The Power of Boys Ronda and I wanted to act like the boys. Crushing ants with our bare fingers or swallowing them whole alive and pretending we felt crawling in our stomachs. It stopped when we ate whole daisies. Debbie and I wanted to look like the boys. But our nipples emerged early and covered... Show moreThe Power of Boys Ronda and I wanted to act like the boys. Crushing ants with our bare fingers or swallowing them whole alive and pretending we felt crawling in our stomachs. It stopped when we ate whole daisies. Debbie and I wanted to look like the boys. But our nipples emerged early and covered with muscle t-shirts showed just enough so that the bullies would grab them until we screamed, just like other girls. Carol and I wanted to be with the boys. We spat with them and stole with them, let them pull our hair, pinch our bottoms, wrestle our arms down or our thumbs. Sometimes we even beat them, but we never won. Amy and I wanted to be like the boys. But discovered the only way to share their power was to lose our own, because we were just like sissy girls to kiss and to tease. Then we just wanted to like those boys but couldn't. —Devoney Looser Show less
PM (9th Mg v1 [Ar 167139 Stupid-Juice Pass the stupid-juice, my friend And you and I shall drink to the end. As long as we have money next to our asses We ’11 order more glasses of future gasses. Pass the stupid-juice, friend-o-mine And we’ll have a really stupid time. Gawking at girls and... Show morePM (9th Mg v1 [Ar 167139 Stupid-Juice Pass the stupid-juice, my friend And you and I shall drink to the end. As long as we have money next to our asses We ’11 order more glasses of future gasses. Pass the stupid-juice, friend-o-mine And we’ll have a really stupid time. Gawking at girls and talking like men; Cursing and laughing as only men can. Pass th’ stupid-juice, ol’ chum And we'll drink ’til bar-time comes. If we can keep from getting bounced, We’ll stay here ’til we’re good 'n’ soused. Pass th ’ stupidjuice, my-geez- Look at that one there. I have to pee. Keep watch over our pot of gold, And drink fast while it ’s still cold. Pash th’ shtupidjuish, ol’ pal, Three sheets to the wind and time to sail. You shouldn’t have grabbed that girl though. C’mon, let’s write our names in the snow. T omarrow brings tomorrow’s cares, With itching teeth and aching hair. To work all day, to drink again-— Pass the stupid-juice, my friend. —Kiel Christianserl Show less
In college we studied Theology instead of religion So nobody talked about being thimbles, But Father O’Phelan used to hold up papers And say ‘Whoever wrote this one May have worked to the top of his ability, but No one gives what he does not have. ’ And as I tried to see if it was my paper, I... Show moreIn college we studied Theology instead of religion So nobody talked about being thimbles, But Father O’Phelan used to hold up papers And say ‘Whoever wrote this one May have worked to the top of his ability, but No one gives what he does not have. ’ And as I tried to see if it was my paper, I worried about being something very small, And empty too. Ten years later, When I was twenty eight, I decided in memory of Einstein’s brain To review my life. And when my children asked wh y I had become so serious I realized that no one had ever told them About grace 0r thimbles Or talent and teacups And people 's minds. So I told them. I told them it would be all right For me to be something even as small as a thimble As long as I was full, But that somehow I thought I might just be a large Kool—A id pitcher And so I was looking for a way to fill myself up. And they said they didn’t know what a thimble was And could I put some Kool-A id in a pitcher Because it was a hot day And they were thirsty. And as I stirred And wondered if talent was sweet And grace was orange, I thought about Sister Mathilda And Sister Francis and Sister Mary Martin Anne And Father O’Phelan And about walking straight and slow, Filling containers with worry. And I wondered why, in all those year, It never occured to me To simply Put my finger In the thimble. —Cth y Dalglish ___30_ Show less
Novel Shorts ln modern literature it is often hard to define the boundaries bet- ween literary genres. Just where, students of writing may lament, does one draw the line between poetry and prose, drama and narrative, the short story and the novel? To these questions the editors of Murphy Square... Show moreNovel Shorts ln modern literature it is often hard to define the boundaries bet- ween literary genres. Just where, students of writing may lament, does one draw the line between poetry and prose, drama and narrative, the short story and the novel? To these questions the editors of Murphy Square offer no answers, but, realizing that length is no longer a criteria, announce the winnters of their first annual Short Novel Con» test. Novels of all types were accepted—the mystery novel, the philosophical novel, the Romance, the Tragedy. The only limit was that the novels had to be six words or less. Next time, make it a double. by Richard C. Nelson He closed the door, and smiled. by John Mitchell Life, death—it’s all the same. by Blaine C r055 Next! A report on domestic genocide. by Richard Liedholm Passions Sweet Death by Jerry Gerasimo O! O! O! O! 0! Oh. _29_ Show less
