Editor: Andrea Smww Associate Editor: Ted Comrver Layout Editor: Molly Ebling Cover Design: Molly Ebling Associate Literary Art Editor: Malena 'Iboson Associate Visual Art Editor: Erim Mal/0y Literary Art Board: Andra: Sanaw, Ted Conawr, Malena Eaton, Em Kline, Betsy Collins, Sana lVIu/ik Dave... Show moreEditor: Andrea Smww Associate Editor: Ted Comrver Layout Editor: Molly Ebling Cover Design: Molly Ebling Associate Literary Art Editor: Malena 'Iboson Associate Visual Art Editor: Erim Mal/0y Literary Art Board: Andra: Sanaw, Ted Conawr, Malena Eaton, Em Kline, Betsy Collins, Sana lVIu/ik Dave Madxm, Molly Eb/ing Faculty Advisor: Cary Waterman Special Thanks to: Krixtyfo/Jman. Glenna Lewis, Scott Krenz, Printing Enterprises, Inc, Praflnar Doug/ax Green and/fugtlmrg College English Department. qurPlJy Square would also like to recognize the winners of two Augsburg literary awards: 2010 Annual Engman Litergg Award Winning Writers: Jen Shutt. for “Eager Ends"»Poetry SrinunthJ Guck, for “The Bartle"—Poctry Drew DeGennnro. for “Double Shot"—Poctry jud)‘ Niemi Johnson. for “I've Noticed of Late"—Poetry Alissa Nolan, for “An Ode to the Dead Language"-Poetry Judy Niemi 'lohnson. for “Thoughts While Watching ajazz Qiartet”-Poeu'y Honorable Mention: Jen Shutt. for “Candy Counter"Show less
L Concerned with material wealth and comfort We say fuck you to the internal spirit A huge appetite for resources We take what we want without regard We play the game Without questions The game where the rules were created for us We gave up deciding what rules for us to play by Taught to judge... Show moreL Concerned with material wealth and comfort We say fuck you to the internal spirit A huge appetite for resources We take what we want without regard We play the game Without questions The game where the rules were created for us We gave up deciding what rules for us to play by Taught to judge others Taught to divide life Taught to polarize and separate What happened to the message? Everyone has something to say But mostly empty images and words Devoid of message, heart, and love We project our limited scope of vision onto everything Thinking that’s the way it is Trapped in our own perceptions Creativity and counter-culture died with our births They turned youthful spirit and rebellion Into a marketing tool They put a company logo onto our energies Revolution is a commodity Sold as a t-shirt By those same forces we proclaim to fight against Detached from meaning and purpose Passive observers Ofsocial and environmental collapse Your generation killed Jesus My generation made his life a sitcom 39 Show less
Black Hole Hannab Cur/yng I've been caught spoon to chest trying to bore out this darkness, grab hold of an end and pull it out like a parasitic worm because I'm pretty sure it's been eating at something vital, taking up space meant to be filled by hope. My best strategy to date is to contain this... Show moreBlack Hole Hannab Cur/yng I've been caught spoon to chest trying to bore out this darkness, grab hold of an end and pull it out like a parasitic worm because I'm pretty sure it's been eating at something vital, taking up space meant to be filled by hope. My best strategy to date is to contain this dark matter, trap it by drowning, spread it thinly over paper, hope that in the contrast oflight and dark, fullness and emptiness, my ink will run clear. 40 Show less
The Wheeze that my Heart Makes Brianna Olson—Carr bronchioles a pitter-patter of just confusion where is where is my where is my breath juvenile pop songs tell me i can't breath with no air huff hufling puff puffing not with some of nature’s green but these very two lungs this fiber this pressure my... Show moreThe Wheeze that my Heart Makes Brianna Olson—Carr bronchioles a pitter-patter of just confusion where is where is my where is my breath juvenile pop songs tell me i can't breath with no air huff hufling puff puffing not with some of nature’s green but these very two lungs this fiber this pressure my chest heaves c l i m U‘ tenuousness weeping worrying torment i let my lips feel the wisp, a quake of a inhale the stutter of an exhale oxygen c r ee pin g to my brain multiple choice questions give me no break or illusion of my intelligence [but first;;; the inhale then the exhale] 37 Show less
