Upcountry by Upcountry

upcountry

Winter 2013

upcountry university of maine at presque isle winter 2013

Editors Dr. Melissa Crowe Jessica Edney Angel Cray Submissions The Upcountry staff reads submissions from University of Maine at Presque Isle students and alumni for the Fall/Winter and Spring/Summer issues each year. For specific submission information (including deadlines), see our website at www.upcountryjournal.wordpress.com. We can be contacted via email at upcountry@maine.edu. Upcountry is a publication of the University of Maine at Presque Isle's English Program. A literary journal dedicated to showcasing poems, short stories, personal essays, and visual art from the campus community, the journal is published twice yearly. The views expressed in Upcountry are not necessarily those of the University of Maine at Presque Isle or its English Program. © 2013. All rights reserved.

In complying with the letter and spirit of applicable laws and in pursuing its own goals of diversity, the University of Maine System shall not discriminate on the grounds of race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, including transgender status or gender expression, national origin or citizenship status, age, disability, or veteran status in employment, education, and all other areas of the University System. The University provides reasonable accommodations to qualified individuals with disabilities upon request. Questions and complaints about discrimination in any area of the University should be directed to Barbara DeVaney, Director of Affirmative Action and Equal Employment Opportunity, 205 South Hall, 181 Main Street, Presque Isle ME 04769-2888, phone 207-768-9750, TTY available upon request.

Kayla Ames What Comes to Mind (essay)

Justin Bari A Day at the Cathedral (poem)

Kati Christoffel Hubcap Heaven (cover art, photo) TR 16 (painting)

Shawn Cote Jillpoke Bohemia (comic strip)

Lacie Glidden The Island Shepherd’s Apprentice (poem)

Cassie Green Movie-Scene Love Making (poem)

Dena Rose Joseph The Grandfather of Kings (poem) The Surviving Men (poem)

10 20

Kate Madore The Comings and Goings of Mr. D

Abby McLaughlin

Admission (poem) Mechanic (poem)

26 8

Chris Morton Idle Hands (essay)

Courtney Parsons Sepia Sound (photo)

Chelsea Searles House #3, Limestone (photo) House #5, PT Farm (photo)

9 32

Vanninnia Small Another Hungry Day (essay)

Jessica Trombley The Chosen Scar (story) A Twine of Pepper (poem)

28 5

Jessica Trombley A Twine of Pepper Alone, I draw the old, frayed string down. The ceiling opens And the stairs creek with poufs of dust. The attic is dark and musty, but I spot The old book, Fragile and sweet. As I massage it, Finding its curves and tears, I smell the familiar pepper Spilled In the cracks, And then, I can see Her.

Kayla Ames What Comes to Mind Snip snip. Dark brown hair makes a barely audible plop as it lands on cheap white computer paper. That's followed by a neurotic crinkle as I try to herd fragments of my bangs toward the center seam. I hate when it gets on the floor – or even worse, my face. Gram leans back, extends her neck. Like a gentle perfectionistturtle, or an artist surveying her latest work. This is our routine. Every time she visits me at college, she tightens the screws in my glasses and cuts my bangs. It's one of the few moments in life when I get to simply look at her. She doesn't wear lipstick. Hasn't since I was a kid. The flesh of her face is smooth. Pliant. I can imagine reaching out and touching it, my fingers slipping into the warm, skin-colored puddles that are her cheeks. We both have brown eyes. I've almost managed to convince myself that I inherited them from her, not my father. Those eyes have concealed and revealed ferocity, watched me sleep, seen her children grow and family members die. Now they focus, steady and intent, as miniature shears hover atop my eyelids, her hands shaking ever so slightly. That sets off more memories, similar to a road flare. Her nails are rounded, polished miracles. I think of the nightly scritchscratch of an emery board, because miracles require maintenance. They click against the steering wheel as she hums, very low, under her breath, driving us wherever and whenever we ask. I can feel them moving up and down, up and down, as she scratches my back – one of the most comforting sensations in the world. “What do you think?” she asks. “Look in the mirror and make sure they're straight.”

Pulling away again, she leaves the faintest of scents: clean linen, soap, sometimes coffee or toothpaste or peanut butter. My grandmother does everything in moderation. There's a seldomtouched bottle of White Diamonds perfume on the counter back home which, like the lipstick, I don't think she's used in years. She doesn't have to. “They're good,” I say. “Are you sure?” Even if they were crooked, I wouldn't care. In that area, we differ greatly. Gram checks her hair unfailingly before she gets out of the car, convinced she looks like a witch each and every time, while I consider washing and brushing too much fuss. As she fluffs my bangs, I'm reminded of how she used to weave ribbons into my braids before I went to school. Years later, she looks profoundly heartbroken when we happen across the recollection of that one morning – the one time – she pulled my hair too hard and made me cry. But we were very forgiving of each other. When I defiled her lilac bush and presented my offering of demolished purple buds, she didn't yell. She reserves her loud voice and gift for swearing only for rare and special occasions. The bimonthly or so haircut is over. We're both satisfied. While she packs up her purse, I savor the last few reflections of a life we've shared, the images I associate with her. The door is closing on us, but not our memories. Lemon bars and white-water-rafting. Wood stoves, Saltine crackers, the competent handling of a snowmobile. Exiting a dorm room does not halt those fond phantoms of thought. I still hear the Golden Girls theme song. The taste of chocolate milk and apple turnovers lives on my tongue. In the corners of my mind, I envision an empty chair in the sun, and know each time she leaves that she’s never really gone. 7

Abby McLaughlin Mechanic When I say you smell like dirt and whiskey, I mean I have taken you home. Through trails in pine, the grass where the airport ends, where uncles kill useless hours, eating berries and pond water. We start in the barn where make-believe bears sleep. I whisper they will wake and we run. Hide under the porch and at any moment—collapse. I take you in. The smell of cigarettes and flat ginger ale will not phase our adoration for breath and bone. Follow my splintered bare feet to the second floor. We will blush in the unpainted rooms, lick clean what the years have done wrong. Wrap windows in plastic, so no wind will blow us cold, no winter shake this fever. We will take gifts from strangers, as if they are owed to us. Payment for what fear does to children. Here we will stay and love. Until the cancers of all my mothers grow silent, until the tall girl comes untangled, until this house crumbles to the ground.

