Haute Dish, Fall 2012 by Diane Douglass

Haute Dish

The Arts and Literature Magazine of Metropolitan State University FALL 2012

Volume 9 â&#x20AC;˘ Issue 1

Inside This Issue Urban Elegy

Nick Hutchinson

Storm Warning

Tawnya Michels

Under the Moon

Amber Anderson

Hard of Hearing

Robert Lloyd

Bloom 7 Chiara Marano

The Box

Zach Jansen

Exploring 9 Chiara Marano

Dawn’s Early Light

Tawnya Michels

King 11 Whittier Strong

Romancing The Stone Saga

Patrick Parisian

Still Swans

Chiara Marano

Another Zombie Movie

Nicholas Vittum

Spirit Afire

Zach Jansen

Red and Green

Heather Schillinger

Summer Chores

Derek Anderson

Untitled Bird

Heather Schillinger

Blood 21 Sandy Willis

Our Garden

Diane DeRosier Douglass

Cousins 26 Whittier Strong

Goodbye First Love Vientsavang Vue

From the Editor

Fall 2012

Welcome to the long overdue Fall 2012 issue of Haute Dish. This is typically our smallest issue of the year due to it being many students’ first semester and all the others returning (and not having much, if anything, to submit). We invite you to celebrate with us, the smallness, but greatness, of this issue. The pieces included have been carefully chosen by our wonderful editors who work very hard and take their roles seriously. The team demonstrated an amazing display of professionalism and this issue proves to be better than the last (as usual). This semester is winding down... quickly...which means the new year is almost upon us. Take your work from this semester (or others), take the time to refine it over winter break and submit (MANY times!) to Haute Dish. The editors love to have LOTS to read, look at and ponder over...really!!! Thank you for the support from you, our readers. We wouldn’t be here without you. Thank you to the editors who come together as a team despite my absentmindedness, as well as other things, to work so hard for Haute Dish. Most of all, thank you to our advisor, Suzanne Nielsen, for her wisdom, strength and wicked sense of humor.

Managing Editor

Good luck and good bowling! Diane DeRosier Douglass diane.derosierdouglass@metrostate.edu

Diane DeRosier Douglass

Associate Managing Editor Chiara Marano

Web Editor Matthew “Matty” Spillum

Editors Amber Anderson Jeff Arcand Nick Hutchinson Chiara Marano Cat Miller Matty Spillum Whittier Strong Elizabeth Todd Vientsavang Vue

Faculty Advisor Suzanne Nielsen

Submissions: Visit www.hautedish.metrostate.edu The Spring 2013 issue is open to all Metropolitan State University students. Deadline is Sunday, February 3, 2013.

Front Cover Art Quiet by the Water Per Bertilsson The waves caress the beach, gracefully turning rocks and sand with its powerful stroke. Pebbles and stones grind against each other and it sounds like the water inhales and exhales; I want to be there, away from the noise. It’s peaceful and quite...by the water.

Back Cover Art Poison Diane DeRosier Douglass All copyrights are retained by individual artists and authors. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is strictly prohibited. Haute Dish is a production of Metropolitan State University and is made possible in part by student activity fees.

Bios Amber Anderson is a current senior at Metropolitan State and will graduate in December 2012 with a B.A. in creative writing. She loves playing with words and traveling as much as possible.

Chiara Marano is a senior majoring in technical communication and professional writing with minors in creative writing and gender studies. She enjoys reading, music, and collecting antique skeleton keys.

Derek Anderson is pursuing a degree in professional writing and technical communication, as well as minors in advertising and media literacy at Metropolitan State. A fanatic film fan, Derek co-operates and contributes to TuesdayMovieMen. com, a website that provides the average movie fan with informational and insightful movie reviews. He is also a staff writer for The Metropolitan. Derek’s favorite film genres are horror and coming-of-age drama-comedies. He particularly enjoys watching 1980s movies like Friday the 13th and Better Off Dead. When he’s not reading a Stephen King hardcover or a Brian Keene paperback, Derek can be found lifting weights, running, writing, fishing, or working. He was born in Coon Rapids and still lives there today with his family.

Tawnya Michels is a 26-year-old senior in her final semester at Metropolitan State graduating in spring 2013. She is a creative writing major and has a minor in advertising. She is the current online administrator for The Metropolitan newspaper as well as a journalist. Her dream jobs include National Geographic and Veterans Affairs.