sari for the wedding occasion. We took a taxi to a shopping mall, since Sharmilla’s car was getting fixed, and on the way stopped at the Lake Street Market so she could buy a flower for her hair. Walking to the sari store we passed Dolly’s Tea Shop where Sharmilla’s magazine would be doing a photo... Show moresari for the wedding occasion. We took a taxi to a shopping mall, since Sharmilla’s car was getting fixed, and on the way stopped at the Lake Street Market so she could buy a flower for her hair. Walking to the sari store we passed Dolly’s Tea Shop where Sharmilla’s magazine would be doing a photo shoot later that week. The sari shop was dimly lit by ceiling bulbs that had begun to fade to a golden glow. The walls of this shop were covered with carefully folded, brightly colored fabrics. I stood at a long counter before one such wall and pointed at colors I liked. The owner pulled the saris off the shelf and out of their plastic wrappings. One after another she unfolded the long narrow material. Some were solid colors, red, yellow, white, and blue, others checkered like picnic blankets, and others striped with shimmering gold and cop- per threads. Each one I “ooed” and “ahed” over. Then she unfolded one that was both green and gold at the same time, that glowed in the dusty, cluttered shop. I traced the gold embroi— dered patterns with my finger and watched the colors change from green to gold as I shifted it back and forth. The most beautiful outfit I’ve ever worn cost the equivalent of fifteen dollars. When I arrived at All Bengal the morning of the festival I was greeted by more girls than usual. I told them a few days earlier that I would wear my sari for the festival. Ijumped at the chance to use a piece of clothing I'd probably never wear again once I returned home, but I had no idea they‘d be so happy to see that I had followed through. They crowded around my van opening the sliding door as I struggled to maneuver the skirt of my sari over the seats, a problem I never had in my usual cargo pant and t—shirt attire. “Ooh, ki mishti Auntie. Ki mishti, so sweet," the girls said, pinching my cheeks and stroking my twisted green garb. They surrounded me on my walk to the dorm room. We passed the water pump that I once used to wash bird poop out of my hair, and then passed the tree where the culprit had done its business - the bird had not a drop of disapproval this time. The elderly women were standing in their doorways and behind open windows watching. The organization's directors came out of their oflice, too, as we passed and smiled approvingly as they saw what the excitement was about. In wearing the sari, their traditional clothing, I was demonstrating a level of respect that hadn’t been possible in my own clothing. For two months I had been longing for such acceptance; I had been searching for the key to their hearts, frantically learning Bengali phrases and mustering happy and excited emotions even when l was physically exhausted from the India heat. But this was part of it, the key, wrapped around my body and sliding awkwardly off my shoulder. Part of me was elated, but wrapped in that elation was a familiar feeling of embarrassment, of incompetence. This was 43 Show less
It’sJust Summer Colin Irvine He scratches at The hollow High up Between the bony wings this lightly burnt, bare back His soft, almost rubbery ribs Beneath thin. smooth skin Threaded with lovely pulsing Purple veins Candle light under wax paper Inches from his effortless, Bird-like, beating heart... Show moreIt’sJust Summer Colin Irvine He scratches at The hollow High up Between the bony wings this lightly burnt, bare back His soft, almost rubbery ribs Beneath thin. smooth skin Threaded with lovely pulsing Purple veins Candle light under wax paper Inches from his effortless, Bird-like, beating heart He rakes away Casually, unknowingly At the tender, pinkish places, The bug bites behind His third-world knees And along the length of his Lithe, deer-like legs That flow neatly into his Already-long but still-small Fourth-grade feet 46 And she— She sits dangling her legs Beneath the bench Settling her soft elbows On top of the chin—high Table, there near the newspapers Magazines and napkins She— Clutches a crayon In her fierce, fine hand And pulls open The pages, one after another waiting for inspiration All of three now, she is A serious scholar, An artist, a God, A little girl Show less