Chelsea Searles House #3, Limestone

Dena Rose Dudley The Grandfather of Kings His blue hat is faded and his box of Marlboros new. His thin legs slowly disappear into the crease of his trousers. His weathered dark-skinned hands, outstretched in a hello and goodbye, to a sad eyed girl hidden behind hair and teeth, who stands on the far right of the frame. A thousand words, engraved gracefully across his palm and all the way to her fingertips. Stories of brown ash trees, potato fields and fields of sweet grass. He could weave any splint, truth or tale, like the grandfathers before him. He sits high on his wooden horse, draped in a cloak that covers the girl in wood shavings and tobacco leaves. He raises his hand, in his very last hello. He can’t see what he inevitably will leave behind. A truth bound tightly in hide, buried in the dying sweet grass.

Lacie Glidden The Island Shepherd’s Apprentice I zip up and down the spine Of a clumsy, robust ewe Who bleats and blats and splutters And her comrades answer with a cheer. I follow each blow of the blades Through her oily, crimpy, fleece. They float with ease across each hip And skate beneath the wool break. The familiarity of each move Grows with every sheep I shear One day I’ll be a pro One day I’ll be like my old man. I’ll gather various islands, But this time I’ll command the dog, And the boatmen, and the helper-tourists, and my apprentice, who’ll stand by my side and one day dream of being me. She’ll romp through all the hillocks, carrying any lost lambs. After the frenzy of the capture, When we jump up and close the gate On a penload of jumbled woolies I’ll pat her head and say ‘Good job, Lacie’ And she’ll smile at me, As if to say that’s reward enough For a long day working sheep.

Vanninnia Small Another Hungry Day I wake to the cold and wet. I slip out of bed, not wanting to wake my sister since the morning light has yet to touch the sky. She is two years my senior. She still wets the bed, though. It is so cold, goose bumps coat my arms and every hair on my body stands at attention. Mom and Dad are still asleep, and the stove, banked for the night, only throws off tiny flickers of heat that do not even warm the room in which the stove sits. I remove my soaked nightgown and find one of my father’s tshirts, ample cover, seeing as it hangs clear to the floor. I am five but am not as big as most three years olds. I, unlike my sister, do not wet the bed. This means that I have to go B-A-D. I scoot across the kitchen, then into the living room. Walking on the dirt floor is like walking on needles; the cold pierces. I pause for a moment, almost touching the stove, to steal some heat. Then I run, barefoot through the snow to the outhouse. The cold seat on my bottom is like the dirt floor on my feet. Finally, though, it feels good to pee. Having relieved myself, I realize my stomach is growling. I look down and pat it. “Not this morning,” I tell my belly. I don’t even have the luxury of searching an empty fridge…we don’t have one. Still barefoot, I run to the well, grab the bucket, and drop it in. There is always coffee. Back inside, I set the bucket beside the stove and get to work on the fire. I climb onto the wood piled near the stove and open the damper. I climb down, open the door, and then stir the coals from the previous evening. Dad did a fine job banking the fire last night. The fat glowing embers will be easy to coax into flames. I split a few of the smaller pieces of dry wood into tiny pieces and set them atop the embers. The kindling lights easily, and, within minutes, I add larger pieces of wood to the stove. The heat soon radiates. I pour some of the water into the kettle and set it on to boil. 12

My stomach rumbles again. I pat it…there are two paperwrapped biscuits on the counter. I will not eat them. My sister will be hungry when she wakes. She does not have the solace of warm coffee in her belly. She doesn’t drink it. She says it tastes nasty. She is right. It isn’t the taste I like. I like the heat in my belly, spreading through me like sunshine on my face on a warm summer day. I like any source of heat in the winter. Our tarpaper shack, with its dirt living room floor and lack of insulation, does not keep out the cold very well. The teakettle suddenly begins to sing, the screechy whistle a welcome sound. Seconds later, Dad stumbles out into the living room, stretching and rubbing his eyes. “Mornin’ Kandi,” he smiles sleepily. “I see you are three steps ahead of me, as usual.” He heads straight for the kitchen cupboard. He gets three coffee cups down and prepares the morning brew. The strong, thick mixture smells divine. I am eager, and my belly gurgles. I greedily take my cup when it is offered and, though the liquid content is scorching hot, drink almost half of it down. I breathe in the rising steam and enjoy the warmth in my belly as it seems to spread all the way through my body. Mom comes out next. She doesn’t speak. She takes a seat in the tight circle of heat near the stove. It will take a while for the living room to warm up, even longer for any kind of warmth to seep into the rest of the house. She takes the cup Dad offers her and sips her share. “Did you wake up your sister?” She asks without looking at me. She is concentrating on her steaming cup. I shake my head no. I do not want to leave the circle of warmth or my cup of coffee. I do as she says, though. The sun is starting to peak over the horizon and, if we even want to think about eating today, we have to get ready for the woods. I set 13

