Foreword to A Life Sana Ma/ila And so the third eye indescribable, erudite, true, yawns and shrugs offits burdening lethargy of somesix years, rising in the East midst ravines of blood baths and faded screams, stretching its neck as the words gleam out of my broken pen, eager, headstrong, rushing... Show moreForeword to A Life Sana Ma/ila And so the third eye indescribable, erudite, true, yawns and shrugs offits burdening lethargy of somesix years, rising in the East midst ravines of blood baths and faded screams, stretching its neck as the words gleam out of my broken pen, eager, headstrong, rushing into the paths of broken posterity. 36 Show less
Introduction The first time someone asked me why I wrote I knew the answer: if I don’t write,I die. It was simple, then, four years ago when I declared “Creative Writing" on a form. I was a writer because it said so on a page, filed away. But, as I grew,I found myself setting my writing aside to... Show moreIntroduction The first time someone asked me why I wrote I knew the answer: if I don’t write,I die. It was simple, then, four years ago when I declared “Creative Writing" on a form. I was a writer because it said so on a page, filed away. But, as I grew,I found myself setting my writing aside to edit, to read, to live and I did not die. 50, when asked again, why writing? I didn't have the answer like I did for so many other theories and problems...no one had taught me why I wrote. Now, after spending a year working on Murphy Square,I can answer that question: writing allows me to step back from my life and recognize which pieces are missing...simply put, it sustains me. 'lhis year, you are holding a journal that is made ofpost-consumer recycled paper because as writing and art have sustained all of us, the artists and students in this journal, we have a responsibility to the earth to create sustainable mediums for our art. Our words and images, the culmination of our creativity, now permanent in your hands, did not take away habitats or destroy lives As artists, we recognize ourselves in a larger community, one that is both historical and metaphorical.We take responsibility for our places in both. And so, for another year, the editors of this journal celebrate the publication ofMur- phy Square and recognize it as the space where authors and visual artists can come together and sustain their community for years to come. Arm/mi Sima'w Editor Welcome to Augsburg College's annual issue of Murphy Square. The writing and art in this issue reflect a multitude of voices and visions. Thank you to the editors and staff for their diligent work in selecting and producing the magazine. In the words of poet, David St. John, Let the gates of the garden stand open; let the renaming of the world begin again. Cur‘y Miterman Faculty Advisor Show less
r" end of the bargain, he would marry her. He would marry her if she could provide a family for him to feed. She let her body rest on the couch as her mind ran to the edge of their property, far into the fields and beyond a row of mature maples. It was never still or filthy there, like the room in... Show morer" end of the bargain, he would marry her. He would marry her if she could provide a family for him to feed. She let her body rest on the couch as her mind ran to the edge of their property, far into the fields and beyond a row of mature maples. It was never still or filthy there, like the room in which she sat. The water was always sparkling, reflecting sun or moon.1hey used to spend days by their lake, a glorified pond, really, picnicking and making love at dusk. Resting, exhausted, in each other's arms as the frogs hummed them a tune to which the bees harmo— niwedflheir bodies would be covered in sweat from their efforts and the heat of the day, but soon the evening cool would chill them and they would clothe themselves and walk as slowly as possible back to their home. It had been fun, at first, to try so hard to start a family. Day and night he would sweep her away from whatever it was she was doing and they would let their bodies express their love. Now, only the days circled in red were the days they would meet in a dark room. Their bodies weren’t gentle and soft anymore, but stiff and resentful. A truck spun through the gravel of the long driveway and goose bumps rose on her arms. She stood unsteadin to her feet and shuffled toward the window. She tried to part the curtains, though she knew it was him, but they pushed her away. The wall of windows crept forward until it pressed against her toes and forced her to back up. Behind her and to her sides the wallpaper started crying and crawling toward her, she felt a knot of fear rising from her stomach up to her throat. She could not scream, and had she, he would not have heard her over the rumbling of his truck. She inched her way sideways, unable to turn her head to see where she was going, until she felt the cool brass knob of the front door in her hand. He was on the other side, reaching for his keys. She pulled at the door wildly and flew past him, suddenly filled with the desire to move that she had lacked all day long. She moved with all four limbs touching the ground, us— ing her hands like an animal to balance her unsteady legs. A curious voice called from behind her. “Dawn! What the fuck?" She was knee deep in lively wildflowers and tall green grass with her white house— drcss blowing wildly between her legs. “The flowers are dead!” He dug his boot into the dusty ground and swore under his breath. “What flowers, baby? Baby, come back!" He threw his work gloves angrily on the ground, cursing again. Dawn was to the line of trees now, and could see the lake shining in front of her. It glittered invitingly and she tore off her clothes, tiptoeing barefoot around knotted roots wind- 11 Show less
All the while knowing, they are lies, all of them. How predictable that I am apathetic. I prefer these sound bite stories over truthfulness. So walking in the darkness, I listen to the dry crunch the fallen leaves beneath my feet that will soon ferment under the heaviness of Minnesota snow. And I... Show moreAll the while knowing, they are lies, all of them. How predictable that I am apathetic. I prefer these sound bite stories over truthfulness. So walking in the darkness, I listen to the dry crunch the fallen leaves beneath my feet that will soon ferment under the heaviness of Minnesota snow. And I sing. “Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies.” 17 Show less
rate ways, exploring. It was late fall, and the trees in the cemetery were alive with the fiery colors of the Midwest; red, orange, and yellow leaves enveloped us, enhanced by the sun’s rays. The air was crisp and cool, and I hoped the outing would help my brother feel refreshed. We came together... Show morerate ways, exploring. It was late fall, and the trees in the cemetery were alive with the fiery colors of the Midwest; red, orange, and yellow leaves enveloped us, enhanced by the sun’s rays. The air was crisp and cool, and I hoped the outing would help my brother feel refreshed. We came together some time later at our family’s section. My brother, his bare arms flaunting the skinhead tattoos that covered every inch of his body, approached the gravesites. Down on one knee, he began to slowly brush the small twigs, leaves, and grass clippings from the sunken memorial of “James Fisher (1944—1960)," our Great Uncle Jimmy. I stood behind him paralyzed, confused by his obvious attachment to the headstone of a boy who never grew to be a man, a boy neither of us ever knew. My brother, with bloodshot eyes and a smell that confessed his many sins, held back his tears and stared down at the grave. He told me the story of how our uncle died. “The truck came out of nowhere and hit him. Smashed right into him. It wasn't his fault. He didn't even get a chance." an It was my fourteenth birthday when my Dad, brother, and I pulled into the driveway to see my mother standing under the carport behind a curtain of muggy August rain. She was wringing her hands and shuffling around as if she had bugs crawling under her skin. Her dark hair was damp and slickened; her clear green eyes murky and just a touch too bright, evidence that her latest drug of choice was still coursing through her system. The air inside the truck stiffened and chilled as we sat watching her, the cool air con— ditioning stifling and stale. Fresh off her latest binge she had disappeared for about five weeks this time. Earlier as I had blown out my candles, I had wished she would never come back. I got out of the truck, walked up to her, looked her straight in those vacant eyes and told her to leave. For good. She did. "lhe summer after my high school graduation my brother and I found out that my Dad had been in an accident. We were at home arguing because I wanted to go see my friends and my brother wanted to tag along. My grandparents silenced our bickering with the 21 Show less