Per Bertilsson is a current business student at Metro State. “I’m a passionate photographer and took the submitted photograph with a pinhole camera on the Lake Superior North Shore. It is a silver gelatin print that I made in my own darkroom that belongs to a series called ‘By The Water.’ Diane DeRosier Douglass has been a student for the past 15 years or so. She has managed to graduate a couple of times and will do so again, sometime in the future. She doodles, scribbles and has recently been accused of carrying around a personal coloring book to every meeting. Nick Hutchinson is a graduating senior, a Haute Dish editor, a musician, and a novelist. He rides his bike around and likes people when they behave. Zach Jansen is a senior screenwriting student making his third appearance in Haute Dish. Thirteen more and he’ll tie Alec Baldwin’s Saturday Night Live hosting record. In related news, when not getting schooled at Metro State he gets schooled at home by his two toddler sons who enjoy tackling their father and then crotch-stomping him until he turns on Curious George. Robert Lloyd is finishing his degree in creative writing. He writes poetry and short fiction. His favorite writers include Rumi, Gore Vidal, Hermann Hesse, Pablo Neruda, Rainer Maria Rilke, and Henning Mankell.

Patrick Parisian is a 21-year-old studying creative writing. He would like to visit Japan someday and his favorite great lake is Lake Superior. ”I’ve lived in Minneapolis, Minnesota all my life. I am currently enrolled in the writing program. After school I hope to one day become a professional fiction writer. I hope to write things that people who don’t normally read would enjoy. I also enjoy the color lime green and Ben Stiller movies.” Heather Schillinger is a senior at Metro State. She will be graduating this fall semester. Heather enjoys both arts and crafts from painting to papermaking. Check out more of Heather’s arts and crafts at her blog: artbyheatherlynn. blogspot.com. Whittier Strong is a creative writing major with a double minor in studio arts and English. He is also a Haute Dish editor. His poetry recently appeared in Among the Leaves: Queer Male Poets on the Midwestern Experience. More of his writing is available at whittierstrong.wordpress.com. He resides in Minneapolis. Nicholas Vittum “I’m a new student at Metro State; I’m also an amateur writer/drummer. My band, Awkward Bodies, has garnered modest praise from a few inconsequential musician collectives in the Twin Cities area, and my writing has been published in this issue of Haute Dish (a Lit Mag which is highly consequential).” Vientsavang Vue enjoys the subjects of creative writing, art, fashion, and life lessons. She believes in spirituality and her priority in life is gaining constant knowledge. She is always grateful for everyone and everything she has in her life. She hopes to pursue a writing degree but she is so fascinated by many subjects that she is indecisive on what she really wants to educate herself in first. Sandy Willis lives in West Saint Paul.

Urban Elegy Nick Hutchinson I drink my coffee on the wire balcony outside my apartment, overlooking the buses and the cars of the early risers this early-fall day in the city, the 7 AM sunlight making short work of the first frost of the year. The birds are out, and for once, I can ignore the fact that we’ve darkened the sky beyond repair. It’s a good morning. This is where I used to imagine myself, somewhere down the line. I feel like maybe people are being okay to each other out there. My place has wood floors that creak, and big, elaborate radiators. Down in the basement, a huge, pot-bellied boiler feeds heat to every room in the building. If there’s a God, he loves places like this. The leaves are just starting to turn. The air has that smell. If every day could be right on this edge, we’d be all set. I wish we could all just appreciate these mornings. I wish we weren’t all so hurried. We don’t have time to enjoy anything anymore. I think about the city, and God damn it, how much it’s a part of me and how much I love what it means to me. I hope other people see it too. I’d hate to see it swallowed up by this fake shit we’re so in love with these days. My heart is brick and steel, worn to perfection over the span of a good century. It is newer and better now than it ever was—the latest vintage. I love to watch the leaves fall and the walls crack and crumble. I only wish we could stay with it. The lakes, the runners, the old folks out in their long coats, ambling beneath gnarled branches strung up with lights, still in love. All this is buried now, hidden behind so much empty “hype.” Not that there’s no room for that, too. I dig excitement as much as the next guy. I just think it’s sad that we lack an option of peace. Sometimes you want to raise hell, and other times, you just want to watch the leaves fall.