my cup on the stove so my coffee stays hot and scurry, as quickly as possible, to the bunk at the other end of the kitchen. “Terri, come on, wake up. I saved both the biscuits for you. I can put them on the stove to get warm for you. Come on!” I run back to the living room, snatching the biscuits off the counter on my way by. I know they will be plenty warm by the time she is awake. She never did like to get up in the morning. Not long after everyone is awake, we are all bundled up against the bitter cold and trudging through the woods. The search for ash is not hard. The trees have a distinct and familiar look. To us, and those like us, they are just like old friends who have been awaiting our arrival. They even seem to spread their lovely branches in greeting. We don’t stop for but a second and Mom and Dad are already hard at work, felling the trees with the chain saws. Terri and I immediately begin to clear away brush and limbs. The trees come down easily, barely making a sound in the snow. Our parents sheer off limbs and we try to get those out of the way quickly. Everyone works fast and hard. If we can get a load of ash to Grammy Sabet’s house before noon, we can help her work on enough baskets to take to the farmer down the road. Baskets mean money and money means we can eat tonight. Sometimes, he even gives us potatoes as well as money. I love potatoes; French-fried, baked, mashed, and, mostly, in poor man soup. Genisway (poor man soup) and lusguinigan (fry bread), that would be good. We could buy the usual staples: shortening, butter, flour, salt, and salt pork. This train of thought chugs along like a story from the endless books I secretly read. It is keeping my mind off the cold and my still-empty stomach. I am stiff and sore from the last two days of back-breaking labor. I can’t lift very much and can barely lift the brush, let alone the limbs, we are expected to move. I just drag them off, pulling and tugging with all the 14

might that my twenty or so pounds can muster. Even though I am not much help with the heavy work of the woods, I do come in handy. I am the only one who is small and light enough to walk on top of the crust. I do not sink into the deep, wet snow like the others. This makes me useful for fetching things. I bring cups of coffee to my parents and water to my sister. So, even when I am not pulling and tugging on brush and limbs, I stay busy. Eventually, all the daydreaming about food and trips to buy that food and all the work does not keep my mind off of my frozen feet. My hand-me-down boots are way too big, with a hole worn pretty much through the bottom of both feet. The two pairs of socks plus the ones my Grammy Carter knitted for me do not prevent the cold from seeping in. I begin to whine, low humming sounds. I am soon crying. I still work. The quicker the job is done, the quicker we can head in. We all continue to work in silence, broken only by a cuss from my parents or sister and my own quiet sobs. I know that they are doing the same as me, escaping in their own imaginations to endure the cold, empty pains in their stomachs. I do not try to imagine where their minds go, at least not Mom and Dad. They frighten me. I do let my imagination unfold in my sister’s head and spend plenty of time observing her. I watch her as she works, trying to figure out what she might be thinking. Is she thinking about food or sports? She is more than twice my size. She can lift big branches even though she is only seven. She is fluid and graceful, no yanking or tugging for her! I envy her natural Indian looks and the way she resembles our mother. I wonder if she knows how lucky she is. I am drawn out of my own head by the sharp snap of a finger on my cold ear. “Wake up! Let’s go!” Mom turns to the sled. She and Dad have all the trimmed logs the sled can carry loaded on. We all gather the tools and supplies and load them atop the 15

logs. Dad secures the load with rope. It is slightly after noon but we have been here since dawn, a little less than five hours. Since I am so small and my feet in so much pain, my parents let me ride on top of the piled-up sled all the way to Grammy Sabet’s house. The excruciating pain would not have allowed otherwise. Once at my grandmother’s house, there is warmth. Her stove has been spitting out heat since before five in the morning and the heat is welcome to us all. She, Grammy Sabet, is an old Indian woman. She emigrated to Houlton from the reserve in Prince Edward Island before my mother’s birth. She has been single since her third husband died three years ago. She is not very tall, barely passing the five foot mark, but she is as strong as an ox. Her nimble fingers are hard at work when we arrive. Basket making is the family’s main source of income in winter months, and it is a family affair. We all work. A trip to Grandma’s house is not for me what it is for most children. It means the workday that began with a freezing reminder of my sister’s incontinence is but half over. The ash logs, which we worked all morning in the woods to get, need further trimming. They then have to be split. The split logs must be pounded into splints. The rough splints then must be shaved so that the basket makers do not get so many slivers when they weave. Those same splints must soak in the big, metal washtubs to be made supple. This means that water has to be hauled from the pond to fill the tubs. There is always more work. Without looking up from her work, Grammy Sabet speaks to my mother and sister in her thick Canadian Indian accent. She does not directly address my father or me. She hates white people. I remind myself again that I am lucky I am not French. She hates them even more. “Berta. There is coffee in the kitchen and a biscuit for you, deuce. Get the splints from the tub and get to work.” Her tone 16

