but the cemented walkway leading to the park that summer day deep in my mind. Mom tells me that my grandfather lived as long as he did because he was waiting for me. It was a miracle I was even born, but that’s not my story to tell. She calls me “the sparkle in his eye.” Christopher, my younger and only brother, inherited my grandfather’s bright, Anglo-blue irises. He was born the year after my grandfather died. Christopher joined the Army a few weeks ago; my grandfather was a Marine in the 60s. During his service in Asia, my grandfather collected each country’s currency. Grandma keeps the collection in a red leather box in her bedroom closet. I used to step onto a chair and carefully extract the artifact from the top shelf and touch each coin and each bill. Some of those tenders are much extinct now. The souvenirs of my grandfather’s life are far less valuable to me than those of my travels––those, at least, the mugs and the key chains, those have memories attached of the real thing. I’ve spent most of my life scouring photos and objects, trying to resurrect an authentic memory of my grandfather. Trying to find a sensation that brings him back to me like the early morning scent of Dad’s cologne because I only remember the hills and my words and Dad. The solvents of time washed away my grandfather. 45 SHITTY CHRISTMAS TREES AND SECONDHAND DOLLS Elisabeth Beam When I was a kid we didn’t have a lot of money. But we managed to survive. Mom worked a lot at the dingy looking Super 8 Motel just down the street from the elementary school. You know, the kind of motel that charges by the hour instead of night. She hated it but it was close to school and paid just enough. Around November she would start picking up shifts at other hotels in town to save up more money for Christmas. It was hard. The heat bill always went up mid-October when the chill started to set in and the snow began to fall. Presents were always an issue. Getting stuff for just me and Sarah was usually alright, but Mom came from a big family. Six brothers and sisters all of whom had kids. All of whom would be needing presents. That’s a lot of money. Money we just didn’t have. One year there was a huge blizzard and they canceled school for a week. Sarah was only six at the time and she couldn’t be left alone to take care of herself much less a five-year-old as well. So mom had to stay home from work and look after us. She tried to make it seem like she wasn’t stressed out about the money, but I knew she was. She would pace around the kitchen at night and mumble to 46 herself. She’d crouch over her checkbook and shake her head. She tried to hide it from us, but I noticed. I always noticed when she got like that. A week of work missed meant we wouldn’t be able to afford the gas to get to grandma’s house for Christmas. And a week with everyone at home meant that the heat bill was going to be rough. She was too proud to try and get food stamps. So money that would normally go towards presents went to buying our Christmas feast. We didn’t go to my grandma’s house that Christmas but it was probably the best Christmas of my life. The day before school let out our landlord took out all the carpet in the living room. He said it was due to be replaced and that someone would be over before the holiday to put down some new carpet. “Your feet will be so happy and thankful! That’s the best Christmas present you could ask for!” he had happily told us. No one came. The floor was cold and there were nails and sharp staples sticking up at weird angles. It hurt to step on them and small red dots appeared throughout the house as we all made the mistake of stepping in the living room without socks. Mom put down an old ratty green rug, one that our cats liked to pee on. She bought a small fake green tree from the thrift shop downtown. It was the saddest looking tree. Most of the branches were missing so it had random bald spots sporadically around its leaning trunk. A good number of the ornaments that we put on it fell off because it couldn’t support their weight. We made new ones out of paper and glitter. Mom wrapped tinsel she’d taken from work around it and Sarah and I sloppily placed string lights. We put an old family picture at the top of the tree because we were too scared that our expensive Christmas angel would fall and break if we tried to stick her up there. Thinking back on it now it was a pretty shitty looking tree, but back then I thought it was the best thing I’d ever seen in my life. I remember sitting on the floor amongst the nails and staples and looking at it glittering and glistening and thinking that it was a far better tree than anyone else could ever have. I thought that even if we’d spend a million dollars on a tree and all its dressings that it wouldn’t even be able to come close to this masterpiece sitting before me. For Christmas Eve we blasted holiday music and ran around the living room twirling and waving our arms above our heads. Mom had somehow found time to make new flannel pajamas for both me and Sarah and we had immediately put them on. She had also given us each a doll that she’d found at a thrift store. They looked ratty and dirty but I loved them both. Every bit of dust and matted patch of hair was a story waiting to be told. The dolls had character and I loved it.That shitty tree and our thrift store dolls were great but they weren’t what made that night so special. It was that we were all together, making the most out of what we had and not lamenting what we were missing. I think as we grow up we lose the magic in secondhand dolls and shitty Christmas trees. 47 summer nights adam ruff 48 the people united adam ruff 49 after the hike adam ruff 50 CRUMBS Malena Larsen He’s looking for love In the crevices of his couch Like loose change. I saw him lift up the cushions And pull out crumbs His mother’s earring A quarter The spoon he dropped last week After eating ice cream out of the container. It was chocolate cookie dough and he ate the whole thing. I watched him put the quarter in his back pocket and the spoon back in the cushions. I told him I had been in love once And he said I like it when girls call me daddy. I had a dream that night that he was dating somebody and my stomach hurt when I woke up. I became a spoon in the couch cushion Who said words like Daddy And Fuck me And Hard. At the end of every night I was put back with the crumbs, and each day that he came to get me there was more cat hair or lint stuck to me I waited patiently Dirty For him to pick me up. It was 77 degrees the late summer night he stopped getting me from the cushions. He told me that he found somebody to love and we can’t be friends, because if I see you I’ll fuck you. I asked him why he couldn’t control himself if he was in love with somebody. The inside of my ribcage Was being scraped empty 51 Like the chocolate cookie dough ice cream container And my stomach hurt Like it did after the dream Where he wasn’t mine I can’t help it. He told me. I like it when girls call me daddy. When we met he was wearing a suit and it looked like he had spent a lot of time on his hair but I didn’t think he was attractive until the weekend when I was drunk. Across the table On the other side of red cups And puddles of water He stared at me In a grey tank top. His eyes And arms Were strong 52 And dark. Making eye contact felt like sex And he smelled like Fireball And somebody I shouldn’t be alone with And too much cologne. We went swimming at 6 am at the neighbor’s lakefront when everyone else fell asleep. He took off his shirt I kept mine on. The water fell off of him like it didn’t want to keep his body covered for too long. He picked me up and folded me over his right shoulder and threw me into the 6 am summer sweet lake water. He drove me home At 7 am Still drunk and Smitten. It was 88 degrees and my birthday the night I let him kiss me in the back hallway of our friend’s frat. I couldn’t wait anymore He told me In the house that smelled like Liquor and dust And damp wood. The first time we Fucked Was in the front seat of his White Pontiac Grand prix At 11 pm on a Tuesday. I saw him almost As an animal. His fists Were clenched And his eyebrows Like shelves Over his beetle eyes. Do you like fucking daddy? After that night I had to sneak him into my bedroom because he couldn’t do all of the positions he wanted to in his car. He needed to prove to me that he was the best fuck and that he could make me cum and that I should call him Daddy. I had never called fucking, fucking before. Before I was a dirty spoon it had only been called love. His eyes started to remind me Of Tiny Round Black beetles. There’s nobody else anymore We should just keep fucking. And when we fucked It was 66 degrees and almost fall when he came to my house in his white Pontiac Grand Prix and told me I remembered then, the quarter he put in his pants and how he used me to eat his ice cream and then put me back with all the crumbs in the cushions of 53 his couch Where he keeps looking for love Like it’s the loose change In his back pocket. 54 bloomed audrey campbell 55 pruned audrey campbell 56 HERMAN Danny Polaschek Grape juice dribbled down Herman’s chin and landed in scattered droplets down the front of his white T-shirt. He didn’t notice and, after setting down his half-emptied glass, picked up his spoon and started on his bowl of bran flakes. Sitting at the kitchen table, there was nothing in front of Herman —but a bare white wall. It seemed, however, that he wasn’t looking at it, but rather through it like a child looks through a window and, seeing nothing but gray skies and rain, is overwhelmed by disappointment because they will not be outdoors playing that day. As Herman sat there facing the white wall and chomping his cereal, his son entered the kitchen and began his morning ritual. Herman heard the coffee-maker start bubbling from somewhere behind him in the kitchen along with the quick and efficient pitter-pattering of his son’s feet, who Herman assumed had to be walking laps around the center island as some sort of new, trendy morning workout. Once the coffee maker’s burbling came to an end the footsteps stopped as well. Herman focused on the sound of the coffee being poured, the soft sound of liquid filling a ceramic mug. The sound stopped as quickly as it had started and Herman was further drawn from his relaxed, monotonous state by the sound of his son’s voice. “How are the flakes this morning, Dad?” Herman didn’t turn around to face his son, but continued with what he was doing, looking like a cow chewing cud. “Five star quality,” he replied in between spoonfuls. “Flaky as ever.” Herman’s son chuckled a bit and looked up from his fresh cup of coffee but the laugh died away when he noticed that his father was still turned away from him, eyes glued straight ahead. Taking another sip, Herman’s son pondered whether he would keep pursuing his father in conversation or not. He ultimately decided against it and left the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. A sigh escaped Herman’s throat as he set down his spoon, finished with his mushed and soggy cereal. Ain’t this the life, he thought to himself sarcastically. Finally turning away from the wall, Herman scooted himself back from the kitchen table and slowly stood up. He gripped the side of the table for balance and took a few deep breaths in an effort to steady himself. Just a few weeks before, Herman had 57 missed a stair descending to the basement and found himself tumbling clumsily down the rest of the way until crashing to a stop on the last few steps. Herman’s head still felt a bit shaky from time to time, which caused a bit of a tremble in his legs. Instead of walking from place to place, he grew accustomed to maneuvering his way to each destination by leaning on and grabbing anything he could for support and then flinging himself to another sturdy checkpoint, and so on and so forth until he reached his goal. It was much like a monkey swinging from vine to vine, but less precise and much less graceful. With his feet finally under him, legs steady, Herman pushed away from the kitchen table and launched himself to the kitchen counter, which caught him with cold indifference. Hunched over, Herman caught his breath for a few seconds before beginning to shuffle down the length of the marble counter towards the coffeemaker at the other end. “This better be a damn good cup of Joe,” he mumbled to himself, clearly exhausted. Halfway down the counter, Herman stopped. With a steady grip on the counter he reached up to the cupboard above his head and swung it open. He couldn’t see inside but he knew that what he was looking for was in there: his old blue coffee mug— one of the only things worth bringing with when he moved into his son’s house the year before. Feeling around the smooth, wooden interior, Herman eventually got a hold of his mug which distinguished itself by having only half of a handle still attached. With the partial handle hooked onto his ring and middle fingers, Herman pulled out his mug and brought it shakily down over his head, setting it on the counter with a soft “clink.” Herman was beginning to feel dizzy at this 58 point, and wished for a moment that he had listened to the doctor about getting a walker. “Mr. Huckley,” the doctor said, “even if you don’t think you’ll use it, take it anyways. Just in case.” Herman didn’t take the walker, and wouldn’t even let anyone help to walk him out of the hospital, not even his son. “I don’t need your damn help,” he snorted each time someone tried to take his arm to steady him. He was always a stubborn man and old age wasn’t going to change that. Continuing down the counter, Herman felt this same stubborn anger boiling in him. He was almost seventy years old and yet he felt like a child who was just learning to walk. He’d built his own home, and a garage to go with it, and now he could hardly make it to the opposite end of the room without feeling fatigued. Sweat was running hot from Herman’s forehead. He wiped it with a shaky hand and breathed in deeply, closing his eyes as he did so. He only had five or so more steps to go and he braced himself for the final stretch, determined to get there even if it killed him. With a focused balance and patient, shuffling steps Herman managed to get to the end of the counter and the coffee pot. He exhaled in relief, and a satisfied smile tugged the corners of his mouth up ever so slightly. With his blue mug in one hand, Herman picked up the coffeepot in the other, intent on pouring himself a well-deserved cup of coffee after his tiresome journey. His satisfaction was immediately replaced with bitterness as he lifted the pot and felt that it was nearly empty, only a few drops remained rolling around in the bottom. Herman’s minute smile had vanished and his brow hardened, scrunching up his forehead in small, tense knots. Setting the pot back on the counter, Herman hissed repeatedly under his breath, cursing his son for not leaving him any coffee. Herman’s hands were visibly trembling and he was having a difficult time keeping a grip on the edge of the counter. He contemplated making more coffee but dismissed the idea immediately, knowing that he could not remain standing and moving around the kitchen much longer. Herman felt a hot flush come over his face and could feel beads of sweat rolling down his temples and his cheeks. In one swift motion he wound up and threw his coffee mug across the room, where it shattered against the windowless, white wall. Slivers and shards of ceramic bounced all over the kitchen, the blue pieces scattered like shattered glass. Herman heard footsteps drumming down the staircase before his son entered the room,stopping in the doorway to avoid stepping on any of the pieces of blue ceramic. “Dad!” he exclaimed, “What happened? Herman was bent over, hunched with his hands on his knees. He was struggling for breath now, and sweat soaked through his shirt on his back. In between wheezes, Herman said exasperated, “You didn’t leave me any damn coffee, you son of a bitch.” His son stood there eyeing first his father and then the indent in the wall where the mug had hit. He shook his head in disbelief, which quickly turned to anger. With a clenched jaw, he left the room and returned a minute later with broom in hand. He began quietly sweeping the blue bits of coffee mug into a dustpan. After Herman had caught his breath and recomposed himself, he pulled his body back into a standing position, leaning against the counter. He glanced to his son, bent over and sweeping under the kitchen table. “I heard you on the phone last night,” he said. Herman kept his eyes on his son as he stood and turned to face him. His son raised an eyebrow at him but gave no verbal reply. “I heard you,” Herman repeated. His son bit his lip and continued sweeping, eyes trained on the floor. “It’s just not working, dad.” 59 EL BARRIO SUYO Chad Berryman El viento le envolvió al hombre como una manta de hielo. Él andaba por el barrio suyo pero los vecinos no lo saludaron. Caminaba delante de una casa grande con flores y grandes ventanas, y por esas ventanas podía oír una pelea entre dos padres y los lamentos penosos de sus hijos. Él seguía la acera que serpenteaba por un parque lindo donde había un banco solitario. Él Lo saludó con la cabeza. Recordaba unas noches del verano cuando este banco no había ofrecido insultos ni acusaciones, sino un lugar simpático para descansar mientras él le regalaba un uso admirable. Pero en el invierno el banco se congelaba como él, y ambos eran incapaces de ayudarse el uno al otro. Paseaba delante de una casa blanca de arquitectura maravillosa. Un coche altanero llegara la entrada. Un padre sincero apareció mientras acababa de contar los acontecimientos de su día. Su hija miraba su celular, y el silencio suspiró por la expresión herida de la cara del padre. Ellos entraron a la casa sin otra palabra. El hombre nómada seguía caminando, y pronto la nieve dentro de sus venas se derretía por una balada antigua que se tarareaba al ritmo de sus pasos. 60 No pido mucho, no vivo de prisa canto los himnos con risa bendita no tengo nada salvo alma amada y sin despedida no hay la llegada THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD Chad Berryman The frigid air wrapped around the man like a blanket of ice. He was travelling through his own neighborhood, but no neighbors acknowledged him. As he walked in front of a large, picturesque house, complete with flowers and giant windows, he could make out the sound of two parents fighting accompanied by the upsetting cries of their children. The sidewalk snaked its way through a park in which there stood one solitary bench. With a nod of his head, the man greeted it. Nights of summers past filled his mind, nights in which the bench had not offered insults or accusations but rather a consoling place of rest while he presented it with the gift of an honorable purpose. However, the bench froze and shivered in the winter the same as he, and neither could provide the other with any relief. He passed by a white house of grand construction. There, a flashy car had just pulled into the driveway. From it emerged an earnest father finishing the recounting of his day. His daughter, however, simply stared at her phone, and the wounded expression on her father’s face betrayed an unsung sigh. The two entered the house without another word. As the wandering man continued walking, the snow in his veins began to melt due to an old tune he commenced to hum in time with his steps. I don’t ask for much, or live in a rush in my blessed laughter the hymns come alive there’s nothing I own save a soul that is loved for without a farewell one could never arrive 61 ODYSSEY Eve Taft Thank you for the twisted pathways of your mind Which led to the streets and alleyways of Dublin James Joyce, do you understand that you opened floodgates? Your avalanche of babbling sentences, sans punctuation Buck Mulligan tossing form and style into the wind Your catechism, you, Daedalus, gave us sacrament Blood flow to wake up the numb limbs of literature You spoke with your soul to our souls Fearing not the noise in your skull but flinging it down in ink I understand you, “life is many days” I understand you, “god is a shout in the street” I understand you, “I am another now and yet the same” You understand me “everything speaks in its own way” Soon I’ll visit your beloved homeland Walking the streets of Dublin, writing and giving thanks to modernism Now as free of rigid form As Ireland of England 62 postcards from my bedroom audrey campbell 63 postcards from my bedroom audrey campbell 64 COUNTING SHEEP Danny Polaschek What can you do when the world is asleep? Go to sleep too? I’ve counted all my sheep. They jumped through the air gliding for 5 or 6 feet cleared the fence and then flew with not even a bleat. I didn’t focus however on these aerial sheep antics because far away in the distance was a sight oh so fantastic. A blue house, with a single light on in the window sat a girl a beauty no pencil could ever have drawn. I looked up at her and she down at me addicted to the eyesight too distracted to count sheep. 65 3 sky nights keeyonna fox 67 inner self keeyonna fox 68 VICTORY OF THE PEOPLE Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk Your worship was my refuge, your clay heart my focal point, your chelsea smile the apple of my eye. We were sick. We poisoned ourselves with amphetamines and pills until we didn’t recognize ourselves in the mirror. We walked miles just to feel accomplished in our space, we turned the cigarettes we shared into sentiments we thought we shared. I must possess the wrong innocence. Souls are fickle things that change when left to die in the cold. ~ He was outrageously tall. He towered over me like the Statue of Liberty and he talked to me as though I was a boat in the harbor. Standing five inches taller than six feet, he was an image of Ukrainian beauty. He stood like someone who knew things you didn’t know and this fascinated me. I was so naive, so optimistic. I saw the lust and want in his eyes and I mistook it for passion.The curve of his jaw and his long eyelashes crept into the screens behind my eyelids and ignited a fire in me that I didn’t know how to put out. I was the new girl in town struggling to keep my loneliness at bay. He was a gleaming light in that summer of darkness. I had just moved to Minnesota months before. After discovering drugs and promiscuous sex I became nothing short of a hurricane. Amphetamines kept me awake, cigarettes kept me skinny, and weed kept me sane. My GPA reflected exactly what they don’t tell you about functional depression: you can feel like a blank page, but as long as you fill it with words people will stop asking questions. He was selling me drugs. He offered me a good price. I had never met him but I figured what the hell, I could stand to meet new people. It was dark, long past sundown. We were meeting in a parking lot by a lake a few blocks away from my house. I was in my mom’s car. I waited and listened to Amy Winehouse until I saw an orange car pull into a parking spot a few yards away from me. The man driving fit the picture I had seen of him before. We 69 made eye contact and he ushered me over to his car. I took a deep breath, grabbed my sweater, and got my money ready. He rolled down the passenger side window. “You Nikita?” I said. He smiled at me. A smile that I would come to know. “You can call me Kita.” ~ He had really good drugs. I’m not sure that they were pure, but at the time I didn’t care. Neither did he. We just wanted to get high. We did his drugs together, sitting in a playground by the lake, talking about life and what we crave. He told me that he was applying to a college in London. I didn’t think anything of it. Before long we saw each other every day. He was a lifeguard who had to be on duty early in the morning, so he would take me out for coffee at eight in the morning. No makeup, sweatpants, my hair in a messy bun. He didn’t care. We would talk about things that we hadn’t shared with anyone else. He told me he struggled with his relationship with his father in Ukraine. I told him that I had struggled with eating disorders since I was thirteen. We would sneak out onto his back porch to smoke cigarettes late at night. His mother hated that we smoked. 70 “You need to quit smoking, love,” she’d tell me. “I smoked for twenty-five years and it took two pregnancies to get me to stop.” His mother loved me. She thought that I was spunky, independent, had a mind of my own. She did not like his last girlfriend. She made that very clear. She, like Nikita, was very tall. She had long curly black hair and eyes so intense that you would lose your appetite. Her Russian accent was thick and powerful. She had run away to the United States when she was twenty-one and seven months pregnant with her first son. Nikita. “Does it mean anything?” I asked him. “Your name.” He smiled when he answered. “My mom told me it means ‘victory of the people,’” he said. Oh Kita, you have no victory. You are the secret I keep from my mother the hidden disease that projectile vomits and digs with fingernails sharpened by teeth. Your fields of sunflowers told me a secret, your secrets so dark and beautiful and I killed myself with your gargantuan sunflowers. His mother was beautiful. She had been a professional figure skater that traveled the world, meeting people as she went. She met Kita’s father in her home country of Ukraine and according to the story, he was immediately drawn to her exuberant personality and her long legs. At twenty-one she was well on her way to continue pursuing a successful skating career until she got pregnant. According to Kita his father did not accompany her to her appointments.He did not send her flowers. He did not ask if she was okay. Instead Kita’s mother made her way to America to create a life of victory and hope. He took me to meet his grandmother. She said hello and came in and that was the last that I understood. The entire time I was there she would ask me questions in Russian and Kita would translate for me. He taught me how to say Hello (Privet) Yes (da) No (net) And thank you, which I don’t remember. We spent almost the entire time we were there trying to help his grandmother set up a new movie streaming program on her computer. I know nothing about computers in English, let alone in Russian. I was overwhelmed. The leather furniture just made my nervous sweat more noticeable. She told me about Ukraine a little bit. She said it was beautiful but troubled. She offered me chocolate and cookies. I sat, sweating, trying my hardest to pay attention. When I said anything to her, Kita would translate for me. I wanted to leave. After we left his grandmother’s house he told me to wait in his car while he talked privately with his grandmother. I thought it was strange but didn’t question it. I played mindless games on my phone while I waited for him. Some part of me knew that they were talking about me, but I continued to deny it. I was hungry, but I wasn’t planning on doing anything about it too soon. I was hungry often then. When he returned to the car I asked what they had talked about and with no hesitation he said, “You.” I paused, then asked him to elaborate. “She likes you,” he said. And that was that. How strange, I thought, to be liked by someone who never explicitly spoke a word to me. ~ Andrevich was Kita’s middle name. Named after his father. Kita’s father was very handsome. In his forties with tan skin and thick hair, he was a heartthrob that would make you look twice. He lived in a nice, expensive apartment in Kiev with his girlfriend who was twenty years younger than him. Apparently that was a theme. Kita had only seen his father a handful of times in his life. He had gone back to Ukraine to spend some time with him as a young boy, but didn’t have too much recollection of it. When he was sixteen he went back to live with his father and his twenty-yearold girlfriend for a while. Kita has always been tall, thin, and handsome. His father noticed this. “So what happened?” I asked him one day. 71 Kita shrugged. “He kicked me out and I came back to the states,” he said without a flinch. He said this as though it was a commonality. “He thought that I fucked his girlfriend,” he said as he lit a cigarette. There was a very long, uncomfortable silence. “Did you?” I asked. He laughed out loud and a cloud of smoke poured out of his mouth. “No, of course not,” he said. “My dad isn’t one to listen to a sixteen year old.” ~ “I’ll take you to Ukraine someday.” “Sunflowers. There are parts of Ukraine where there are endless fields of sunflowers wherever you look. They’re as tall as me and the flowers are bigger than my face.” He pulled me closer as he talked about Ukraine. He insisted that I learn all that I could about the Russia-Ukraine conflict, sending me innumerable articles daily. Through him I learned about the importance of the Ukrainian revolution and fights that had been fought, some as recent as 2011 and 2012. He told me that he wanted to fight for his people if he had to. When my eyes were flushed with concern, he pulled me in close and whispered in my ear, “I’ll survive for you.” His eyes lit up every time he talked about the fields of sunflowers in Ukraine. In the same way, his eyes lit up every time he got angry. Your golden eyes drew miners to starve and fight to abandon their homes. We were in his bed, naked, wrapped up in blankets and speckled by the corner light in his room. It was late, the kind of late that feels early. The air conditioner hummed in the place of our phones which were both off and hidden somewhere in the room. He did no wrong. He could not do any wrong. His eyes were blank but telling like a wall in a foreclosed home. All of his intentions were good. Yes. Good. “Where in Ukraine?” I asked. “Have you been eating?” he asks as he lifts up my shirt. “Kiev, the city squares. And to the huge fields of flowers.” “What kind of flowers?” 72 ~ I squirm away and pull my shirt down. “Yes, I ate just before I came here,” I say. I can still taste the salt in my mouth. “You look skinny,” he tells me with a hint of disdain in his voice. My heart soars. I look skinny. But he’s reaching for my stomach again and once again I’m backing away. We get into the car and drive to the gas station. I say that I need to go use the restroom. While Kita pumps the gas, I make my way into the small Holiday bathroom. I put my sweater on the ground and rest my knees on it, my usual routine. I stick my finger down my throat and vomit into the toilet. As I walk back outside, Kita is getting back into his car. I get in the front seat and sniffle slightly.Kita looks at me quizzically. “You okay?” he asks me. My eyes are watery, my nose is burning, and my breath is putrid. “I’m fine,” I say with a smile. ~ The elevator door was so cold against my cheek. I watched the red numbers blink as they rose. 8...9...10...11. My vision was going fuzzy and grey, my ears started ringing and throbbing. 