Table of Contents Introduction- Andrea Sanow {9’ Cary I’Mzterman Fruit- Maltna Thoma Banc of the Mistress- Sana Malik Dead Flowers— Em Kline Motive: A Study in Antelopc- Samant/za Curk Ashes— Elise Estrada City/Sea- Samantha Club I have a confession- Hanna/7 Curbing Dad- Retry Col/in: Monument—... Show moreTable of Contents Introduction- Andrea Sanow {9’ Cary I’Mzterman Fruit- Maltna Thoma Banc of the Mistress- Sana Malik Dead Flowers— Em Kline Motive: A Study in Antelopc- Samant/za Curk Ashes— Elise Estrada City/Sea- Samantha Club I have a confession- Hanna/7 Curbing Dad- Retry Col/in: Monument— Mtlany Kearnr Fading Facades— Sana Malik Herero Woman- Kate Woo/truer Farewell Powdery Paradise— Natarlza Palm/(y Home- Kate Woo/war Tunchead— Sergio Monterrubia Backyard— lldam Spanier Bodies- Molly Ebling @Andrm Sanaw Headphones- Brandy Hyatl Where Learning Lives- Betsy Cal/in: Flowers Gone Wild- Son Min/.1 Tran Untitlcd— Kat: Woo/ever Grandpa-l- Mal/y Eb/ing Grandpa-Z- Mal/y E/J/ing Foreword to A Life— Sana Mali/a The Wheeze that my Heart Makes- Brianna O/wn-Carr My Generation- Benjamin Antaniewirz Black Hole- Hanab Curbing Wrapping a Sari- Mal/y Eb/ing It's Just Summer- Calin Irvine Supercell- Tzd Comm/tr The Coast- Cbrirlopber Clauson Working Wonders- Sana Malt} Eager Ends-Jen Srlm/l ENL 7th Grade- Sana Malik I miss you because—Andrea Sanaw Show less
Fading Facades Sana Malik Last night in the fresh snow I tread on my own stale footsteps (the world spiraled and spun just in time to reach them) Last night in the fresh snow I encased myself obstinately in a hoop of my own footprints (I spiraled and spun just in time to stamp them) Last night in... Show moreFading Facades Sana Malik Last night in the fresh snow I tread on my own stale footsteps (the world spiraled and spun just in time to reach them) Last night in the fresh snow I encased myself obstinately in a hoop of my own footprints (I spiraled and spun just in time to stamp them) Last night in the fresh snow I lay down under my own shadow as the angel beneath me quivered and wreathed (my spirit spiraled and overturned just in time to bury me) Last night in the fresh snow I determined to bury you, You with your crescent scar above the lip and your Libra craft of being happy—go-lucky and especially with the fungus-ridden celery you always leave in the fridge. I determined to bury the loopy SS in your handwriting, even my name which you covered with cheap Valentine hearts. I determined to bury the (the sun spiraled and glared just in time to melt me) 23 Show less
‘— A vase of dying flowers blocked a collection of black and white pictures that she'd had to beg him for permission to put up. Five in all, arranged in a plus sign. Each was a swirl of grayscale in which she saw an expression of love. From time to time she traced the tiny delicate lines with her... Show more‘— A vase of dying flowers blocked a collection of black and white pictures that she'd had to beg him for permission to put up. Five in all, arranged in a plus sign. Each was a swirl of grayscale in which she saw an expression of love. From time to time she traced the tiny delicate lines with her index finger, the smooth glass was cold and hard under her skin. These five photos were never left to gather dust as the others were. These photos were different, small and perfect. Her creation on film. He said that the pictures challenged his beliefin God. “Dawn, this is morbid. Unhealthy."One day he stacked the pictures one on top of the other and placed them in cardboard box to be hidden beneath the bed. “No, not yet!" she cried, grabbing the box from his arms and cradling it against her chest. “I haven't said goodbye." “You're sick!" he spat, pulling the box away from her and dropping it purposely on the floor. Glass shattered and covered the floor. “You're a monster!" She crawled on her hands and knees through the sea of glass shards and collected the photos to her breast, sliding them between her tee—shirt and her body. She brushed the blond hair that stuck to her tears away from her face with bloody hands. He started to cry as he often did. “I