is gruff to begin with but the sour note is clear when she talks about my father or me. “Your Agalasielle can bring in more firewood and start on the logs. She can start cleaning up the shavings from the floor and get more water for the tubs.” Mom stands up for me…this time. She, like Grammy, has that Canadian Indian accent, but her voice is touched with a bit of a whiney note. “Gidgoo, she is cold. We just spent the whole morning in the woods and her boots, they are worn near through. Let me give her some coffee to warm up with first.” I do not speak. Almost as soon as we walked through the door, all of us were stripping our winter gear off to let the heat in. I simply hang up my things and begin to clean up the mess of ash shavings from the floor. I do not look too closely at my grandmother. I do not want to draw her attention. I certainly do not argue. My mother gets coffee for her, Dad, and me. She instructs Terri to eat her biscuit in the kitchen, away from me. She knows what will happen if my sister shares with me. There is no sense in fighting today. It has already been a long one. We work as a unit, as a production line for the remainder of the day. My father trims the logs further and splits them. He then pounds them into splints and quickly shaves them. He also splits some thicker pieces for handles. My mother and grandmother weave the beautiful potato baskets, finishing them and adding handles. My sister stacks the finished baskets in the opposite corner from the wood stove. I clear away the debris from the living room floor, tend the fire, fetch drinks for Terri and my parents, and carry more water from the pond. As in the woods, very little is said. We all work in relative silence. By the time we have enough baskets to take to the farmer— twenty-five is the magic number—it has become too late. It is after eight o’clock, and he is already in bed. The adults decide to call it a night and my parents, sister, and I all bundle up for 17

the walk home. Auntie lives just up the road beyond our house and Mom and Dad tell Terri and me that we can go get dinner there, but I am too tired and my feet hurt too bad to walk any further than home. My belly grumbles, louder than ever, as I strip down and get into my nightclothes. I am so hungry but I am more cold and tired. I crawl clumsily into bed beside my sister. She is warm and I cuddle in close. She puts one arm around me and uses the other to make sure I am tucked in tight. My belly does not grumble or rumble, it roars like a hungry lion, sending vibrations through my whole body as I try to settle into sleep. “Oh! I almost forgot!” Terri reaches under the blanket on her side and withdraws a paper-wrapped biscuit. It is fat with lots of butter in the middle. “I saved the biscuit from Grammy’s for you. I knew you would be hungry since you gave me yours this morning.” She smiles an apology at me with tears in her eyes. It makes up for all the day’s misgivings. I gratefully and greedily eat the delicious treat without even sitting up, then fall fast asleep with a buttery grin.

Kati Christoffel TR 16

Dena Rose Joseph The Surviving Men (a cut up) Begins with an age old story, Small clan of mothers, food, and men, Girls barely out of their teens, “Been there, honey” grandmothers. Living in temporary homes, Where energy is the lifeblood, Comforted by the land of dawn. We took their children, From their biological origins. Embracing the winter and power, As the individual shrinks. History, massively injected, To the traumatic tale of Kill the Indian, Save the Man. The bodies and scalps of men, women Woven in history. Discovery is now being written, In usual sterile remembrance How did this happen? Four words that cannot be. We can’t even agree to be honest, Or give truth a place. The surviving men were victims of centuries, Days you don’t forget. We can’t undue what has been done. Only search for ancestors, Because we’re all “other” to someone.

Shawn Cote Jillpoke Bohemia

Cassie Green Movie-Scene Love Making Dust swirls in streamed sunshine spotlight on blood red Solo cups and finger-stained bottles empty or close to it, like the room soaked in alcohol, burning the nose like rancid vomit ghosts dancing on the tongue. The morning after. The club has closed, the young artist still trying to tear his way through the mesh of the speaker in the deserted living room, youth a common excuse for stupidity. Smoke drapes where those intentions left you, with nothing more than a mouth caked with dried saliva an elastic pain stretched across the forehead a roller coaster of your intestines and regret. Shuffling bed sheets, rolling over you see someone whose name escapes you, just like the girlfriend from your life before last night most definitely will. Ten missed calls and fifteen texts voicemail blinking the inevitable breakup. The broken promise ring itching your finger, you release it onto the floor and it rolls and rolls like the black mascara on the bumpy cheeks of the unknown girl next to you who looked much better last night. 24

Oh, last night-Awkward florescent lighting on less-than-fit bodies sweaty skin slapping while sloppy kisses attempt to create a movie-scene-love making?--pretending the condom is on right, on at all. It lasted for what seemed like hours, interrupted frequently by droopy eyes, failed consciousness and heads falling on each other’s chests. A tornado of a mess tears its way into your sobering consciousness, damage control flooding the room, once stuffed with college mistakes, lurking in tiny corners of darkness that the morning sun exposes. The realities of this repetition eventually get old, like missed work shifts, failed classes, and parents so frustrated, they let go. Disgusted with sticky dried ethanol and sugar, tabletops and floor tiles, the stained unfaithful sheets, you wait for the director of this film to yell Cut! because in movies the song never ends too soon and these situations always work out.

Abby McLaughlin Admission I am not the audience. I have no admiration for salt and pepper hair or heroics, for the worn leather boots of the silver screen lover. I do not shake at the damsel’s screams, dark sea water, or the cries of wolves, starved. I have no belief in the boxer, the pain of the last punch, belly bruised, bloodied and still. I do not trust romance or proposals, fingertips on pulsing skin, and their back country rides to lost places. I am not the audience. The film roll edges fray with the heat of convincing the dark room of possibilities.

