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
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
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
Fruit Malena 77105072 Mourn when neighbors are squeezed dry like oranges-— de-pulped, strained (maybe twice), then mixed with sweeteners, diluted, and chemically altered to preserve freshness. But rejoice when a fresh orange is fully treasured straight off the tree.
bane of the mistress Sana Malié bittergourd secrets sublime clandestine scullions scrubbing at vile graffiti on the heart awhile sublime clandestine betel-nut kisses grafiiti vile on the heart saccharine and tart betel—nut kisses as the cloying aftertaste saccharine and tart ofa Canderel-ed pie... Show morebane of the mistress Sana Malié bittergourd secrets sublime clandestine scullions scrubbing at vile graffiti on the heart awhile sublime clandestine betel-nut kisses grafiiti vile on the heart saccharine and tart betel—nut kisses as the cloying aftertaste saccharine and tart ofa Canderel-ed pie cloying aftertaste of mulberry sighs, like a Canderel-ed pie purple-stained goodbye mulberry sighs clouding reflected gazes purple-stained goodbye in moonstruck eyes clouded reflected gazes cacao memories in moonstruck eyes coffeed and toffeed cacao memories wrapped in scuttling satin coffeed and toffeed wriggling out of grasp wrapped in scuttling satin gooseberry dreams wriggling out of grasp fudge-confectioned gooseberry dreams poetic concoctions fiad e—confectioned g laced with liquorice dreams of a goose Show less
Dead Flowers Em Kline Dawn was sitting on the blue and green plaid couch when it happenedThe olive green curtains along the wall in front of her began to move despite the closed windows. At first it was as though an August breeze was signifying the turn oflate afternoon into evening. The ceiling... Show moreDead Flowers Em Kline Dawn was sitting on the blue and green plaid couch when it happenedThe olive green curtains along the wall in front of her began to move despite the closed windows. At first it was as though an August breeze was signifying the turn oflate afternoon into evening. The ceiling fan clunked in circles above her, causing the single, dim light bulb to strobe faintly around her. An all too familiar tune chimed from the grandfather clock in the foyer, fol— lowed by one of those ominous chimes that echoed through an empty, still house. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to control the chimes, hoping they would stop. Inevitably, as it had chimed four times last hour, it chimed a fifth resounding stroke. He would be home soon. She curled her toes around the fibers of the oriental rug beneath her feet and let out a long slow breath that flattened her stomach. The unopened book that rested on her chest fell to the floor and she stared at it, willing it to slide under the couch and be hidden from her sight. As the curtains blew further from the wall, a laser of light cut through the dreary room and illuminated dust that floated in the air. The dust moved in one direction. Down. It came to rest on every available surface, creating a visible layer. Had she been able to muster the force to move, she wished to draw the sideways 8 ofinflnity on the walls. Instead they were covered with aging wallpaper that peeled from the mopboards, the ceiling, and the corners. Tiny sprigs of baby's breath decorated the paper in the few spots lacking picture frames or furniture. One frame was not in line with the others and she felt an overwhelming need to straighten it. It nagged on her mind, even though she refocused her attention to the book on the floor. She let her eyes flicker to the crooked frame, hating it with intensity. She wished the glass to break and the disobedient wood to splinter. But it did not, and she would not rise to fix it. It had been only a few days since the episode and Doc prescribed that she indulge in rest and avoid stressfirl situations. She couldn't decide which was more stressful to her at this mo— ment, getting up to realign the wooden frame or feeling its crookedness mock her from across the room. For the moment she escaped the spiteful laughter of the picture and became ensnared by the thought of eradicating all other stressful situations. He surely wouldn’t be allowed in the front door, every day bringing his work problems through the front door. Talk of her unemployment and household contributions would be banned. She would sweep, mop, dust, 7 Show less
scrub, fluff, wash, and cook under her own critique and no one else's. His mother wouldn’t be allowed in the county, with her plastic pointy nose and breasts. It was his mother who had decorated the room, matching everything to the warm tones in the hardwood floor. The floor was beautiful, Dawn... Show morescrub, fluff, wash, and cook under her own critique and no one else's. His mother wouldn’t be allowed in the county, with her plastic pointy nose and breasts. It was his mother who had decorated the room, matching everything to the warm tones in the hardwood floor. The floor was beautiful, Dawn agreed. It had been a shame to find the beautiful oriental rug at the art fair that perfectly filled the entire room. Really a shame. What would be left of her life was coffee, with its warm, healing effects as it flowed through her body. Cigarettes. with their soft mentholated and smoky breath as it entered her lungs. Her camera with its new telephoto lens that could capture the veins on a bee's wing if she desired to photograph such things. A blue cotton dress that slid between her thighs as she danced at the bar and sliver bangles jingle—jangling on her wrist as she spun.There was room for scotch, whiskey, and the occasional bottle of wine, but not much else. Nothing else, in fact, came to mind that she wished to preserve from her current life in the creation of an ideal world. She swirled her coffee mug by the handle and took a sip. To her disgust, the coffee was cold and she had neglected to brew another pot. She set the ceramic mug down on an end table and pulled her bathrobe tighter across her chest. Aside from the