don't mean it. You’re not sick.”He picked Dawn up off the floor, feeling her weight and warmth against him. He brought her to the bath— room and laid her in the tub, lifting up her dress just so high as the blood went. His rough hands were embarrassed to graze the soft skin of her thighs. It had been so long since he had touched her bare skin. As he removed each shard of glass that was lodged into her, he apolo— gized. "I am a monster.” Staring at the pictures, Dawn began to feel the familiar sensation offalling. She gripped the arm of the couch with dagger—like fingers and squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, the fan that caused the lights to strobe above her sounded like a helicopter in the room. Her ears plugged up and her eyes watered. Covering her ears didn’t stop the deafen— ing sounds from drowning her thoughts. “Stop!” She howled. “Stop it!" Eventually it began to stop. “Water, water, water." Her mouth was dry and her throat had hardened. She grasped the couch and pulled herself to her feet, knocking the cold coffee off the end table. As she stumbled toward the bathroom, the curtains billowed away from the wall, filling the whole room. 1he floor shifted beneath her feet and she had to crawl on all fours to keep from falling over. She kept close to the walls, but they, too, shifted and shoved 9 Show less
The Coast Cbristop/Jer Clemson I am standing on the edge of a cliff, wondering what would happen if Ijumped off. I stare out over the ocean far below; the balmy breeze of this bright Irish day hits me square in the face with cool certainty, as if to tell me I need to step back. Back to what?... Show moreThe Coast Cbristop/Jer Clemson I am standing on the edge of a cliff, wondering what would happen if Ijumped off. I stare out over the ocean far below; the balmy breeze of this bright Irish day hits me square in the face with cool certainty, as if to tell me I need to step back. Back to what? Behind me, Beth is sprawled out on the hood of my Jaguar, oblivious to the destructive thoughts in my head. I do not have to glance back at her to know this; at every stop on every road trip we've ever taken, she does the same thing. Working on her tan, she says. “I thinkI might jump OH,"I call back to her, my voice carried to her on the wind. “Pervert,” she calls back, barely audible from speaking against the breeze. I know she has not moved; she is still there on the hood, and will now be either adjusting her breasts or snapping her gum. She thinks that I'm being funny, that I’m admiring her, that I said get off instead ofjump off. It wouldn’t be the first time, I’ll give her that. We tend to fuck a lot when on vacation, especially in public places. We've fucked at Yellowstone, in the shadow of Old Faithful; we've fucked in a washroom stall at LAX; we fucked under- neath the Fremont Bridge in Seattle, in the middle of the night, with no audience but that famous, ugly troll statue. We have not fucked here in Ireland, though - nor will we. Ireland, land of my father and my father's father, of my brother and every Brennan (except for me, I was born in Chicago) —- this is sacred territory. Three days ago, we arrived for my Brother's funeral in Galway. It was a family affair, in Gaelic, attended by my uncles and the stout, old widows ofour ancestral village who beat their chests in mourning for a price. It was Beth’s idea to take a few days to drive along the coast. “'Ihe fresh air will clear your head," she told me. “And I've never seen Ireland before.“ But it has not cleared my head. We’ve made our way along the cliffs of the Western coast for days now, and I cannot escape my brother’s ghost. Every time we stop,I look out to sea and I see him - sometimes swimming, sometimes dashed upon the rocks, sometimes walking on the waves. Each time he haunts me. I hear him calling to me on the wind: Come,]immy. The water's warm. I miss you. I'm lost. Danny was always lost without a syringe in his arm; that’s why he’s dead at thirty-three. And now, here I am, lost in my homeland, lost with 53 Show less
