Cedar Valley Divide 2021

“Purple” by Halle Rittmer

CEDAR VALLEY

DIVIDE

2021

Cedar Valley Divide

Kirkwood Community College’s Art and Literary Magazine

2021

♦

Letter from the Editors The Cedar Valley Divide team would like to thank you for reading this year’s magazine. We are grateful as well to everyone who submitted; the amount of hard work put into the 83 submissions we received was evident. While we were unable to accept every piece, we thoroughly enjoyed reading and discussing every single one.

This past school year has been a stressful one. Our staff met on Zoom, rather than in person. Despite the Internet lagging and at times freezing up altogether, our time spent together during a pandemic was something to be grateful for.

We believe that this edition is one every reader will welcome. From a dilapidated barn to a city skyline, from Greek mythology to modern politics, there are pieces that appeal to many interests. You will find the human heart presented in both glass and graphic art. Vertical Daylight, the first play we have published in years, is a refreshingly positive look into the service industry. And at this moment of the Black Lives Matter movement, the essay “Silence” dives into the complexities of racial differences within a family. There are works here from Kirkwood photography, glass and writing classes and from local artists beyond our walls. Enjoy exploring the creative work of your fellow students, faculty, alumni, and community members.

Student Editorial Staff: Laura Hoff Christy Logan Mikayla McDonough Rachel Miller Mahalia Schelangoski Payton Schwiebert Nathan Usher Meg Wiley Faculty Advisors: Lisa Angelella Danny Plunkett

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Table of Contents Poetry The Look Friends in Three Acts green skies at dusk breaking The Rite of Spring Past, Present and Future: a Villanelle Danny Uncle California Dreamin’ The Fates Into the Sea

RL Raymond Annie Smith Barkalow LA Felleman LA Felleman LA Felleman Caroline Garrish

p. p. p. p. p. p.

12 15 23 25 42 44

RL Raymond RL Raymond Karin Ulery Ella Ostedgaard AJ Taylor

p. p. p. p. p.

60 62 66 71 73

James Van Eaton Annie Smith Barkalow Irene Schwab Ella R. Sipp

p. p. p. p.

6 18 27 68

Savanna Snead

p. 38

Fiction Snow Bill’s Escape from Skinny Jim’s Lady in Red Double Death’s Due

Non-fiction Silence

ERASE

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Drama Vertical Daylight

James Van Eaton

p. 46

Hally Rittmer Piper Schoon Barbara Shultz Gabbie Herzberg Kaylee Gosch Ella Ostedgaard Kora West Isaiah Haveman Kristina Bower Gabbie Herzberg Hally Rittmer Sarah Bran Aly M. Antczak Hally Rittmer Shelby Blazek Johanna Wallace Kristina Bower

cover p. 11 p. 14 p. 17 p. 22 p. 24 p. 26 p. 37 p. 41 p. 43 p. 45 p. 59 p. 65 p. 67 p. 70 p. 72 p. 74

Art Purple Galaxy Girls Narcissus Conclusion Glass Heart Madam Delta Paltry Soldier Stormy City Hotdog Water Neglect Lady Feeling Blue Elementary Cardiology Pieces Blue Turquoise Waters The Forgotten Quiet Illumination

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Snow

James Van Eaton

The air held a deep and biting chill the morning Will Richardson woke up for the last time.

Another heavy storm had come through the night before, re-frosted the streets, and added five inches to the already high drifts of snow which the plow had pushed to the curb. Richardson, who had been “Richie” to his Navy buddies, “William” to his wife, and “Commander Will” to the neighborhood since leaving both some twenty years previous, leaned against the door frame and crossed his thin, tattooed arms against the cold. He sucked in a breath of wintry air, rolled it around, then spit it back out.

“Goddamn nuisance,” he said, and went back for a heavier coat.

Richardson had patrolled the same eight blocks over the same four streets nearly every day for the last two decades. There had been an occasional break (a day or two for the flu, a week once a year to visit his daughter Sarah in Arizona, and one particularly grueling two-month period following a hip replacement) but as a general rule, rain or shine, come what may, Commander Will made his rounds.

But the recent storm had brought more than just rain. This winter, it seemed, had lasted forever, and while early in the season there had been overnight chills and small, daytime flurries, the snow had really begun in earnest over the last two weeks. Monday before last, Will had looked out his door expecting to find the sleepy, tree-lined neighborhood to which he had become accustomed and saw instead a great, sprawling landscape of unfamiliar snowdrifts which seemed to stretch on forever. The neighborhood had seen snow before, but never to such an extent, and the amount which had fallen in the interim was more than enough for an all-time record.