Courtney Parsons Sepia Sound

Jessica Trombley The Chosen Scar The clouds are falling apart, losing center, trying to find a grip, but the sun slowly pushes forward, determined. Its rays spread out, like egg spilling from a crack, playing hide-and-go- seek, spying, peeking, and winking, trying to find their way. The warmth will soon dry the ground after its thirsty quench; each beam sparkles, creating a kaleidoscope on the car windshield. Butterflies will soon swirl again, birds will scavenge for prey, and children will splash in mud puddles until that water seeps back into the pores of the earth. This storm has passed, but another is only beginning. I see it in the distance waving in the air, a thunder of critics. I watch them come and go, flushed and sunken, but the storm trails behind them, long after they’ve left. I slowly place my fingertips underneath my blouse, at my waist, where a small curve has formed, and I imagine the residue of the cool gel, creating a protective shell. Releasing my hand, I shove all thoughts away. Finally, the car door screams, like a warning, as I force it open, and my fingerprints smear the window. Before I remember the picture in my lap, it falls into a mud puddle, curling and spreading ink like an octopus. I stare at it for a moment, my eyes welling with tears and disgust, and I clench my stomach, hoping when I see it again, it will be nothing but a blank picture, a fresh canvas. They adjust their boxing gloves; the fight is brewing ahead, ready to take down the next vulnerable young woman, heartbroken and hurt. The crowd draws near to its next victim, like a shark who smells an open wound, fresh and helpless. I hear the static of chants, as distant people draw near; their words are bouncing, but I try not to catch any. Papers are shoved in my face, hands grabbing my arms, shoulders, a last minute frenzy to stop me, an obstacle course to the entrance. Picket signs in sync, up and down, different words and faces, but all the same meaning, a plea for sanity. I shove past their 28

harsh words, medical terms, and judgmental glares, my attention undiverted. One man places a pin in my hand, looks down at my stomach, and shakes his head, but continues to picket drenched in sweat and the passing rain. My stomach turns, and as the automatic doors welcome me, I hear muffled yells in the distance as the crowd loses a player in their games. A flustered secretary shoves a clipboard at me, scheduling an appointment on the phone, as the other line rings. I take a seat in the waiting room, next to a girl who must be in high school; she is ringing her hands, frantically scanning the room, and shaking her leg back and forth. Just then, a name is called, and she gets up, wobbly, and heads for the unknown. I fill out the required forms, and as the ink bleeds my signature, sweat drips from my brow. I can hear the clock ticking, second by second, the buzz of the overhead fan, the phone ringing; I see a mother holding her child’s hand. It feels like everything is spinning, colliding, and falling apart. Before I can trick myself out of it, a nurse approaches the room with a clip board and calls my name. I lie on the stiff bed, lined with a strip of fresh tissue paper, and close my eyes. The older nurse situates the IV, and tells me it will all be over soon, sighing. The last thing I remember is the doctor shaking my weak, unstable hand, and I hear the beat of a heart before blackness hits. I see him in my dreams, the outline of his untidy boots, the frame of his scuffed face and calloused hands. I’m screaming again, but nothing comes out, as he squeezes my wrists, laughing. Nothing will change no matter how many times I call for help and I see his grim smile full of victory. After trying for so long with my husband, it finally happened on a cold, dark night where the wind was too silent and the stars were too stiff. It read positive no matter how many times I opened my eyes, trying to erase the plus sign staring back at me. Full of betrayal, lust, and disgust, his best friend got what he so secretly desired the night my husband was out of town. The screams continue, the tears try to mend the wounds long afterwards, but the memory lurks.

I can hear the beat of my heart, slow and steady, as blurred images begin to focus, as I stabilize and remember. The nurse is in the corner of the room now, washing her hands, and outside, a bird glides past the window, free at last. Cautiously, I slowly inch my fingers down my stomach, imagining a balloon deflating, trying to find its original shape; the air feels lighter, and I’m able to breathe again. Like nothing ever happened, I appear untouched, with no battle scars anyone else can see. The others, with their signs and shouts, might call what I’ve done a sacrifice, but today, I saved a life.

Kate Madore The Comings and Goings of Mr. D I know your gray motionless face, You parole-breaker, always coming unbidden to my stoop. You dip your narrow specter finger into our life-brew And stir your poison in. Our golden oak leaves and the brace Of our orchard-festival air leave you unmoved. Our little knitted Christmases And emergent Thanksgivings lush Opportunities for your withering. I used to ignore you, you granite phantom, And when I could no longer I bloodied my fingernails Trying to drag you out, One so slim and wiry but unyielding still, half-lidded haunt, You calmly pocketed what little best of myself Remained.

So stripped I can do nothing– But see you come, pervasive, And cross-hatch my heart Till you go.

Chelsea Searles House #5, PT Farm

Chris Morton Idle Hands The identity of our victim remains a mystery. It was a car. Might have been red. Might have been dark blue. It was dark. We couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was a tired man in his late forties, driving home from a long day at the mill. Maybe it was a housewife on her way back from Bible Study. We’ll never know who they were or what they were thinking during that brief intersection of our lives and theirs on a secluded patch of the back road, when their car rounded a corner and an eight-foot-tall Chester the Cheetah with a foam head the size of a washing machine rose majestically from the bushes and waved hello. * * * When I was a kid, my best friend Jason and I used to sneak out to my Dad’s garage and look for cans marked, “WARNING: FLAMMABLE.” Various noxious liquids were happily poured, sprayed, scooped, or squeezed into a bucket ceremoniously placed smack-dab in the middle of the dirt floor. WD-40, dry gas, a few ounces from each of the half-dozen fuel cans stashed in the corners—it all went into the bucket. One of us would stir it with a piece of scrap wood, our eyes watering from the sting of pollutants that years later would be tried and banished for eating the ozone layer. Each of the substances we poured into the gloop came with warning labels that promised everything from scurvy to a rare combination of spontaneous-combustion and leprosy if you so much as looked at the can without wearing a welding mask and possibly a barrel over your head. The combined destructive 33