11...12...13. Ding. The doors opened and my wobbly legs carried me down the seemingly endless hallway. My hands were barely working; as I watched them push my key into my apartment door I could not feel it. The door opened, I could see my living room window. I closed the door behind me and collapsed on the ground. “Why did you faint?” His words echoed behind the screen of my phone. “I just haven’t eaten a lot today.” There was a silence so deafening that it struck fear in my heart. Fear I had not known. “When did you eat last?” He had anger in his voice. I paused. He would know if I lied but he would hate the truth. “I had a little dinner last night,” I said quietly. “What did you eat?” His reply was sharp. I was shaking. “I had a little bit of salad I think,” I said with a quivering voice. I could hear his sigh. I can still hear his sigh. “How many times have we talked about this?” He exclaimed. “I know, I know, I’m sorry…” It didn’t matter. He didn’t listen. I had failed him again. “Do you know what it’s like to have a girlfriend that can’t even take care of herself ?” “What am I going to tell my friends?” “You’re not even trying.” I was sobbing, I was convulsing, I was sweating, all from my bed from which I could not move. My phone was glued to my ear and I had no energy to remove it. “So what are you going to do about this?” There was intense spite in his words. With a shaky voice I said, “I could send you a picture of everything I eat?” He laughed. With his full, angry throat he laughed 73 at my pain. “And do what? Post it on Facebook? Show all my friends that my girlfriend is an anorexic who can’t even feed herself ? You know what, go ahead. Maybe that’ll help you change.” I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to die. My stomach kept whispering “never again, never again, never again.” Opening my mouth made me panic because it reminded me of eating. I hung up my phone and with wobbly legs I walked outside in the snow and smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. ~ Months go by. Months. I watched him pack his bag with clothes that I had never seen him wear. He packed light, only a few shirts and two pairs of pants. “My dad will buy me more when I get to Ukraine,” he said. I sat on the edge of his bed and watched him focus on folding his clothes. His visa sat in the center of the bed, staring at me. I started to cry. “Babe, it’s going to be fine,” Kita said without breaking focus. I watched him form a pile of the shirts that I had grown used to him wearing. They looked like wilted flower petals. 74 “Why aren’t you taking those?” I asked, pointing to the wilted pile. “My father won’t like them,” he said. Later that night, we were drinking red wine in his bed. His room was bare and cold. I was curled against his side, my head on his chest. He stroked my bare back and played with my hair. I sighed, but not the kind of sigh that’s followed with kisses. Kita sighed too. “Petra,” he said, a tone of exasperation in his voice. “If I ever treat you like my father treats women, please leave me.” ~ I still remember how to say “I love you” in Russian. “я люблю тебя.” Ya lyublyu tebya. ~ My fingers were bones. Anything beyond mascara was too much, especially lipstick. He hated lipstick. He thought that it brought too much attention to my mouth. He didn’t like when other people noticed me. He stopped smoking cigarettes and instructed me to do so too. “They’ll make you age faster,”he would say. If I had a bad day and smoked a cigarette, he would tell me he was disappointed. I lived with three men at the time, something that Kita would never let me forget. He asked every few days to be sure I wasn’t sleeping with any of my roommates. If I was spending too much time with a friend, he would tell me that I was neglecting him. He sent me articles outlining how to be a better partner. He reminded me that he just wanted me to be the best that I could be. The screaming and hour-long phone calls were footnotes. You stripped me of my dignity and told me, “This is what you have.” Your monstrous arms crawl into my nightmares Your titanic stature collided with my glacier and though you claim I sank you You were a behemoth and I was a stone. At the end, I fell into the ground. His screams surrounded me in my echo chamber and suffocated me. My knees were bruised from kneeling in front of the toilet all night. How apt for the one accused of dropping to her knees for all men. I was free but I did not know it yet. All I knew was the cold floor of my bathroom and the tales of beautiful but troubled Ukraine. My goodbyes have been said, These addictions fed. It’s the cost that comes with the sickness. And your screams won’t be heeded anymore. 75 AN OPEN LETTER TO THE UN-SPECIALS Halle Chambers When we are little, even before we can speak We are told that we’re special and that we’re unique. That we all are made different and that none are the same Which fits quite nicely in a toddler’s mind frame. And we are told we should treasure what’s different inside, That what makes us different is not something to hide. But then quite soon after, things start to change; The word “different” stops meaning “special” and starts meaning “strange.” We’re sectioned off from our average peers In our own little category and told, “you belong here,” And then different is bad and normal is good, And for the different ones, nothing is working the way that it should The way we’ve been taught or the way we’ve been shown All we know is that we do not like being lost on our own. 76 So once again we are taken away To a place where things makes sense again and we’re ok: Where no one hurts us, Where no one can see, Where no one deserts us, Where we can be free. But because the un-specials can’t see what goes on, They decide to make things up and get so much wrong. And it’s happened for years because they can’t see through that door. So long they don’t even know that it’s wrong anymore. It’s so fixed in their heads that these lies are right; They judge each special kid by their stereotype. But today that will end. So you sit there and you wait, cause it’s about time someone set the dang record straight. You probably think that this poem won’t cut it, But today I’m gonna open the door and don’t you dare shut it! To start, let’s be clear: I am...I was in Special Ed. But just because I was in that room doesn’t mean I’m brain dead! So for Pete’s sake, don’t puppy dog guard me! Just give me a break, it isn’t that hard see: If I need your help, I will tell you I do. Just please, Please don’t mock me. In my place, would you want me to mock you? “Oh come on! Let her get it! Go easy on her!” Help, where not needed, is almost as bad as a slur. I’m not invalid So don’t play that card. Yeah, I’m a little quirky and oversensitive, But I’m not, and I quote, “A little retard.” Yeah, I’ve been called names. And those words? They hurt. They catch in the center, In your pit of self worth. And they tear and they rip, And those words are collective. Soon you start to believe that you are defective. I’ve dealt with them all, and surprisingly, I actually prefer the straight up bullies To those who pretend to like me. Fake friends and two-faces Of all genders and races. They’re only my friends so they don’t have to see me cry. Or they use me, abuse me, Oh, how they confuse me! Cause I can’t tell what’s truth and what’s lie. “Hey! He likes you. Go give him a kiss!” And because I don’t know better, I believe this. But soon I find they’re not playing Cupid, They just wanna make me look stupid. For their entertainment, they make me play the 77 fool; They pretend that they care for me When they’re really just cruel. It takes time and takes work to make you forget; Even now, I’m not quite there yet. I mean, here I am, in what’s supposed to be home, And yet here I am, still feeling alone. I’m still paranoid, it doesn’t just end; I still have to ask if someone’s my friend. I say one thing and mean another; I make a mistake, But you take it verbatim. Can’t you cut me a break? If we’re talking and I look like I’m lost, Don’t blow it off like it’s not worth the cost. Sarcasm and subtlety muddle in my brain, So please just take a minute to explain. Do these quirks make me broken? Is there something wrong with me? The way society has spoken, There would seem to be. 78 Stop poisoning the minds of “different” young women and men. I don’t like being defective.... Can I be special again? SOREX PALUSTRIS Emilie Tomas Did they name you for Your wit, pointed Nose of pointed judgement Who brought us fire; five to seven inches of shrewd truth? Or was it your mischief That Inspired them? Your Presence followed by screams And a three inch tail. I saw your likeness on a stage, Dirt in place of your midnight coat Though she is reformed now. Perhaps it was the gleam in your Eyes; whispered fortunes and A summer of silver birth. Maybe you are a messenger Of God, somehow in your Eighteen months you learned to walk On water, the second coming Of Christ. 79 woodsy adam ruff gabriel bergstrom 80 WORDS Malena Larsen The bathroom wall was covered in words. Words like fuck and love and song lyrics and names with hearts around them. His body looked peaceful, somehow, as he sat propped and slumped against the door. His head hung to his right shoulder and his mouth was open like he was about to say something but was interrupted. There was blood running down his left arm like a river and a needle hung loosely out of his skin. The words that he had heard her say several hours earlier were getting quieter and quieter. “It’s not working,” she had told him. “I’m sorry.” They were smoking cigarettes outside her apartment when she said it. She knew he had been trying to fix himself. After twenty-eight days of treatment and one week in a sober house on Lake and Fifth she barely recognized him. He was twenty-five pounds heavier and his skin looked clean and strong; there was no more grey in his cheeks. It wasn’t just his change in appearance that scared her. Lately, he had been telling her the difference between wrong and right and that she should stay in on the weekends. His family couldn’t stop talking about how proud they were of him and they would ask her, “Doesn’t he just seem so much better?” She would answer with yes but feel guilty because she wished he still liked to make mistakes. His family had a party after he got out of treatment and his grandfather kept saying things like, “Men in this family have always been strong!” and, “Now he can take care of you.” His grandfather didn’t care for her much but he felt that she was the least of the boy’s problems. He didn’t like the way she hung on him like a scarf or the way she agreed with everything he said without a second thought. As he sat on the bathroom floor the words she had said were getting quieter and quieter. They were almost gone. He had been sober for thirty-five days and he didn’t know why. He didn’t feel better or stronger or more loved. His hand lay loosely on the floor, palm up and open like he was waiting for somebody to hold it. Everyone was so proud of him but he couldn’t imagine living his life without her. Long after her words had faded completely, the bathroom door opened. He fell back onto the floor. His head hitting hard against the tile. 81 “Oh my gosh!” The man who opened the door yelled. “Can someone help?” He took out his phone to call 911. A crowd of people rushed over to where the man was dialing. A young man pushed past the group of people. “Move!” The boy got on his knees by the body on the floor. He reached into his pocket and took out something that looked like a pen. He stuck it into the arm of the body that was needle free. People gasped and murmured and watched. Sirens rang in the distance. The boy holding the pen looked up at the bathroom wall that had words like fuck and love and song lyrics and names with hearts around them. He looked up at the group of people. “It’s not working,” he said. 82 MALCOLM AND THE BLUE SIDE Danny Polaschek Brown leaves dragged past Malcolm’s feet in the wind. The bench underneath him felt like a rock and he had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He stared at the empty playground—the tire swing, the slide, the bridge and the fireman’s pole. Nikki rested her head on his shoulder. Each time a breeze swept through, Malcolm could feel her nuzzle slightly closer, her hair scratching and tickling his neck. When he was a kid, Malcolm had sat on this exact same bench many times with his mother. They lived in a little blue house just a few blocks away— “just a hop and a skip,” his mother would say and Malcolm would make it his mission to jump and bunny-hop the whole way there. When they arrived, they’d eat lunch, sitting together on the narrow, wooden bench. After each bite of his sandwich, Malcolm would beg his mother to let him go play, to which she would give in once she herself had finished eating. He always went straight for the slide. Once at the top, he’d yell, “I’m going under!” and swing himself down into the blue plastic tube. He imagined he was a deep-sea diver plunging into an underwater world of sunken pirate ships and forgotten chests of gold. On particularly sunny afternoons, he’d stop halfway down the slide and admire the shadows that moved about on the illuminated, blue plastic. He’d make believe that fish swam all around him as little blotchy shadows hovered whimsically over his head. He eventually got the idea to bring his crayons to the park with him. He’d sit lodged in the blue slide for most of the day, drawing exotic fish with bright oranges, yellows and reds. He knew fish didn’t smile but nevertheless gave them all wide grins and big eyes to match. When it was time to go home, his mother would knock from the bottom of the slide. “Time to come back to shore!” she’d announce. Malcolm would hide his crayons in his back pocket and slide down to his mother who would wait there with open arms grinning at him. The park seemed smaller now. Malcolm was just as tall as the fireman’s pole and half as long as the slide. He wondered if his fabricated underwater universe still existed. Probably not, he guessed. Although it was getting dark, Mal83 colm could see thick graffiti creeping out from the shadows inside the blue slide. Malcolm pulled his sweatshirt tighter around his neck, brushing Nikki away in the process. He felt her eyes on his face but refused to acknowledge her. Inside the slide, he could still make out the words “Bitch Ass” in thick spray paint. His crayon drawings would certainly be gone, he was sure of it now. Nikki picked up Malcolm’s hand and caressed it, her cold skin feeling leathery and smooth. “Malcolm,” she said. Malcolm turned and mustered a smile, taking Nikki’s hands to his face and kissing them awkwardly. “Malcolm, let’s go home.” The streetlights had not yet turned on for the evening. Malcolm noticed the shadows on the sides of the road stretching out and growing bigger as they walked quietly past. He missed the warm sunshine of summer and the hot nights spent lounging in the front yard listening to his mother’s radio; he missed the walks to the park, his mother laughing at him as he crouched and hopped along beside her. He remembered the secret thrill of the crayon box in his back pocket, then realized he’d forgotten his cigarettes on the bench at the park. He was too cold to turn back. He reached out silently for Nikki’s hand and, finding it much warmer than his own, held it stiffly the rest of the walk home. 84 driving at zero one john herbert 85 driving at zero two john herbert 86 PLACEMAKERS Diamonique Walker Near my home, Balloons dance in the wind. I have reconditioned myself — These are not balloons from a party, But they still celebrate a life. I drive by, sometimes I walk. And see a balloon or several With their heads bobbing away Positioned obscurely on the sidewalk. Or on the island in the middle of the highway. Sometimes on no one in particular’s grass. I don’t look for party decorations. At the feet of the balloon’s ribbons, candles, cards and little trinkets sit. Some kind of offering. Looking weathered and dull. His body bled some place close by. Probably killed within ten feet. A dancing, mocking balloon Somehow now gets to sway in his place. 87 NECESSARILY AN EVIL THING CONSIDERED IN ANY LIGHT Jacob J. Miller “You know what I hate about this most of all?” asked the first man. “Nobody’s going to be around to take responsibility. Nobody is going to have to answer for their crime.” “What crime is that?” the other man asked, sitting next to him in the middle of the cul-de-sac, both of them at perfect leisure in lawn chairs as if waiting for a parade to pass by. “Mass-murder, I suppose. Call it, oh, I don’t know. Call it, um, inciting the apocalypse.” “Ha.” “They deserve to be the ones left behind after they obliterate everyone else. They should be the ones who have to reap the aftermath, puke out their guts and feel their bile boil inside their stomachs, fend off marauding cannibals and giant insects. And they should have to live with the new world they created, or destroyed, rather.” Just then, the other man looked down and saw a lonely ant crawling up his pant leg. “Yeah, but I don’t think that giant bug stuff is true. That wouldn’t happen. The bugs’ll die like everything else.” “I mean, what do you think it’ll be like? I 88 know it’ll happen instantaneously, but they say the cerebral cortex functions after everything else has shut down and we linger in a sort of dream-state, which could last for, well, for who knows how long?” “Well, that’s if you’re in a hospital bed, or you have a heart attack or something, when you have time to die with a little bit of peace. Our brains are going to incinerate along with the rest of us. There won’t even be any stuff of thought anymore. I don’t think we have to worry about something like that.” “But what if that moment of pain before we go lasts longer, you know? What if time stands still? Nothing makes sense in a moment of such lunacy. Such catastrophe. What if we feel our tongues liquefying and spilling down our throats and scalding our internal organs? What if, all in that moment, we look down, and before our eyes boil and burst from the heat we see our bones glowing purple through our flesh as it begins dripping off like wax? What if you turn and look at me and the last image you see is my face melting off like those Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark?” “I’m not sure it’s the best time to be thinking like that,” his friend said, as the sirens began to wail their sorrowful last. “Why even bother with that fucking thing?” the man steamed. “It’s inconsiderate, a futile exhortation. We know what’s coming. We’re not going to hide in our basements from it like it’s a fucking tornado.” “Tornadoes aren’t so easy to hide from either.” The first man scanned the horizon for what he knew would be the last time. He took in the sight of the skyline he saw from his window every day and, with lamenting eyes, imaginatively anticipated its supplanting by a fiery mushroom climbing the sky. He closed his eyes and winced, unable to cope with the unthinkable thought, the impossible inevitability. Turning his head toward a neighbor’s yard whose household ran a daycare, he opened his eyes to a post-apocalyptic tableau of children’s toys scattered about the lawn. Nothing needed yet be aflame for the man to resent the picturesque cliché of innocence lost on display before him. “Remember when they used to tell kids to hide under their desks?” he inquired. “All that siren is doing is making sure that we spend our last moments in a panic, instead of dying gracefully, accepting that we’re all in the same sinking ship, in the middle of the ocean, if the ocean were the entire planet, and filled with lava instead of water. We should be spending our time reminiscing, because that’s all we have now.” “Well, we can’t talk about our plans for the future.” “We can’t discuss potential medical advancements.” “The coming cure for cancer.” “And cloning organs. Scholarships our children just received, the singularity and will the Matrix ever become a reality; would we ever make contact with life elsewhere in the universe, intercept an asteroid, mine them for resources? It’s all useless, man, meaningless. Every human achievement since the first spark made from one rock dragging against another, gone within the next hour,” he sighed heavily, draping a ribbon of helplessness over his words of outrage. “Why don’t you open that up?” He suggested, pointing at the bottle of scotch sitting at the leg of his friend’s chair. His friend took a swig before passing it over with a satisfied groan. “Here’s to everything we do being the last time it will ever be done,” the first man began. “That’s the best I can do.” “Yeah,” the other man raised an empty hand, toasting to the end and everything that came before it. “I suppose there’s something beautiful about the entire world—or nearly the entire world—going out the same way. There’s a kind of universal solidarity occurring right now, don’t you think? Some are praying, no doubt, some are exalting their various saviors, certain they will be raptured up any minute, but we’re all still going to be experiencing the same thing, at almost the exact same time; the same heat, the same instantaneous moment of searing pain before any trace of our molecules are imprinted as a shadow on the asphalt beneath us.” He had a complex contraption of a chair, one of the men—it doesn’t really matter which one now that the end was there; the kind of chair that folds upward from all four corners and was nearly 89 impossible to fit back into its cylindrical carrying sack—not that that mattered anymore either— complete with cup holders and a detachable headrest, which he was putting to use as he spoke. His friend’s chair was more old-fashioned, a conventional folding lawn chair with a checkered pattern of flimsy plastic wrapped taut around aluminum pipes, wobbly hard plastic armrests drilled in and not quite parallel to each other. Their chair legs began melting into the tar beneath them. One of the men hummed softly; a beautiful soundtrack to accompany him in the cut to black. The other man closed his eyes and, focusing on the sounds of the encroaching death rattle, heard them as the grunts and whinnies of the four horsemen’s horses as they galloped atop the planet’s rapidly spreading dust. 90
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MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART
& LITERARY MAGAZINE
ISSUE 42, 2017
EDITORIAL BOARD
Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief
Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor
Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor
Cassie Dong, Art Editor
Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor
Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor
Abigail Carpenter, Prose Ed...
Show more MURPHY SQUARE VISUAL ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE ISSUE 42, 2017 EDITORIAL BOARD Malena Larsen, Editor In Chief Abigail Tetzlaff, Associate Editor Audrey Campbell, Art & Layout Editor Cassie Dong, Art Editor Jazmin Crittenden, Art Editor Elisabeth Beam, Prose Editor Abigail Carpenter, Prose Editor Ryan Moore, Prose Editor Gabriel Benson, Poetry Editor Danny Polaschek, Poetry Editor Cary Waterman, Advisor 2 WITH THANKS TO Ivy Arts Copy and Print Augsburg College Student Government Augsburg College English Department Augsburg College Art Department The Echo Augsburg Honors Program QPA 3 TABLE OF CONTENTS 1 What Type of Black Girl Are You? Nikkyra Whittaker ........................................................................... 8 Simul Justus et Peccator, Andy Anderson .......................................................................................... 11 Queer, Eve Taft ....................................................................................................................................... 12 Jesus in a Cracker, A.Tetzlaff ................................................................................................................ 14 Grey Cloud Island, David Baboila ......................................................................................................... 17 Saint Paul Airport, David Baboila .......................................................................................................... 18 White Bear Lake, David Baboila ............................................................................................................ 19 Zips Coliseum, David Baboila ............................................................................................................... 20 Bridge, Jacob J. Miller ............................................................................................................................ 21 50 Feet Tall, Emilie Tomas ...................................................................................................................... 25 Meow, Ashley Waalen ............................................................................................................................ 26 Mousetrap, Halle Chambers .................................................................................................................. 27 Faces, Constance Klippen ..................................................................................................................... 29 I Don’t Always Feel Colored, Diamonique Walker ............................................................................... 30 Where I am From, Hannah Schmit ......................................................................................................... 32 Who Am I?, Ashley Waalen .................................................................................................................... 34 2 Gratitude, D.E Green .............................................................................................................................. CSBR, Gabriel Bergstrom ...................................................................................................................... The Fire, Elisabeth Beam ........................................................................................................................ Desert Drums, Abigail Carpenter .......................................................................................................... Colors, Hannah Schmit ........................................................................................................................... Urban Delight, Jazmin Crittenden ......................................................................................................... When Dad Wore Cologne, A. Tetzlaff .................................................................................................... Shitty Christmas Trees, Elisabeth Beam ............................................................................................... Summer Nights, Adam Ruff ................................................................................................................... 36 38 39 41 42 43 44 46 48 The People United, Adam Ruff .............................................................................................................. 49 After the Hike, Adam Ruff ..................................................................................................................... 50 Crumbs, Malena Larsen ......................................................................................................................... 51 Bloomed, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................................................... 55 Pruned, Audrey Campbell ...................................................................................................................... 56 Herman, Danny Polaschek ................................................................................................................... 57 El Barrio Suyo, Chad Berryman ............................................................................................................. 60 The Neighborhood, Chad Berryman ..................................................................................................... 61 Odyssey, Eve Taft .................................................................................................................................... 62 Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 63 Postcards From My Bedroom, Audrey Campbell ................................................................................. 64 Counting Sheep, Danny Polaschek ...................................................................................................... 65 3 Sky Nights, Keeyonna Fox ...................................................................................................................... 67 Inner Self, Keeyonna Fox ....................................................................................................................... 68 Victory of the People, Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk ............................................................................. 69 An Open Letter to the Un-specials, Halle Chambers ...........................................................................76 Sorex Palustris, Emilie Tomas ................................................................................................................. 79 Woodsy Adam Ruff, Gabriel Bergstrom .................................................................................................. 80 Words, Malena Larsen ................................................................................................................................. 81 Malcom, Danny Polaschek ....................................................................................................................... 83 DRIVING AT ZERO ONE, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 85 DRIVING AT ZERO TWO, John Herbert ................................................................................................... 86 Placemakers, Diamonique Walker ........................................................................................................ 87 A Necessary Evil Thing Considered in any Light, Jacob J. Miller ....................................................... 88 1 WHAT TYPE OF BLACK GIRL ARE YOU? Nikkyra Whittaker On the spectrum of being black and female, we can only be what we appear to be. Take this quiz to find out what kind of black girl you really are! 1. You’re listening to the radio on the way to Target. You’re playing… a. Beyonce’s “****Flawless” b. Taylor Swift’s “Fifteen” or “You Belong With Me” or “Wildest Dreams” c. Chris Brown’s “Loyal” d. Keri Hilson’s “Pretty Girl Rock” 2. It’s your day off work. What will you be doing? a. Blowing off steam on Facebook. b. Watching old episodes of One Tree Hill c. Out for drinks and scoping eye candy d. Talking shit with the ladies while drinking Moscato! 3. What’s your dream home like? a. Full of books on systemic oppression b. Beverly Hills penthouse c. Some big shot rapper’s mansion d. Spacious New York Loft 8 4. Your favorite TV show is… a. Docu-series on race b. Sex in the City c. Bad Girls Club d. Love and Hip Hop 5. Finally, who’s your favorite female icon from this list? a. Angela Davis b. Taylor Swift c. New York from I Love New York d. Nicki Minaj Tally up how many of each letter you got and turn the page to find out who you really are! If you got mostly a’s...You’re an Angry Black Girl! Congratulations, you loud-mouthed, anger filled home-girl! I’m guessing there’s always some reason to be mad at someone, isn’t there? Do you just spend your days in a perpetual state of rage, angry at the world for reasons they don’t find important? Do you find yourself constantly snapping your fingers in that z-formation, pursing your lips at anyone who steps in your way? I bet people are telling you to just be quiet, huh? I mean, what issues could you, a black female, possibly have? Why should you care that your high school English teacher gives you a C+ on your essay because she thinks you copied it from the white man online? Why does it matter that your male co-worker at Target constantly teases you about your nappy hair, calling it a “brillo pad,” “cheeto puff,” or some other clever name? None of this should anger you! Be aware, you sassy Sapphire, in this world, your anger means nothing. If you got mostly b’s...You’re an Oreo! You grew up watching Lizzie McGuire and listening to Aaron Carter. You straightened your hair from the moment you were old enough to assert yourself and cried when it wouldn’t lay flat. Your friends were always shocked to see you bring collard greens and jambalaya to lunch so you stopped eating your favorite foods. They didn’t understand why you couldn’t just brush your hair, wash your hair everyday, why it suddenly grew or shrunk inches overnight. I’m certain you’ve heard from many of your friends how they just don’t see you as a black girl. They erase your black skin because it doesn’t fit the images of other black girls they see. You spend most of your time edging away from the loud black girls, the ghetto black girls who ate hot cheetos and drank kool aid and had corn rows and long braids and smelled like a mix of the jungle and your ancestors pain and you wished, maybe for a just a moment, but you did wish that you could be white. But honey, you can never wash off that melanin! It’s a permanent stain. Just because your friends can’t see the black on you, it doesn’t mean the rest of the world can’t. 9 If you got mostly c’s...You’re a Hip Hop Ho! You sexual deviant you! Let me guess—big breasts, small waist, and wide hips? You’ve got that original Betty Boop to you, something in your eyes that say yes to a question no one bothers to ask. You’re the black girl that white guys use as a notch in their belt. You are the exotic sexual being that men love to hate and hate to love. You became a sexual thing at a young age, when your breasts came in at ten years old and became d-cups at fourteen. They started looking at you differently, didn’t they? Your eyes stopped existing. Your words didn’t matter. Your body became the tool used to diminish your worth. How often did you get yelled at in school to put on something less revealing than your shorts? Did you ever wonder why the skinny, flat-assed white girls were never told the same thing? Honey, your wide hips wrapped in chocolate skin were never yours. You will never be yours. 