WAITING ROOM By Richard Nelson Fifth floor, Wing B, is a Waiting Room. It‘s called An intensive care ward, But what it is, is A waiting room. The old woman in B 581 has been Waiting longest, I think. She’s Forgotten her name. She‘s Just B 581. B 581 is blind and Stares at the wall and names Her... Show moreWAITING ROOM By Richard Nelson Fifth floor, Wing B, is a Waiting Room. It‘s called An intensive care ward, But what it is, is A waiting room. The old woman in B 581 has been Waiting longest, I think. She’s Forgotten her name. She‘s Just B 581. B 581 is blind and Stares at the wall and names Her invisible flowers: “Red. yellow." Oscar moans and waits. He waits Fifteen seconds and moans again. The attendant waits for twenty of Those intervals and asks, “What’s wrong Oscar?” Everything is wrong with Oscar. B 575 is Emma. Emma Waits for the pain to stop. Emma waits for morphine, Or Dilaudid, or Demarol, or Whatever it is they pump Into her every three hours. Willis waits for the lunch tray. Ronald waits for visiting hours And his son who is awfully busy With work. John waits for Jesus And John’s wife waits for Jesus To heal John. _20_ Show less
Editor: Mary Dcering Faculty Adviser: John Mitchell Editorial Board: Chuclr Boe Mary Deering Cynthia Johnson Grace Sulerud Kent Swift. Layout: Carlos Vasquez Cover Design: Cynthia Chapman Acknowledgments: I would like to thank Therese Nichols for her advice and help, the editorial board for their... Show moreEditor: Mary Dcering Faculty Adviser: John Mitchell Editorial Board: Chuclr Boe Mary Deering Cynthia Johnson Grace Sulerud Kent Swift. Layout: Carlos Vasquez Cover Design: Cynthia Chapman Acknowledgments: I would like to thank Therese Nichols for her advice and help, the editorial board for their hard worlt and of course. great thanlts to John Mitchell. Typfiet at Cold Type Setters lnc., 903 Washington Ave. 50., Mpls., MN, Show less
24 Carl I must have been 9; he 72. I had to get my human service patch for Girl Scouts. I remember him telling me about Canada: “When I was 12,” he mumbled, “the temperature got down to 77 degrees below zero." I sat on the window sill, watching him reminisce. “These three fingers right here” (he... Show more24 Carl I must have been 9; he 72. I had to get my human service patch for Girl Scouts. I remember him telling me about Canada: “When I was 12,” he mumbled, “the temperature got down to 77 degrees below zero." I sat on the window sill, watching him reminisce. “These three fingers right here” (he showed me his trembling hand) “turned as white as the snow on our porch.” From 6-7 on Wednesdays I would visit Carl at the home. He lived in a hospital-like paper white room with a rickety wall divider and one of those beds that could fold up by pushing a button. Black cars carrying cedar boxes frequently passed his window. But Carl only smiled at the children on their bikes and noisy beat-up Fords. Carl grasped my hand firmly, curling my smooth, inexperienced palm into his damp, wrinkled grip. I pulled away and moved to sit by the window. Careful not to break himself, Carl slid to the edge of his bed, exposing his branch-like legs. He reeked of medicine and rubbing cream. He wet his pinkish-grey lips with his tongue, like the ugly ogre in my nightmares. His masses of flabby flesh for ears were cupped when I spoke. Murphy Square Show less
being discourteous is concerned. I told both of them that I would be happy to listen to legitimate complaints, and when they had one, to come back.” Bennett was no longer amused. "Vergil," he said, his voice rising slight- ly, “I’ve had enough of pandering to these marginal students whose primary... Show morebeing discourteous is concerned. I told both of them that I would be happy to listen to legitimate complaints, and when they had one, to come back.” Bennett was no longer amused. "Vergil," he said, his voice rising slight- ly, “I’ve had enough of pandering to these marginal students whose primary concerns don’t even approximate the goals of this college. It’s education we offer here, and if our students want something else, then they have come to the wrong place." He paused as their lunch arrived. While Bennett tasted his soup, Vergil said, “I agree with you that our objective is education, Ben. In fact, that is the point of this conversation. But how can we reach our students if we allow anger and cynicism to derail our purpose? You know as well as I do that some of our students will have a difficult time, and it is our responsibility as educators to go the extra mile with those who are less gifted," Vergil paused and then