I feel like I’ve wanted this for a long time, while the rest of the world has just charged in the opposite direction. I’m not on board with this whole iPod-ification of everything. Not that there’s no room for that, too. Everything in moderation. But I choose class, culture, and dignity, over this whole “it’s hip to be young,” “everything in sandalwood and white plastic” thing that’s just taken over. I’m old on the inside, even though I still try to live like a young man. I’m tired. All I want is to dry up like these autumn leaves and blow away. I love old things—old books, old houses, old music. Not that the old ways are the best ways; I still look to the future, but in hope that it might learn from the past, rather than bulldoze over it. I can’t say I understand much of anything—I only know what makes sense, what feels right to me. The earlymorning beeping of trucks as they back up to loading docks. The trash collectors coming around and taking away what’s no longer needed. I envision the Working Man wearing one of those hats you usually associate with Depression-era cab drivers. His joints ache. His kids have moved out and all but forgotten him. We live in such vulgar denial of the end of life. I know it all seems melancholy, but sometimes I feel like melancholy is the fabric of life. Everything changing, everything fading away. Loss and longing. It won’t be long, now.

Storm Warning Tawnya Michels photography u

Under the Moon Amber Anderson Under the moon… I stand tall like a giant like Everest like redwoods reaching never endlessly to pick a star to carry with me.

Under the moon… I wait patiently for a sign for a whisper for an answer that will clear a path and shine a torch to guide me.

Under the moon… I gaze into my mind into your heart into eternal darkness wondering if there’s another side through the black hole and if I would return.

Under the moon… I love endlessly fearlessly passionately carefully contemplating what’s next, as you stare into the barriers of my soul.

Under the moon… I breathe systematically repetitiously harmoniously carelessly terrified of you, me, them, and the unknown. Under the moon … I sit still like stone like a hunter like a weight bearing down on a pumping chest.

Hard of Hearing Robert Lloyd I would never wish to be deaf, But I sometimes envy my Dad. He could turn off a noisy world And hear the music in his head.

Bloom Chiara Marano photography

The Box Zacb Jansen The box smelled of the German pine trees it was stolen from almost a lifetime ago. It was handmade; even the hinges were whittled from smaller branches. On the box’s face was a clumsily carved rendering of a robin. Under the robin, the name Becker was squeezed in, framed by the box’s edges. The robin was entwined with a beveled line that weaved itself around the rest of the box like a drunk determined to make it home on foot. The body of the box was a single, seamless piece, deep and claustrophobic. When he reached inside his hand would disappear in its darkness. As a boy, he thought if he ever got a pet mouse or rat he would keep it in there. But he never got a mouse or a rat. Just the box. Before his father left, it sat alone on a shelf in his father’s study. Everyone called it a study, but it was more of a TV room. There was even a mini-fridge stocked with Old Milwaukee and Oreo cookies. He stole some Oreos once, along with a beer, when he was thirteen. He knew his father knew he what he had done––especially when he spent the night throwing up half-digested chocolate cookie chunks and cheap, second-grade ale––but he was never punished. “Not feeling good?” his father asked in between heaves into the toilet. “No, sir.” “Usually happens when something’s not sitting right inside us.” Yes, sir.” “You just let it all out. Get some sleep and you’ll feel better in the morning.” “Yes, sir.” Two years later his father was dead. A heart attack while driving home from a funeral of a friend he fought with in Hue. The car skidded on the snow-covered back highway and caromed off a fir tree just off the shoulder. It flipped on to the driver’s side and slid into a drain-off ditch. The snow fell like toothpaste that night, thick and heavy. 8

It was three weeks before they found the car. The cold and snow acted as a preservative and the look of cardiac pain was still engraved on his father’s face. A closed casket was recommended as the mortician was unable to “make him looked as comfortable as possible.” During the late Sixties, before he went into the funeral business, the mortician lived in Canada. His father knew that. The mortician knew his father knew that. Because there was no will, his father’s assets went to his mother. Everything expect the box, which his father specifically told his mother should go to him. For years he never understood why his father wanted him to have it. To him, it was just a box. Four pieces of wood, cut, carved, whittled, and slapped together. He knew it had been in the family since his grandfather, while in Germany, stole the firewood to make it from a farmhouse he and his squad sought shelter in during their march to Berlin. His father got it when he came home after his second tour––only five years older than he was when the box became his. It wasn’t until after the Towers went down, after he enlisted to go to Afghanistan, and after he had come home following his gunshot wound that he realized what the box was for. It had fallen off a shelf and dislodged the false bottom that hid a secret compartment where his father and grandfather’s souvenirs of their forays overseas lived. And like his father and grandfather, he laid his heart in the box.