10 If you got mostly d’s...You’re a Ghetto Fabulous Black Girl! You make what little money you can working at Walmart or doing nails. You make people waiting at the bus stop with you uncomfortable with your loud laughter and yellow and pink braids and long, bedazzled nails. You toss your weave around, remove your earrings, and square up to anyone that says shit about you. When you’re out, you are often told to stop yelling, screaming, taking up space. You’ve got baby daddy problems and you’re only 18. You grew up playing double dutch in the middle of the street with old rope. You accept your black, your ghetto, your Ebonics. But you are not supposed to accept yourself, honey! Don’t you see the fashion police spreads in the magazines? You are on all the pages! Don’t show your hips. Put on a shirt that conceals your stomach. Put your breasts away. Don’t wear bright lipstick. Stop standing out, being different. Get smaller, quieter, lesser, as you are supposed to be. You love your black too loudly and it makes others uncomfortable. Your job is to make people comfortable so do your best to limit the loudness of your melanin. simul justus et peccator andy anderson 11 QUEER Eve Taft You think there isn’t a sign on my ribs that says “stonewall inn”? You think Matthew Shepard doesn’t tug at my hair and warn me as I walk the streets of my city? You think I don’t choke on the smoke from the hellfire you spit from your pulpits with sparks that sear and heat branding irons which scar your names on me to mark me as danger? You think my veins don’t shiver when they think of the devastation wracking the cities that some called deliverance while Reagan fiddled as we burned You think that the prisons pink triangles asylums bullets spitting into a nightclub don’t whisper in my head as I make my way through the world? 12 You think that I don’t notice— I kiss her and kiss her —the headline blowing by with a death toll and I kiss her the skyline splashing out behind us the lights on the Washington Avenue bridge flicker on and I kiss her Putin criminalizes us, across the world I kiss her Vigils held too late for young suicides Corrupting, perverted, disgusting, an affront to family values— I kiss her in the rain and the sleet of Minnesota I kiss her, our lips tasting of chants from the protest that shut down I-94 handed down from our grandmothers hearts beating, eyes sparkling, alive I kiss her You think I forget the lists and the candles and the deaths and the pain and all that roars in my ears is a chorus screaming over and over again you were not able to kill us I kiss her and all is still 13 JESUS IN A CRACKER A. Tetzlaff Eucharist I hugged my father’s black, pleated pants while we waited for mass to start. He was beaming proudly and chatting with the rest of our family. I wore the only dress I allowed to touch my body: by then it was a year old and from my uncle’s wedding when I walked down the aisle carrying a bouquet, looking like a blonde deer caught in front of a semi truck. It had a black velvet top connected to a white skirt. All the girls wore white. My parents cut their losses. All the boys, shirt and tie. Eight-year-olds taking their first communion despite the fact that most of us had no idea what was happening. Understanding the sacraments isn’t really necessary when you grow up in a Catholic family. By the time you are aware of your burden, it’s too late anyway. Religion lived at Nativity of Our Lord Parish, in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Between church and home, I lived in a realm of contradiction. I came to visit religion, but it never went home with me. On Sundays when the game was in town, God would not judge you for wearing your Packer jersey to church. Sinning was bad, but you could tailgate and drink and carouse to your heart’s content. We should have taken beer at 14 that first communion. We would have appreciated it more than the wine. We took our places in the ritual that had been performed again and again. The time-worn ritual begins anew as I walk to the altar with my hands folded in front of me. I must remember to raise my hands high enough so the rheumatic priest doesn’t have to bend down. Right hand over left. I’m a blonde deer again. “The body of Christ.” This is the part where I say, “Amen,” whether I mean it or not, then put the communion wafer in my mouth. I must cross myself (right hand touching head, then left shoulder, then right shoulder) as I walk back up the aisle and toward my family. They liked to sit in the middle section, never too close to the altar. They didn’t like making direct eye-contact with the priest during his homily. To this day I skip the wine for fear of communicable diseases. It stuck to the roof of my mouth, this first communion wafer. It was stale. There was no substance. Maybe the parched flour and water, mixed with the lingering incense is actually what Jesus tastes like. The absorbent clump lasted into the next hymn. Saliva rushed into my mouth and eventually the wafer, heavy with mois- ture, fell from the roof of my mouth. I swallowed without chewing. Just go with it, I told myself. All these people believe in this, so one day, you will too. But I wasn’t sure. I didn’t get it. The power that kept me from running back up the aisle wasn’t the love of God gently pushing me along, but the ritual itself, and the expectation of my parents and grandparents watching proud and probably dewy-eyed as I joined their ranks. Hugs and smiles and congratulations as my family comes out of the first communion Mass, but I wasn’t sure what was such cause for celebration; I hadn’t had a great epiphany about God, nor had I felt any change at all. It was just like every Sunday late in October. head and tell me I was forgiven. “Sometimes, I’m not very nice to my mom or my brother,” I told him. Navitity didn’t own a confessional booth like the ones in movies. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a confessional booth at any Catholic church outside the movies. We sat quietly in a tiny room. Being small for my age, I circled the air below me with my feet. I sat facing him directly. He crossed his legs under the cassock he wore, clearly annoyed. After a silence and a slow nod, the priest said, “Sometimes, we hurt the people we love the most.” It was the only part I heard or remember hearing; he started talking about God’s forgiveness, I assume. I didn’t pay attention, because I didn’t feel different after admitting such a pitiful sin. Marriage I had no ill-feeling toward the physical place of church. In fact, the ritual, the sounds, the smell of incense, and the light that filtered through the stained-glass windows from an Easterly rising sun became familiar and comforting over the years. The nave, filled with old pews, had witnessed my parents’ wedding and my grandparents’ weddings. The organ towered over the choir. The smell of old patrons and Sunday cologne too liberally applied became a sensory memory of that place. However, religion has never been an inward practice; the practice and the scene never joined together. Anointing of the Sick When times are bad, I’ve pulled the fragments of ritual from my memory and recite the “Our Father.” I did this in the winter of my eighteenth year in days following my grandfather’s funeral. He died of bladder cancer, worsened by a communicable bacterial infection called C.Difficile. I became familiar with the ritual of funeral; I’d been to three or four for close relatives. But this time, the ritual felt different. Before, I was sad. My grandfather’s funeral confirmed that the only sacred part of my world had been ripped mercilessly from my arms. Reconciliation “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”As the words come out of my mouth, they themselves felt sinful. I hadn’t sinned, I was eleven. I barely knew what sin was. I had to stop a moment to think of a sin I had committed, so the priest could nod his Baptism I sat in the shower until the water hitting my face was colder than I could stand, reciting the “Our Father” over and over, sobbing. Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. I hoped, over so many repetitions, that my view 15 of God and heaven would change. Yet, it confused me more. Religion stopped looking like the patron blind to reality and became a place where I didn’t belong. Like I was missing out because I didn’t get that epiphany, and didn’t have that same faith. Confirmation Religion was so stale, that when my Mother would occasionally talk about faith, or God, or divine love at the dinner table I would blush with pity and embarrassment. How can you believe this? I thought, how can you be so blind to the real world? Perhaps, I’m the blind one. I continue to live in an intermediate space between faith and atheism. I can’t commit to either. The fence between atheism and faith is fraught with angst. Most days, I try to laugh away my uncertainty. I tell jokes about my Catholic past, chuckle when I hear of “recovering Catholics,” and tell friends, “It smells like a Catholic church in here,” whenever they burn incense. Religion is still stale to me. Religion has no nutritional value. Stale religion has no holy orders. 16 grey cloud island david baboila 17 saint paul airport david baboila 18 white bear lake david baboila 19 zips coliseum david baboila 20 BRIDGE Jacob J. Miller This was not way back when, as my dad would have you believe. It was more recent than that. If he can’t flat out deny it, which he no longer can, he will at least try to convince you that it was so long ago as to suggest it might have been a different lifetime, and he a different person. He has been, after all, Born Again. Except he was not the only person involved, and to carry along as if he was is an exercise in what I’ve heard philosophers call solipsism. For him, his transgression was between himself and the Holy Ghost: accountable not to those he wronged, only to an invisible spirit. But he doesn’t have sole authority in determining the past’s relevance or irrelevance to our lives today. My mother too pretends the past is only what has happened at a particular point in time, and not a factor in what determines what has happened since then and what is happening now. The slate wiper theory of forgiveness is what allowed them to wear their veneer of innocence and believe in its authenticity, and for that reason I resent their new-leaf turnover. My love for them may not be emergent in my words, I know, but I do love them, regardless of the fucked up traits they passed on to their children, which will become evident as this story unfolds You might be wondering, if you care at all, what could be so terrible. Well, it’s not so terrible, and not even very uncommon, but it happened to me, and my brothers and my sisters, and there was never anything we could really do about it. We watched it unfold almost every night to reveal its rotted pit. What was scariest was not when a half-full beer bottle would be hurled in our direction for us being too noisy, and then being held responsible for wasting the beer, and getting punished even more for that. What was scariest was when they fought with each other, mom and dad, when they were both liquored up. All of us children would be sitting in the living room, on our knees, in a line, with our hands folded and tucked inside our clenched thighs, having hitherto been fulfilling our playful, childish duties who couldn’t expect things to go so suddenly and intensely wrong. They would fight about anything, or nothing, for all we knew or cared. They would yell, swear, slam their fists on various surfaces, throw things across the room at each other as if rehearsed. One time, I remember, and this is what I’m talking about when I talk about how scary things got, my 21 dad had my mom pinned up against the refrigerator—after she threw three or four plates at him, one that hit his arm, but would have hit his face if he hadn’t been blocking, and cut it deep. He had the sharp kitchen knife pressed firmly under her chin. If she gulped too hard in fear, or if dad in his stupor lost balance, she would have been bleeding all over the family pictures held by magnets to the fridge. As we grew older, my big brother and I began working under dad instead of merely living under him. Our prospects in life weren’t substantial at that point. Whatever potential we had, it had never been encouraged, so entering into the family business, if it can even be called that, was the only viable option. I woke dad up most mornings from his typical collapse into a face-down, fetal heap on the kitchen floor, sometimes still wet, sometimes already crusted over. I’d say, “it’s time for work, dad,” and he’d drive me to the site where (drinking coffee with whiskey in it on the way) heavy machinery was waiting to be operated—even though we used hammers and nails whenever we could. Stonehenge-sized slabs of cement, wooden pillars, cinder blocks, and iron rods littered the landscape. It was all so disorderly that if a nomad wandered upon the scene, the indication would be of destruction rather than pre-construction. There were no piles of allocated materials or inventoried supply lists. It could have all been salvaged from past demolitions or by thievery from other project sites. We seemed to accrue it all without any kind of exchange or standard of accountability for use. Everything seemed to just show up wherever and whenever we needed it. Who actually made all this stuff? How did we move it from place to place to use from job to job? Who permitted my sodden father to oversee such potentially hazardous 22 projects? He was a self-made man outside the advent of auditing. What did I care then? I was making my way, fashioning for myself a future out of will power, and holding my breath until I could extricate myself from this grim farce. First day on the job, my dad said to me, don’t fuck up, or he’d make me test the bridge before the support beams were all in place. I believed him. That particular bridge wasn’t connecting two sides over a raging river or anything; more of a convenient pathway over a stream, but it was still a threat coming from dad. Second day on the job, my brother James tore partway through his leg with a chainsaw. I heard him yell, but it sounded more out of frustration than terror and pain. He sat down, ripped his immediately blood-soaked pants from where the initial tear was, delicately unlaced and removed his boot so as not to cause more pain, grunting as if he had done nothing more than step in dog shit, and lifted the nearly severed part of his leg that dangled lifelessly like a tube sock on a clothesline, to close the wound, from which I saw steam rising sacrificially to the wintery heavens. He reached forward to grab the excess of sock which, although bunched up at his toes, had a long, tortuous journey before being completely removed. He screamed as he stretched forward, more circumstantially appropriate this time, and this is when I dropped my— whatever, the thing I was holding, I can’t remember what, but I didn’t hear it land because I couldn’t assimilate anything else that may have been transpiring around me. I almost seemed to float over to him, not even aware of my legs propelling me forward. I saw all the blood, but I wasn’t put off by it as much as I thought I probably should have been, and I thought that as I stared at it pooling out. I observed it dispassionately, coldly, but I may not have been breathing. At first sight, it was just an organic pipe that sprung a leak. I think I asked if he was all right but I meant it more like did he think he was going to die. He said to go get dad and that’s when I became afraid. I stood there for I don’t know how long, until he repeated himself more urgently: “Walt!” he said, “Go! Get! Dad!” I listened that time, but I was still very afraid. I was trembling and began feeling like I might faint, and I almost hoped I wouldn’t find dad, that he’d be off drinking somewhere, but he wasn’t. He was drinking right there, over a small mound of dirt, holding a big piece of wood sturdy for someone to do something with. I saw his breath bellow out into the cold with a cough and evaporate as he took a swig from a bottle before sliding it back into his coat pocket, without so much as a pretense of inconspicuousness.The bottle neck stuck straight out and brushed against his elbow, a cumbersome lump sinking down and throwing off his equilibrium further than the ethanol already had. I slowed my pace, tried to regain some composure, and still hoped he wouldn’t notice me. I could claim an attempt at getting his attention, but he just couldn’t be bothered with me. I tried, I’d tell James, but I’ll carry you. I was sure I could have done that. Part of me still wished I could have avoided involving my dad at all. It was selfish, but I thought I might get slapped with the blame. But I yelled, Dad! Come quick! Dad, I yelled again, skidding on the gravel as I spun around, intent on not letting my dad’s impatient glare lock on me, and from that momentum, nearly ascending at a perfectly horizontal angle in the air before I landed face first on those same tiny rocks, a perfect reenactment of self-humiliation on the school playground at recess. I felt all those multiple points of impact, but wasted no time in catapulting myself back up—no time for embarrassment just yet—clawed off the pebbles that clung gently to the tiny dents they bore into my face and palms, and sped back to my brother who, when I reached the dirt-mound summit again, I could see was lying flat, surrounded by the thick, still-steaming purplish puddle which had, since I left him, at least quadrupled in circumference. Not looking back at all during my return sprint to see how far behind me dad was, or even if he followed me at all, I turned from the sight of my brother completely to see him, Dad, shuffling over the mound, bogged down by beer bottles, which could be heard clanging together in his pockets. He was wheezing inhalations of frozen air. He saw James right away, I know it, but he didn’t say anything until he got right up close to him, planting one clumsy boot in the blood puddle with a squelchy, meager splat, like an old-fashioned letter-sealing stamp on melted wax. He leaned over with outward turned elbows and hands on hips, looked at James’ face. James’ eyes were closed. Dad then scanned down to the butchered leg, grimaced, scanned back up to James’ face. James’ eyes were now open again, frigid with shock, and dad said, “pull yourself together, son,” erupting hysterically at his own clever buffoonery. James turned out to live, no real thanks to our father. I ended up having to run to the nearest phone anyway and call an ambulance. He didn’t even lose his leg. He did require a blood transfusion because he lost gallons of it, or at least it seemed like it when I stood there staring at the mess, but his gristly cheeks had their color restored right in front of me, resupplying and, it almost seemed, re-inflat23 ing him to human shape at the coercion of some stranger’s bodily elixir. It worked like sorcery, but far more astonishing because it was methodologically reliable. The warm fluid surged through his veins, and he was ensconced for a moment in a prodigious glow of newfound vitality. Back then, my dad, laughing, called him a lucky son-of-a-bitch, whereas telling the story now, upon reflection and suspension of rational thought, my brother was “touched by an angel.” Now, whenever this celestial creature of mercy is mentioned, who conveniently remains anonymous for humility’s sake I suppose, instead of our dad drunkenly laughing and mocking the situation, James does. An example of an aforementioned fucked up trait passed on in the family. 24 50 FEET TALL Emilie Tomas I was in 5th grade When my class went To see ‘The Human Body’ and I watched In childhood Horror as A 50 foot grin Unfurled, loomed Large enough To pull me Into orbit Devoured First a sandwich And then my Faith in humanity With deafening Smacks Like thunder If thunder Was made Of jelly and Dismay and I Knew it was a Crime to allow a Person to become This Inflated, With every pore Its own path to Hell and I knew I couldn’t trust Anyone because In our heads We are all 50 feet tall. 25 meow you see ashley waalen 26 MOUSETRAP Halle Chambers Minnie “Mousy” O’Mally knew she was invisible up here on her fire escape. This was her safeplace. With the ladder pulled up as it was now, almost no one could reach her here. Plus, even if someone did make it up here, she could easily get away. If she crawled rough the window, she’d be securely locked in the apartment. There, it was warm and dry and at least sometimes safe when her daddy…no, excuse her, correction, “Father or Sir” wasn’t home. He hated when she called him Daddy. He wasn’t home now, out doing illegal God knows what in the “family business,” but he would be back soon. Hence why she was out here. So, no apartment, not right now. If she dropped the ladder, she could slide down to street level in seconds and be down the block in under a minute. She knew, because she’d practiced and had timed herself. The only way to avoid getting hit in the face was to be quick on your feet. That was the first rule of fighting that Jase, her older brother, had taught her. With the life they lived, it was also a rule of survival. And they didn’t call her “Mousy” for nothing: she was small and fast… very fast. Jase could make a distraction, and Minnie could run. But, Jase was working a job that “Father” had given him out of town till this weekend, and she’d surely get caught if she didn’t have her usual head-start. So,“down” wouldn’t work either. If she scaled up the ladder above her, she’d be on the roof, where their oldest brother, Cobie, had often taken her and Jase to stargaze. She hadn’t known till six years into her still short life that he’d done it to keep his precious baby brother and sister away from their father’s sight when the man would come home satellite high or plastered. She hadn’t known till twelve years in that he’d take their father’s hungover backhand on the mornings after, so she and Jase didn’t. All she’d known as he’d taught her each constellation was that Cobie was braver than Orion and that she and her brothers were more inseparable than the Gemini twins. But, her world went as topsy-turvy as Cassiopeia when her father had sent Cobie away, saying he would not have a queer as a son. When Jase and Minnie hugged him, Cobie swore he’d come back for them in a year or so. Jase had given up when he’d been two years gone. That was two years ago, and now even Minnie 27 was starting to doubt. No, she couldn’t go up to the roo, not alone. She shivered in the October chill as she reviewed her options: “in” would be facing her father’s wrath, “down” would be facing being caught by a cop or a stranger, and “up” would be facing a reminder of the happiness, now heartbreak, brought by a brother who was likely never coming home again. So, maybe she couldn’t escape easily…or at all. She shivered again, this time more in frantic panic than from the frigid, near winter city wind. For not the first time in her life, Mousy felt trapped. 28 faces connie kilppen 29 *I DON’T ALWAYS FEEL COLORED Diamonique Walker Sometimes I find comfort in places I somehow know I don’t belong Never a full day, but hours will pass and I won’t consider my brown skin or kinky hair I’ll let the imminent fear of my black body being made into an example fall back to the depths of my mind My daughter’s safety in mixed company won’t occur to me I won’t juxtapose my blackness with any other’s identity confidence As if one chooses randomly from a pile of stock black girl names when they look at me He asks me if my hair is real I tell him he can’t ask me that He says oh it’s okay, my girlfriend is black I’m a dirty smudge on freshly ironed white linens Trying to blend in, trying to live my life I breathe, momentarily Suddenly, I’ll feel breathless, choked Stabbed in the chest Stung by a white hot micro aggressive slap in the face An unsolicited violation of my personal space A pale hand gently pulls a lock of my hair in white amazement Or a thin pair of lips will say “what’s upppppp” to me and not anyone else I’ll get called a name like Jasmine with such utter 30 *Line borrowed from Claudia Rankine, Citizen WHERE I AM FROM Hannah Schmit I am from the forest. From ruddy Maple and heady Pine. I am from the sunlit dust that refracts the life of the breeze. The rough wood of the trees are my bones, roots firmly planted deep in the depths of the cool black soil. Generations have taught me to live in the sun, tan weathered hands, calloused and worn cover small, break earth and sow seeds. Exhaling with the unfurling of new leaves whose first stretch welcomed life, I learned the importance of patience and nurturing. I am from dirt beneath my nails and gritty sand in my teeth. Sap painted hands and hot tar feet, blackened from short dashes across burning pavement that rippled with summer heat. Sandboxes were my kingdom, the layers of silt and sand familiar to my prodding hands. I climbed turreted towers of twisted bark and branches to survey the world and breath in time with the breeze. Twigs and leaves were my crown and a rusty tractor my carriage. My people were the songbirds and insistent cicadas whose songs filtered lazily together through the woods. Sometimes I called back, matching note for note, melodies and harmonies creating a canopy of familiarity. I am from wildflowers who nodded their velvet, satin, and paintbrush heads as I passed by. From dried grasses whose sweet scent rose from rolling waves that undulated under horse-tail clouds above. The gold-fringed top of the corn is my hair as it turns to brown under the autumn sun. I am from the passing of seasons, each marking the time as brilliant red and orange gave way to pristine white and serene gray. Freckles and sunburn traded for pale skin cold kissed cheeks. My life can be counted in scraped knees and bruises, and band-aids and scars, each a story unique unto itself. I am from the water. Clear and silted, still and rushing it surrounds me. The river courses through my veins, its steady pulse my heartbeat. I am from the muted silence of holding my breath. From letting go in the soft pixelated light that swirls lazily in the haze of a murky river. From the dew that rests in early mists that lay as a blanket over a newly purified earth, protecting the last of the dawn. I am from music. Love-strung tunes of lullabies rock 31 my past to sleep and call forth dog-eared memories. Treasured memories that float fragmented in my mind, I was waltzing with my darling… Goodnight, Irene… Then sings my soul… Black Forest I have come to be in this place. Knit sweaters and hand me downs weave the fabric of my personality. The black ink of the notes is stained on my fingers, the lyrics printed out as a map on my mind. My body is movement, ‘full of grace’ as I danced through recitals and music competitions. My history is composed of the ivory keys of a piano board, the metallic strings of a guitar, and the soft wheeze of a musty accordion. I am from survivors. From broken families and lives I was given the opportunity to begin. Out of the ashes of war and blood, death and pain I was taught compassion. The scars remind me of my privilege. A handful of ink-smeared letters, a fading tattoo, and relentless nightmares that went unspoken. Touched by shadows of heartbreak and longing I have learned the fears of disease and pain, the cruelty of man and the destruction of illness. I am from a legacy. Footsteps preceded my very first and taught me how to stand tall—to walk courageously. When I was tired of walking and needed to fly, strong hands lay behind me as I learned to test my own strength. I am from fading memories. From sweat and ploughs, rough tools and run down sheds. My past is a copper foundation of saved pennies stretched with love and trust. The polished wood of a hunter’s gun and tug of a taut fishing line tie me to the land of a generation gone by. I am from the creaking wood of a ship that ferried dreams. From the fjords and 32 I am from strength. From weary hands that sought to move forward. From songs crooned in different tongues, prayers tucked away from missed lives. I am from the sweet smell of tobacco. From a worn brown pipe laid in the top overall pocket. From tales of Shirley Temple and shiny black shoes. From the canoe as it passes over reeds and the click of a cane keeping time with shuffling shoes. From sterilized rooms and flowers with similarly fated owners. I am from loss and tears. I am from the Mississippi and the Great Lakes, from steam and coal. From concrete jungles and log cabins. I am a piece of the past, I am… The rooms of my mind are wallpapered with snapshots of a younger me. Sayings and phrases are the soundtrack of my life. I carry them with me. Tucked in locked and forgotten rooms they wait patiently, longingly for me to recall. future. I seek not where I am going only exist here, as I am. I am from the past. Shaped by the present I live for the future. I am from wanderlust. An incorrigible desire to explore that cannot be quelled with the stillness between heartbeats. I am from the excitement that teeters on the brink of the inevitable. I am pulled at by the gentle whisper of religions. Called to the beauty of holiness in the world, I am grounded in the church yet growing in the temple and the mosque. I am gentle hands that have learned to be useful—to give back. Well-used fingers taught to survive and protect. I am a collection of places and people that I have encountered. In love with humanity, I exchange comfort for experience. I am at home in the concrete jungles constructed from heat-cracked pavement and in the mudpatched hut of the desert. The mountains and caves call to me like the trees and fields of my youth. I am at home in the grand expanse of a world that knows no limits, understands no boundaries. A world that exists, simply to exist. My feet itch to travel down forgotten paths where the dust of ages can billow out from under me and cloud the clarity of the 33 who am i? ashley waalen 34 2 GRATITUDE: A POEM IN FOUR PARTS D.E. Green 1. Le Chaim 2. In Praise of Delusion Each day, my own sunrise, my own morning star: your red head radiates strange aerial spikes. When he walks down the sloping skyway from Memorial to the Music building on his way to a long evening class, he sees his reflection in the large classroom window at the base of the slope. He loves that mirror. In it, he is about a foot taller than his five-fiveand-a-half and twenty pounds lighter. He is younger than his sixty years. The silver hair is less telling. As he approaches, the Other ways slightly, moves with the elegant gait of an athlete or dancer. This, he imagines, is my Norwegian double—tall and slender and (at least from this distance) good-looking. Of course as man and image converge, his Other shrinks into an eastern-European, Semitic, rather compact, little old man. Perhaps (he wonders) I have seen the inner image of myself. Perhaps (he smiles) I am happy just to have illusions. Our son’s beard and long Hasidic locks on a head never bowed in prayer hover over his guitar and, till he gets it just so, a heavy-metal riff. The picture of Ollie, our old pup,— his face speaks love, love, love. Like the holiday meal you’ll pretend to let me cook. Or when your hand gently strokes my heaving shoulder: I am sobbing silently because the movie has ended well—a good death, timely reconciliation, vows revived, a renewed breath. 