added, “You know, Kris is a legacy. She's Brad Swanson's daughter." "Damn!" said Bennett, loud enough for several others to hear. “Is that what this is all about? Because Kris Swanson’s old man is on the Board of Governors, I’m supposed to give her special atten— tion? Christ, Vergil, if the students we get here can‘t cut it. we’re doing both them and ourselves a favor by telling them. That is responsibility in educa- tion. What do you want me to do, ac- cept that shit they write in their blue books and pretend it‘s not shit? We have to realize that people are not created equal in ability. I'll spend all my time helping students who can learn, but if they're too lazy to learn, or too dumb to learn, I won't waste my time on them. And as far as being an educator is con- cerned, I’m not an educator. I’m a pro- fessor. Educators go into administra- tion." Vergil stirred at the remains of his creamed potatoes. He was offended by Bennett's last remark, an offense which had been intended. "Ben," he said, “the girls also said that you’ve been cancelling a number of your classes, and Murphy Square that you were drunk in class last week." Bennett leaned back in his chair. “They're only partly correct, Vergil. I wasn't drunk,” he said. “But what of the absences, Ben?" asked Vergil. “I respect the right of the professor to con- duct a class the way he sees fit, but I can’t condone cancellation of classes without good reason. You argue that your students are not committed to their classes; but when you cancel classes capriciously, then you are no better than they are.” Bennett was surprised at Vergil’s outburst. He didn’t agree with the analogy, but he was actually pleased with Vergil's scolding. “I’ll take care of my attendance problem, Vergil,” he said. Vergil checked his wrist watch, ar— ranged his water glass in the center of a napkin, and said, “Well, Ben, I have to return to the office. I just wanted to give you the courtesy of knowing that your students had lodged a complaint against you. Brad Swanson is concerned about this too. He wants to meet with us at your convenience to discuss the entire matter. If you will call my secretary with your schedule in the next few days she will arrange a meeting." Bennett sat for a few minutes after Vergil left. The pros- pects of meeting with Vergil and Brad Swanson depressed him. The waiter had returned to his table. “Will there be anything else, Dr. Bennett?" he asked. Bennett almost ordered another scotch, but realizing that drinking alone might bring someone to join him, he decided against it. “No thank you," he said. He signed his bill and walked out of the club. It was half past six and happy hour was over when Bennett walked into the Eagle Tavern. He and Mack had found the Eagle by chance one evening after a tedious Bartok concert. While many bar owners had determined that their profit margins were best served with short drinks, ferns, and phony pub at- mosphere, the Eagle had remained an authentic saloon. The only concessions made to non-verbal culture were a televi- sion above the bar and a surprsingly well-stocked and maintained Wurlitzer juke box. The decor was fifties eclectic: 3! Show less
HI In Memory of R.J.H., 1959-1980 The ancient Greeks knew it— how predictably life comes to us like strands of wool spun out of nowhere by non-existent fates. Our threads make knots and nets, tapestries of unplanned meetings, unaccountable twists and ties. You and I, for three years, made a knot—... Show moreHI In Memory of R.J.H., 1959-1980 The ancient Greeks knew it— how predictably life comes to us like strands of wool spun out of nowhere by non-existent fates. Our threads make knots and nets, tapestries of unplanned meetings, unaccountable twists and ties. You and I, for three years, made a knot— hazardously tied, some mumbo-jumbo of chance. There were other connections: big fish in this small pond, you formed the very nets that caught you. And now, your threads so soon severed, you have swum away through the gaping hole to a larger pond. We are left with memories of your smiling eyes and strands still knit with ours, strands brighter than most of the others adding color to the warp. —Ryan A. LaHurd Murphy Square Show less