Exploring Chiara Marano photography

Dawnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Early Light Tawnya Michels photography 10

King Whittier Strong Jump backward I am six I sit on my bedroom floor with my father (the only time I remember him playing with me) He is teaching me checkers: You can ONLY move on black You can ONLY go forward You can jump your opponent and remove his checker When you reach the other side of the board you are crowned: “King me!” A king can move forward and backward BUT a single CANNOT jump a king Jump forward I am ten It is a rain day and the class remains inside at recess My teacher brings out a checkerboard I take black Matt takes red I move forward “King me!” Matt jumps my king and takes it “A single CANNOT jump a king Gimme my king back!” “Nuh-uh, a single CAN jump a king!” Matt keeps my king I keep a lesson learnt for life

Jump forward I am thirty-seven and I understand why my father taught me that a single CANNOT jump a king He was king and no-one NO-ONE would jump him Jump backward I am eight My mother escapes jumps from rape and hate and royal edicts for crimes never committed She files for divorce QUEEN the lady, my good man! Jump forward I am thirty-eight finally free of my father (buried fifteen years) I can jump wherever the hell I want jump across the country jump across the ocean jump into the arms of the one who will have me jump because I am a man jump because I can jump because I am King me

Romancing The Stone Saga Patrick Parisian Wadsworth proceeded through the forest. It was the dead of night and his heart was afire with the blaze of passion. The coolness of the forest caressed his face, reminding him of his lover and her cool breath. He yearned to see her and saw her eyes in the glow of an owls and the red of her lips in the carcass of a nearby deer. Even the wolves feasting reminded him of her and his animalistic desires. For months he sought Victoria’s heart. Her family was the wealthiest in all of Manchester. And Victoria the fairest maid. With eyes of shining blue and hair of curled gold she made men waver. She entranced all with her beauty and etiquette. Her very words seemed to make a person’s skin tremble with delight. All of Manchester’s most privileged and elite sought Victoria’s hand. But Wadsworth was but a humble cabbage farmer… or he had been before he met Tumbleton. Tumbleton had been a wealthy businessman owning several factories. He had met Wadsworth one night when emerging from a pub. Stumbling in front of a carriage Tumbleton almost met his fate before Wadsworth pushed him out of the way, saving his life. To repay him Tumbleton offered to fulfill anything Wadsworth wanted. Wadsworth wanted only one thing. He asked how he might win Victoria’s heart. Tumbleton sent tendrils of putrid cigar smoke into the air before telling Wadsorth how he must become a man of refinement. Look wealthy and of the highest class. Wear expensive clothes and shower her with expensive jewels. But Wadsworth wore only rags and could give only cabbages. But Tumbleton possessed all of those things so Wadsworth asked for one more favor, for Tumbleton to become his partner in business. Tumbleton refused. So Wadsworth robbed him. Wadsworth had more than enough fancy clothes, jewelry, and money after that. He and Tumbleton being the same size helped too. Not long after that Wadsworth met Victoria to woo her. 12

And succeeded. Which brings events back much to where they began. Which is to say the beginning. Wadsworth on his way through the forest to meet Victoria. Wadsworth dismounted and walked towards Victoria. She stood on an outcrop of rock with the moonlight glowing softly on her fair skin. Her dress all of white seemed to be made of moonlight itself. She stared down to the water. Water that even during the brightness of day couldn’t hope to match her blueness of eye. Wadsworth approached Victoria in his finest double breasted suit of black. “My fair Victoria,” Wadsworth said. “Oh Wadsworth,” Victoria swooned. “You are beautiful in the moonlight. More beautiful than all the flowers in the field. Or all the plumes of the birds in the sky.” “Oh Wadsworth,” Victoria swooned. “Yes, to be here with you is a dream come true,” Wadsworth said. A gust of wind blew, undoing Victoria’s bonnet. It flew down to rest on the water below. Her hair scattered all about her in the breeze. The sweet scent of flowers filled Wadsworth’s nose. His skin turned to gooseflesh at being so close to her. “Oh Wadsworth,” Victoria swooned, a hand holding back her strands of curled gold. “I seek to ask your father for your hand in marriage,” Wadsworth said. “And if he refuses then I’ll steal you away. For to be without you is like a life without the sun and stars. And even the moon. Or whale oil lamps.” “Oh Wadsworth,” Victoria continued swooning. Wadsworth reached forward and took her hand in his. It was warm. Like a baby chick but less feathers and it didn’t wriggle so much. I am sorry to be so brusque. But I cannot control myself when I am close to someone as beautiful as you.” “That is alright,” Victoria blushed red in the moonlight, “I have held a man’s hand before, but never one as dashing as you.”