36 3. Thanksgiving 4: To My Son This morning, as I drive from Northfield to Hampton past field after barren field, three wild turkeys foraging and gobbling at the edge of the road— their white-splashed wings, black-feathered trunks, It’s Friday, Z—, and (as always) time to say how much I love you (and your mom too, since I don’t say it often enough though I feel it every minute) and how much I miss you and hope you can spend a few hours with us and Grandma the first weekend in November. We worry about you every day, ‘cuz that’s our job, but we also have an abiding sense of how strong you are: How much you have been through, how far you’ve come, and how you face each day with grit—and, I hope, love. The latter is so hard to do: Over breakfast your mom and I sometimes sit around and whine about our work, about grading student papers. But a little later I’ll be walking across campus and the light will be just right and I’ll see a familiar face amid a group of young people and—I don’t know why—I feel love. I think that’s the word. And I felt it last time we picked you up downtown and you were talking to some scruffy stranger on the street. And the fact that you can still be open to such encounters—isn’t that love too?— filled me with wonder. It’s funny: Old people, among whom I am about to number, have proverbially been beyond wonder, such a romantic and old-fashioned word. But I swear that I still feel it—and that you are among the wonders of my world. red combs poking and pecking the gravel and weeds—surprise me. I flinch. The car swerves. I breathe. They range unruffled. 37 work in progress gabriel bergstrom 38 THE FIRE Elisabeth Beam I stood with my back to the crowd watching the house go up in flames. It happened faster than I had expected. It had taken less than a minute for the fire to spread from the kitchen to the living room and even less time for it to make its way upstairs and into the bedrooms where Grandma and the twins had been peacefully sleeping. Joel stood beside me; his face was dark with ash, his mouth tilted upwards in a sickeningly gleeful smile. Momma had never liked Joel. She said he was a troublemaker and I should do my best to stay away from him. Joel hadn’t always been mean. When I first met him he would bring me friends and make me laugh. He gave me my grey tabby cat, Walter, and my small white bunny, Snowy. We used to all run around the garden and play and laugh. I didn’t like it when Walter and Snowy played. Walter always hurt Snowy. Joel loved it. Snowy’s pain filled shrieks always brought a smile to his face. Joel would play tricks on Momma. He’d move the chair she was about to sit in and she’d tumble to the floor with a crash and a scream. He would put dead things in the twins’ crib for Momma to find. Once he brought a live snake into the house and slipped it into the shower when Momma was in it. She screamed something awful and had locked me in my room for a week. I always got blamed for Joel’s wicked tricks. Momma brought a lot of new friends to the house after that. She brought in men wearing long white coats who talked with me and asked questions about Joel and Walter and Snowy. Joel would stand behind them as they questioned me and make faces. I didn’t understand why they didn’t just talk to Joel and grew frustrated with their questions. Once Momma brought home a man in a black suit. He walked around the house mumbling in a strange language, throwing water on the walls and waving his cross around like a baton. I thought he was crazy. I told Momma and she told me to hush and sit down. The man stood in front of me yelling in his strange way and holding his cross on my forehead. It was cold and made me uncomfortable. Joel got upset. He didn’t like the man and the way he was 39 shouting. The next thing I knew the man was on the floor bleeding from a gash in his head and Joel was laughing loudly in my ear. A bunch of police officers showed up and Joel told me not to tell anyone what he’d done. He said I should blame it on Momma and she’d go away for a long time and stop bothering us. Momma shouted and cried and struggled as the police dragged her away to the sound of Joel’s gleeful laughter and the twins’ high pitched screams. Grandma came after Momma. She was mean. She locked me in my room and told me to stay there until I learned my lesson. I watched him stalk around the room at night mumbling darkly to himself. Grandma made me to go church with her every Sunday, she said I had to pray for my soul for what I’d done to that man and to Momma. I didn’t understand why everyone blamed me for Joel’s tricks and was tired of being punished for all the naughty things that he did. One night at supper, Joel made scary faces at the twins who started wailing. Grandma stood up and yelled at me as she tried desperately to calm the twins. She told me to go to my room. I said no. I pointed at Joel and yelled at him with all my might. This was all his fault. Grandma sent me to bed. Joel told me they were going to send me away. They would separate us and I would never be able to see him again. I told him I was fine with that because he was being horrible. That upset him. He got Walter and Snowy and made me watch as Walter ate Snowy. I cried. He laughed. Joel woke me up at midnight. He told me we could stay together. Me, him, and Walter, but we had to do 40 something first. He smelt like gasoline. He led me to the kitchen and pointed to the stove which was covered with a sticky, sweet smelling liquid. He told me to open my hands. I did. He handed me a lighter. I didn’t want to do it but Joel got angry when I tried to say no. He yelled and told me to do it for all the times Momma blamed me for something he did. That if I did this everyone would finally realize it was him doing all the bad things and not me. My hands were shaking so bad it took me five tries to get the lighter to ignite. When it did I froze and stared at the small flame in my hands. It flickered with every shuttering breath that came out of my mouth. Joel grew impatient and slapped the lighter out of my hand and onto the stove. There was a large whooshing noise and a blast of orange light. My arm hair stood on end and sweat trickled down my face. I backed away. Joel stood in front of the fire and laughed. He threw his arms out wide and danced in tune with the flames. He was crazy but his movements were so beautiful and fluid. It was frightening. The fire advanced toward me. I didn’t want to move. I wanted the fire to eat me like it was going to eat Grandma and the twins. Joel grabbed my hand and led me outside. We stood to the side and watched as the fire slowly ate up the house I had grown up in. The house that the priest, the twins, and Grandma had all died in. Sirens and smoke filled the night air. I looked to my side for Joel, but he had disappeared. DESERT DRUMS Abigail Carpenter When my London flatmate, Raoni, suggested we travel to Northern Africa because he was missing the heat of Brazil, we had no intention of visiting the Sahara Desert and the Atlas Mountains. But we quickly made friends with a generous and hospitable Moroccan man, Raxido, who invited us to a local drum circle at the edge of the Sahara Desert. After traveling on camelback against an orange-rayed sunset, we found ourselves among the sand dunes. We parked our camels single file near our camp, and I realized a place that once only existed in my dreams was now before me. I had to close my eyes for a long while. I opened them over and over again until I was sure of it. I had to reach down and let the sand fall between my fingers slowly. I had to breathe in the crisp, evening air. And when I looked up, the stars speckled in the sky like the summer freckles on my face, thousands and thousands of them. When the drum circle began, I let its music fill me up. It started in my toes and moved higher, tickled my fingers and sent goosebumps up my arms and back. The drums vibrated within my chest and when it reached my mouth, I screamed in laughter. My laugh echoed farther and farther across the desert, not meeting any person or town or house until it was miles and miles away. I wrapped my blanket a little tighter and watched my friends dance around the fire to the beat of the drums. Their legs moved up and down as their hands joined the ashes flying through the night air. For many hours, we sat around the fire, told our stories and spoke aloud our dreams. We danced and sang and took turns pounding the drums. We slept under the stars among the silence of the desert for only a few hours until the sun awoke us on the horizon. And moving through the deep sand, the sunrise at our backs, we rode our camels to the bus to escape the desert heat before it swallowed us up whole. 41 COLORS Hannah Schmit If I am a color call me red The color of passion and love Humanity worn on my sleeve The color of my blood, beating heart. Call me red. If I am a season call me fall With baited chilled breath I speak My words on whirlwind breezes fall An omen of changes to come Call me fall. If I am a sound call me silence. The chaos and stillness of calm My words lost yet encompassing In anticipation of something Call me silence If I am a thought call me hope The desire for something more A yearning call deep within me The need to breathe Call me hope. 42 urban delight jazmin crittenden 43 WHEN DAD WORE COLOGNE A. Tetzlaff “Did Grandpa Mike die?” My small voice broke a quiet that Dad and I carry easily between us. A radio frequency connecting our minds that communicates silently, so we don’t have to. Even at the age of three, I knew our sacred, noiseless space well. Dad took me to a park one day, nearby my childhood home. We rarely visited this park unless we intended to use its snowy slope for adrenaline rushes in our bright plastic sleds in the winter time. But it wasn’t wintertime now. My dad wore a blue t-shirt he’d owned since high school. Summer or spring, the season isn’t particularly distinct. The hills rose nakedly as we quietly approached. I’ve come back to the memory time and again; the images are blurred, like a positive photograph that didn’t come out of the darkroom correctly. I can’t recall how my father responded to my question, though I’m sure he patiently and painfully affirmed my query. In that moment I wasn’t shocked. I wasn’t sad. Presently, I regret that I can’t remember a man who loved me and was so dearly loved by others. I don’t know how he looked aside from the pictures I know. How he talked, laughed, 44 yelled, walked, I don’t recall. Did he wear cologne to work like Dad? When I was young, Dad wore cologne to work. He woke up around five in the morning in order to be at work five-thirty, and he still does, despite the fact that no one expects him in the office till eight. I’d hear his alarm from my bed and wait to smell the mix of dewy summer grass and the spicy knives of cologne in my nostrils. The smell lingered and pulled me back to sleep as Dad left the house. On the day at the park, Dad wasn’t wearing cologne. Dad didn’t wear cologne that day because it was either a weekend or he had the day off or had taken time away to grieve. I don’t remember the call to our corded telephone late one night. It was the hospital telling Mom and Dad that my grandfather died of a heart attack while showering. I don’t know if he died immediately or if the attack was slow, painful, cold, and wet. I will never ask. The thought of breaking the stitches grief so tenuously sewed incites trepidation. Was my young face one of his last images? I’m vain enough to assume so––grandparents always think of the grandbabies first. Was it a comfort? I can only hope. At my Grandfather’s funeral, I can’t remember Mom’s grief. I can’t remember the funeral either.She keeps the remnants of her love tended like a flower garden and tells me of her father often. I have nothing but the cemented walkway leading to the park that summer day deep in my mind. Mom tells me that my grandfather lived as long as he did because he was waiting for me. It was a miracle I was even born, but that’s not my story to tell. She calls me “the sparkle in his eye.” Christopher, my younger and only brother, inherited my grandfather’s bright, Anglo-blue irises. He was born the year after my grandfather died. Christopher joined the Army a few weeks ago; my grandfather was a Marine in the 60s. During his service in Asia, my grandfather collected each country’s currency. Grandma keeps the collection in a red leather box in her bedroom closet. I used to step onto a chair and carefully extract the artifact from the top shelf and touch each coin and each bill. Some of those tenders are much extinct now. The souvenirs of my grandfather’s life are far less valuable to me than those of my travels––those, at least, the mugs and the key chains, those have memories attached of the real thing. I’ve spent most of my life scouring photos and objects, trying to resurrect an authentic memory of my grandfather. Trying to find a sensation that brings him back to me like the early morning scent of Dad’s cologne because I only remember the hills and my words and Dad. The solvents of time washed away my grandfather. 45 SHITTY CHRISTMAS TREES AND SECONDHAND DOLLS Elisabeth Beam When I was a kid we didn’t have a lot of money. But we managed to survive. Mom worked a lot at the dingy looking Super 8 Motel just down the street from the elementary school. You know, the kind of motel that charges by the hour instead of night. She hated it but it was close to school and paid just enough. Around November she would start picking up shifts at other hotels in town to save up more money for Christmas. It was hard. The heat bill always went up mid-October when the chill started to set in and the snow began to fall. Presents were always an issue. Getting stuff for just me and Sarah was usually alright, but Mom came from a big family. Six brothers and sisters all of whom had kids. All of whom would be needing presents. That’s a lot of money. Money we just didn’t have. One year there was a huge blizzard and they canceled school for a week. Sarah was only six at the time and she couldn’t be left alone to take care of herself much less a five-year-old as well. So mom had to stay home from work and look after us. She tried to make it seem like she wasn’t stressed out about the money, but I knew she was. She would pace around the kitchen at night and mumble to 46 herself. She’d crouch over her checkbook and shake her head. She tried to hide it from us, but I noticed. I always noticed when she got like that. A week of work missed meant we wouldn’t be able to afford the gas to get to grandma’s house for Christmas. And a week with everyone at home meant that the heat bill was going to be rough. She was too proud to try and get food stamps. So money that would normally go towards presents went to buying our Christmas feast. We didn’t go to my grandma’s house that Christmas but it was probably the best Christmas of my life. The day before school let out our landlord took out all the carpet in the living room. He said it was due to be replaced and that someone would be over before the holiday to put down some new carpet. “Your feet will be so happy and thankful! That’s the best Christmas present you could ask for!” he had happily told us. No one came. The floor was cold and there were nails and sharp staples sticking up at weird angles. It hurt to step on them and small red dots appeared throughout the house as we all made the mistake of stepping in the living room without socks. Mom put down an old ratty green rug, one that our cats liked to pee on. She bought a small fake green tree from the thrift shop downtown. It was the saddest looking tree. Most of the branches were missing so it had random bald spots sporadically around its leaning trunk. A good number of the ornaments that we put on it fell off because it couldn’t support their weight. We made new ones out of paper and glitter. Mom wrapped tinsel she’d taken from work around it and Sarah and I sloppily placed string lights. We put an old family picture at the top of the tree because we were too scared that our expensive Christmas angel would fall and break if we tried to stick her up there. Thinking back on it now it was a pretty shitty looking tree, but back then I thought it was the best thing I’d ever seen in my life. I remember sitting on the floor amongst the nails and staples and looking at it glittering and glistening and thinking that it was a far better tree than anyone else could ever have. I thought that even if we’d spend a million dollars on a tree and all its dressings that it wouldn’t even be able to come close to this masterpiece sitting before me. For Christmas Eve we blasted holiday music and ran around the living room twirling and waving our arms above our heads. Mom had somehow found time to make new flannel pajamas for both me and Sarah and we had immediately put them on. She had also given us each a doll that she’d found at a thrift store. They looked ratty and dirty but I loved them both. Every bit of dust and matted patch of hair was a story waiting to be told. The dolls had character and I loved it.That shitty tree and our thrift store dolls were great but they weren’t what made that night so special. It was that we were all together, making the most out of what we had and not lamenting what we were missing. I think as we grow up we lose the magic in secondhand dolls and shitty Christmas trees. 47 summer nights adam ruff 48 the people united adam ruff 49 after the hike adam ruff 50 CRUMBS Malena Larsen He’s looking for love In the crevices of his couch Like loose change. I saw him lift up the cushions And pull out crumbs His mother’s earring A quarter The spoon he dropped last week After eating ice cream out of the container. It was chocolate cookie dough and he ate the whole thing. I watched him put the quarter in his back pocket and the spoon back in the cushions. I told him I had been in love once And he said I like it when girls call me daddy. I had a dream that night that he was dating somebody and my stomach hurt when I woke up. I became a spoon in the couch cushion Who said words like Daddy And Fuck me And Hard. At the end of every night I was put back with the crumbs, and each day that he came to get me there was more cat hair or lint stuck to me I waited patiently Dirty For him to pick me up. It was 77 degrees the late summer night he stopped getting me from the cushions. He told me that he found somebody to love and we can’t be friends, because if I see you I’ll fuck you. I asked him why he couldn’t control himself if he was in love with somebody. The inside of my ribcage Was being scraped empty 51 Like the chocolate cookie dough ice cream container And my stomach hurt Like it did after the dream Where he wasn’t mine I can’t help it. He told me. I like it when girls call me daddy. When we met he was wearing a suit and it looked like he had spent a lot of time on his hair but I didn’t think he was attractive until the weekend when I was drunk. Across the table On the other side of red cups And puddles of water He stared at me In a grey tank top. His eyes And arms Were strong 52 And dark. Making eye contact felt like sex And he smelled like Fireball And somebody I shouldn’t be alone with And too much cologne. We went swimming at 6 am at the neighbor’s lakefront when everyone else fell asleep. He took off his shirt I kept mine on. The water fell off of him like it didn’t want to keep his body covered for too long. He picked me up and folded me over his right shoulder and threw me into the 6 am summer sweet lake water. He drove me home At 7 am Still drunk and Smitten. It was 88 degrees and my birthday the night I let him kiss me in the back hallway of our friend’s frat. I couldn’t wait anymore He told me In the house that smelled like Liquor and dust And damp wood. The first time we Fucked Was in the front seat of his White Pontiac Grand prix At 11 pm on a Tuesday. I saw him almost As an animal. His fists Were clenched And his eyebrows Like shelves Over his beetle eyes. Do you like fucking daddy? After that night I had to sneak him into my bedroom because he couldn’t do all of the positions he wanted to in his car. He needed to prove to me that he was the best fuck and that he could make me cum and that I should call him Daddy. I had never called fucking, fucking before. Before I was a dirty spoon it had only been called love. His eyes started to remind me Of Tiny Round Black beetles. There’s nobody else anymore We should just keep fucking. And when we fucked It was 66 degrees and almost fall when he came to my house in his white Pontiac Grand Prix and told me I remembered then, the quarter he put in his pants and how he used me to eat his ice cream and then put me back with all the crumbs in the cushions of 53 his couch Where he keeps looking for love Like it’s the loose change In his back pocket. 54 bloomed audrey campbell 55 pruned audrey campbell 56 HERMAN Danny Polaschek Grape juice dribbled down Herman’s chin and landed in scattered droplets down the front of his white T-shirt. He didn’t notice and, after setting down his half-emptied glass, picked up his spoon and started on his bowl of bran flakes. Sitting at the kitchen table, there was nothing in front of Herman —but a bare white wall. It seemed, however, that he wasn’t looking at it, but rather through it like a child looks through a window and, seeing nothing but gray skies and rain, is overwhelmed by disappointment because they will not be outdoors playing that day. As Herman sat there facing the white wall and chomping his cereal, his son entered the kitchen and began his morning ritual. Herman heard the coffee-maker start bubbling from somewhere behind him in the kitchen along with the quick and efficient pitter-pattering of his son’s feet, who Herman assumed had to be walking laps around the center island as some sort of new, trendy morning workout. Once the coffee maker’s burbling came to an end the footsteps stopped as well. Herman focused on the sound of the coffee being poured, the soft sound of liquid filling a ceramic mug. The sound stopped as quickly as it had started and Herman was further drawn from his relaxed, monotonous state by the sound of his son’s voice. “How are the flakes this morning, Dad?” Herman didn’t turn around to face his son, but continued with what he was doing, looking like a cow chewing cud. “Five star quality,” he replied in between spoonfuls. “Flaky as ever.” Herman’s son chuckled a bit and looked up from his fresh cup of coffee but the laugh died away when he noticed that his father was still turned away from him, eyes glued straight ahead. Taking another sip, Herman’s son pondered whether he would keep pursuing his father in conversation or not. He ultimately decided against it and left the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. A sigh escaped Herman’s throat as he set down his spoon, finished with his mushed and soggy cereal. Ain’t this the life, he thought to himself sarcastically. Finally turning away from the wall, Herman scooted himself back from the kitchen table and slowly stood up. He gripped the side of the table for balance and took a few deep breaths in an effort to steady himself. Just a few weeks before, Herman had 57 missed a stair descending to the basement and found himself tumbling clumsily down the rest of the way until crashing to a stop on the last few steps. Herman’s head still felt a bit shaky from time to time, which caused a bit of a tremble in his legs. Instead of walking from place to place, he grew accustomed to maneuvering his way to each destination by leaning on and grabbing anything he could for support and then flinging himself to another sturdy checkpoint, and so on and so forth until he reached his goal. It was much like a monkey swinging from vine to vine, but less precise and much less graceful. With his feet finally under him, legs steady, Herman pushed away from the kitchen table and launched himself to the kitchen counter, which caught him with cold indifference. Hunched over, Herman caught his breath for a few seconds before beginning to shuffle down the length of the marble counter towards the coffeemaker at the other end. “This better be a damn good cup of Joe,” he mumbled to himself, clearly exhausted. Halfway down the counter, Herman stopped. With a steady grip on the counter he reached up to the cupboard above his head and swung it open. He couldn’t see inside but he knew that what he was looking for was in there: his old blue coffee mug— one of the only things worth bringing with when he moved into his son’s house the year before. Feeling around the smooth, wooden interior, Herman eventually got a hold of his mug which distinguished itself by having only half of a handle still attached. With the partial handle hooked onto his ring and middle fingers, Herman pulled out his mug and brought it shakily down over his head, setting it on the counter with a soft “clink.” Herman was beginning to feel dizzy at this 58 point, and wished for a moment that he had listened to the doctor about getting a walker. “Mr. Huckley,” the doctor said, “even if you don’t think you’ll use it, take it anyways. Just in case.” Herman didn’t take the walker, and wouldn’t even let anyone help to walk him out of the hospital, not even his son. “I don’t need your damn help,” he snorted each time someone tried to take his arm to steady him. He was always a stubborn man and old age wasn’t going to change that. Continuing down the counter, Herman felt this same stubborn anger boiling in him. He was almost seventy years old and yet he felt like a child who was just learning to walk. He’d built his own home, and a garage to go with it, and now he could hardly make it to the opposite end of the room without feeling fatigued. Sweat was running hot from Herman’s forehead. He wiped it with a shaky hand and breathed in deeply, closing his eyes as he did so. He only had five or so more steps to go and he braced himself for the final stretch, determined to get there even if it killed him. With a focused balance and patient, shuffling steps Herman managed to get to the end of the counter and the coffee pot. He exhaled in relief, and a satisfied smile tugged the corners of his mouth up ever so slightly. With his blue mug in one hand, Herman picked up the coffeepot in the other, intent on pouring himself a well-deserved cup of coffee after his tiresome journey. His satisfaction was immediately replaced with bitterness as he lifted the pot and felt that it was nearly empty, only a few drops remained rolling around in the bottom. Herman’s minute smile had vanished and his brow hardened, scrunching up his forehead in small, tense knots. Setting the pot back on the counter, Herman hissed repeatedly under his breath, cursing his son for not leaving him any coffee. Herman’s hands were visibly trembling and he was having a difficult time keeping a grip on the edge of the counter. He contemplated making more coffee but dismissed the idea immediately, knowing that he could not remain standing and moving around the kitchen much longer. Herman felt a hot flush come over his face and could feel beads of sweat rolling down his temples and his cheeks. In one swift motion he wound up and threw his coffee mug across the room, where it shattered against the windowless, white wall. Slivers and shards of ceramic bounced all over the kitchen, the blue pieces scattered like shattered glass. Herman heard footsteps drumming down the staircase before his son entered the room,stopping in the doorway to avoid stepping on any of the pieces of blue ceramic. “Dad!” he exclaimed, “What happened? Herman was bent over, hunched with his hands on his knees. He was struggling for breath now, and sweat soaked through his shirt on his back. In between wheezes, Herman said exasperated, “You didn’t leave me any damn coffee, you son of a bitch.” His son stood there eyeing first his father and then the indent in the wall where the mug had hit. He shook his head in disbelief, which quickly turned to anger. With a clenched jaw, he left the room and returned a minute later with broom in hand. He began quietly sweeping the blue bits of coffee mug into a dustpan. After Herman had caught his breath and recomposed himself, he pulled his body back into a standing position, leaning against the counter. He glanced to his son, bent over and sweeping under the kitchen table. “I heard you on the phone last night,” he said. Herman kept his eyes on his son as he stood and turned to face him. His son raised an eyebrow at him but gave no verbal reply. “I heard you,” Herman repeated. His son bit his lip and continued sweeping, eyes trained on the floor. “It’s just not working, dad.” 59 EL BARRIO SUYO Chad Berryman El viento le envolvió al hombre como una manta de hielo. Él andaba por el barrio suyo pero los vecinos no lo saludaron. Caminaba delante de una casa grande con flores y grandes ventanas, y por esas ventanas podía oír una pelea entre dos padres y los lamentos penosos de sus hijos. Él seguía la acera que serpenteaba por un parque lindo donde había un banco solitario. Él Lo saludó con la cabeza. Recordaba unas noches del verano cuando este banco no había ofrecido insultos ni acusaciones, sino un lugar simpático para descansar mientras él le regalaba un uso admirable. Pero en el invierno el banco se congelaba como él, y ambos eran incapaces de ayudarse el uno al otro. Paseaba delante de una casa blanca de arquitectura maravillosa. Un coche altanero llegara la entrada. Un padre sincero apareció mientras acababa de contar los acontecimientos de su día. Su hija miraba su celular, y el silencio suspiró por la expresión herida de la cara del padre. Ellos entraron a la casa sin otra palabra. El hombre nómada seguía caminando, y pronto la nieve dentro de sus venas se derretía por una balada antigua que se tarareaba al ritmo de sus pasos. 60 No pido mucho, no vivo de prisa canto los himnos con risa bendita no tengo nada salvo alma amada y sin despedida no hay la llegada THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD Chad Berryman The frigid air wrapped around the man like a blanket of ice. He was travelling through his own neighborhood, but no neighbors acknowledged him. As he walked in front of a large, picturesque house, complete with flowers and giant windows, he could make out the sound of two parents fighting accompanied by the upsetting cries of their children. The sidewalk snaked its way through a park in which there stood one solitary bench. With a nod of his head, the man greeted it. Nights of summers past filled his mind, nights in which the bench had not offered insults or accusations but rather a consoling place of rest while he presented it with the gift of an honorable purpose. However, the bench froze and shivered in the winter the same as he, and neither could provide the other with any relief. He passed by a white house of grand construction. There, a flashy car had just pulled into the driveway. From it emerged an earnest father finishing the recounting of his day. His daughter, however, simply stared at her phone, and the wounded expression on her father’s face betrayed an unsung sigh. The two entered the house without another word. As the wandering man continued walking, the snow in his veins began to melt due to an old tune he commenced to hum in time with his steps. I don’t ask for much, or live in a rush in my blessed laughter the hymns come alive there’s nothing I own save a soul that is loved for without a farewell one could never arrive 61 ODYSSEY Eve Taft Thank you for the twisted pathways of your mind Which led to the streets and alleyways of Dublin James Joyce, do you understand that you opened floodgates? Your avalanche of babbling sentences, sans punctuation Buck Mulligan tossing form and style into the wind Your catechism, you, Daedalus, gave us sacrament Blood flow to wake up the numb limbs of literature You spoke with your soul to our souls Fearing not the noise in your skull but flinging it down in ink I understand you, “life is many days” I understand you, “god is a shout in the street” I understand you, “I am another now and yet the same” You understand me “everything speaks in its own way” Soon I’ll visit your beloved homeland Walking the streets of Dublin, writing and giving thanks to modernism Now as free of rigid form As Ireland of England 62 postcards from my bedroom audrey campbell 63 postcards from my bedroom audrey campbell 64 COUNTING SHEEP Danny Polaschek What can you do when the world is asleep? Go to sleep too? I’ve counted all my sheep. They jumped through the air gliding for 5 or 6 feet cleared the fence and then flew with not even a bleat. I didn’t focus however on these aerial sheep antics because far away in the distance was a sight oh so fantastic. A blue house, with a single light on in the window sat a girl a beauty no pencil could ever have drawn. I looked up at her and she down at me addicted to the eyesight too distracted to count sheep. 