whirring of the fan above her and the curtains billowing away from the wall, the room was still and quiet. Behind the curtains the day was alive with the chirping ofbirds and the tinkle ofwind chimes. The sun was sinking to the west, creating a glowing halo that outlined the windows. The dust in the room starting swirling in circles, going up and down, side to side, and every which way. Dirt and grime popped out of every crevice and pointed with blackened fingernails, accusing her of being a bad housekeeper. A blank screened television. housed in wood paneling, was angled just square to where she sat. It, too, was cov— ered with a layer of dust that distorted the shows he watched, making the people look older and fuzzy. His spot on the couch sunk a little deeper than the rest and creaked under the small movements her body made. A photo of them, taken a few years ago, sat on top of the TV. She let her eyes relax and blur, then forced them to focus. Her smile was still bright and wide. His hand was still just as large, resting on her belly. They loved each other in that moment. And many other moments. In fact, the room was overflowing with moments of their love, some hanging in clusters along the dusty walls, some resting on antique furniture his mother had given them. There were photos of loving friends and family caught in candid moments by Dawn's keen eyes as she strolled around reunions hiding behind the Nikon that hung from her neck. All of them had gathered the dust of time and bittersweet yesterdays. 8 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
her away. They edged in closer and closer. She curled up into a ball on the floor until the walls backed away from her. When she rose to her feet after several minutes, she darted into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She dipped her head into the sink, holding onto the sides, and let... Show moreher away. They edged in closer and closer. She curled up into a ball on the floor until the walls backed away from her. When she rose to her feet after several minutes, she darted into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She dipped her head into the sink, holding onto the sides, and let the water splash over her lips, lapping it in with her tongue. Her hair matted to the sides of her face, turning darker with the water. Exhausted from the effort it took to make it to the bathroom. she rested limply on the bathroom sink panting. Her heart began to slow and her breath evened out. Having finally regained control, she turned the faucet knob oil and pushed herself to a standing position. The medicine cabinet mirror reflected her image, and bounced it off of the wall mirror behind her. Fifty, maybe a hundred, Dawns were staring listlessly into their own eyes. She was going crazy and she couldn't stop it. Life was flying around her as she moved in slow motion through the challenges of daily life. She still looked like the same Dawn. Her skin was still soft and elastic. no lines had emerged from her worries. Her hair, until the water had gotten a hold of it, was blow—dried and flat ironed to a shiny blond sheet that fell past her shoulders. Her clothes were clean and pressed, fitting closely to her slender body. She pushed at her cheeks until they turned pink. She was still presented in the same packaging as the happy pictures on the wall, slightly worn from being mishandled along the way. Inside, though, the fragile components were broken. The only physical evidence lay in her eyes. The darkened circles beneath constantly weary and blood-shot gray eyes, glossy with the tears that she hid from the world. She made it a point to avoid eye contact, with strangers and friendly faces alike, fearing that someone would see her nakedness. Her flaw. She shuffled back to the couch and relaxed into her spot with a slow sigh. She anticipated his arrival and her bleak insistence that they should order out. To control a man’s stomach was to control his heart, her mother always told her. Dawn would have different advice. Someday. Something like, if the status of a man's heart depends on your ability to bake a meatloaf like his mother's, bail. The helicopter was coming back, and she was too tired to bother covering her ears. She knew it was of no use, anyway. She let her head hang, chin to her chest, and stared at her hands in her lap. The engagement ring sparkled, the only source of brightness in the dark and dimming room. For five years it had encompassed her finger and her mind. How long would it remain alone on that finger with the accompaniment ofa wed- ding ring? He was waiting for that one last ingredient before setting the date. The beeping of the coffee maker every morning marked the seconds of their lives, making the world inch by as she raced through her twenties. She knew the answer, and always had. If she delivered her 10 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
ing like a snake through the top layer ofearth. He had caught up to her, having lost his hat and shed his button-down along the way. “Dawn. don't do this. I can't do this right now." He wiped sweat from his forehead and looked at her under a brow wrinkled from the glare of the sun. “Let’s go home... Show moreing like a snake through the top layer ofearth. He had caught up to her, having lost his hat and shed his button-down along the way. “Dawn. don't do this. I can't do this right now." He wiped sweat from his forehead and looked at her under a brow wrinkled from the glare of the sun. “Let’s go home, Dawn." She twisth from his grip and stared straight into his eyes, wondering if he could ever really love herjust as she was. All she wanted was a small sign. A look in his eye or a soft much against her bare skin. She didn’t speak. He turned away. raising a trail ofdust behind him as he walked the winding path hack to the house. She took off running down the long rickety wooden pier and dove in head first, letting the cool waters welcome her with a lapping tongue. She let herselfsink to the bottom of the pond, expelling all the air out of her lungs in big bubbles. She was in mother nature's womb and she, too, would refuse to emerge alive. 12 Show less