“What?” “Your hand is warm,” Victoria said, leaning closer to Wadsworth. Wadsworth stepped back and she embraced the air. “You’ve held a man’s hand before?” “Well, yes, I’m no girl. I’m nearly fourteen.” “You…you…hussy!” Wadsworth called out, his voice vibrating off the water. “No, it meant nothing. My heart belongs to you.” “Until some man with a warmer hand comes along you mean,” Wadsworth said, turning away and striding towards his mount. “You’re immoral to behave like that.” Wadsworth’s mind only momentarily flashed to Tumbleton pissing his breeches and crying as Wadsworth knocked him unconscious at knifepoint. “Please reconsider,” Victoria called after him. No no, Wadsworth thought, I will never love again. Wadsworth climbed atop his mount: a cricket the size of a horse. He grabbed the reins and put his heels into the cricket. He gave one final glance to Victoria’s beautiful distressed face. And with the releasing of his heels Wadsworth soared above the trees… Alone. Save his giant cricket for company.

Still Swans Chiara Marano photography

Another Zombie Movie Nicholas Vittum Another zombie movie Another routine scene What a great new angle The sheriff is picked clean The town is in a panic There’s blood ‘n’ guts ‘n’ gore But still the hero has no clue Just what he has in store He’s sitting on a sofa He’s sipping on a beer While behind him in the window The zombie mob draws near Their bodies are decaying Yet still they persevere The hero’s dog is barking Yet still he doesn’t hear One zombie breaks the window One zombie breaks the screen The hero jumps up just in time To save the dog from being Toppled by the undead He lunges for his gun But the undead are too many So the hero has to run

He narrowly avoids a bite From a creature on the ground He whips around, then him and Fido Bee-line for the town The road is dark and eerie Abuzz with chewing sounds A light in the distance dimly shines The heroes chase it down They reach the town and magically out a town of nine-hundred and three The hero sees a familiar face It’s his neighbor, Beverly Now Beverly is the love interest Because if she were not She wouldn’t have been so hastily thrown Into the hackneyed plot The hero rescues her from death And she tells him of the fate Of the rest of town, “all of them dead” “We must try to escape!” But when the hero is fatally wounded She has to leave him smarting While at home the viewer nodded off Just as the movie was starting

He carries the dog like a loaf of bread Makes his way to the barn He plows his way through the ravenous mob Predictably unharmed But there he finds more zombies It’s been downright infested There’s groaning, but no mooing ‘Cause the cows have been digested u

Spirit Afire Zach Jansen “I’ve got to get out of these clothes––fast.” The flames danced up his left pant leg. If I were him I’d want to strip down to my skivvies, too. Of course, he was the one who insisted on doing this, claiming that white rum burned better than dark rum. “That’s why those fire drinks use the clear stuff,” he had said setting us up some shots at the bar after closing. I wasn’t going to argue. He’s the bartender. I just drink. “You don’t believe me?” “Whatever you say,” I knocked back my shot. “Five bucks says it’s true.” “I believe you,” I lied. “Come on,” he grabbed two bottles––one white rum, the other dark––and came out from around the bar. I always found it awkward seeing a bartender not behind a bar. It’s like walking in on your parents having sex and then watching for five or ten minutes. He wore khakis, which seemed odd to me for mixing drinks and opening beers. But he had mentioned having a full-time, regular job, so maybe that explained his attire. He said that tending bar was just to make ends meet since moving into his new apartment. “Forty-years-old and living in a one-bedroom bachelor pad,” he said. When I asked about his change of venue he turned up the ball game on the TV. The parking lot was empty. I lived only a block away and always walked to the bar. I didn’t know where his car was. Or if he even had one. He poured the dark rum on the asphalt. Then, a few feet away, he poured the white, spilling some on his pants. The liquor spread over his leg like a bleeding wound. “Got a match?” I tossed him the book I snatched off the bar. He ripped out a match and dragged it across the flint strip. A burst of orange and the taste of sulfur danced on his fingers. He let the tiny torch fall to the ground. The flame vanished. “Don’t let it go from so high up,” I said. He crouched down and lit another match, dropping it six inches from the rum-soaked asphalt. 16