65 3 sky nights keeyonna fox 67 inner self keeyonna fox 68 VICTORY OF THE PEOPLE Petra S. Shaffer-Gottschalk Your worship was my refuge, your clay heart my focal point, your chelsea smile the apple of my eye. We were sick. We poisoned ourselves with amphetamines and pills until we didn’t recognize ourselves in the mirror. We walked miles just to feel accomplished in our space, we turned the cigarettes we shared into sentiments we thought we shared. I must possess the wrong innocence. Souls are fickle things that change when left to die in the cold. ~ He was outrageously tall. He towered over me like the Statue of Liberty and he talked to me as though I was a boat in the harbor. Standing five inches taller than six feet, he was an image of Ukrainian beauty. He stood like someone who knew things you didn’t know and this fascinated me. I was so naive, so optimistic. I saw the lust and want in his eyes and I mistook it for passion.The curve of his jaw and his long eyelashes crept into the screens behind my eyelids and ignited a fire in me that I didn’t know how to put out. I was the new girl in town struggling to keep my loneliness at bay. He was a gleaming light in that summer of darkness. I had just moved to Minnesota months before. After discovering drugs and promiscuous sex I became nothing short of a hurricane. Amphetamines kept me awake, cigarettes kept me skinny, and weed kept me sane. My GPA reflected exactly what they don’t tell you about functional depression: you can feel like a blank page, but as long as you fill it with words people will stop asking questions. He was selling me drugs. He offered me a good price. I had never met him but I figured what the hell, I could stand to meet new people. It was dark, long past sundown. We were meeting in a parking lot by a lake a few blocks away from my house. I was in my mom’s car. I waited and listened to Amy Winehouse until I saw an orange car pull into a parking spot a few yards away from me. The man driving fit the picture I had seen of him before. We 69 made eye contact and he ushered me over to his car. I took a deep breath, grabbed my sweater, and got my money ready. He rolled down the passenger side window. “You Nikita?” I said. He smiled at me. A smile that I would come to know. “You can call me Kita.” ~ He had really good drugs. I’m not sure that they were pure, but at the time I didn’t care. Neither did he. We just wanted to get high. We did his drugs together, sitting in a playground by the lake, talking about life and what we crave. He told me that he was applying to a college in London. I didn’t think anything of it. Before long we saw each other every day. He was a lifeguard who had to be on duty early in the morning, so he would take me out for coffee at eight in the morning. No makeup, sweatpants, my hair in a messy bun. He didn’t care. We would talk about things that we hadn’t shared with anyone else. He told me he struggled with his relationship with his father in Ukraine. I told him that I had struggled with eating disorders since I was thirteen. We would sneak out onto his back porch to smoke cigarettes late at night. His mother hated that we smoked. 70 “You need to quit smoking, love,” she’d tell me. “I smoked for twenty-five years and it took two pregnancies to get me to stop.” His mother loved me. She thought that I was spunky, independent, had a mind of my own. She did not like his last girlfriend. She made that very clear. She, like Nikita, was very tall. She had long curly black hair and eyes so intense that you would lose your appetite. Her Russian accent was thick and powerful. She had run away to the United States when she was twenty-one and seven months pregnant with her first son. Nikita. “Does it mean anything?” I asked him. “Your name.” He smiled when he answered. “My mom told me it means ‘victory of the people,’” he said. Oh Kita, you have no victory. You are the secret I keep from my mother the hidden disease that projectile vomits and digs with fingernails sharpened by teeth. Your fields of sunflowers told me a secret, your secrets so dark and beautiful and I killed myself with your gargantuan sunflowers. His mother was beautiful. She had been a professional figure skater that traveled the world, meeting people as she went. She met Kita’s father in her home country of Ukraine and according to the story, he was immediately drawn to her exuberant personality and her long legs. At twenty-one she was well on her way to continue pursuing a successful skating career until she got pregnant. According to Kita his father did not accompany her to her appointments.He did not send her flowers. He did not ask if she was okay. Instead Kita’s mother made her way to America to create a life of victory and hope. He took me to meet his grandmother. She said hello and came in and that was the last that I understood. The entire time I was there she would ask me questions in Russian and Kita would translate for me. He taught me how to say Hello (Privet) Yes (da) No (net) And thank you, which I don’t remember. We spent almost the entire time we were there trying to help his grandmother set up a new movie streaming program on her computer. I know nothing about computers in English, let alone in Russian. I was overwhelmed. The leather furniture just made my nervous sweat more noticeable. She told me about Ukraine a little bit. She said it was beautiful but troubled. She offered me chocolate and cookies. I sat, sweating, trying my hardest to pay attention. When I said anything to her, Kita would translate for me. I wanted to leave. After we left his grandmother’s house he told me to wait in his car while he talked privately with his grandmother. I thought it was strange but didn’t question it. I played mindless games on my phone while I waited for him. Some part of me knew that they were talking about me, but I continued to deny it. I was hungry, but I wasn’t planning on doing anything about it too soon. I was hungry often then. When he returned to the car I asked what they had talked about and with no hesitation he said, “You.” I paused, then asked him to elaborate. “She likes you,” he said. And that was that. How strange, I thought, to be liked by someone who never explicitly spoke a word to me. ~ Andrevich was Kita’s middle name. Named after his father. Kita’s father was very handsome. In his forties with tan skin and thick hair, he was a heartthrob that would make you look twice. He lived in a nice, expensive apartment in Kiev with his girlfriend who was twenty years younger than him. Apparently that was a theme. Kita had only seen his father a handful of times in his life. He had gone back to Ukraine to spend some time with him as a young boy, but didn’t have too much recollection of it. When he was sixteen he went back to live with his father and his twenty-yearold girlfriend for a while. Kita has always been tall, thin, and handsome. His father noticed this. “So what happened?” I asked him one day. 71 Kita shrugged. “He kicked me out and I came back to the states,” he said without a flinch. He said this as though it was a commonality. “He thought that I fucked his girlfriend,” he said as he lit a cigarette. There was a very long, uncomfortable silence. “Did you?” I asked. He laughed out loud and a cloud of smoke poured out of his mouth. “No, of course not,” he said. “My dad isn’t one to listen to a sixteen year old.” ~ “I’ll take you to Ukraine someday.” “Sunflowers. There are parts of Ukraine where there are endless fields of sunflowers wherever you look. They’re as tall as me and the flowers are bigger than my face.” He pulled me closer as he talked about Ukraine. He insisted that I learn all that I could about the Russia-Ukraine conflict, sending me innumerable articles daily. Through him I learned about the importance of the Ukrainian revolution and fights that had been fought, some as recent as 2011 and 2012. He told me that he wanted to fight for his people if he had to. When my eyes were flushed with concern, he pulled me in close and whispered in my ear, “I’ll survive for you.” His eyes lit up every time he talked about the fields of sunflowers in Ukraine. In the same way, his eyes lit up every time he got angry. Your golden eyes drew miners to starve and fight to abandon their homes. We were in his bed, naked, wrapped up in blankets and speckled by the corner light in his room. It was late, the kind of late that feels early. The air conditioner hummed in the place of our phones which were both off and hidden somewhere in the room. He did no wrong. He could not do any wrong. His eyes were blank but telling like a wall in a foreclosed home. All of his intentions were good. Yes. Good. “Where in Ukraine?” I asked. “Have you been eating?” he asks as he lifts up my shirt. “Kiev, the city squares. And to the huge fields of flowers.” “What kind of flowers?” 72 ~ I squirm away and pull my shirt down. “Yes, I ate just before I came here,” I say. I can still taste the salt in my mouth. “You look skinny,” he tells me with a hint of disdain in his voice. My heart soars. I look skinny. But he’s reaching for my stomach again and once again I’m backing away. We get into the car and drive to the gas station. I say that I need to go use the restroom. While Kita pumps the gas, I make my way into the small Holiday bathroom. I put my sweater on the ground and rest my knees on it, my usual routine. I stick my finger down my throat and vomit into the toilet. As I walk back outside, Kita is getting back into his car. I get in the front seat and sniffle slightly.Kita looks at me quizzically. “You okay?” he asks me. My eyes are watery, my nose is burning, and my breath is putrid. “I’m fine,” I say with a smile. ~ The elevator door was so cold against my cheek. I watched the red numbers blink as they rose. 8...9...10...11. My vision was going fuzzy and grey, my ears started ringing and throbbing. 11...12...13. Ding. The doors opened and my wobbly legs carried me down the seemingly endless hallway. My hands were barely working; as I watched them push my key into my apartment door I could not feel it. The door opened, I could see my living room window. I closed the door behind me and collapsed on the ground. “Why did you faint?” His words echoed behind the screen of my phone. “I just haven’t eaten a lot today.” There was a silence so deafening that it struck fear in my heart. Fear I had not known. “When did you eat last?” He had anger in his voice. I paused. He would know if I lied but he would hate the truth. “I had a little dinner last night,” I said quietly. “What did you eat?” His reply was sharp. I was shaking. “I had a little bit of salad I think,” I said with a quivering voice. I could hear his sigh. I can still hear his sigh. “How many times have we talked about this?” He exclaimed. “I know, I know, I’m sorry…” It didn’t matter. He didn’t listen. I had failed him again. “Do you know what it’s like to have a girlfriend that can’t even take care of herself ?” “What am I going to tell my friends?” “You’re not even trying.” I was sobbing, I was convulsing, I was sweating, all from my bed from which I could not move. My phone was glued to my ear and I had no energy to remove it. “So what are you going to do about this?” There was intense spite in his words. With a shaky voice I said, “I could send you a picture of everything I eat?” He laughed. With his full, angry throat he laughed 73 at my pain. “And do what? Post it on Facebook? Show all my friends that my girlfriend is an anorexic who can’t even feed herself ? You know what, go ahead. Maybe that’ll help you change.” I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to die. My stomach kept whispering “never again, never again, never again.” Opening my mouth made me panic because it reminded me of eating. I hung up my phone and with wobbly legs I walked outside in the snow and smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. ~ Months go by. Months. I watched him pack his bag with clothes that I had never seen him wear. He packed light, only a few shirts and two pairs of pants. “My dad will buy me more when I get to Ukraine,” he said. I sat on the edge of his bed and watched him focus on folding his clothes. His visa sat in the center of the bed, staring at me. I started to cry. “Babe, it’s going to be fine,” Kita said without breaking focus. I watched him form a pile of the shirts that I had grown used to him wearing. They looked like wilted flower petals. 74 “Why aren’t you taking those?” I asked, pointing to the wilted pile. “My father won’t like them,” he said. Later that night, we were drinking red wine in his bed. His room was bare and cold. I was curled against his side, my head on his chest. He stroked my bare back and played with my hair. I sighed, but not the kind of sigh that’s followed with kisses. Kita sighed too. “Petra,” he said, a tone of exasperation in his voice. “If I ever treat you like my father treats women, please leave me.” ~ I still remember how to say “I love you” in Russian. “я люблю тебя.” Ya lyublyu tebya. ~ My fingers were bones. Anything beyond mascara was too much, especially lipstick. He hated lipstick. He thought that it brought too much attention to my mouth. He didn’t like when other people noticed me. He stopped smoking cigarettes and instructed me to do so too. “They’ll make you age faster,”he would say. If I had a bad day and smoked a cigarette, he would tell me he was disappointed. I lived with three men at the time, something that Kita would never let me forget. He asked every few days to be sure I wasn’t sleeping with any of my roommates. If I was spending too much time with a friend, he would tell me that I was neglecting him. He sent me articles outlining how to be a better partner. He reminded me that he just wanted me to be the best that I could be. The screaming and hour-long phone calls were footnotes. You stripped me of my dignity and told me, “This is what you have.” Your monstrous arms crawl into my nightmares Your titanic stature collided with my glacier and though you claim I sank you You were a behemoth and I was a stone. At the end, I fell into the ground. His screams surrounded me in my echo chamber and suffocated me. My knees were bruised from kneeling in front of the toilet all night. How apt for the one accused of dropping to her knees for all men. I was free but I did not know it yet. All I knew was the cold floor of my bathroom and the tales of beautiful but troubled Ukraine. My goodbyes have been said, These addictions fed. It’s the cost that comes with the sickness. And your screams won’t be heeded anymore. 75 AN OPEN LETTER TO THE UN-SPECIALS Halle Chambers When we are little, even before we can speak We are told that we’re special and that we’re unique. That we all are made different and that none are the same Which fits quite nicely in a toddler’s mind frame. And we are told we should treasure what’s different inside, That what makes us different is not something to hide. But then quite soon after, things start to change; The word “different” stops meaning “special” and starts meaning “strange.” We’re sectioned off from our average peers In our own little category and told, “you belong here,” And then different is bad and normal is good, And for the different ones, nothing is working the way that it should The way we’ve been taught or the way we’ve been shown All we know is that we do not like being lost on our own. 76 So once again we are taken away To a place where things makes sense again and we’re ok: Where no one hurts us, Where no one can see, Where no one deserts us, Where we can be free. But because the un-specials can’t see what goes on, They decide to make things up and get so much wrong. And it’s happened for years because they can’t see through that door. So long they don’t even know that it’s wrong anymore. It’s so fixed in their heads that these lies are right; They judge each special kid by their stereotype. But today that will end. So you sit there and you wait, cause it’s about time someone set the dang record straight. You probably think that this poem won’t cut it, But today I’m gonna open the door and don’t you dare shut it! To start, let’s be clear: I am...I was in Special Ed. But just because I was in that room doesn’t mean I’m brain dead! So for Pete’s sake, don’t puppy dog guard me! Just give me a break, it isn’t that hard see: If I need your help, I will tell you I do. Just please, Please don’t mock me. In my place, would you want me to mock you? “Oh come on! Let her get it! Go easy on her!” Help, where not needed, is almost as bad as a slur. I’m not invalid So don’t play that card. Yeah, I’m a little quirky and oversensitive, But I’m not, and I quote, “A little retard.” Yeah, I’ve been called names. And those words? They hurt. They catch in the center, In your pit of self worth. And they tear and they rip, And those words are collective. Soon you start to believe that you are defective. I’ve dealt with them all, and surprisingly, I actually prefer the straight up bullies To those who pretend to like me. Fake friends and two-faces Of all genders and races. They’re only my friends so they don’t have to see me cry. Or they use me, abuse me, Oh, how they confuse me! Cause I can’t tell what’s truth and what’s lie. “Hey! He likes you. Go give him a kiss!” And because I don’t know better, I believe this. But soon I find they’re not playing Cupid, They just wanna make me look stupid. For their entertainment, they make me play the 77 fool; They pretend that they care for me When they’re really just cruel. It takes time and takes work to make you forget; Even now, I’m not quite there yet. I mean, here I am, in what’s supposed to be home, And yet here I am, still feeling alone. I’m still paranoid, it doesn’t just end; I still have to ask if someone’s my friend. I say one thing and mean another; I make a mistake, But you take it verbatim. Can’t you cut me a break? If we’re talking and I look like I’m lost, Don’t blow it off like it’s not worth the cost. Sarcasm and subtlety muddle in my brain, So please just take a minute to explain. Do these quirks make me broken? Is there something wrong with me? The way society has spoken, There would seem to be. 78 Stop poisoning the minds of “different” young women and men. I don’t like being defective.... Can I be special again? SOREX PALUSTRIS Emilie Tomas Did they name you for Your wit, pointed Nose of pointed judgement Who brought us fire; five to seven inches of shrewd truth? Or was it your mischief That Inspired them? Your Presence followed by screams And a three inch tail. I saw your likeness on a stage, Dirt in place of your midnight coat Though she is reformed now. Perhaps it was the gleam in your Eyes; whispered fortunes and A summer of silver birth. Maybe you are a messenger Of God, somehow in your Eighteen months you learned to walk On water, the second coming Of Christ. 79 woodsy adam ruff gabriel bergstrom 80 WORDS Malena Larsen The bathroom wall was covered in words. Words like fuck and love and song lyrics and names with hearts around them. His body looked peaceful, somehow, as he sat propped and slumped against the door. His head hung to his right shoulder and his mouth was open like he was about to say something but was interrupted. There was blood running down his left arm like a river and a needle hung loosely out of his skin. The words that he had heard her say several hours earlier were getting quieter and quieter. “It’s not working,” she had told him. “I’m sorry.” They were smoking cigarettes outside her apartment when she said it. She knew he had been trying to fix himself. After twenty-eight days of treatment and one week in a sober house on Lake and Fifth she barely recognized him. He was twenty-five pounds heavier and his skin looked clean and strong; there was no more grey in his cheeks. It wasn’t just his change in appearance that scared her. Lately, he had been telling her the difference between wrong and right and that she should stay in on the weekends. His family couldn’t stop talking about how proud they were of him and they would ask her, “Doesn’t he just seem so much better?” She would answer with yes but feel guilty because she wished he still liked to make mistakes. His family had a party after he got out of treatment and his grandfather kept saying things like, “Men in this family have always been strong!” and, “Now he can take care of you.” His grandfather didn’t care for her much but he felt that she was the least of the boy’s problems. He didn’t like the way she hung on him like a scarf or the way she agreed with everything he said without a second thought. As he sat on the bathroom floor the words she had said were getting quieter and quieter. They were almost gone. He had been sober for thirty-five days and he didn’t know why. He didn’t feel better or stronger or more loved. His hand lay loosely on the floor, palm up and open like he was waiting for somebody to hold it. Everyone was so proud of him but he couldn’t imagine living his life without her. Long after her words had faded completely, the bathroom door opened. He fell back onto the floor. His head hitting hard against the tile. 81 “Oh my gosh!” The man who opened the door yelled. “Can someone help?” He took out his phone to call 911. A crowd of people rushed over to where the man was dialing. A young man pushed past the group of people. “Move!” The boy got on his knees by the body on the floor. He reached into his pocket and took out something that looked like a pen. He stuck it into the arm of the body that was needle free. People gasped and murmured and watched. Sirens rang in the distance. The boy holding the pen looked up at the bathroom wall that had words like fuck and love and song lyrics and names with hearts around them. He looked up at the group of people. “It’s not working,” he said. 82 MALCOLM AND THE BLUE SIDE Danny Polaschek Brown leaves dragged past Malcolm’s feet in the wind. The bench underneath him felt like a rock and he had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He stared at the empty playground—the tire swing, the slide, the bridge and the fireman’s pole. Nikki rested her head on his shoulder. Each time a breeze swept through, Malcolm could feel her nuzzle slightly closer, her hair scratching and tickling his neck. When he was a kid, Malcolm had sat on this exact same bench many times with his mother. They lived in a little blue house just a few blocks away— “just a hop and a skip,” his mother would say and Malcolm would make it his mission to jump and bunny-hop the whole way there. When they arrived, they’d eat lunch, sitting together on the narrow, wooden bench. After each bite of his sandwich, Malcolm would beg his mother to let him go play, to which she would give in once she herself had finished eating. He always went straight for the slide. Once at the top, he’d yell, “I’m going under!” and swing himself down into the blue plastic tube. He imagined he was a deep-sea diver plunging into an underwater world of sunken pirate ships and forgotten chests of gold. On particularly sunny afternoons, he’d stop halfway down the slide and admire the shadows that moved about on the illuminated, blue plastic. He’d make believe that fish swam all around him as little blotchy shadows hovered whimsically over his head. He eventually got the idea to bring his crayons to the park with him. He’d sit lodged in the blue slide for most of the day, drawing exotic fish with bright oranges, yellows and reds. He knew fish didn’t smile but nevertheless gave them all wide grins and big eyes to match. When it was time to go home, his mother would knock from the bottom of the slide. “Time to come back to shore!” she’d announce. Malcolm would hide his crayons in his back pocket and slide down to his mother who would wait there with open arms grinning at him. The park seemed smaller now. Malcolm was just as tall as the fireman’s pole and half as long as the slide. He wondered if his fabricated underwater universe still existed. Probably not, he guessed. Although it was getting dark, Mal83 colm could see thick graffiti creeping out from the shadows inside the blue slide. Malcolm pulled his sweatshirt tighter around his neck, brushing Nikki away in the process. He felt her eyes on his face but refused to acknowledge her. Inside the slide, he could still make out the words “Bitch Ass” in thick spray paint. His crayon drawings would certainly be gone, he was sure of it now. Nikki picked up Malcolm’s hand and caressed it, her cold skin feeling leathery and smooth. “Malcolm,” she said. Malcolm turned and mustered a smile, taking Nikki’s hands to his face and kissing them awkwardly. “Malcolm, let’s go home.” The streetlights had not yet turned on for the evening. Malcolm noticed the shadows on the sides of the road stretching out and growing bigger as they walked quietly past. He missed the warm sunshine of summer and the hot nights spent lounging in the front yard listening to his mother’s radio; he missed the walks to the park, his mother laughing at him as he crouched and hopped along beside her. He remembered the secret thrill of the crayon box in his back pocket, then realized he’d forgotten his cigarettes on the bench at the park. He was too cold to turn back. He reached out silently for Nikki’s hand and, finding it much warmer than his own, held it stiffly the rest of the walk home. 84 driving at zero one john herbert 85 driving at zero two john herbert 86 PLACEMAKERS Diamonique Walker Near my home, Balloons dance in the wind. I have reconditioned myself — These are not balloons from a party, But they still celebrate a life. I drive by, sometimes I walk. And see a balloon or several With their heads bobbing away Positioned obscurely on the sidewalk. Or on the island in the middle of the highway. Sometimes on no one in particular’s grass. I don’t look for party decorations. At the feet of the balloon’s ribbons, candles, cards and little trinkets sit. Some kind of offering. Looking weathered and dull. His body bled some place close by. Probably killed within ten feet. A dancing, mocking balloon Somehow now gets to sway in his place. 87 NECESSARILY AN EVIL THING CONSIDERED IN ANY LIGHT Jacob J. Miller “You know what I hate about this most of all?” asked the first man. “Nobody’s going to be around to take responsibility. Nobody is going to have to answer for their crime.” “What crime is that?” the other man asked, sitting next to him in the middle of the cul-de-sac, both of them at perfect leisure in lawn chairs as if waiting for a parade to pass by. “Mass-murder, I suppose. Call it, oh, I don’t know. Call it, um, inciting the apocalypse.” “Ha.” “They deserve to be the ones left behind after they obliterate everyone else. They should be the ones who have to reap the aftermath, puke out their guts and feel their bile boil inside their stomachs, fend off marauding cannibals and giant insects. And they should have to live with the new world they created, or destroyed, rather.” Just then, the other man looked down and saw a lonely ant crawling up his pant leg. “Yeah, but I don’t think that giant bug stuff is true. That wouldn’t happen. The bugs’ll die like everything else.” “I mean, what do you think it’ll be like? I 88 know it’ll happen instantaneously, but they say the cerebral cortex functions after everything else has shut down and we linger in a sort of dream-state, which could last for, well, for who knows how long?” “Well, that’s if you’re in a hospital bed, or you have a heart attack or something, when you have time to die with a little bit of peace. Our brains are going to incinerate along with the rest of us. There won’t even be any stuff of thought anymore. I don’t think we have to worry about something like that.” “But what if that moment of pain before we go lasts longer, you know? What if time stands still? Nothing makes sense in a moment of such lunacy. Such catastrophe. What if we feel our tongues liquefying and spilling down our throats and scalding our internal organs? What if, all in that moment, we look down, and before our eyes boil and burst from the heat we see our bones glowing purple through our flesh as it begins dripping off like wax? What if you turn and look at me and the last image you see is my face melting off like those Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark?” “I’m not sure it’s the best time to be thinking like that,” his friend said, as the sirens began to wail their sorrowful last. “Why even bother with that fucking thing?” the man steamed. “It’s inconsiderate, a futile exhortation. We know what’s coming. We’re not going to hide in our basements from it like it’s a fucking tornado.” “Tornadoes aren’t so easy to hide from either.” The first man scanned the horizon for what he knew would be the last time. He took in the sight of the skyline he saw from his window every day and, with lamenting eyes, imaginatively anticipated its supplanting by a fiery mushroom climbing the sky. He closed his eyes and winced, unable to cope with the unthinkable thought, the impossible inevitability. Turning his head toward a neighbor’s yard whose household ran a daycare, he opened his eyes to a post-apocalyptic tableau of children’s toys scattered about the lawn. Nothing needed yet be aflame for the man to resent the picturesque cliché of innocence lost on display before him. “Remember when they used to tell kids to hide under their desks?” he inquired. “All that siren is doing is making sure that we spend our last moments in a panic, instead of dying gracefully, accepting that we’re all in the same sinking ship, in the middle of the ocean, if the ocean were the entire planet, and filled with lava instead of water. We should be spending our time reminiscing, because that’s all we have now.” “Well, we can’t talk about our plans for the future.” “We can’t discuss potential medical advancements.” “The coming cure for cancer.” “And cloning organs. Scholarships our children just received, the singularity and will the Matrix ever become a reality; would we ever make contact with life elsewhere in the universe, intercept an asteroid, mine them for resources? It’s all useless, man, meaningless. Every human achievement since the first spark made from one rock dragging against another, gone within the next hour,” he sighed heavily, draping a ribbon of helplessness over his words of outrage. “Why don’t you open that up?” He suggested, pointing at the bottle of scotch sitting at the leg of his friend’s chair. His friend took a swig before passing it over with a satisfied groan. “Here’s to everything we do being the last time it will ever be done,” the first man began. “That’s the best I can do.” “Yeah,” the other man raised an empty hand, toasting to the end and everything that came before it. “I suppose there’s something beautiful about the entire world—or nearly the entire world—going out the same way. There’s a kind of universal solidarity occurring right now, don’t you think? Some are praying, no doubt, some are exalting their various saviors, certain they will be raptured up any minute, but we’re all still going to be experiencing the same thing, at almost the exact same time; the same heat, the same instantaneous moment of searing pain before any trace of our molecules are imprinted as a shadow on the asphalt beneath us.” He had a complex contraption of a chair, one of the men—it doesn’t really matter which one now that the end was there; the kind of chair that folds upward from all four corners and was nearly 89 impossible to fit back into its cylindrical carrying sack—not that that mattered anymore either— complete with cup holders and a detachable headrest, which he was putting to use as he spoke. His friend’s chair was more old-fashioned, a conventional folding lawn chair with a checkered pattern of flimsy plastic wrapped taut around aluminum pipes, wobbly hard plastic armrests drilled in and not quite parallel to each other. Their chair legs began melting into the tar beneath them. One of the men hummed softly; a beautiful soundtrack to accompany him in the cut to black. The other man closed his eyes and, focusing on the sounds of the encroaching death rattle, heard them as the grunts and whinnies of the four horsemen’s horses as they galloped atop the planet’s rapidly spreading dust. 90