Wrapped in his warmest down jacket and leaning heavily on his ice-tip cane, Will opened his front door with a twinge of uncertainty. The storm had completely transformed the neighborhood.

What was once familiar had gone completely alien. Across the street, Dr. Allen’s prized Corvette had all but vanished beneath a blanket of white, as had the jumbo trampoline which had appeared the previous fall. In the yard on the left, the Burgans’ tire swing had disappeared along with most of the tree which supported it. And on the right, Will could only barely make out the large picture window where Connie Nelson sat most mornings with her tea to watch the hummingbirds at her feeder. In fact, no one seemed to be around at all. Snow had a way of quieting things, to be sure, but the neighborhood this day felt less quieted and more…deserted.

Will thought about going back. He wasn’t decrepit by any means, but a man of his age could still get into trouble going out on the ice alone, and with the lack of activity on the street it might be some time before anybody came should something happen. Still, while the lawns and sidewalks were covered in snow, the streets appeared relatively clear. If he could manage to navigate the driveway to the curb he would be just fine. Besides, over his many walks he had memorized the location of every root, pothole, and uneven section of ground. Bad weather hadn’t stopped him in the past and it wouldn’t stop him now. Nodding resolutely, he tightened his grip on his cane, pulled

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the door closed behind him, and stepped carefully into the yard. He made it only a few steps before something caught his eye.

A ray of fleeting sunlight had shone for a moment on something small, golden, and round.

Whatever it was sat partially embedded in the slowly melting crest of the nearest snow bank.

“What the hell?” Will asked.

He squinted, but couldn’t make it out.

With his free hand held out for balance, Will approached the half-hidden object with a dawning sense of disbelief.

It was a Distinguished Service Medal, the kind awarded in the military for, as they put it, “exceptionally meritorious service.” Will had received one of his own from the Navy following a near-suicidal Hail Mary during the final days of Vietnam. The maneuver he had attempted never should have worked, but it had, and victory there and the recognition he’d received afterward had been the highlight of his career.

“But I lost it,” he breathed, plucking the medal from the snow.

He shook away the clinging ice and the gold and purple ribbon whipped back and forth. The medal lacked any sort of inscription, as was customary, but there was something about it, some small scuff or barely frayed corner which tugged at Will’s memory with curious strength. It was his, he was nearly certain of it, but how was that possible? His medal had been lost for decades. He’d gone looking for it at some point, thinking he might gift it to Sarah’s son Jacob when the boy had signed up for service, but he had never managed to locate it. Yet, here it was, he was positive now, on a pile of snow outside his front door. A plow might have kicked it up from the street, but how it would have ended up there in the first place…

Another flash, this one near the edge of the yard.

“What the hell?” he said again, and went cautiously forward.

The second object he pulled from the ice was an antique pocket watch with a long, golden chain and a carefully etched image of an eagle on its gleaming outer shell.

“How…?” he began, “I haven’t seen this in…”

Grasping the chain he spun the watch around to read the inscription he somehow knew he’d find.

“A timeless love.”

The words had been something of a joke, as the watch had never correctly told time, but it had belonged to Ellen’s late father and, knowing that Will had long admired it, Ellen had given it to her future on the day they were married. Their love hadn’t exactly proven timeless, but they had managed to put in a solid effort for a good while, and the union had produced Sarah, for whom Will would have gladly endured a far worse fate.

He tried to recall where he’d last seen the watch. Had it been before he’d moved to the neighborhood? After? He had some dim recollection of it hanging near a fireplace, but that seemed almost a dream. Some kind of...

Another flash, this one silver, shone suddenly from across the street.

“The hell is going on here?” Will asked.

Stowing the watch and medal in his jacket pocket, Will exited the yard and carefully entered the street. He expected there to be ice on the pavement, but found none. In fact, as he approached

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the snow piled before Dr. Allen’s yard the winter air seemed to lose its chill. The snowdrifts appeared suddenly lower, and the landscape beyond them less obscured.

“Probably hypothermia,” Will laughed. “Either that or I’m having a stroke, seeing my life flash before my…”

The idea had occurred in jest, but all at once it felt alarmingly real, and Will thought seriously of turning back.

“No shame in it,” he muttered. “Been brave my whole life. No need to prove it now.”

But of course he did, or rather, he would. Creeping sense of unease or no, he had to know what lay before him on the snowbank. He strode forward, caught the polished corner of the metallic object, and lifted it free from the snow.

“Oh my god,” Will stammered, as tears welled in his eyes. “Oh my god.”