Nothing. “It’s seeping through the cracks,” I said. “I’ll do it in the bottle.” “No, no, you’ll get back draft. Might blow up in your face. Here,” I pulled off my right shoe, yanked off my sock, and offered it to him. He tossed the garment on the ground and poured some dark rum on it. “Check it out,” he said lighting a fresh match as I took off my other sock. The flame hovered in his hand––then he dropped it. A gasp of air and a ball of blue, yellow, and orange floated on the sock, almost as if the fire was afraid to touch my foot odor. I wondered if it was actually the rum fueling the blaze or my alcohol-concentrated sweat embedded in the fibers of the sock. “See how weak that is?” he asked. “Looks hot.” I handed him my other sock. He covered it with the white rum and laid it near the still-burning darkrummed sock. He lit the match––and his hand, which was holding the sock as he soaked it, erupted like a brush fire. Instinctually, he slapped it on his pants, but then those, too, lit up. He tried beating the flames out, but that only angered them, causing the fire to climb up to his shirt. “I’ve got to get out of these clothes––fast.” And he did. He dragged his hand on the gritty parking lot, saving himself from anything more than a few blisters. We would grab some ice once we got back inside. Until then we stood in darkness, me sockless and he in his briefs, watching his clothes turn to ash. “My wife got me those pants,” he said. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I pulled out my wallet. “Here’s your five bucks. Now come on. You can buy me a drink.”

Red and Green Heather Schillinger acrylic painting

Summer Chores Derek Anderson Devon pivoted sharply in his faded New Balance tennis shoes, crushing the grass beneath his gorilla-size foot like he was snuffing out a cigarette. The push mower’s two handles were slick with sweat, the vibrations from the engine riding up through Devon’s fingers and traveling to his heart. Sometimes he felt that if he mowed long enough, his body would keep on shaking even after he cut the engine. He would just go on through life a shaking man, his skin jiggling like a Jell-O dish his grandma made. The seventeen-year-old was halfway up the hill, dirty blonde hair sticking to the back of his neck, when he heard a voice yelling. Looking up from his path, Devon saw Mr. Sanderson coming toward him, his leathery skin cloaked in a plum turtleneck. Devon let go of the bars, but the mower kept running, idling up the hill in a straight line. “Oh Christ!” Devon said. He sprinted a few paces forward and grabbed the mower. With one flex of his corded arms, he pulled the two bars apart, stifling the engine mid-stride. “That thing giving you a hard time again, Tater?” Devon pulled his Def Leppard tee shirt, a Pyromania Tour souvenir, to his head and wiped sweat from the grooves of his tanned face. His sunburns from May had transformed to a more attractive shade over the summer. “You’re never going to let that go, are you Mr. Sanderson?” Devon said, meeting his neighbor’s milky eyes with his own crystal blue ones. “Hey, anybody who can wolf down twelve tater tots in two minutes at the National Night Out, and then go and lose it all on the Donovan’s driveway earns the right to be called ‘Tater.’ It’s an honorable thing.” Mr. Sanderson chuckled a little, and Devon joined him. “So, how are you doing today, Mr. Sanderson?” Devon asked as he tugged on his soaked shirt. Mr. Sanderson folded his arms and looked over his halfmowed yard towards Larch Street. “I’ve been better, been worse. To tell you the truth, 18

I’ve been spending this wonderful day cooped up inside my living room watching reruns of Leave It To Beaver. I suppose you’re too young to remember that one.” “Hey, I know that show. Eddie always gets the Cleaver boys into trouble. TV Land has some good stuff on late at night, you know.” “Well I guess there’s hope for this world after all.” Mr. Sanderson rubbed his chin, causing a loose fold of skin to jiggle up and down. “I watch a lot of television since Nancy passed; it helps keep me from thinking about things too much.” Devon only stared at the grass, and spared a glance at the mower. It wasn’t going anywhere. A dog barked a few yards over. Devon guessed it was the Marsh’s pit bull, a real pain in the ass. “Anyway, I just came out here to give you your money.” Mr. Sanderson pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. Devon took it and stuffed it deep into the pocket of his jean shorts. “Thanks, Mr. Sanderson.” “You’re welcome. Keep up the good work, Tater. That mower might be ready to keel over, but you add a nice touch to it. A good team, you and that rusted hulk.” The old man turned and started back up the hill, then stopped and looked back at his hired hand. “If you ever feel up to it, I wouldn’t mind going on a walk or just catching a movie. Your mom told me you like John Hughes films. That Breakfast Club looks pretty good, and it’s playing at the Garvin Theater.” Mr. Sanderson was sweating himself now, and he pulled the collar away from his neck, pinching the polyester. “Oh. Well, you know how busy I can get, but maybe sometime, sure.” Devon’s cheeks reddened, and his hands explored the lint filled bottoms of his pockets. Mr. Sanderson nodded; his thin lips a flat line. “Keep up the good work, Devon.” After Mr. Sanderson disappeared around the side of his house, Devon resumed mowing. He finished the back yard,