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MURP
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UARE
ISSUE 43 | 2018
VisualArt
&Literary
Magazine
MURPHY SQUARE
with special thanks to
cary waterman, faculty advisor emeritus
augsburg university student government
augsburg university english department
augsburg university art department
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ISSUE 43
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Show more MURP HYSQ UARE ISSUE 43 | 2018 VisualArt &Literary Magazine MURPHY SQUARE with special thanks to cary waterman, faculty advisor emeritus augsburg university student government augsburg university english department augsburg university art department bookmobile the echo 2 ISSUE 43 editorial board ABIGAIL TETZLAFF, editor-in-chief GABRIEL BENSON, editor-in-chief MEGAN JOHNSON, layout editor DOUG GREEN, faculty advisor 3 MURPHY SQUARE art editors CASSIE DONG OLIVIA FITCH KRISTEN HOLMBERG SONJA MISCHKE MADELEINE OSWOOD 4 ISSUE 43 poetry editors JENNIFER KOCHAVER SONJA MISCHKE RYAN MOORE ASHLEY MURRAY EVE TAFT 5 MURPHY SQUARE prose editors NINA BERGLIN JULIA CHARRON DEREK HEUER SOPHIA KEEFE JENNIFER KOCHAVER RYAN MOORE 6 ISSUE 43 artwork ALLISON USELMAN dixon street CAMERON YANG capital hill balance STEPHANIE FREY celebration #12 STEPHANIE FREY celebration #17 GABRIEL BERGSTROM beach day AVA FOJTIK flower boy AVA FOJTIK illuminated AVA FOJTIK cat’s cradle AVA FOJTIK pit party ALLISON USELMAN elizabeth, 1972 MADELEINE OSWOOD untitled ASH M. KAUN a stable relationship CAMERON YANG prayer ALLISON USELMAN forest STEPHANIE FREY celebration #1 MADELEINE OSWOOD special agent dale cooper ABIGAIL TETZLAFF basilica MADELEINE OSWOOD untitled MADELEINE OSWOOD untitled STEPHANIE FREY celebration #5 CAM YANG she-wolf GABRIEL BERGSTROM flower girl flower girl MADELEINE OSWOOD untitled ABIGAIL TETZLAFF light rail GABRIEL BERGSTROM the spin 7 11 15 20 21 24 30 31 32 33 35 41 43 50 54 56 58 60 62 63 72 76 79 80 82 84 MURPHY SQUARE poetry 22 MATT PECKMAN constitution 23 RACHEL BROWN the country road that takes you home 25 D. E. GREEN a palpable hit 34 KELTON HOLSEN a closed library (an elegy to terry pratchett) 36 MARISA MOSQUEDA loneliness 42 MATT PECKHAM the icon 49 RACHEL BROWN old hands 51 HALLE CHAMBERS metal rings 53 SAM penitence 55 D. E. GREEN green and orange: a pantoum 57 ALICE LIDDELL CHESHIRE WOLFF firebird 59 L. B. DOGOOD 12 west 61 ASHLEY MURRAY miikawaadendan (think it beautiful) 73 L. B. DOGOOD 52 hz 74 ALICE LIDDELL CHESHIRE WOLFF roadkill 77 ALEXIS KIMSEY the eyes are the window to the soul 81 RACHEL BROWN galaxies 83 EVE TAFT sonas 8 ISSUE 43 prose AMANDA YATCKOSKE rules AMANDA YATCHOSKE fear ASH M. KAUN 3:21 KELTON HOLSEN died 2016 ALLISON USELMAN tomatoes SOPHIE KEEFE ode to leonardo JACQUELINE DOCKA rhapsody on laurel ALLISON USELMAN the wreck DEREK L. H. infinite GABRIEL BENSON the bridges 9 10 12 13 16 26 37 39 44 64 85 MURPHY SQUARE rules AMANDA YATCKOSKE I t i s no t t hat ha rd. I t is ju s t wo r ds. W e ta ug ht y o u t h is. Y ou j u st ne e d t o me m or ize t he w o rds. Re m em be r t h e so und AT. A t, b a t, c a t, s a t. B ut, w h er e I s AT o n th e al p h ab et ? I s n ’t t h at tw o s ou n ds? Wh a t ar e t he ru l e s? I b ef o re E e xc ept a f te r C e x c ep t f o r a ll o f t h e e x c ep t io n. Y ou m us t a lw a ys s top a t a s top li gh t. E x ce p t w hen t he l ig h t is gr e e n. H ow m an y w a y s i s t he re t o sp e ll l o ngA? A. R a in. E igh t. S ur v e y. At e. Ve in. P r a y. B r e a k. Y o u k n o w E ng li sh r ul e s? S u re. W h ich o n e s r ig h t? b. B r a in. c. P ra d. B re ig h n. e. P re y. f. Br ein. g. Pra y. h. B re an. i. All. So, shut it.nostra, per inceptos himenae a. B ra n e. 10 ISSUE 43 dixon street ALLISON USELMAN relief print 11 MURPHY SQUARE fear AMANDA YATCHOSKE Ordering fast food because the text keeps getting smaller. Getting lost because white letters don’t make since on green. The teacher saying, “Why don’t you read?” The what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you look when I say, “No.” Saying, “Yes,” and then my brain betrays me. The jolt of correcting impatience as I attempted to decipher. Knowing that it has four legs, a tail, plays fetch, and has sweat glands in its paws, but not that the word is dog. The double circles on the letter g. The letter bdqp. The explanation between right and left, “your left hand makes a L.” I put a L to my forehead, “Is this right?” The phrase, “Read this,” followed by two seconds of a blurry cellphone screen. Being asked to read what is on the projector in class. Beaing correkted on a spelling mistaik. The rased ibrow when I proove that it was English that was the mistaek, not me. Being given a book because I am a writer. The list of authors that I should know because I am a writer. “You are an author, so you started written at an early age.” “My best advice to give to you as a writer is read.” Teachers’ saying, “In the really world, they don’t give special accommodations.” Running into my elementary teacher who said, “There’s no such thing as dyslexia.” Being given five minutes to reading five pages. Only reading half a page. Everyone else is done at three minutes. Able to repeat our entire conversation back to you word for word, but still get an upturned nosed because I can’t remember the nonsense word that is your name. Asking a classmate to look at my writing. Their only response: “Spelling mistakes.” 12 ISSUE 43 3:21 p.m. ASH M. KAUN It’s four minutes past 3:02 p.m., and he still hasn’t rounded the corner. Jaime always has a sauntering stride that brings him swooping around the corner of Elton Street onto Jefferson around 3:02 p.m. every Tuesday on his way to this café. Jaime and his usual pair of red chucks are refusing to step onto the chalked concrete that details this very corner. Or maybe it’s not refusal. Maybe it’s just a delay. Something is probably holding him at home. His mother is making him take out the trash as we speak and that can be the explanation behind Jaime’s absence. Or, maybe it’s fear. I knew talking to him was a bad idea. I knew I would say something stupid. Last Friday, when he was tucked away in the back room of Molly’s Tea Bar, I felt the inclination in my heart. My chest urged me to stand up, take the nine steps toward his table, sit down, and open my mouth. The only problem was his eyes. Those eyes liked to wander over everything. They darted to the shop’s windows every time some stranger walked by, but only to assess the person for a second and then dart back to his book. His eyes never attempted to crawl all over my body like that. I’ve found that my focus almost never seemed to leave his body. I hit my leg on the way up from my booth, cursing under my breath. My leg muscles quivered slightly as I walked up to the table and sat down. Jaime’s face raised, and I could finally feel his almond eyes searching every pore of my exposed skin. His shoulders were hunched over, hiding most of his thick neck from my view. I would pay any amount of money to caress that gorgeous neck. The breath that moved his lungs in and out of his chest was calm, unlike the unsteady deep breaths of mine. “Hi. I know this is weird, but I just wanted to compliment your tattoo,” I said. He shifted, set his book down, and cleared his throat. “Thank you. It’s hardly anything, but thank you.” “It’s a cupcake, right? What’s it for?” “My grandmother used to bake the most delicious cupcakes and muffins and—” “A delicious tattoo for a delicious person.” Jaime had let out a breathy laugh, and asked where I went to school. When I told him I didn’t go to school, he offered to get me a tea. I mentioned my mother was expecting me at home. 13 MURPHY SQUARE I lied. My mother died when I was twelve years old. He took my number with, what I thought to be, hardly any intention to use it. Little did I know, 9:03 a.m. on Tuesday morning, I would feel a buzz on my asscheek with a deep voice ringing through my phone’s speaker asking to get coffee with me. And now, I’m waiting like the idiot I am. I know he isn’t staying at the gym this long. His routine is exactly 48 minutes every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, and it ends promptly around 2:35 p.m. each day. The time in between the gym and the library is probably for a shower and a quick slice of pizza or toast. It never takes him longer than twenty minutes before he walks out the front door, locks the iron gate, and makes his way past the Weltons’, the Hannigans’, and the Jensens’. It’s 3:08 p.m.. I look up from the newspaper in my hand and glance, again, at the rusted sign presenting the names Elton and Jefferson. Nothing. I return the newspaper to its natural fold and scoot the chair back with a push. The loud screech almost made me jump as much as looking up and seeing Jaime. He locks eyes with mine, and he smiles. His perfectly sized hand reaches into the air and waves at me. Blood surges into my cheeks. Jaime strolls across the tar and stops two feet from where I’m standing. I sit back down, and he proceeds to take the seat across from me. The bright sun could never compare to the amount of heat radiating from my body. I can’t tell if I’m nervous or excited. Probably excited. “So what’s the plan?” he asks . “Going back to my place to watch my favorite movie?” I say. “Is it a good movie?” “You need to have a rare and particular taste for this movie, but it’s short and painless. I promise.” “Alright. Sounds like a plan.” The corners of my mouth rise. His face mirrors mine. Jaime hooks his arm with my arm, and I lead him the opposite way from which he came. I check my watch. 3:11 p.m. It’s a ten-minute walk to my place. It’s difficult to settle the little child jumping around inside my brain. It’s taking every ounce of control I contain not to shove my hand into my bag at this exact moment and pull out the needle. That green serum is just begging to be injected somewhere. Maybe his beautiful neck. The zip ties will not be far behind, as they yearn for the tension of his muscles against their industrial strength. Jaime has no idea the taste I acquired long ago, and he could never appreciate the simply genius idea of adding one cup of blood to a batch of cupcakes. 14 ISSUE 43 capitol hill balance CAMERON YANG digital photograph 15 MURPHY SQUARE died 2016 KELTON HOLSEN Engman Prize winner In 2016, my grandparents’ dog died. He was an old dog, covered with warts, and they had to put him down due to his misery. Some time later, their other dog died, presumably of grief. In 2016, Star Trek actor Anton Yelchin died. He was getting his mail when his car rolled down his driveway and crushed him against his security fence. The coroners say he most likely died within a minute or so. In 2016, Josef Stalin had been dead for 64 years. During his reign, roughly 100 million people died, largely due to stupidity. Historians consider Stalin to be guilty of roughly one million murders. Stalin might or might not have said the following: “The death of one man is a tragedy. The death of millions is a statistic.” In 2016, I graduated from high school. In 2016, the singer, musician, and celebrity known as The Artist Formerly Known as Prince (full legal name: Prince Rogers Nelson), died in an elevator after overdosing on the opioid fentanyl. After his death, five books were written about him, his ashes were put on display in a custom glass urn in Paisley Park, and on the one-year anniversary of his death, a four-day tribute was put on in his honor. My former high school robotics captain shared an article on Facebook describing three women that were caught with luggage containing three million dollars’ worth of heroin and opium. He wrote: “Good. Don’t waste your life on a worthless drug.” Later in 2016, he committed suicide. One million, seven hundred thousand people died of tuberculosis. One million people died of HIV or AIDS. Four hundred and twenty-nine thousand died of malaria. Most of those people lived in Africa. Carrie Fisher died of sleep apnea, four days after a near-fatal heart attack that turned out to be fatal after all. One day later, her mother, Debbie Reynolds, died as well. Fisher later appeared in the movie Rogue One, much younger, through the magic of CGI. In 2016, most of us thought that Donald Trump’s campaign would die before the end of the primaries. Many of us thought Donald Trump’s campaign would die before the end of the election. In 2016, some of us thought democracy had died. 16 ISSUE 43 We might have been right. In 2016, I marched with a few hundred (or was it thousand) of my close friends, who I hardly knew, through the neighborhoods of CedarRiverside and Seward. A little bird told my parents that I had marched in the protest. The only thing they cared about was whether I had been on the highway (I hadn’t). In 2016, three thousand, eight hundred refugees drowned while trying to cross the Mediterranean Sea, fleeing war and human rights violations back home. Their odds were still likely better than in Syria, where the death toll from the civil war had reached three hundred and twenty thousand. In 2016, six hundred and fifty-two children died in Syria. Two hundred and fifty-two of them died near a school. In 2016, Antonin Scalia, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, died unexpectedly at his ranch. The absence of Antonin Scalia proved more politically powerful than the presence of Antonin Scalia, as politicians fought and lobbied over who would get to fill his empty chair. During that time, his empty chair cast many a vote. A popular slogan at the time among the ironic internet sort: “Antonin Scalia. Pro-life, died anyways.” By the end of 2016, most of us had noticed how many great people had died throughout the year. Antonin Scalia was not included in many of those conversations. Nine hundred and sixty three people were shot by police officers in the United States. Many of them were African-American. Many of them were mentally ill. In protest, activists marched on highways. Many of them were arrested. Many of them were criticized, threatened, and degraded for making people late to work. In 2016, several thousand (hundred?) of my close friends made people late to work. In 2016, David Bowie died. I don’t remember how. It was after his death that I got to know his music. This is because my dad put a David Bowie CD in the car. In 2016, I went to college. I started growing out my hair and becoming a socialist. I met a lot of people who had faith in the system. That died in 2016 too. In 2016, Fidel Castro died. It was said that he had outlived his greatest enemy: America. Fidel Castro’s country, Cuba, is still the subject of a US embargo. It also is the country that recently developed a vaccine for lung cancer. The Lung Cancer Foundation estimated that one hundred fifty-eight thousand and eighty people in the US would die of lung cancer in 2016. In 2016, six hundred thirty-three thousand, eight hundred forty-two people died of heart disease in the United States. The Mayo Clinic says that heart disease is often “caused by correctable problems, such as an unhealthy diet, lack of exercise, being overweight and smoking”. 17 MURPHY SQUARE In 2016, the fast food industry made $206.3 billion dollars. Alan Rickman, Harry Potter’s Snape, died of pancreatic cancer. He had kept it a secret from all but his closest friends. His good friend Sir Ian McKellan had this to say: “I so wish he’d played King Lear and a few other classical challenges but that’s to be greedy. He leaves a multitude of fans and friends, grateful and bereft.” In 2016, I got into an argument with my cousin on Facebook over a post that talked about how the gun and the Bible, which ostensibly started this country, were the things “liberals” wanted to take away. This was before I learned the other meaning of “liberal.” My tongue-in-cheek response that “guns don’t found countries, Founding Fathers found countries” turned into a useless slog of an argument. My aunt ended up intervening to ask us to debate on-topic. Over thirty-eight thousand people were fatally shot and killed in the United States. The Onion once again ran their headline: “‘No Way To Prevent This,’ Says Only Nation Where This Regularly Happens.” In 2016, thirty-nine people died because they jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. The bridge is the site of the most suicides by fall in the United States. One man, Ken Baldwin, had survived jumping off the bridge in 1985 and was still alive in 2016. He related his thought process on the way down in an interview: “I instantly realized that everything in my life that I’d thought was unfixable was totally fixable—except for having just jumped.” In 2016, nobody was killed by a clown. However, were you to ask people what the scariest thing happening was, many would tell you that it was the phenomenon of “scary clown” sightings across the country. In 2016, one such sighting happened at Augsburg. It was later determined that the figure in the “photographic evidence” was just a maintenance worker standing in a shadow. According to Business Insider, nine hundred and fifty-one people died of “contact with powered lawnmower.” One thousand, one hundred thirty nine people died of “fall[s] involving iceskates, skis, roller-skates or skateboards.” Ten thousand, two hundred and six died of “accidental suffocation and strangulation in bed.” Another ten thousand, three hundred eighty-six died of “fall[s] involving bed.” In 2016, the bedloft company left their screwdriver in my room after coming by with some extra screws for the bed’s assembly. My dad warned me to periodically make sure all the bolts were tight so the bed didn’t collapse under me while I slept. The bed also featured a metal guardrail to prevent a fall. Due to these two things, I did not join those ten thousand, three hundred eighty-six. In 2016, American astronaut John Glenn died of unknown causes at 95 years old. He was remembered for being the first American to orbit 18 ISSUE 43 the earth, as well as his work in the US Senate. In 2016, the world had seven billion, six hundred million people living in it. By December of 2016, fifty eight million, six hundred eighty thousand people had died, with about twentyone people dying every ten seconds. They died of violence, of disease, of hunger, of preventable causes, of cancer, of accidents, of old age, of nothing at all. About one hundred and forty million new people were born in 2016, ready to embark on a new life’s journey. Kurt Vonnegut had this to say to babies: “Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. On the outside, babies, you’ve got a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies— ”God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” 19 MURPHY SQUARE celebration #12 STEPHANIE FREY found images and gouache paint 20 ISSUE 43 celebration #17 STEPHANIE FREY found images and gouache paint 21 MURPHY SQUARE A progressive discussion on equality, government, bodily functions, UFOs constitution MATT PECKMAN and who to call for a good time is enumerated Engman Prize winner and signed on bathroom stall walls by delegates opposing orders from management: a decree taped to the door typed Thank You For Not Vandalizing 22 ISSUE 43 I hope they wind their way to the silhouettes of mountains faded like clouds of blue smoke against easy skies. I hope the chartreuse pines older than time tower like brothers and shade your tired eyes. the country roads that take you home RACHEL BROWN Engman Prize winner For Gary Inspired by “Take Me Home, Country Roads” by John Denver I hope, for once, the traek is easy. You won’t need a pack this time, that 50 pounds on your shoulders to lug uphill the whole way. No, just the clothes on your back are good. I hope that the ancient rivers that have sung since before anyone ever listened, guide your steps across slick gray stones and you look down to see the scales of darting fish flashing like memories against a sun that never sinks. I hope a warm breeze passes by on your way carrying the thick scent of pine sap to lay heavy on your tongue, and I hope it tastes like home. And when you rest your aching feet at the summit I know the clouds will wrap around you the way the red fox wraps her tail around her tiny kits, the way an old friend gently squeezes your shoulder when he tells you how good it is to see you again, because it’s been so long. 23 MURPHY SQUARE beach day GABRIEL BERGSTROM 35mm film camera 24 ISSUE 43 Nicked it—the deer in early autumn darkness on a long drive home. Damage minor: Dented hood. Fear sprayed along the driver’s side of the white Focus. Your relief at my safety trumped the deer’s fate— no longer second fiddle to squirrels and red-throated blackbirds that swoop at the car between late-summer cornfields. That deer—the white rump in the light moving too slowly even as I brake, veer toward the ditch. The deer dies or I do. Kill or be killed. It hits me: This world we live—and die—in. I see it now: the fact of nature, our nature, visible—a Confederate monument in a town square, Mount Rushmore on sacred ground. It’s always been this way—sudden death looming on a highway in unaccustomed autumn dark, so near home and you. a palpable hit D. E. GREEN 25 MURPHY SQUARE tomatoes ALLISON USELMAN Harry Cosgrove used to throw tomatoes out of his 5th story apartment in The Village. He told me that he did it because The Gaslight always made him take home the uneaten tomatoes at the end of the night, and he didn’t like to just throw food in the garbage, but I never believed him. He always seemed to have altogether too much fun speedballing the tomatoes down to the sidewalk, especially late on Friday nights when the club wouldn’t let him play. He would call on Friday nights at least once a month, and my roommate would throw up her hands and groan and say, “Honestly, he has nothing better to do?” But I always kind of liked the tomatoes. Harry liked to spend his paychecks on gin and wine, so there was a good chance that throwing the tomatoes would turn into a game after a few hours. Last Friday he called around eleven and told me that the club had given him more tomatoes than he could handle on his own and asked me to come over. I took a single look at my roommate, who sat on the cramped balcony in her bathrobe and night cream, and told him that I would be over soon. She didn’t ask where I was going when I knocked on the glass to tell her goodbye, and she only rolled her eyes and shifted in her chair. The walk to Harry’s place was never all that bad in the summer. The air would be cool enough that you would have to wear a jacket, but never as icy or biting as it was in the winter. During those months I tried to take a taxi over, if only to save my toes rather than my wallet. But no matter what the season, no matter what the weather, a jacket was always necessary in that 5th story apartment in The Village. Harry’s place was constantly drafty and there was nothing that he could do about it, or so he claimed. Knowing Harry, though, I always assumed that he forgot to shut a window somewhere and just didn’t want to admit to it. He was forgetful sometimes, especially around the anniversary of his sister’s death. The night that he called me, we sat in the kitchen, both of us with a blanket around our shoulders trying to keep warm even though it was late May. I was on the kitchen counter, right next to the sink and the empty cardboard box with the red sun painted on the side that had once been filled with almost rotten tomatoes. Harry stood by the table, leaning back on the top, his palms flat against the water-stained wood. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Suzanne. It’s been three years since she died, you know.” His hair was growing long and was starting to curl. When he looked down at his sock feet, his 26 ISSUE 43 hair bunched up at the top of his head and flopped down in front of his face. His eyes seemed to not only have sunken farther down than usual on his face, but so had his cheek bones. Looking at them make me want to poke his face, if only to made sure that all the bones were still there. I slid off of the counter and walked over to the kitchen table. I had nothing to say, so I leaned back on to the table with Harry and kicked off my shoes, so we would match. He didn’t seem to notice that I was even there next to him, though; he just continued to look at his own feet, his blanket sagging off of his shoulders and pooling at his elbows like a shawl. I half expected him to look up and start talking to the empty space next to the sink and the abandoned cardboard box, not even noticing that I was no longer there. “Do you think she’s happy?” “I sure hope so.” I straightened his collar and brushed a piece of lint off of his sleeve. “Thank you.” He sounded tired. “That was bothering me, but I was afraid that if I tried to fix it I would fall over.” I glanced down at his hands and noticed that they were not just resting on the table, but rather gripping the edge of it. His knuckles had turned white, and his knees were shaking. “Do you want to sit down? You don’t look so good.” I hadn’t meant for it to sound like an insult, but at that moment I thought I saw the insides of his eyebrows curl up into a whimper. He was too sensitive sometimes. “I feel fine. I really do, I just wish I had more tomatoes, you know?” Yes, I told him. Yes, I think that everyone wishes they had more tomatoes, if only because that meant they had everything else. I don’t think he heard the last part of what I said. The confirmation that he was not the only one in search of more tomatoes was enough. Still, his hands gripped the edge of the table, and so I reached out and pried them off. I didn’t like the way that they looked, drained of all blood. “Come on, why don’t you sit down.” Harry moved his head up and down in a way that might have been mistaken for a nod by someone who didn’t know him well enough to know that that was just the way he breathed; his head wobbling back and forth as his lungs compressed and decompressed. Sometimes I wanted to tap the back of his head, just to see how long it would wobble back and forth. I even had a stopwatch that I could have used. Harry had given it to me, and was originally meant to be used as a way for me to monitor the length of his act when he played at The Gaslight. I usually forgot to start it, which didn’t really matter because by the end of the night Harry would be too busy fighting with the club’s owner, to get his fair share of the basket, to care about how long his gig had lasted. I walked over to the bookshelf, that never had any books on it, but that was instead the home of a fine Victrola record player, the only thing Harry valued more than his guitar. I lifted the needle up and moved it over the top of the 45 that was already in place on the turntable. The table started to spin, and 27 MURPHY SQUARE a song with a tinny sounding guitar filled the room. A woman began singing in French, her voice low and the words slurred. “Harry, you can’t listen to this type of music when you feel this terrible. It’ll just make it worse.” He only shrugged and made his way over to the couch. The cushions pulled him in as if they had been waiting for him a very long time. I hated to see him so low, but I knew that there was nothing I could say to make it better. The first year after Suzanne died, someone had made the mistake of telling him that her death was all part of God’s plan and everything would one day make sense to him. Harry had taken his drink and thrown it at the man, and since then he has been banned from ever drinking at The Gaslight. He’s only allowed to play there once a month now. So I knew that saying anything at all would equate to me telling Harry to take a flying leap out of his apartment window, along with his almost rotten tomatoes. I pulled the 45 off the turntable and slid it back into its sleeve. “Is there a window open somewhere?” I shuddered and pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders. Harry wasn’t responsive, he only slightly moved his eyes to look up at me and search for the music that had stopped so suddenly. I thought about putting something else on, but after glancing through his melancholy record collection I thought better of it. There was no use feeding into his sullen mood. The only thing I could do then, was sit down on the couch next to him and wait for it to pass. Because it did. It always passed in the end, and the next weekend he would be playing at The Gaslight, telling jokes to the crowd between songs and basking in the floodlights. ... “I don’t know why I even bother to wear this thing.” Harry hooks his fingers around the knot of his tie and loosens it. “It’s not like anyone here cares how I look.” He moves his arm in a sweeping motion, gesturing to the café and the ragged groups of people sitting at the tables. I watch as Harry sits up and reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. He shakes out a single cigarette and places it between his teeth. He sighs and pulls his hair back out of his face, exposing his forehead, which is covered in a thin layer of sweat. He shrugs and turns to face the dimly lit stage, the unlit cigarette wobbling in his mouth. The woman on the stage wears a chunky green sweater and a pair of blue jeans, and Harry taps his foot along to the beat of the song that she sings. All the tables near the stage are full, and the faces of the people sitting at them are washed in the glow of the floodlights. The woman leans into the microphone as she sings, her hands moving quickly up and down the frets of her guitar. “She’s pretty good, huh?” I shrug and throw a pack of matches over to Harry. He catches them midair. “She looks a little like Suzanne, don’t you think?” I immediately regret saying anything, but it’s too late now. “Yeah I guess she does.” Harry brushes off 28 ISSUE 43 my comment, and doesn’t look at me while he speaks. Instead he watches the woman on the stage sing. “If I’m gonna have to split the basket, it might as well be with someone who has some talent.” He puts the unlit cigarette back into his mouth, letting it perch between his teeth, resting on his bottom lip. He shifts in his seat, readjusting his jeans, and bobs his head along to the rhythmic strumming of the green sweater-clad woman. I imagine that there is a blanket on his shoulders again, sliding down to his elbows and almost falling off as he bobs to the music, but the air is too thick for blankets. There are no windows here. Harry’s eyes jump from customer to customer in the front of the club, and I can tell he is assessing the crowd, attempting to get a grip on what kind of music they want to hear tonight. My stomach rumbles audibly, and he turns back to me and laughs. “You want something to eat? Why don’t you eat while I play, and then we can see what Jean is doing later?” I ask him who Jean is, and he motions to the woman on the stage. I just nod, and I walk over to the bar. When I look back at Harry, I notice that he has finally lit his cigarette. “Chicken sandwich,” I say, telling the bartender my order, and turn to face the stage again. The woman in the green sweater dips her head down as the crowd claps, and the expression on her face is passive as she exits the stage and passes Harry, who is waiting at the steps. “You want everything on it? Tomatoes too?” I turn around to look at the man behind the bar. He is raising his eyebrows at me, and for some reason that I can’t explain, I don’t have an answer for him. I glance back at the stage that Harry now occupies. He is settling into his seat on the stool, hunched over his guitar. But unlike the woman in the sweater, I can see that below the curly hair that covers the top of his face like a mop, he is smiling. “No. No tomatoes.” The man behind the bar writes my response on a small blue pad of paper and nods. He walks away quietly, leaving me alone to listen to the soft guitar sounds coming from the stage, and my own beating heart. 