force of these chemicals was not mere addition; it was exponential. It may have bordered on nuclear. Mesmerized by the sheer destructive potential of what we had wrought, we would lean over the bucket in admiration. Layers of oils swirled and burbled, a purplish rainbow sheen drifting lazily on the top. We watched in awe. Then we threw matches at it. I think it was my Gram Helen who told me that idle hands were the devil’s workshop. That never made sense to me. You’d think the devil’s workshop would be something along the lines of MI6’s arsenal: lots of flame-throwers, grenade launchers, bazookas, big machine guns with bayonets stuck to the bottom of the barrel (because welding a big knife to the barrel of your gun makes a lot more sense than just carrying an extra bullet!), maybe some kind of siege weapon… that sounds like Satan’s laboratory. Not an eleven-year-old’s pair of smudged hands. Why would Satan want a workshop with at least one finger that had recently been probing the inner workings of a nostril? She might have made an argument for idle minds, though. That, I could see. Amazingly enough, our chemical soups never exploded. Usually the matches went out. I’m pretty sure it’s because one of our main components was old motor oil, which doesn’t burn unless you try really, really hard. I also secretly suspect we may have had a guardian angel. Actually, we probably had an elite team of them. Hopefully they weren’t flammable. But the lack of success never kept us from scheming. One day my older brother showed us how to clip the end off a Morning Glory sparkler and pour the powder into a little pile. If you tossed a match onto the pile, the powder flared up. The next logical step was to pour the powder from four or five sparklers into a plastic Coke bottle. The inferno lasted a little longer that way; plus, it was cool to watch the bottle melt. 34

From there, it was only a short skip and a jump to a glass S&OK cream soda bottle. Those were awesome: unlike the plastic bottles that melted and slumped onto the flame, often extinguishing it, glass bottles retained their structural integrity a little better. The fire took on the shape of the bottle, literally becoming a glass of violent white-and-blue flame. Then the bottle would explode. Later we learned that the shards of sooty glass we gingerly swept out of our hair was called shrapnel. What a coolsounding word. I was proud to know a word so big when I was so young. I’m surprised I didn’t know more fun words, like suture or artificial limb. But eventually filling buckets with paint thinner and dry gas and trying to detonate it started to get old. It was predictable: nothing ever blew up. Every now and then an aerosol puddle floating on top would FWOOMP! into blue flame for a second or two, but that was it. We never did make our own mushroom cloud. Pouring sparklers into bottles got old, too. It was a lot of work for a three-second glow. And besides, any idiot could buy sparklers and a Coke. As we got older, we challenged ourselves to raise Cain in new and interesting ways. Which is how Chester the Cheetah enters our story. My uncle worked at a chip company. One day he happened to mention to my younger brother Sam that his company had a giant Chester the Cheetah costume for promotional purposes. And this, my good and hopefully-not-involved-in-lawenforcement readers, is why I think Gram had it all wrong. Sam’s hands are a lot like mine. They have some funny scars. There are small patches that will never grow hair again. They do not appear to be the tool shed of Satan, because they aren’t. It wasn’t Sam’s hands that grasped the notion that access to a 35

Chester the Cheetah costume could be fun in the right circumstances. Nope: the fault for that particular line of thinking can be directly attributed to an idle mind. If we’d had cable when we were growing up, we wouldn’t have got in nearly as much trouble. But I digress. A few days later, Sam drove into my parents’ dooryard with a big cardboard box on the back of his pick-up. “Check it out!” he called over, popping the lid off the box. “Holy old mother of pearl…!” The ginormous foam head of Chester the Cheetah leered at me from the dark depths of the box. “Dude. What’s the plan?” Sam shrugged. “Gonna scare the crap out of the dog,” he replied seriously. “Then tonight I’m going to hide in the bushes down the road and wave at traffic.” I nodded. That sounded pretty good. “I’m in!” I watched as Sam wrestled the scruffy oversized orange costume over his clothes. Carefully we hoisted the head onto his shoulders. Easily three feet long and two feet high, the maniacally-grinning visage of Chester towered over me as Sam straightened up. I took a step back. I wasn’t a big cheese doodles fan, but I’d always liked Chester the Cheetah.,. . until now. It was an entirely different matter now that he was towering over me. Probably because of Chester’s characteristic sunglasses, the creator of the costume hadn’t bothered to paint pupils on the hanky-sized patches of white cloth that served as eyes. Chester grinned sightlessly at me. I fought an urge to punch his big foam head and run like crazy. “I can see out the teeth!” Sam’s voice emerged from the depths of Chester’s grin, muffled. “It’s just mesh. It’s kinda dark, but it’s better than I thought.” “Excellent.” I glanced down the yard at the familiar squeak of 36

the front screen door. A second later my father’s black Labrador retriever came bounding down the steps. We didn’t much like Princess. Even though she’d known us for years, her preferred greeting of choice was to charge us barking ferociously and then ram her nose into a place her nose had no business being. We had tried everything short of electroshock therapy to break her of it, and we only stopped there because Dad wouldn’t let us borrow his battery cables. But we had never tried dressing up like an eight-foot cat caught fully in the throes of lunacy. Princess was only about ten feet away from Sam when her eyes registered the fact that this was not a typical visitor. Dirt churned underneath her as her two brain cells bickered back and forth: “Sniff the giant cat in the crotch!” “RUN!” “Sniff the giant cat in the crotch!” “RUN!” Eventually the brain cell on the left (“RUN!”) won the day. Princess hurtled back into the house, whimpering. Sam and I watched in satisfaction. “Well?” I patted the back of his Styrofoam head companionably. “What next?” Sam/Chester shrugged. “Think I could hide in the freezer until Mom came down cellar?” “Yes, but she’d kill us both. Let’s go wave at traffic.” Sam shrugged in resignation. “Okay.” He lumbered over to the back of the truck and fumbled at the tailgate. I watched sympathetically for a minute, then flipped it down for him. He flopped forward and then rolled awkwardly onto his back. I closed the tailgate. Chester leered sightlessly at the night sky, hands clasped behind his neck. “Chris?” I paused, hand on the front door. “Yeah?” “Can we go hit a drive-through?” 37