Motive: A Study in Antelope Samant/Ja Guck Sometimes I have a hard time deciding whether animals are more like humans or machines. example: An antelope is being pursued by a wild dog, his parting snarl and the thunder of padded feet close behind, tools of the take-down of the antelope’s end. As... Show moreMotive: A Study in Antelope Samant/Ja Guck Sometimes I have a hard time deciding whether animals are more like humans or machines. example: An antelope is being pursued by a wild dog, his parting snarl and the thunder of padded feet close behind, tools of the take-down of the antelope’s end. As death thumps the earth behind her, what motivates the antelope to run? Is it panic, blind and personal? Does the antelope run because she knows she has a life and a life is a thing worth saving? Does she run out ofdesire to see the end of another sun red and flaring over the long grass ofthe Serengeti? To lie in sleep on the fragrant earth,> To taste sweet water once more And rejoice the return of rain? Or does the antelope run simply because the antelope runs: Driven by joints fueled by feed compelled by some unconscious command ofinstinct running with blank eyes, beating time with programmed hooves, thinking no thoughts toward her own red ribs, fearing no fears ofclumsy stumbled bones hoping no escape-hopes of her own? 13 Show less
Ashes Elise Estrada Down past Redway past Garberville past the Avenue of the Giants through the winding, snaking highway of Richardson Grove, there is a forest of Redwoods so silent and sacred it is walking the empty halls ofa forgotten cathedral. Sunlight comes through branches in dusty rays of... Show moreAshes Elise Estrada Down past Redway past Garberville past the Avenue of the Giants through the winding, snaking highway of Richardson Grove, there is a forest of Redwoods so silent and sacred it is walking the empty halls ofa forgotten cathedral. Sunlight comes through branches in dusty rays of light filtered and colored like shining through stained glass. Kneeling upon the immaculate moss is bowing in prayer to a God I can believe. She asked me to dust her ashes along the green of Bull Creek, to find a summer day born of heat. I have never been there and I never will. The most lonesome betrayal, And I deny her still. 14 Show less
City/ Sea Samantha Guck Now, stay with me on this one: on a shell, an anemone the city is like a sea on the birds at least in the morning who cut the sky cold 8Lquiet like the only true fish still and on us crustaceans like a soft picture—ocean skittering here and we deep, deep below in the salt... Show moreCity/ Sea Samantha Guck Now, stay with me on this one: on a shell, an anemone the city is like a sea on the birds at least in the morning who cut the sky cold 8Lquiet like the only true fish still and on us crustaceans like a soft picture—ocean skittering here and we deep, deep below in the salt bottoms. the sky acting as water in this simile and the clouds...boats maybe? High high above where we cannot understand the shapes of their purpose the branches of trees bramble up like flora aquatica an elm makes fine coral with its tangle-twisted limbs others - birch and pine — seaweed, stiff. And what hits the eyes most during these early morning walks to lecture halls are buldings as the sun glints hazy in the blue-light fog of new days blazing copper and iridescent on an apartment on the horizon 15 Show less
I have a confession Hanna/.1 Curbing At night I like to walk and look into windows of the houses I pass. Not in perversion. Rather.I find it calming to watch the peaceful nighttime routines unfold without any frame of reference for the chaos I know must be more truthful. How predictable the... Show moreI have a confession Hanna/.1 Curbing At night I like to walk and look into windows of the houses I pass. Not in perversion. Rather.I find it calming to watch the peaceful nighttime routines unfold without any frame of reference for the chaos I know must be more truthful. How predictable the rhythms ofour lives, our comings and goings, our ascents and descents. Through the windows I can see it. Television. Teeth brushing. The eventual tiring. 'Ihe surrender to unconsciousness. The wave of the white flag. It is almost hopeful. Unless,l think that tomorrow they must do it all again. 16 And that this peaceful display of light cocooned softly in darkness is but something tangible to house the seething at its core. How predictable the rhythms of our lives, the rises and falls, the labored breaths and tired exhalations, the loves and losses and trite words of comfort, the numbness, the resentments, the hatred. How predictable that we need some things to hold fast to, proof that this rhythm is redeemable for something besides distraction monotony, or boredom. How predictable that I should like to walk, and while I walk look into windows creating for these characters — stories as fictional as their lives. 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
Dad Betsy Col/ins You always told me, “Up hill to school both ways. Barefoot. In the snow." You always told me your only toys were a stick and a rock. You told me your favorite childhood snack, bacon grease sandwiches. Coalwood, West Virginia 1955. Coalwood, West Virginia 2001. We visited your... Show moreDad Betsy Col/ins You always told me, “Up hill to school both ways. Barefoot. In the snow." You always told me your only toys were a stick and a rock. You told me your favorite childhood snack, bacon grease sandwiches. Coalwood, West Virginia 1955. Coalwood, West Virginia 2001. We visited your high school on a hill (up hill one way), broken glass windows and scum/moss carpet. I ran through the halls and screamed for this abandoned building. 'Ihe house you grew up in was knocked down, replaced with dirt, replaced with shit. I screamed for this abandoned town and burst. Rockford, Minnesota 2010. Pinto beans and a blow up mattress. Living in the rubble of another knocked—down house. Must be looking a lot like Coalwood again. I scream for your abandoned life. 18 Show less