upstairs. He heard the phone ring, and hoped it hadn't woken Rachel up. Soon Margo’s voice was imposing itself from the kitchen. No, she couldn’t really make it to the Christian Care Committee meeting that night as her brother was there. Her brother who never was there. With his daughter. And a... Show moreupstairs. He heard the phone ring, and hoped it hadn't woken Rachel up. Soon Margo’s voice was imposing itself from the kitchen. No, she couldn’t really make it to the Christian Care Committee meeting that night as her brother was there. Her brother who never was there. With his daughter. And a wife that had never been there before. Yes, she seemed quite nice, but wasn’t from the area. And, oh yes, his first wife had visited before. But that was some years ago. Oh no, not divorce. She had died. Well, had committed suicide. But all that was some years before. And wasn’t it nice he had married again? Well, it didn't really matter. “Dad?” “Uh-huh.” “Dad?” The newspaper lowered, and folded closed at the sight of Elisa’s frightened eyes. “How did Mommy die?” He hadn't wanted to tell her that. Not then. But he explained to her what suicide is, that Laura had gotten sick without anybody knowing. That she had wanted to stop the pain. He cried softly as he told her, and Elisa looked more frightened. “There you are, you old fool. I could probably draw the blueprints for this place with what I've seen of it lookin’ for you. Margo bided her sweet time to tell me you were makin’ a store-run. That crazy wife of mine." Bill always says that: that crazy wife of mine. Ed is always surprised at the affection it is said with. “Good to see you, too, Bill." A broad grin. “Had to show up to see you lose your little lady!" Bill shakes Edwin’s hand, using his free left hand for added emphasis just above the elbow. Bill is rather slight, but wards off this realization with a booming voice and big gestures. Released from Bill's hold, Edwin straightens his tie. Bill reaches up on top of the hat shelf and presents a red carna- tion with the satisfaction of a successful magician. Murphy Square “You just hold still while I get this on you. Girls’d have my hide ifl didn‘t get you and this little flower matched up.” Edwin has given himself in to Bill’s good-natured manner, and decides to help Bill feel important about his job as master of ceremonies. “Looks like you’ve really got things under control here.” “Best as they can be, I figure.” “Once you’ve warmed up getting that flower on me, I guess you‘ll be ready for the real people to come." Bill looks critically at the leaning flower, and pulls the pin back out of Ed- win’s lapel. “There's a coupl’a people in there already. But you haven’t seen any of ‘em yet, I suppose. I couldn’t help smilin' to myself when I seen Susan and Rachel sittin’ in there. It just hit me allova sudden-like, that here is Eddie‘s wife a pew away from his ex-wife, in the church where he married his first wife!" Bill chuckles generously and Edwin smiles back. It’s okay. He certainly had- n’t expected either twenty-five years be- fore, that things would turn out as they had. On the other hand it didn’t matter an awful lot. Every day you just adjust another sixteenth of an inch to the latest change. and you wind up somewhere you thought you’d never be. On the other hand, on days like today, the changes that were so nicely spaced out over clays and weeks and years come sliding down on top of one another and everything gets jumbled, like when you tilt the Scrabble board at the end of the game and all the words get lost in a rush of letters to the box. ,The flower is given a second scrutiny, and passes this time. "There you go, old fool. Now be gone. I think I hear a few more customers.” Bill turns and chooses a neat stack from the box of bulletins, anticipating the voices floating up the steps. Ed opens one door and ducks into the last pew. Elisa. His only child. Three wives but one child. Three mothers for one child. He sees Susan and Rachel giving 2] Show less
TONGUES OF THE EARTH During the second summer of the war it rained almost every day. The water sank into the soil, washing the hard sand so that the surface of the ground glisten- ed under the sun. My father was the Christian preacher in Nanshan, and I remember this as the time he began his years... Show moreTONGUES OF THE EARTH During the second summer of the war it rained almost every day. The water sank into the soil, washing the hard sand so that the surface of the ground glisten- ed under the sun. My father was the Christian preacher in Nanshan, and I remember this as the time he began his years of sadness. It was difficult to tell the story of the “fishers-of-men" when so many fishermen were being evicted from our village. The landlord had increased the rent dramatically in order to pay the taxes for the war. Besides being driven from their houses, the evicted fishermen could no longer use the docks here, or even sell their catch in the marketplace. Most of the evicted left for other villages, or left fishing altogether, but some moved into their boats and an- chored themselves a few hundred feet from shore, never daring to set foot on land. These fishermen would sail off whenever they were hungry, but they always returned to cook their catch close to Nanshan. Early one morning, my father would go to the shores of the sea and shout the words of a sermon across to the evicted. He would make the gestures of the Holy Communion, and occasionally baptized people from hundreds of feet away. Out of politeness or need, the fishermen always stayed on the decks of their boats until my father had left. My father tried many times to get the landlord to