* Ahh, the possibilities…

There were so many things we could have done with that costume. Personally I wanted the two of us to go door-to-door: “Hi. This is my friend Chester. He heard you’ve been eating more vegetables lately and less cheesy doodles. He’d like to talk to you about that for a minute, if you’d care to step outside.” We talked about hiding Sam/Chester in the bathroom stall at the local bar. We figured it might inspire people to give up drinking. But Sam pointed out that we would actually have to go into a bar first. Sam and I are both warped: stealing flammable liquids and attempting to blow up my Dad’s garage was fine, but we didn’t drink. That’s just dangerous. Consequently, I am thirty years old and the only drink I can mix is a Molotov Cocktail. So we settled on our original plan, which was to greet people as they drove through the middle of nowhere. The great thing about the back road in Garfield is that there was no shortage of places for a giant cartoon cat to hide. We chose a gradual corner a few miles down the road from Dad’s house, sharp enough of an angle to hide the truck but not enough that somebody could drive off the road very easily. These things are important to consider when you’re going to dress up like a freakish cartoon character and scare the ever-lovin’ crap out of people. It’s also especially important to make sure there are trees to hide behind, the kind of trees that are thick enough to withstand the impact of a Buick. Sam kneeled in the bushes as we waited for a car. “This head smells funky,” he commented darkly. “Like moldy armpit. And… bacon.” He paused. “The suit smells too.” He shifted thoughtfully. “More like sawdust and urine, though.” He

paused again. “I have to pee.” “Try hard not to think about why that suit smells like urine,” I advised from my spot. We waited for five minutes. Then ten. Then fifteen. Chester sat with his head pointed downwards, as if meditating on the deeper significance of deep-fried cheese-encrusted potato skins. Only the tops of his ears protruded from the grass from where I sat. The only way someone could spot him was from an overhead angle. I wondered idly if somewhere in Virginia, some CIA spook monitoring a satellite feed sweeping over the barrens of the northern Maine wilderness had just spewed coffee across his desk and crapped a little green Twinkie. Suddenly we heard it: a car, approaching slow and steady. Chester’s head lifted slightly. Eagerly. He was ready. The car slowed in anticipation of the corner. Headlights illuminated the bushes, casting a yellowish sheen over the shrubbery. And slowly—magnificently—Chester the Cheetah elevated from the brush, waving solemnly. The world held its breath for an instant. Eerie yellow light bathed the eight-foot shaggy cat with the gleefully insane grin and the sightless eyes. The car coasted by. A face—too dark for details beyond a gaping mouth and glazed eyes—stared in shock in the illumination of dashboard lights. And then, with a squeal of rubber, the car was gone, swallowed into the oblivion of the night. Then we heard brakes. “D’OH!” Sam grunted and turned towards the truck. I watched in alarm as the car came to a halt. Then it started to back up. I headed for the truck. “Sam!” I hissed back into the empty darkness. “Sam!” 39

The bushes were silent. Was he… hiding? I grunted in frustration, thumping the side of the truck with my fist. Hiding a head the size of a dishwasher in the tall grass would have been hard enough on its own. The fact that it was painted bright freakin’ orange definitely wasn’t going to help. “SAM!” I hissed again. “DUDE! Where the frig ar— AAAAARGGHHHH!!!!!” He rose out of the brush at high velocity, arms windmilling frantically as he fought to stay upright. “RUNNNN!!!” Sam’s voice bellowed from deep inside the costume. I didn’t need the encouragement. I backpedaled towards the truck just as Chester’s head accelerated a little faster than Sam’s legs. And in the dim glow of the distant brake lights, I watched as Chester the Cheetah did a magnificent face-plant. The universe did not freeze. Time did not pause. Instead, it looked for all the world as if Chester had been struck with the random urge to savagely head-butt the ground. “AAAARRRGHHH!!!!” Sam’s screams were muffled by the layers of foam, polyester, and dirt. Lurching forward, I grabbed Chester’s outstretched arms and hauled him bodily towards the truck. I dragged him face-first through the underbrush until his churning legs caught up with him. He vaulted against the side of the truck, scrambling over the side and into the bed as I started the engine and threw it in gear. We peeled out of the field in a shower of mud and terror, leaving behind only the car, the faint smell of burnt rubber, and the imprint of a giant cat face in the dirt. * * * We never did figure out what happened to the person in the other car. I like to think we might have inspired them to stop drinking, but it’s probably just as likely we inspired them to start. 40

After that night the Chester the Cheetah costume went back to my uncle, and Sam and I turned away from our bushwhacking ways. It was probably for the best. Sam said the suit smelled a little more strongly of urine now than it used to. Besides, scaring the bejeebers out of the natives seemed like it would be a lot less fun if it got predictable. (Although we have recently bought an inflatable sumo suit and a can of glow-in-the-dark spray-paint.) But in the days following the Cheetah incident, we opted to quietly return to safer pastimes. Like throwing matches at puddles of gas and trying to set each other on fire with roman candles. Oh, come on. Don’t look at me like that. We figure it’s important to keep busy. You know what they say about idle hands.