the final shaggy section, in fifteen minutes. As he pushed the steaming mower back into the cool shadows of his garage, Devon heard loud music blaring in his driveway. Emerging back into the spotlight of the high noon sun, Devon squinted and saw his buddy John Stiff tapping his way up the driveway, a boom box perched on one meaty shoulder. A crooked grin graced John’s face below wirerimmed glasses, and Devon himself smiled as the lyrics of The Knack’s My Sharona slammed against his eardrums. John turned the volume down low enough to talk. “Dude! Now that you’re done mowing old-timer’s yard, I was wondering if you wanted to catch a dip down at the swimming hole? Joan and Sara will be there.” John leaned forward, eyes glinting in the sun. “We might even go skinny dipping.” Devon’s insides melted at the thought of Joan’s and Sarah’s smooth, long legs dripping with water, hair hanging loose around their bare shoulders. Devon smiled. “Hell yeah, man, lets go.” On their way down the driveway, John suddenly veered off into the lawn, squinting at Mr. Sanderson’s house. He walked to Mr. Sanderson’s garage door and waved Devon over. “What’re you looking at, John?” “Oh man, you see these white stains on the garage door?” Devon saw them: seven faded white blotches that had been there since fall. “So?” “Last Halloween; Ed Conley and I were drunk as hell and egged Sanderson! It was freaking awesome!” John howled with laughter. He was still chuckling when he got to the street. Devon didn’t follow John. Instead, he turned and walked up the sidewalk to Mr. Sanderson’s front door. “What the hell? Dude, you got more chores to do or something?” John called. Devon climbed the front step and turned around, his face grim. “No. But I do have a movie to catch. Tell Joan and Sarah I’ll see them another time.” John’s reply was lost in the music. u

Untitled Bird Heather Schillinger acrylic painting

Blood Sandy Willis There might have been children. Who’s to say that they would have lived? Like my words do. And ain’t that better than blood? Never having to witness them thrash about with consumption or partnered with an unsuitable mate. The children I bore are stern enough to suffer any fool. And ain’t that better than blood? Through rain, snow, and sleet seen from my window I have wept, half-slept and pleaded with the words. But whether dusty shelf or feminist book fair, I still bloom. And ain’t that better than blood.

Our Garden Diane DeRosier Douglass pen and ink, watercolor paint

Cousins Whittier Strong I’m not with the man-cousins in the driveway, pontificating about rifles and pistols (I hate guns, but I know they need to eat this winter). I don’t discuss the ten-point buck I didn’t shoot, and can’t carry on about the fish I didn’t catch—I can’t tell the difference between a crappie and a bluegill to begin with. I’m not with the woman-cousins in the dining room, gossiping about who is divorcing and who should divorce, about who is about to have a baby. I don’t know of whom they speak, and if I did, it wouldn’t be my business. I do not breathe their air, thick with cigarette smoke and malice, with freshly canned blackberry jam and jealousy, for it is poison to me. I’m with the child-cousins in the living room, watching a worn videocassette of Home Alone 2, the picture jumping and skipping like the restless toddlers around me. I ponder the tongues that I have studied — primo/prima, cousin/cousine—and wonder how my familial lot would have fared had we grown up speaking a gendered language.

Goodbye First Love Vientsavang Vue graphite drawing

Haute Dish is published three times a year and is dedicated to showcasing the literary and artistic talent of the students of Metropolitan State University in Saint Paul, Minnesota. Currently, we are accepting electronic submissions from enrolled Metropolitan State students for the Spring 2013 issue. The deadline for submissions is February 3, 2013. To view detailed submission guidelines and for more information about our selection process, visit us on the Web at www.hautedish.metrostate.edu

Poison Diane DeRosier Douglass photography