lower the rent and let the evicted return. It seems my father went to see him almost every week. But the answer was always the same—the landlord needed the extra money, and you can’t live on land that isn’t yours unless you pay rent. While continuing to see the landlord, my father began studying first-aid and tried to collect enough medicine and bandages to prepare the village when fighting came. He raised money to help the refugees, even though none had air 40 rived in Nanshan yet. After supper. my father would read the newspaper to us. The stories of the war made me want to become a pilot so that I could be the first Chinese to bomb Japan. In the mean- time, I remember practicing in a plane made from wooden crates. l was also in a children’s group that performed patriotic plays to rouse the people. We had no real plays, we just made up the words and action as we went along. The group was organized by our schoolteacher, and sometimes she would take us out to the countryside to perform. The walk out to the farms could sometimes take hours. and what I remember best is the earth. the soil, the ground. More precisely, I remember the feeling of walking barefoot for miles and miles. The earth was sandy, not soft and fine sand, but grains coarse and hard like gravel that had been pounded into bits. As you walked. you could hear the earth and feel the ground sounding through your body. By the third spring, the war had got- ten closer and closer. Refugees. wound- ed soldiers and deserters began stream- ing through Nanshan. Bombers were fly- ing over our village now, and once. a bomb was dropped close to the village square. No one was hurt, but the explo- sion left a large crater which no one bothered to fill in. When it rained hard, the crater would fill up with water and many children went out there to play. By the next day, all the water would have seeped into the ground, and the toys that had been lost or left behind would be at the bottom of the hole. The landlord's hired men made sure that refugees kept moving along the road, but one refugee family—a mother and her two girls—managed to stay in our church basement. Their father had disappeared during the evacuation of Loachintai and the three had followed the coastline, walking almost 200 miles until they reached Nanshan. The landlord was not pleased that they were staying in his village. He told my father to drive them out, but my father remind- ed him that the land the church stood on was bought. not rented from him. Murphy Square H Show less
Insomnia When my fingers begin to rattle and scratch neighbors are sleeping and the sky is black clickety clickety clickety clack clickety clickety clickety clack I throw off my covers turn on the lights pull out my papers and begin to type clickety clickety clickety clack clicker clickety... Show moreInsomnia When my fingers begin to rattle and scratch neighbors are sleeping and the sky is black clickety clickety clickety clack clickety clickety clickety clack I throw off my covers turn on the lights pull out my papers and begin to type clickety clickety clickety clack clicker clickety clickety clack Who’s got the vision Who’s got the right throwing off their covers in the middle of the night? Not I, said my neighbors Nor I, said my wife, You’ve got the fingers but you haven’t got the right to clickety clickety clack all night! —Curt Tilleraas Murphy Square 27 Show less
Murphy Square 1986 Editor Tammy J. Rider Assistant Editor Patty Lee Layout Editor Jenni Lilledahl Cover Art Linda Tuma Literary Board Elizabeth Burow Ailene Cole Party Lee Anne Panning Tammy J. Rider Myles Slenshoel Jonathan Stensland Acknowledgements I would like to acknowledge all of those... Show moreMurphy Square 1986 Editor Tammy J. Rider Assistant Editor Patty Lee Layout Editor Jenni Lilledahl Cover Art Linda Tuma Literary Board Elizabeth Burow Ailene Cole Party Lee Anne Panning Tammy J. Rider Myles Slenshoel Jonathan Stensland Acknowledgements I would like to acknowledge all of those involved in the homecoming auction last fall: those who conducted it and those who contributed to it. Thanks to Jenni Lilledahl for all of her hours on layout and to Bob and Merilyn Jensen at Tandem Press for so patiently explaining everything. A special thank you to the English department for their support. especially to John Mitchell for his help in keeping the selection process completely anonymous. We, the staff of Murphy Square, wish to thank Theodore Geisel for starting it all. And finally, and most of all, my ap- preciation goes to Patty Lee for being ready to do anything that needed to be done at anytime. Tammy J. Rider All selections were judged anonymously by the Literary Board, Printed at Tandem Press, 77l6 Col/ax A ve. 50,. Richfleld. Minn. Show less