Justin Bari A Day at the Cathedral I stand where Schumann stood or perhaps Heine. In the acclaimed cathedral At Köln. As thunderous chords Pound my temples From that eerie Maybe terrifying Song. I shiver possibly where Schumann stood. Or perhaps Heine. The same place Here or maybe there. Did Schumann rest palms Or hum Or cry On this pew Or that wall Or the eastern corner window? Did our gaze admire the same architectural precipices? The heights of the spacious ceiling Yank my eyes upward Out of myself To a place where I can hear The pandemonium of demonic warfare. I soar With them. Doctrine clashes around me. A din in my soul's ears. While Heine and Schumann 42

Obsess

over a girl.

Contributors Kayla Ames considers herself many things, including a twin, a daughter, and a granddaughter. She's moved at least half a dozen times without ever leaving Maine, which she fondly refers to as her homeland. Currently a resident of Blue Hill, she's also an English major at UMPI and pursuing a minor in professional communication. Kayla writes for the University Times and hopes to become a novelist one day. She loves cats, old literature, and, for the most part, science. Justin Bari is a middle school music teacher at Troy Howard Middle School in Belfast, Maine. He holds a BA in Music Education. He is the father of almost five (due date March 4th) and has been married seven years to the best wife in the world. His connection to UMPI came about because of an opportunity to pursue a creative writing class online. Justin would eventually like to add a Language Arts teaching endorsement to his teaching certification. He loves creative projects that involve poetry, stories, and songwriting.

Kati Christoffel is currently a senior at UMPI, pursuing a double major in Fine Arts and Athletic Training, and she’s a student-athlete on the cross-country running and Nordic ski teams. She has dreamed of being an artist since she could hold a crayon or paintbrush, and she’s recently taken up finger painting for the intimacy it affords her with her work and for the “awesome variety of textures” the medium allows her to produce. Katie says she finds inspiration for her work in the “local eccentricities and fabulous landscapes” of Aroostook County. Shawn Cote is a 1994 UMPI graduate (B.A. English). His work has appeared in Echoes and the online music magazine No Depression. His comic strip Jillpoke Bohemia can be found on GoComics.com and NoDepression.com. A self-proclaimed would-be novelist, Shawn describes the transition from writing prose fiction to creating a comic strip as challenging but fun:

"The strip gets a little wordy at times, but it continues to evolve. As it does, I hope to find ways to do more showing and less telling." Lacie Glidden is a senior at the University of Maine at Machias majoring in Psychology and Community Studies and has taken various online classes from UMPI. She gains much of her writing inspiration from chasing after sheep on islands at her parents’ farm and enjoys her job working with children one-onone. She lives in East Machias, Maine with her handsome new husband, and they help manage a skate ramp outreach that seeks to provide a healthy environment for local teens. Cassie Green was born and raised in Truro, Nova Scotia, Canada. She graduated magna cum laude from UMPI in May 2012 with a BS in Secondary Education (with an English concentration) and a minor in History. Cassie returned to UMPI in the fall of 2012 as a student intern at the Bangor Daily News, a Resident Assistant, and a student writer for the UTimes. She has since returned home to Nova Scotia in hopes of pursuing her teaching career and writing whenever she can. Dena Rose Joseph is a junior English major at UMPI, a wife, and a stay-at-home mom to a beautiful one-year-old son, Kohen (and she’s expecting another baby!). She comes from a Wabanaki family proud of their Native heritage, which includes Micmac, Maliseet, and Passamaquoddy ancestry. Dena decided to be an English major because writing has been a constant in her life and the discipline always offers something new to learn. Kate Madore is a senior in UMPI’s online English program. She lives in Lisbon Falls, Maine with her high school sweetheart, Christian, and their two rambunctious sons, Damian, 6, and Malachi, 4, and their sassy two-year-old daughter, Clara. Kate isn’t very crafty and her piecrust leaves something to be desired, but she loves poetry, literature, music (especially playing the piano), and very dark coffee.

Abby McLaughlin, originally from Presque Isle, attended UMPI and graduated from NMCC with a degree in nursing in 2008. She spent the Fall 2012 semester as an OpenU student and continues to fall in love with writing. Abby is currently an RN working and living in Portland. She loves yoga, Sylvia Plath, running half-marathons, and Star Wars. Chris Morton is an UMPI alum who received his BA in English Literature in 2004. He recently opened a music store in downtown Presque Isle, proving that it is indeed possible to find work outside of the fast food industry with an English degree. His book You Kids Quit Pooping on the Lawn! is available at Amazon. Courtney Parsons is currently majoring in History at UMPI and has plans to open a museum about tattoos and body modifications. She was born in New Haven, Connecticut, and lived there until she was eleven years old, at which time she moved to Presque Isle. West Haven Beach is her favorite place to spend free time when she visits Connecticut, and Courtney tells us that’s where she took the photograph featured in this issue. Chelsea Searles grew up in the small town of Van Buren, Maine, where the only things to do were harvest potatoes or watch the grass grow. Chelsea first took a photography class as an UMPI freshman, majoring in Art with a minor in Education. Now, as a junior, Chelsea still enjoys taking pictures of her favorite subject, old abandoned buildings. Chelsea tells us she loves the way, as a photographer, one can transform something ugly into something beautiful.

Vanninnia Small was born in Houlton, Maine, to an indigenous American family of migrant workers and basket makers. She dropped out of high school but got her GED in 1993. In 2011, Vanninnia earned an Associate’s Degree in both liberal studies and business administration from NMCC, and she enrolled at UMPI that fall. She is currently an English

major getting ready to attend her fourth semester. Jessica Trombley is a northern Maine native, born and raised in Presque Isle. She is currently a second-year UMPI student, majoring in English with a concentration in writing. Always having been a bookworm, she tells us she carries a good book with her wherever she goes. She credits inspirational teachers, authors, and supportive loved ones for inspiring her passion for and dedication to writing.