29 MURPHY SQUARE flower boy AVA FOJTIK digital photograph 30 ISSUE 43 illuminated AVA FOJTIK digital photograph 31 MURPHY SQUARE 32 ISSUE 43 cat’s cradle AVA FOJTIK digital photograph pity party AVA FOJTIK digital photograph 33 MURPHY SQUARE the library is closed now, and dark looking through its endless aisles stretching nearly into infinity one can barely make out where a great ape, majestic, would swing between the shelves a closed library KELTON HOLSEN Engman Prize winner (an elegy for terry pratchett) once, this place was full of life, and people came and went and words came and went and the shelves really did stretch out to infinity but now i turn the corner and encounter for the first time a blank wall the books are sparser here, tamer less skittering metaphors, and the satire has less bite (when you get old they take away your teeth or you forget them) my hands brush the spines slowly, as the pages begin to unbind themselves, to settle upon the floor; a sea of lilac blossoms in the month of may. i tuck one behind my ear; how do they rise up. 34 ISSUE 43 elizabeth, 1972 ALLISON USELMAN charcoal and pencil 35 MURPHY SQUARE Loneliness Eats away at you until there is nothing left but Loneliness loneliness MARISA MOSQUEDA 36 ISSUE 43 ode to leonardo SOPHIE KEEFE There are some conversations that can only be held late at night. During car rides through streets that are so familiar you can navigate them with your eyes closed, the rise and fall of the landscape and bumps in the asphalt marking the strip mall with the Dollar Tree and Chinese take-out chain, or the winding parkway that loops around the lakes in a lazy curlicue. When a dark, velvety blanket covers the world and softens its edges. Something about the darkness makes the apprehensions that live somewhere deep within that twisted knot of uncertainty in the pit of your stomach a bit easier to bring out through your skin and into the open air. Or, at least into the confined air of a moving vehicle. When my brother is home from college for the summer, we go on these car rides a lot. Everyone else in the house has settled down to sleep, and for some reason our restlessness seems synchronized. He’ll walk into my room, or I’ll wander into his and within minutes the two of us are padding across the back deck towards the garage, a cool breeze gently diluting the day’s humidity. Maybe these conversations also need to be had with someone whose familiarity surpasses the surface level knowledge of a childhood neighborhood. An individual who knows your strengths and secrets and holds them to be as sacred as their own. Sometimes, I feel bad for people who don’t have a twin. The entire time I’ve been on this earth (granted that time has been relatively short), there’s existed someone whose been figuring out life at exactly the same pace. Someone to compare notes with, so to speak. That isn’t to say the two of us are alike. Beyond our profiles and shape of our noses, we’re about as different as two people can be. He knows every word to the musical Wicked’s soundtrack not by choice, but because when we were ten I sang it around the house every day for a year. When we were in sixth grade, he forced me to play the board game Risk with him, and halfway through I stormed out in tears, frustrated that the tactics were too complicated for me to understand, but he mastered immediately. In another dimension, if we hadn’t shared a womb, who knows if we even would have been friends? That’s something I think about a lot; the universe granting me a companion, tied by blood. Indirectly, he’s always teaching me something about what it means to be human. A reminder that even when it feels like life is a series of benchmarks that we all check off 37 MURPHY SQUARE until we eventually die; the spaces between those benchmarks are filled with complexities. Triumphs and mistakes, rash decisions and arguments, family picnics, meals, jokes, lovers, tears, and joys that are all unique to you; tailored by your personality, your likes and dislikes, your heritage, your home. I share most of the essentials with Leo. The smaller stuff is perfectly, and beautifully his. I’m just the lucky one who gets to go on the late-night car rides. 38 ISSUE 43 rhapsody on laurel JACQUELINE DOCKA Engman Prize winner Laurel. Lauraceae. Laurus nobilis. Symbols of victory. A symbol of status. Who’s the victor here? Apollo’s pursuit, transfigured to a tree. Trapped within an organic being, living on Laurel while pursuing baccalaureate. Lived near a church once. Never thought she’d mind the bells. They say the building used to house the nuns and priests. Condemned now. She drives past and parks in the garage. Bong, bong, bong. The bells sound in the background ringing clearly. She thinks of the time she spent there and how unhappy they were. Hearing people screaming in the street. The thrum of the city. A string pulled taut. Twang, someone being shot. Ring ring ring goes the phone. A tinny voice says, what’s your emergency. She’s afraid there’s someone dying in their street. No cops come. She bought them pepper spray the day after the first night. Wondered if it would be enough, hoped it would be enough. The bells, the constantly ringingbooonnngg, booonnngg, booonnngg. Amazing she could hear them over the traffic of the city. She could be miles from home and still hear the clanging. Fear, fear, constant fear. Waking up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, wondering if someone’s gotten into the apartment. Grabbing a metal nightstand ready to bludgeon someone. No one there. Lay back down. Try to sleep. Someone wrote Hell in spray paint outside the building. Trying to tell the world what this building was—as if the residents weren’t aware. A home for nuns and priests. Where only the condemned live now. Home is where the heart is. Heart of the city. Sacred heart, binded heart, wounded heart. Blood, too much, blood. Don’t know if they survived that night. Show me someone who says they got no baggage, I’ll show you somebody who’s got no story, nothing gory means no glory, but baby please don’t bore me. Time creates distance. She still wakes up feeling itchy. Thought it was a weird rash. Allergic to something? They come out of the walls at night. Big fat things feast on your blood. Caught them, put them in a jar to show inspectors. They explain, she could have gotten them anywhere. She wonders are they in his pocket? 39 MURPHY SQUARE They coped. Started a Death Count for all the mice they killed—53. Shower turns off in the middle. Covered with soap and no water. Kayla rinsing her hair with the cold water from the fridge. Happier now? Than then? Moments of happiness even then. Photos taken. Snap, click, shutter. Kayla standing in front of the window holding Honey. Her favorite photo of them. Hearing bands play at the Block Party coming through their windows. Cuddling together on the couch with every blanket they owned because the heater randomly turned off. No working stove for nine months, so much ramen, whistling locomotive radiators when they did work. No, focusing on the good there. So close to school, so close to work, so close to everything. Their only option. Perfect time to escape. She didn’t sleep anyways. Kayla into movies and shows. Her into books. All the reading she did in that house. Lying awake reading. Hyper-vigilance. Might as well be productive. Coming home to their door kicked in. Had to go inside, every sense telling her to run. No one there, they’d left. Cops only took two hours to show. At least they showed. Trusted man helped nail the door back together. Oh girl, this boat is sinking, there’s no sea left for me, and how the sky gets heavy, when you are underneath it! Oh. I want to sail away from here. And god, He came down, and said nothing. As much as they could they lived at the library, at school, at work. Spent as little time in their home as possible. Running up and down those breathless stairs. Them walking down Hennepin. Whoooooshhh. A burst of wind. There goes the 4, 6, 12, on and on and on. They made it to air conditioned/ heated safety. Much nicer here. So quiet, no screams, bathrooms that work. Someone at the window of her car. Booonnngg, booonnngg, taptaptap, booonnngg, booonnngg. -Are you okay? -I’m fine, yes, fine. Thank you she says. Back to the present, still staring at the building. Everything is boarded up. Wonder if undesirables still board there behind the boards. Looking at the top floor, less boards, a sheet flutters behind a window. A roof better shelter than the street. In the end, they had to leave so much behind. Pieces of their lives thrown away like trash. Her grandmother’s rocking chair. Everything else in bags for two years. Effugium, paululum effugiunt, fugit. 40 ISSUE 43 untitled MADELEINE OSWOOD pencil 41 MURPHY SQUARE I consider myself an environmentalist So when the black bear knocked I motioned him in to the couch tossed him a beer In a Transatlantic accent the leaded TV spoke charged young names I asked him his thoughts on mass incarceration. He glugged his beer An outside child screamed over sidewalk chalk I asked the bear how to fix the school system He growled facing D.C. My stomach stormed campaign rallies I stood Have you come to figurehead a proletariat upheaval of the bourgeois class, who are profiteering off the land of bear and human family alike? The bear tilted to its side, pressing his head into the couch arm. I shouted What do you mean! …in all this The bear shrugged the icon MATT PECKMAN Engman Prize winner 42 ISSUE 43 a stable relationship ASH M. KAUN digital photograph 43 MURPHY SQUARE the wreck ALLISON USELMAN Mick woke up drenched in sweat. His eyes were squeezed shut, and he was afraid. Afraid that when he opened them it would hurt, and afraid of what he would see. He lay there for a moment in his bed before he reached up and covered the top half of his face with his hands. He then slowly opened his eyes. He was wrong to be afraid; it didn’t hurt and there was nothing to see. He rolled to his side and looked to see his wife, Margo, sleeping. She was facing away from his and he could not see her face. Her left arm was draped casually over the side of the bed, and all of a sudden Mick was overcome with the urge to pull her arm back, to tuck it against her and hide it under the covers. He leaned back against his pillow and refrained, too afraid that he would wake her. Instead he reached his hand delicately toward her face. He brushed her cheek with his thumb, hardly touching her skin at all, and felt how smooth and dry it was. As he leaned back and touched his hands to his own face, he noticed the dampness of his skin. His hands shook as he removed them, scared of the heat coming out of his own body. I must have dreamt something, he thought, something awful. He got out of bed and moved to the bathroom where he gingerly shut the door and turned on the light only after it was closed. The bulb above his head buzzed, struggling to light up the small room. It would take a few minutes, but soon it would be bright as the sun, and it would hurt to look at. Mick pulled the faucet handle up halfway, and dipped his hands under the cool running water. He washed his face and dried it, laying the towel on the countertop. He was just about to leave with hopes of returning to bed when he caught his own eye in the mirror. For a moment he was unrecognizable. His eyes were so cold. His hair was growing long, longer than usual, and already curls were beginning to form. His face looked worn and rough, like it had been out in the sun a long time, but it was his mouth that looked the strangest. His lips were parted and he could see into his mouth, if only slightly. His teeth sat just behind his lips, white and small. He had always had straight teeth, not one out of place, but there were three tiny gaps between his front teeth that were only visible when he laughed a real honest laugh. Most people didn’t notice, but Margo did. She would 44 ISSUE 43 sit with her legs crossed and her finger on his lip, rubbing it back and forth ever so gently. And then she would sigh. She would study his mouth and sigh. He never could tell what the sigh meant, only that she did it and probably didn’t even notice. He ran his hand over his mouth, as if wiping away a nonexistent stray piece of food. The light bulb in the bathroom was burning, harsh against the encompassing night outside, just before he shut it off and walked back to the bedroom. He couldn’t bring himself to lay down on the bed again, the silk sheets were slippery and he hated them. He hated the way he always felt as if he were going to slip out of bed and fall to the floor, leaving him with no choice but to remain there until morning when Margo arose for work. So there he stood, hands at his sides in the doorway. He took a look around the room, scanning; the green comforter on the floor; the water glasses cluttering his nightstand; the blue gray haze that seemed to cover the room all the time, even in daylight. His eyes fell onto Margo sleeping, her arm was still draped over the side of the bed. Mick shivered once before he turned on his heels and walked out to the kitchen. Outside the sky was still dark and the only light that shone was from the neighbor’s garage door. He could always see the light through the front window, and it bothered him. The curtains weren’t thick enough to hide the light completely, and they instead turned it into a dull yellow glow. It made him nervous the way that the light shone all night long, with no real purpose. Sometimes he looked at it and was filled with the deepest sense of loneliness, a feeling he would never admit to anyone. Oh, I don’t know, he imagined himself saying when asked about it, it’s just, who would think to leave that light on all night? Who are they leaving it on for? He walked past the light and sat down at the table in the kitchen. He blinked, and for that fraction of a second when his eyes were closed, he remembered. He didn’t let himself think of it often, but sometimes on nights when he couldn’t sleep, he would allow the memory to come to him. If only in hopes that sleep might come. It was almost a year ago, the end of summer, and everything was hot. The air, the ground, the inside of your throat. The air was thick and hot and humid, and all too common for the end of August. It was hard to breathe sometimes. He remembered that he could barely get himself to breathe in the thick, thick air. It happened when he was driving home along the highway, and he was all alone. For what seemed like an eternity, there was a stretch of road completely desolate, save for Mick’s own car. Everything was melting into everything else, and the heat wavered like ponds of water in front of him on the road. It was hard for him to see clearly, and he remembered rubbing at his eyes in hopes of focusing them, but it was no use. The heat was just too much, 45 MURPHY SQUARE and so he gave in and let them wander from one melted tree to another as he drove. He remembered the feeling of heaviness that filled his limbs as he crossed through the back roads of the town. It took most of his energy to straighten out the wheel as it shifted and moved with the bumps of the road. Margo never liked for him to drive when he was tired, but she never offered to drive him to or from work. He would have refused if she had anyway, the desolate road calmed him. Sometimes he liked to believe he was the only human being left on the planet, and that there was nowhere to go and nothing to do. It did not matter if he came home immediately after punching out at work, or if he meandered around the country side, looking at old farm houses and pastures of cows that never seemed to move. He felt finite, and it sobered him to think of how disconnected he was to the rest of the universe. It was only the thought of Margo that could force him to turn right at the corner of Fair Oaks and Maple, drive the truck all the way home, and park it in the driveway. But along with the heavy weight of reality, he remembered feeling the instant moment of lightness when he saw the man lying on the side of the road. He couldn’t tell how old he was; he couldn’t even see his face. But he could see his body and his car and he could see that there was no one around for miles and miles. He felt as if he were made of air, as if he had become nothing. He didn’t exist in that moment; in that summer heat he wasn’t real. There he sat, in his car, clutching the steering wheel. He held it so tightly that eventually his nails cut into his palms. He blinked once at the pain and felt heavy again. He had not wanted to get out of the car, even after he pulled over to the side of the road. He did not want to open that car door and let in the air of death and injury and pain. He did open the door though, and walked across the road. Under his feet, he could hear shards of glass crunching under all his weight, under the pressure of his work boots. The boy lying in the ditch was still, his limbs all calmly in their places. He would have looked like he was sleeping except for his right arm. It was stretched out so that it was touching the edge of the pavement, his fingers grasping at asphalt, and it was because of the innocence of his position on the ground that Mick decided he could not be more than seventeen years old. His head was turned away from the main road, resting in the grass and dirt of the highway ditch. The corn fields behind him seemed to stretch off into infinity, as if to say, this is where you are and this is what has happened. The boy’s clothing was dirty and frayed at the knees, a piece of material from his shirt was torn away, nowhere to be seen. Shards of glass from a car’s front window lay scattered in the grass; they anointed the surrounding area with light, refracted floating beams. Mick had felt a small shard jab into his knee 46 ISSUE 43 as he knelt down. He remembered coming home that night and the shard coming loose from where it had become lodged on the knee of his pants, and Margo picking it up off the floor asking, “What is this?” He had snatched it away from her and pocketed it, shaking his head and casting his eyes downward. He told her he didn’t know, and that it was probably from one of the cars down at the garage, “You know how much of a mess that place is.” Suddenly he was overcome with a wave of panic as he realized he was the only one there. He scanned the deserted stretch of highway, desperate to see another living soul, but all he saw was the battered shell of what once was a car and the blindingly reflective glass scattered in the grass. No one else was there to see what he was seeing and he felt completely alone. He would have stayed frozen in his panic if not for the boy turning his head slightly and uttering the words “Mister, would you help me?” His cheeks were still slightly padded with baby fat and his eyes were soft. Round and naive. Even his shoes looked like the shoes of a youth, the laces thick and easy to tie. The afternoon sun washed gold over the scene, and it made the boy beautiful. It hurt to look at him, and Mick had to turn away. He did not want to look at the young boy’s glowing face; it hurt his eyes to look at him lying in the grass with such a gruesome backdrop of a scene behind him. Mick stood up and walked back to his truck, he felt as if his knees were made of jelly and his feet of lead. Each step was a struggle between balance and movement. He fumbled his hands around underneath the steering wheel for a minute as he struggled to find the ignition. When he finally got it started, the truck sputtered as he keeled away from the highway shoulder. If he had looked behind him, or even glanced in the rear view mirror, he would have seen the cloud of dust that had formed, like a bomb, behind him. He drove back into town in a trance to call for an ambulance from a pay phone. He remembered how cold the phone was against his skin, and how the cord repeatedly hit his arm as he hit the switchhook over and over, not sure if he had hit it ten times or not. When he thought back to this moment he couldn’t even recall the sound of his own voice when he asked for the operator, though he must have said something as he remembered the voice of a woman speaking to him through the receiver, asking him where she should send the ambulance. Once he had finished with the phone he steadied himself on the booth’s walls. The receiver hung down off of the hook, its cord almost reaching clear down to the floor, and Mick just watched as it bobbed there. When he stood up straight and left the booth, he glanced back at where he had leaned against it. There was a mark of condensation on the glass, and as he lifted up his hands to look at them, he noticed for the first time how sweaty they were. Trying not to think about it, he walked back to the truck and drove back the way he had come. Mick was 47 MURPHY SQUARE there when the ambulance came and took the boy away. He came upon the scene as he was on his way home again. He slowed down and pulled to the side of the road, just a few feet away from where he had parked only a half hour ago. He saw the boy close his eyes as they pushed him into the back of the vehicle. He imagined that being the last time that he closed his eyes, and imagined that he was the last person to look at them, the soft naive eyes of a child. Mick had no way of knowing what happened to the boy afterward, but he did know that the whole time he was driving he was thinking about the boy’s fingers. There they had been, just splayed against the road. The nails slightly dirty, the tips clawing at the pavement. He imagined what would happen if someone had driven by and run them over, crushing them, leaving nothing but a red stain. across the carpeting, from the curtain hanging on the window. When he reached the bedroom door he stood there leaning against the frame. Margo was sound asleep, and everything was still. He could make out the shape of her legs underneath the blanket; they were curled like a baby’s, and her arm was tucked up to her chin, squishing her cheek a bit. Her other arm was still carelessly flung over the side of the bed. Mick’s heart jumped a little at the sight of it, and he was sure he would wake her with his jumpy heart. She didn’t stir a bit as he slid back into his spot on the bed, his pillow slightly damp under his head. She didn’t even stir as he reached and pulled her arm back towards her body, and tucked it in with the covers. Now, he sat up from his hunched position on the kitchen chair. His legs had red marks from where his elbows rested, and he felt a pain in his neck as he straightened himself. But he also felt relief. The tense, shaky feeling he had awoken with was now gone, almost no trace left behind. He stood up and shuffled back through the living room, passing the front window and the light that never seemed to quit burning. The street looked lonely in the darkened night, the street lamp was not lit, and the only light continued to come from the garage across the street. Mick averted his eyes as he passed by the window, but on the floor he could still see beams of light, refracted 48 ISSUE 43 The potted green plant on the steps that lead to my front door had sunk into itself slumped as if a grieved old woman having seen too much. old hands RACHEL BROWN Engman Prize winner Its leaves squeezed together into blotchy purple fists collapsed fell scratched softly against the dry concrete. 49 MURPHY SQUARE prayer CAMERON YANG digital photograph 50 ISSUE 43 The metal rings wrapped around their clenched hands And they gave each other a promise of eternity. They stared at one another, playing chicken as to who would look away first, A passion too potent to be done justice with language alone Sparking and exploding almost unstably in their eyes, Like a fork in the microwave. metal rings HALLE CHAMBERS Engman Prize honorable mention A flipper’s house, soon to be their home, Fragrantly fresh with the fumes from cleaning chemicals. A flower plot out front with the potential to be a prizewinner. Crickets and cicadas serenading them with a late summer love song. The porch light flickering along with its celestial siblings As the bridegroom bore his newlywed better half through the doorframe. They started their lives together as couples their age do: With lazy kisses across the kitchen island at Sunday morning breakfast, And shaking bedsprings and screaming on late Friday nights, And the air noise congested with the never-ending, “I Love You”s But as all such sugar sweet things do, It melted with heat and time. 51 MURPHY SQUARE They started their fights together as couples their age do: With passive aggressive subtleties across the kitchen island at Sunday morning breakfast, And shaking walls and screaming on late Friday nights, And the air tense and silent with the never spoken, “I Hate You”s But as all such souring bitter things do, It only fermented further with time. They tramped through the neglected front yard foliage, its aroma Easily overpowered by the spoiled stench spewing from the now deserted dwelling. The celestial spotlights couldn’t be seen Past the scarlet and cerulean strobe lights. The droning ditch crickets and summer cicadas Were drowned out by the blaring sirens And the shrieking From the swearing ex-sweethearts, Who only went silent when they were crammed into the cruiser, Squashed into the sticky back bench seats, Each separated from the other offender and the officers By a solid, yet see-through safety screen. She wanted to go to therapy, But he didn’t. He wanted to divorce, But she didn’t. They thought a baby would fix the rift, But it didn’t. The cops came one night, called on a noise complaint To the house, not a home at all, in shambles. Baby screeching in the bassinet, Starving in a soiled diaper. Parents screeching in the bedroom, Too preoccupied with themselves to notice. They stared at one another, playing chicken as to who would look away first, A passion too potent to be done justice with language alone Sparking and exploding almost unstably in their eyes, Like a fork in the microwave. And they hated each other for a promise of eternity, The metal rings wrapped around their clenched hands. It ended in a newspaper tragedy: Baby taken by foster care To find its first stable home. Parents arrested for disturbing the peace and child neglect, Neither caring enough to think past the loathing burning like acid through their brains, Still cussing and fussing all the way to the squad car. 52 ISSUE 43 penitence SAM Lust I lie on the floor and pound my head Against all the shame I find in my bed Greed I got a little bit, then a little bit more Nothing will stop this material whore Pride Pride can be a hard pill to swallow If not you’ll be left empty and hollow Envy What you have will soon be mine Killing with kindness takes a little time Gluttony You can see it is evident All you want is decadent 53 Wrath Bright red boiling blood Intensely like a familiar flood Sloth I am entitled, I’ll show you how Just not right now MURPHY SQUARE forest ALLISON USELMAN copper plate etching 54 ISSUE 43 In the green light of this summer afternoon the orange demon seems so far away. The breeze raises and ruffles the leaves. There’s the distant beep of a truck backing up. green and orange: a pantoum D. E. GREEN The orange demon seems so far away, though I know he’s lurking in the living room. The distant beeping of a truck backing up— it makes me wish that accidents would happen to the evil lurking in our minds and living rooms, occupying all our screens and our consciousness. It makes me wish that accidents would happen to the one crafting all the plans to do us in. Forget the myriad screens and false consciousness. Feel the breeze raising and ruffling the leaves. Forget the orange demon crafting plans to do us in. Absorb the green light of this summer afternoon. 