body in the sand until a long string of saliva dripped out of his mouth and onto the ground. A week before my brother was due to leave, news came that the advancing Japanese were less than 100 miles from Nanshan. Everyone in the village ran away. Some left in their boats but most of us took the... Show morebody in the sand until a long string of saliva dripped out of his mouth and onto the ground. A week before my brother was due to leave, news came that the advancing Japanese were less than 100 miles from Nanshan. Everyone in the village ran away. Some left in their boats but most of us took the road. The villagers tried to stay together but were eventually scat- tered. Our family, and Jin Fa's, stayed together the whole time. We walked un- til night, when, together with some other families. we camped by the side of the road. My feet, although not cut open at all, were huning very bad. After walking barefoot for miles and miles I didn’t even dare touch them. I lay down to sleep and left my feet outside the blankets, hoping the night air would cool off the burning sensation. When I woke up, my mother was screaming and running around trying to rouse everyone in the camp. My brother was gone, she said. He had disappeared during the night. Everyone got up and walked along the road shouting my brother’s name. After an hour of this, my father told us to keep moving while he alone would try to find my brother. He would meet up with us later, he said. We watched him run up and down the road until he disappeared from sight. As we walked, l was surprised that the pain in my feet was gone. That day was the same as the first. We walked and walked until we found a place for the night. My father had not returned. and he wasn’t there when we started out again in the morning. The third day was the hardest. We had some food but it didn’t seem to do us any good. The pain no longer stayed in the feet but sank into the bones. Jin Fa and I leaned against each other as we walked. grasping each other's clothes to prevent us from toppling over. Several times we thought we saw someone approaching, but no one ever did. Jin Fa told me a story about her father and my father. The two were together somewhere, play- ing checkers and drinking tea. When 1 Murphy Square asked her who won the game, she said neither of them were playing for real. The next morning, while we watched my mother prepare rice porridge. my father quietly walked into the camp and sat with his back towards us. My brother was not with him. My mother gave him a bowl of porridge, and we all left him alone as he ate. After cleaning up the campsite, we started down the road again. We walked half a day and came to a town full of people. An officer at the police station told us that the Japanese had gone west. Our armies were back in the coastal region and it was okay to return. We decided to rest that day and return to Nanshan the next. My father wrote a note to my brother and left it outside the post office with the rest of the letters directing the lost people home. That night, Jin Fa and I wandered away from the camp. We took off our clothes and rolled naked on the ground. Bits of coarse sand stuck to our hair and onto our bodies. We patted the sand off each other and rolled on the ground some more. We did this several times before putting on our clothes and retur- ning to camp. The walk back to Nan- shan took six days. My father carried most of the luggage, and as far as I recall, Jin Fa and l behaved well all the way back home. —DavidXiao 43 Show less
Yearly Ritual Christmas tree lots are the coldest place on earth. The wind blown cold swirls around the trees, and rips at the plastic nailed to the wooden boards of the ineffective shelter. My family and I stand and look at the array of trees as the man holds and twirls them around. “No, not... Show moreYearly Ritual Christmas tree lots are the coldest place on earth. The wind blown cold swirls around the trees, and rips at the plastic nailed to the wooden boards of the ineffective shelter. My family and I stand and look at the array of trees as the man holds and twirls them around. “No, not that one—it’s lopsided,” says Mom. The tree falls against the pile as the man in the blue snowmobile suit reaches for another. “It’s too bare at the bottom,” remarks my brother. Again tossed back to the pile and another tree is on exhibition. I feel as if I am a judge at a beauty show for trees, and I should hold up cards from number one to ten. After several debates and many trees, we have all decided on one we think is right. Mom pays the anxious man as he puts the tree in the trunk and rubs his red hands together. “What do we do about the dead needles?” asks my sister. The man ponders the question, then speaks through the hole in his mask. “Turn it upside down and shake the hell out of it.” “Hell!” exclaims my mom "—what kind of trees do you sell here anyway?” The man stands in confusion as we get into the cold car. I rub my hands and try to rid my body of the relentless chill as we drive away from the coldest place on earth. —Jon Fletcher Daniels Murphy Square 23 Show less