Wrapping a Sari Molly Eb/ing The dorm room looked the same as it had for the past two months I’d been volun- teering there: crowded with thirty beds each raised on stilts three feet off the ground; little school bags perched atop locked cubbies; typical Indian windows with metal bars, instead of... Show moreWrapping a Sari Molly Eb/ing The dorm room looked the same as it had for the past two months I’d been volun- teering there: crowded with thirty beds each raised on stilts three feet off the ground; little school bags perched atop locked cubbies; typical Indian windows with metal bars, instead of screens, lined two entire walls and let in squares of hot sunlight. But I could feel a new energy and excitement that usually wasn't present on any given Saturday at All Bengal Women's Union. I saw a group of my little girls under one of the beds huddled around lipstick and blush, preparing their faces for the festival. Another came up behind me. “Auntie, Aunite, help," Payel said holding a long, limp piece of fabric in her hand. Her cheeks were abnormally rosy and her lips bright red. "No, I'm sorry Payel,I don’t know how.Janni Na.I don't know.]anni Na." She didn’t move,just stood shifting her eyes from the unwrapped sari to mine. “Okay, okay. I will try." I held the piece of fabric contemplating where to begin. Payel stood with her arms out, open at her sides, the same way I had two hours before at my host family’s house, when Joba was dressing me. Earlier that same morning I had been standing with my arms extended straight from my sides while Joba tucked and wrapped the iridescent green fabric around my body. She draped the most decorative end over my left shoulder, the gold embroidered leaves of its pat— tern swirled, connected and looped naturally together down to the fabrics end. Joba spun me around shortening the excess material as it gathered at my waist. She made perfect pleats in the stiff, new fabric. “Pin?” she asked. I handed her the safety pin and she fastened the fabric hung over my shoulder to the sleeve of my borrowed gold blouse. “Finished,” she said in her strong Indian accent, pronouncing the English “F” as a She smiled, looking me over, and pinched the apple of my cheek. Before she could walk away to dress my host mother I pulled her back in for a careful hug — careful so as not to disturb the flawless work she'd done in wrapping my sari. I didn't worry about her sari; unlike my host mother's whose sari lay perfectly pleated and pressed,_]oba’s was always wrinkled, hiked up 41 Show less
would. I started by finding the most decorated end of the fabric, the piece that goes over the left shoulder. I reserved about three or four feet of this, and slung it over Hasi’s shoulder, like I'd seen Joba do. 'Ihen,l found the other end ofthe fabric. The line of fabric from her shoulder to the... Show morewould. I started by finding the most decorated end of the fabric, the piece that goes over the left shoulder. I reserved about three or four feet of this, and slung it over Hasi’s shoulder, like I'd seen Joba do. 'Ihen,l found the other end ofthe fabric. The line of fabric from her shoulder to the new end was not twisted, so I tucked the end into her petticoat. I made sure to check the length of the skirt, because I remembered Joba hiking mine up, tucking extra fabric in, to make it short enough that I wouldn't step on it.I continued tucking until I'd made it around Hasi's entire waist. I gathered a foot or two of fabric and begin folding it in like an accordion. I tucked this fabric in front of her right hip, the place where I had stopped tuck- ing; the folds created pleats in the skirt portion. Then I took the piece from her shoulder and wrapped it around her body, underneath her left arm, across her chest from the bottom right, and up to her left shoulder once more. “Aka photo, one picture,"I said, placing my camera on a dresser and setting the timer. We posed in our perfect looking saris with our arms around each other’s backs. She, like Payel, had invited me to be a part ofher life, her culture. She had accepted me, disregarded my differences, my lack of knowledge, and allowed me, an outsider, to participate in the tradi— tional way of her culture. We looked at the photo, our smiles and dress almost overshadowing the fact that we were so different from one another, that I didn’t belong. After the picture . Hasi followed me out of the room, and nearly fell over; I had wrapped the sari too tightly l around her legs. 45 Show less