55 MURPHY SQUARE celebration #1 STEPHANIE FREY found images and gouache paint 56 ISSUE 43 You are ember-hot, reflecting wishes and A pictured anomaly, protecting visions and A single moment, mental kisses and You’re set on course, the steering wheel is locked and I’m flagging you down by the ditch’s water and There’s something pretty about the laughter and Your wings are red and slowly fading and I know that hope is overrated and A memory is not a painting and When shooting stars burn in the sky It paints a picture of us both And if there’s anything I know It’s that this is not the end firebird ALICE LIDDELL CHESHIRE WOLFF 57 MURPHY SQUARE special agent dale cooper MADELEINE OSWOOD digital painting 58 ISSUE 43 stretched out for days, you’re a yellow brick road a mirage-like shimmer, for dreamers bestowed on towards the upwards and outwards unknown drawn to your allure we always will go 12 west L. B. DOGOOD with you, i’m always a few steps behind, full of adventure, with nothing but time turning your corners, we’ll start to unwind and where we end up is always inside we’ve been in swamps (water pumped over feet) we’ve found small bones (broken down and petite) we’ve tripped galactic (fear of cosmic defeat) and we’ve explored houses (then, rapid retreat) we’ve climbed up bridges (the worst path, the best) we’ve discovered artifacts (deep in my chest) we’ve scaled mountains (high up where birds nest) and we’ve walked on water (messiah’s old test) and then in the end when we’re left with our tale, some photos, a heartbeat and dirt under nail i’ll still speak these words because you never fail for you, 12 west, are a life changing trail 59 MURPHY SQUARE basilica ABIGAIL TETZLAFF 35mm film camera 60 ISSUE 43 miikawaadendan (think it beautiful) ASHLEY MURRAY Engman Prize honorable mention Deep green, mitig is swaying around niin Inwewin I want gikendan. bizindan. Nisidotan. Understand who is speaking. A voice, baswewe off canyon walls. Vibrating the air around me. engulfed in the jiibay (a tree)/(me) (a language)/(know it)/(listen to it) (understand it) (it echoes) (spirit/ghost) Know what they know. Feel what they feel. Speak how they speak Miikawaadendan (Think it Beautiful) 61 MURPHY SQUARE untitled MADELEINE OSWOOD pencil 62 ISSUE 43 untitled MADELEINE OSWOOD pencil 63 MURPHY SQUARE infinite DEREK L.H. Tomorrow is my last day. I wish I could fall asleep, but my heart can’t stop pounding. However, my analytics tell me that this is a common phenomenon for people undergoing the digitization procedure…Eesh. It’s hard to believe that I’m already getting used to saying stuff that way. Digitization, or the Infinity procedure as some people refer to it, has become more common over the last ten years or so. A few years before the Infinity procedure existed, there was a discovery that there wasn’t an afterlife. No heaven, no hell, no God, just nothing. I wasn’t raised religious, so I wasn’t personally impacted that much, but this was a huge deal to a lot of people at the time. Most religious people were in total denial, and many disregarded the science behind the discovery merely on the grounds of their religious beliefs. So, since there wasn’t an afterlife, humanity decided to make its own. That’s when the Infinity procedures became a thing. People became digitized before their deaths — they became AIs that both represented the life they lived as a person, as well as functioning as an AI to serve society in a way that they couldn’t as a human. I’ve done some research on what it’s like to become an AI, and it seems lovely. It’s painless, and you instantly become more knowledgeable about so much. You gain access to way more information than a human could cram into their brain. Becoming an AI seems like becoming perfection to me. I can’t wait to become one. Originally, they only digitized people that had terminal illnesses. Cancer and stuff like that. After a few years, though, they had made it so that more and more medical conditions could allow a person to become digitized. And then mandatory digitization replaced the death penalty the year after. And then just about any adult could sign up to undergo the procedure. It makes sense if you think about it. After you transition into an AI, sure, your human body’s dead, but you’re still a member of society — just in a different way. Well, it makes enough sense to me, and that’s all that really matters. I’ve been staring at the ceiling of my bedroom for a while now, hoping to the non-existent heavens that my heart will slow and I can actually fucking think about something else. I’ve just been lying atop my bed, snuggling in the warm, hand-knit blankets I made when I was a kid, staring at space for I don’t know how long. Well. Actually, I do. Twenty- 64 ISSUE 43 nine minutes and seven point two seconds, but who’s counting, really? I turn my head to the table across from my bed. My phone lit up, as it usually does once it’s fully charged. There’s some other notifications on it. While I was able to assess what it was before even getting up, I think the old me, however much of the human me was left, still wanted to check it. Besides, it’s not like I’ll have many more chances to check a personal device like this, so a fallacy in my logic via emotional override is excusable in this instance. Gah. There I go again. I quickly walk over to my phone. The notifications on it read: “Charge complete.” “Missed Call: Mom (20), Dad (11), Andrea (6)… “23 New Messages: Andrea, Dad, Mom, Lea…” Perhaps in a momentary splurge of unnecessary emotionality, I unlocked the phone and looked at the newest message. It was from Andrea, reading “Why the fuck are you doing this?? Call me, Mom, or someone NOW, Ellie! You know you shouldn’t do this.” What emotional language. It’s quite elementary in its efficiency and effectivity in persuasion. Andrea was never an eloquent individual, so perhaps I should use lower parameters for expectations on persuasion for her, specifically. However, this message is simply ineffective and clearly should have undergone significant revision. …And there I go, once more. My head’s starting to ache. I should sit down. Anyway. These changes in my thought and speech patterns used to only happen one or two times a day if I got lucky, and now it just happens without me thinking about it. But yeah, Andrea was never good at voicing how she felt. In many ways, she was the model older sister when growing up. Got good grades, was crazy pretty, athletic, had tons of friends, lived a satisfactory, if unremarkable, life. I certainly looked up to her when I was a kid, but everyone in my family knew she was poor at being logical about things. She always let emotions be the deciding factor on just about every decision she made, big or small. I was still in high school when she dropped out of college. She was living in an apartment with her boyfriend at the time. They were both cheating on each other. When they both found out the other was cheating, they got into a big fight. She didn’t get hit or anything like that, as far as I know. Though, they ended up saying hurtful things to each other. Again, as far as I know. Andrea didn’t really know what to do with herself afterward. This was her first breakup, so I guess she didn’t really know how to cope. Well, yeah. Clearly, she didn’t. She started drinking, had one-night stands pretty regularly for a while and experimented with taking different kinds of drugs. Which kinds, I don’t know. And really, I don’t care. Yeah, I understand some may consider it to be a blasphemous position for a younger sister to take, but…I just thought it was dumb. She did anything that could help make her feel better. Eventually, she dropped out of college, moved 65 MURPHY SQUARE back in with my parents, and went into rehab a few weeks after. Even though that was all a few years ago, she’s still considered emotionally unstable. Having so much of your life get fucked up because of how you feel sounds…so tragic to me. So many people go about their lives, trying to make themselves feel good through whatever means, even if it ends up hurting other people. I don’t know, something about that really sickens me. My sister and people like her sicken me. That’s one of the reasons why I’ve decided to get digitized. I don’t want to be a slave of emotion. I don’t want to be like my sister. Emotions are just an obstacle for people, as far as I can tell. Ever since I had started taking Infinticilia two months ago,—that’s the drug that preps my brain for becoming an AI—this became only clearer. I had noticed more and more that many people were objectively poor at communicating how they felt to others. My family was specifically belowaverage at it. Their phone calls and messages to me over the last two months have all been poorly constructed, only using rather melodramatic and/or anecdotal rationales in arguments as to why I should terminate both my use of Infinticilia and my Infinity procedure. Perhaps more intelligently constructed and presented rationales could have influenced my decision. But alas, it is too late for them now. They had their chance to persuade me to stay alive as a person, and they failed to do so. After sitting for a while, I grabbed my phone and set it back onto the table. My headache had only gotten worse. Fuck. I had gotten used to the migraines, the most common side-effect of the Infinticilia, over the last few months, but I haven’t gotten any in a few weeks now. I certainly didn’t want to deal with a migraine tomorrow. Best to deal with it tonight. I walked into the bathroom across the hall. Perhaps walking was an ill-calculated decision. I quickly took one of the few supplements left for this kind of instance. It will make me somewhat revert back to my more human self to alleviate the migraine. After a while, I should go back to being fully prepared to make the transition tomorrow morning. I could feel my thoughts beginning to revert back to those that were common for my previous self. I figured that it wouldn’t hurt to get some fresh air. I quickly slid open the door in my kitchen, out onto the porch of my apartment. It was certainly a November night in Also. The brisk, cool wind stroked my warm skin as I stepped outside. Also is a small town in upstate New York that I moved to about a year ago now. The town has a population of only a few hundred people. Living in Also was the closest I ever got to enjoying where I was in life. I grew up in Buffalo, where my parents and Andrea still live, and I hated every second of living there. When you see hundreds of people on a daily basis, you’re bound to come across people that you can’t fucking stand. I guess I was always that kid. The one who didn’t want to be part of anything. The one that quietly judged everyone else. 66 ISSUE 43 I’ve always assumed that people think of me as an uninteresting person. I have no tragic backstory that would make anyone sympathize with me. Nothing very significant has happened in my twenty-six years of life that would make people get attached to me, and that’s fine. Not everyone is meant to be interesting, and I just happen to be one of those people. Life has just always sort of happened around me. I was never bullied or harassed or anything. Just ignored. And in this day and age, no one really cares if you’re ignored. And again, that’s fine. To me, it just…got tiring after a while. I remember the night I decided to undergo the Infinity procedure. It was three months ago. I was stopping by my parents’ house to grab some mail that was still getting delivered to their house for whatever reason, and they invited me to dinner. I really didn’t want to stay, but Dad made lasagna, and I’d have felt bad if I turned down his cooking. He’d have taken it personally if I had. He is a music instructor, and the only real interesting parts of his life were his anecdotes about the students of his private lesson classes. Well, at least they would be interesting if he ever shut up about them. “So I was giving a lesson this afternoon with a student I’ve had for a few years now, right” he started, “And he starts telling me about how he’s not going to take lessons anymore because he plans on doing that digitization thing. How sad is that? I can’t believe so many people throw away their life like that. I always thought he was better than that, too.” We were all sitting around the dinner table, eating slightly undercooked lasagna as he said this. I stopped eating for a moment. “Isn’t that a bit harsh?” I asked. “I mean, did he tell you about why he was doing it?” Dad exhaled loudly, glaring at me before he said anything. “Uh, well, no, he didn’t. It’s just the concept of someone turning themselves into an AI that’s so sad to me. I mean, people just end their lives to do it, and—” “Technically, your life doesn’t really end when you get digitized,” I said. “Your life just becomes different. Instead of being a person only capable of finite things, being an AI gives you the ability to do an infinite number of things. Isn’t that right?” “Well, I don’t know what happens to people after they undergo the procedure. I know they supposedly become sources of information and get programmed into databases and all that. But what if that’s bullshit? What if that’s just a lie?” “What if it’s just the surface? What if there’s so much more to being an AI?” Mom butted into the conversation. At least, she tried to. “Ellie, James, can we please save this discussion for later—” “Ellie, it, uh, sounds to me like you’re defending people who become AI…” “Well…it’s starting to make more sense to me is all…” The tinkling of silverware hitting dinner 67 MURPHY SQUARE plates was the only sound for a moment. “Well, if you ask me, the people that get digitized are just quitters. People that are too scared to deal with reality.” Mom started to ask, “James, don’t you think—” “Think what?” He yelled. “That I’m being too harsh or some shit? Why doesn’t anyone here try to understand where I’m coming from?” “I-I-I-I’m sorry, James,” Mom anxiously stuttered. “Uh, anyone want more lasagna?” No one answered. The tinkles of silverware turned into clanks. I had grown tired of the topic of digitization that night. The rest of dinner was quiet and awkward. As I drove back to my apartment later that night, I found myself so frustrated. Dad was doing that thing I hate where he keeps interrupting Mom from getting her word in. And he always thinks his opinion is more valid than others, and gets all defensive when people disagree with him. Dad is too rigid, and Mom is too delicate. She has always been too polite for her own good. She tries so hard to be so respectful to everyone’s feelings that she keeps a lot of things to herself. It was moments like then that made me glad that I had moved out of that house long ago. Mom, Dad, and Andrea were all people that managed their feelings in a way that always frustrated me. They always brought their emotions into conversations where they weren’t needed. I eventually just got sick of it all. That’s the thing: emotions—they just cripple you. They cripple and destroy you like hot coffee seeping through paper. Emotions impact how you decide on things, or how you interact with others, or even who you interact with. They take control of you and become you. That night, I realized that I no longer wanted to live a life where emotions hijacked everything. I just wanted to be free of it all. And that was when I realized that the only way to be free of emotions once and for all was to undergo the Infinity procedure. Looking up at the night sky reminds me of how small this life was. People are so tiny if you think about it. After I enter my new life as an AI, maybe I’ll serve a bigger role. Or maybe I won’t. All I know is that I’m ready to begin my new life as an AI tomorrow. The late autumn wind made my skin hollow, so I walked back inside my apartment, sliding the door shut. The migraine had mostly faded at this point. I could feel the supplement starting to wear off. My appointment was in the morning, and I was still anxious about it. Even to the end, I guess I’m still no exception to being controlled by emotions sometimes. Despite the anxiety and nervousness, I tried to get some sleep. I opened my eyes, and looked at the alarm beside my bed. 8:00 A.M. Satisfactory. I stood up and quickly calculated what I needed to do before heading out. It would be unnecessary to prepare myself aesthetically, given the circumstances. Therefore, I deduced a quick checklist of necessary requirements 68 ISSUE 43 before retiring from my apartment. This checklist mainly consisted of preparing the apartment to be in near-mint condition. Naturally, I had set up many things in relation to the procedure in advance. Among them included writing a will to allocate all my existing assets after I become digitized. The agent that I corresponded with to prepare for the procedure assisted me with the logistics of digitization. Everything was set. All that awaited was heading out to the hospital to check in and undergo the procedure. However, as I began preparing to leave, I heard knocks at the front door. I opened it. It was Mom, Dad, and Andrea. Their eyes glimmered of desperation. They appeared to be teeming with toxic emotion, typical as ever of them. They exemplified signs of looking distressed due to the wrinkles on their faces. Andrea stepped forward, tears coming from her eyes. “I can’t believe you’re doing this! What the hell is wrong with you?” Dad also stepped towards me. “Ellie, you can’t do this. I…I can’t let you go.” I scoffed. “Your concern is understandable given the circumstances, but I’m afraid that your attempt at preserving my human self will end unsatisfactorily for you. My decision is set in stone. It’s been two months. If you were capable of coercing me out of undergoing the Infinity procedure, you would already have succeeded in doing so.” Silence for a moment. Andrea still had tears in her eyes. “Who…who are you? Whoever you are, you’re not my sister anymore.” Andrea’s use of melodramatic language was as ineffective as ever. “Andrea, Mom, Dad…I’m becoming digitized. This life is no longer optimal for me. It really never has been optimal.” Mom, who had been notably quiet and reserved, finally spoke up. “Is that you saying that? Or the drugs that they put you on?” “It’s likely both, Mom,” I said. “This is what I want. I’ll still live. Just…in a different way than you. It’s always been like that, if you think about it.” Their eyes of emotion remained lucid. They appeared frustrated, disappointed, maybe even in denial. But their refusal of my resolve was practically insulting. Andrea looked down to her small feet. “Can we at least…go with you?” ... The Digitization Department was surprisingly small at the hospital I went to. At least, it surprised me the first time I went. Digitization was becoming more and more common every year. Most hospitals and even some clinics offer Infinity procedures. Regardless, everything was set and ready to begin at 10:30 A.M. It was clear that my family didn’t want to be there. Their emotional eyes remained ever-present on their faces. We were all sitting in a waiting room 69 MURPHY SQUARE designated for people undergoing the Infinity procedure. There were two other families in there with us. I couldn’t hear their words, but the tones of their voices were also full of emotion. It’s quite inadequate that the experience of having emotions isn’t a unique one. Ultimately, how anyone feels right now has been felt by someone somewhere sometime before. I’ve heard of people finding beauty in that— that it’s amazing how we can find other people that have felt the same as we have. But beauty is just an emotional construct. Beauty doesn’t actually exist. People just convince themselves that it does. It’s just another example of emotions blinding people. However, while thinking upon this subject, my mind briefly reverted to memories between Andrea and myself. Growing up, Andrea would often talk to me about societal perceptions of beauty. She was always fascinated by that kind of stuff—history, how people relate to each other, all that junk. She talked about it with me for hours so many times when we were growing up. She loved talking about anything that had to do with how people treated each other throughout history. Dad would never shy at jumping into the conversations between Andrea and I, always adding theories, facts, and statistics that may or may not have been relevant to what we were talking about. Mom would always listen in on our conversations and ask questions, always fascinated by what we were discussing. I’m really going to miss them. ... I mean. Um. It’s 10:30. I should go. Dr. Carlisle, the doctor that I had talked before about the Infinity procedure walked into the waiting room. “Elizabeth Hensley…are you ready?” I stand up and nod. Dr. Carlisle continued. “I’m sorry, we can’t have family go into the Digitization Room. I’ll…give you a second to make your goodbyes. Come on in once you’re ready.” She stood by the door. I turned around to face my family. They all looked at me quietly. Unlike before, their eyes weren’t filled with emotion. They were… empty. Hopeless. I didn’t really know what to say to them. I turned towards the door, facing away from them. “Um…thanks for coming. It…means a lot.” Without looking back, I walked towards the door. ... There it is. The Infinity: the machine that digitizes people into AI. It looked like an MRI scanner. The room was entirely white and lifeless. No one except myself and Dr. Carlisle were in the room. The next few moments were a blur. I got into the Infinity. This is what the last two months have been leading up to. It almost didn’t feel real. Like I was dreaming. Like all of this was fantasy. But I laid there, on the machine that would digitize my body, birthing me into my new life as an AI. Soon enough, the machine began moving into the Infinity very slowly. Maybe only a few 70 ISSUE 43 centimeters per second. But this was it. I had seen everything and everyone I would ever see outside of this room for the last time. It…didn’t really hit me until then. The memories I had with everyone…with my family… All of those memories were moments from evaporating. They would be gone forever. Or maybe I’d still remember them after I became an AI, or…I don’t know. I…I just don’t know. I wanted so hard to be free of emotion. It’s why I wanted to go through with this. And yet, I find myself leaving this world feeling unlike how I’ve ever felt before. I was filled with emotion. Filled with fear. Most of my body was now inside the Infinity. Seconds of life as I knew it were left. Was this a mistake? Was this a good idea after all? Am I doing this for the right reasons? What are the right reasons? What are the wrong reasons? What have I done? What have I done? What have I done? The last of my body entered into the Infinity, at last. Tears began trickling down my face. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I cried. I cried. The machine made a loud noise and my legs began to feel weightless. Everything began to feel weightless. The last sound I would make as a human was a laugh. A laugh at the thought of me leaving my human life just as I entered it: crying, powerless, and teeming with emotion. 71 MURPHY SQUARE celebration #5 STEPHANIE FREY found images and gouache paint 72 ISSUE 43 words like radiation ringing out, observed by those not worth speaking to; 52 hz L. B. DOGOOD i wish you could hear me smooth like the ocean ridges of mollusks and sand for your skin for your skin, they’ll never understand why we rot away into filaments they call it fur and a mystery but only we know that we’re fibrous creatures made of sinew and bones but you can’t even hear me even you, ones with bodies bigger than earth lives longer than time sing too low sing too low for a connection, i hear you calling out and i can’t understand why my words don’t reach you, ‘is there anybody like me? is there anybody like me? is there anybody like me?’ 73 MURPHY SQUARE When I’m driving on the highway, the destination doesn’t matter, I’m usually in the passenger seat because piloting tons of crashing metal makes my throat close up, so I can look out the window as we drive and watch the road going by, and roadkill ALICE LIDDELL CHESHIRE WOLFF Sometimes I see the dead animals, birds or raccoons or squirrels or sometimes deer, and sometimes their bodies are intact and they’re lying off to the side and I think why don’t they just get back up? They look perfectly fine to me, but their eyes are being eaten by ants and it’s only from a distance that they look more alive than I feel, but other times They’re crushed and smeared into the pavement by endless tires, fur and feathers and life turned into a bright red stain, a gore bouquet that seems scattered everywhere, and I wonder how all that meat fit inside their fragile little bodies, running and jumping and sniffing their way through life until they’re pulverized by people on their way to work, and It makes my stomach churn but I always look as the car drives past and if I were walking I might stop and study the remains for any clues, wondering who they were and why this happened, wondering what it felt like, can they still feel, their nervous system still ticking out information across their bodies, spread like jam on concrete, or maybe their spirits still linger, breathing in the exhaust fumes as they howl silently as a warning to stay away, and They enter my dreams, messiahs covered with flies, 74 ISSUE 43 fearless crows poking stigmata into their stomachs, looking at me with lustful eyes and directing me into the forest, where there are no cars and humans are just a memory and the evergreens loom all around like a silent jury surrounded by tears and The wave drowns animals and trees alike, until all is washed away and the ground is meat, and the meat is concrete, and the remnants of the living are baked into a gray shell that stretches on for miles and miles and miles and I’m back in the car, we’ve arrived, and I look over my shoulder as I step out onto the stone floor of the city, wondering where my body ends and the roadside bodies begin. I walk down a path and mice scuttle out of the woods with legs like spinning wheels, crawling up my boots and under my shirt, surrounding me with the mass of their bodies like a second skin before pulling back, a wave of life breaking against me and churning out whispers into the forest, letting the world know that I do not belong here, and the woods Part before me, and looking through the tree line I see animals gathered on the shore of a lake, a parade of silent stares, eyes glinting in the bloody horizon glare, rabbits emptied from their warrens and raccoons crawled back from city suburbs, opossums with nail teeth and fawns without mothers, a bear grown stick thin and desperate from too many winters, its bones strained to the breaking point as it opens its mouth to show a gummed expanse of night, and as it stretches out a rasping tongue into the rippling air I see the lake rise up in a tidal wave, becoming the sky as it crests, drowning the world with shadow, and in the fading light I see it is not water, it is an ocean of meat that plunges down, crushing and mauling the forest and I can feel my body as it is pulled apart, popped like an old balloon, and as my guts slide down and mix with the soil my soul remains, and I am aware, I watch as 75 MURPHY SQUARE she-wolf CAMERON YANG digital photograph 76 ISSUE 43 You have his eyes. All your life you have never been yourself, never been your own. You are your father’s eyes in your mother’s face, and your name is a cinderblock they chained around your ankles and called a gift. The day you are told what he did, you will not react at all. You will sit in your chair and listen to your sister, a supportive stone statue, and when it hits you seven months later, when it sinks in and becomes real, you will be useless for four days. You will stand in the bathroom before class and look in the mirror and wonder if they can see it in your eyes. Your father’s eyes. You wonder if it’s obvious you have the eyes of a killer. You’ve known for months but it wasn’t real until right now, Looking in this mirror and thinking about how nothing is quite the same once you know your father is a killer. The finding out is easier than the knowing. The finding out is ice water down your back. A shock. The knowing is heavy, and once you pick it up, you always have to carry it with you everywhere. You will never be able to put it down. Know this because you have to, but know something else as well. Carrying this with you is going to feel like there is a coffin the eyes are the window to the soul ALEXIS KIMSEY 77 MURPHY SQUARE strapped to your back, like there is a scarlet letter pinned to your chest with a blade sharpened by inheritance, like you never understood sin until your sister tied your father’s around your neck and you’re never going to want to tell anyone. You’ll look at your friends and feel it almost bursting out of your mouth, How are you today, My father is a killer, I’m a murderer’s daughter, it’s so heavy, it’s pulling me down, take it away, please, please, G-d, someone, help me. You’ll almost say it over and over but you won’t want to. You won’t want to tell them, not now not ever they can never know. When you tell them anyway, it will feel like pulling a piece of that coffin down from your aching shoulders and nailing it between theirs. When you do this, remember that they told you that you could. Remember how they handed you the hammer. Remember when you turned around and offered them your spine, the spaces where they’ve taken parts of your coffin from you making room for the pieces of theirs that they’re too tired to carry alone. Remember that we all have coffins. That we are all a cemetery, but we do not have to let that bury us. 78 ISSUE 43 flower girl flower girl GABRIEL BERGSTROM 35mm film photograph 79 MURPHY SQUARE untitled MADELEINE OSWOOD digital painting 80 ISSUE 43 I stepped in a puddle today after a rain that had lasted for probably 4 days and 4 nights. I felt it the water sucking my toes and soaking my white socks brown swallowing me slowly like a snake stretching wide his jaw with that little extra bone he has so he can fit a city rat twice the size of his head down his slick pink throat. I thought about him about a snake big enough to eat yappy yorkie dogs and deer fawns until the water lapped at my armpits and licked my eyelids closed and the world dissolved in wet-like blues and greens. Galaxies swirled like ribbons silky between my finger crevices as if rainforest and ocean curled up and melted together the way two spilled cans of paint sometimes do. galaxies RACHEL BROWN Engman Prize winner 81 MURPHY SQUARE light rail ABIGAIL TETZLAFF digital photograph 82 ISSUE 43 happiness is the light between the trees in autumn travelling miles upon miles through space to make mosaics on the forest floor and caress faces one last time before winter sonas EVE TAFT touching all things, light ignores broken bones wends its way through thunderstorms finds ships on the tousled sea insensitive, it dries tears early and blinds happiness is the light between the trees in autumn golden warm, more steadfast than summer more compassionate than winter happiness steals in through branches gently, gently, gently 83 MURPHY SQUARE the spin GABRIEL BERGSTROM 35mm film photograph 84 ISSUE 43 the bridges GABRIEL BENSON I’ve been driving for two hours, making my regular trek from one home to the other. My back is sweaty as it often gets on these long drives. In an attempt to aid this, I sit slightly forward and turn the air conditioner on full blast. This effect leaves my fingers icy, but the sun still beats down on my thighs, my own personal greenhouse. By now, I really need to pee, and the empty coffee cup from this morning is beginning to look more and more tempting as a release for my bladder. The ride from Willmar to Minneapolis on Highway 12 has only a few landmarks peppered in that I find to be worth noting on the drive. Once I left one home, I knew I was destined to nomadism for the following two hours. Like a turtle, I would own only what I carried with me in the silver Pontiac Bonneville. My suitcase, backpack, and a box of books all pile in the backseat. In Montrose, Minnesota, I pass the small side-of-the-road memorial to my old dear friend killed on his motorcycle in 2014, killed by a car that hit him head-on. It’s a knee-high cross, a picture of him placed in the center. It never gets easier to look at this cross, but it does get harder to see. It can be hidden in the winter by snow, and it was once carried away by a well-meaning plow. But I know there are no spirits here. On these roves from Home A to Home B, Minnesota Public Radio is my companion. Today, it’s an in-depth story on the music history of Simon & Garfunkel, a duo I know little about—a couple songs, something about herbs and the fair, perhaps. The piece itself is intermittently sprinkled with their songs and interviews with musicians and other members of the industry. As I enter Minneapolis, the skyline on the horizon, “Bridge Over Troubled Water” comes on. It’s familiar to me, like a song from an old movie. When you’re down and out / When you’re on the street / When evening falls so hard / I will comfort you. As usual, I follow the traffic into the underground I-94 tunnel. What was once bright sunlight is transformed, and I am plunged into darkness, the white rays replaced by the ambered lightbulbs that line up above me. When entering, the tunnel seems endless, stretching ahead indefinitely before me. 85 MURPHY SQUARE Now, there is a strict ritual for these tunnels, and I have been practicing since I was a child, just like my mother taught me. light. Are the cars in front of me, behind me, beside me, fixed in the same trance? they shine When darkness comes / And pain is all around As I run down the grocery list of my wishes, my lungs start to ache. The sunlight begins to peek in front of the many cars ahead of me. The last wish in my head is always the same, vague, but it is perhaps the most important. Please have all of this be okay, I pray. The floodlights of the day’s sun rush back into the vehicle. I exhale, my lungs receiving sweet air, my hand falls back down onto the steering wheel, and the radio plays as usual. The song is almost done. I will ease your mind. As my eyes adjust to the new light, I suck my breath in, the air that stops coming into my lungs matches the now crackling radio waves that barely filter through the speakers. One hand on the steering wheel, the other hand flopped up to lay my palm flat against the carpeted roof of the car. Several yards into the tunnel, the radio has been reduced to static, only a word or two from any number of radio stations is translatable. It’s in these moments—dark tunnel, amber light, breath held, hand on roof—that I truly pray. I grew up believing that these tunnels held a mystical property, that it was here where wishes could be granted, prayers answered. With air tight in my lungs, these messages to someone are thought loudly in my mind, for if they were spoken, my pact of not breathing would be broken, creating the possibility of these requests not being listened to, not being transmitted to whomever receives them. And it does, almost always. I smile at the stretch of city before me, and I feel a sense of relief. Whether or not this all ends up okay, it’s out of my hands now. But inside, I think it will be. Sail on I pray, thanking the tunnel for my safe drive. For the sun. For things going well. I pray, asking the tunnel for good health for myself and those I love. Row by row, I pass amber light after amber 86 MURP HYSQ UARE ISSUE 43 | 2018
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