The object he held was a small, silver-plated picture frame with a pattern of ships, nets, and seashells. The photo displayed beneath the glass showed Will as a sturdy young man in faded work jeans and a black t-shirt balancing a ludicrous amount of vanilla ice cream on a cone far too small for it. Perched precariously on his shoulders, seven years old in bright purple overalls and messy strawberry pigtails, his daughter Sarah reached out with both hands and every fiber of her being for the ice cream in her father’s hand. Ellen had taken the photo at some long-lost county fair, and Sarah had signed the lower edge with a pink, curlicue scrawl, purchased the frame with her own money, and left it on his desk for Father’s Day.

That little girl had been Will’s angel, his reason for living, the greatest thing he had ever done. The day Ellen snapped that photo had been the best of his life, and years later, when the photo was all he had left, it had become his most treasured possession. The day he discovered that it had inexplicably vanished had been one of nearly unbearable pain. But here it was again, back in his hands, seemingly untouched by time, a gift from the snow.

“You came back to me,” he cried, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You came back.”

“Of course I came back, silly.”

Will turned abruptly and found her there, his angel in white with her fiery crown of red hair.

The beloved daughter whom time and distance had taken away.

“Sarah!” he cried, reaching out for her.

She did not return his embrace.

“No, Will. I’m not Sarah. I’m Joanna, remember? Sarah’s your daughter. She’s the one in the picture. We do both have red hair, though, so I can see how you would be confused. Hers is much nicer, though.”

Will stared at the woman in confusion, trying to focus though his tears.

“You got up early,” she kept on. “Must be a Navy day, huh? Is that why you’re wearing your jacket? Are you on your way to the ship?”

“No,” Will said, confused. “I…I was...It was for the snow.”

“The snow?” the woman asked, laughing. “In the middle of summer?”

Will could only stare at her.

“Summer?” he asked dumbly. “What are you…?”

And then it hit him.

The once frigid air quickly thawed to room temperature, and the snowdrifts which had so

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dominated the landscape melted into a crowded assortment of lived-in furniture atop a dingy white carpet. Out the nearby window a battered blue Toyota sat where Dr. Allen used to keep his Corvette, and the tree which had once supported the Burgan boys tire swing now lay dry and rotting against the nearby chain-link fence. While on the right, haphazardly propped boards crowded Connie Nelson’s picture window, and her beloved bird feeder sat cracked and abandoned on an old, wooden picnic table.

All of it was shocking, but worst of all was Sarah, or rather, the woman Will had briefly mistaken her to be. Joanna was nearly sixty with bad skin, strained white capris, a too-tight blouse, and a head of haphazardly gathered, poorly dyed red hair which did not resemble Sarah’s at all.

“Is it coming back now, Will?” Joanna asked. “Do you know where you are? You’re at home.”

“Of course I’m at home!” Will snapped, surprising them both. “I’m always at home. You never let me leave!”

The years came flooding back, surging through him like a nightmare. The hospital visits, the failed treatments, the decision, made largely without his consent, to find someone to care for him, Ellen coming down from Boston but leaving in frustration, and Sarah, his sweet, sweet Sarah, glancing at him with those sad, apologetic eyes while she filled out paperwork on her father’s behalf.

“Joanna,” Will said numbly. “Right. You’re my health care worker.”

“See, you got it, honey,” Joanna said. “It just took a second. Hey, I was just about to make some tea. You want some? I think we still have some of that Earl Grey…”

Will wasn’t listening.

“I lost this,” he said, staring at the picture in his hands. “I lost this and… How did I lose it? I used to look at it every day.”

“You still do, hon,” Joanna said.

She took his arm and guided him gently to the fireplace mantle.

“You had me put all your really important things up here so you wouldn’t lose them, remember? There’s your Navy hat, your pocketknife, your baseball glove...”

“We used to play in the street,” Will said, picking up the glove. “We used to play until dark.

“But I can’t go out there anymore, can I?”

“No honey, you can’t. Sorry.”

Will nodded, swallowing hard.

“I just wanted to see Sarah.”

“I know, honey, I know. You’re always looking out for her, aren’t you? Well, she’s on her way. She and Jacob. I gave her a call and she’s looking into flights. Isn’t that great? You’ll all get to spend some time together soon.”

Will looked up from the glove with shining, tear-filled eyes.

“Sarah’s coming to see me?”

“That’s right, Will. And I just know she’s gonna be thrilled to be here. I bet she’s really excited, probably can’t wait. I just need you to hang in there one more day, okay? Think you can do that? Think you can do that for Sarah?”

Will regarded Joanna for a long moment before turning to look through his window at the neighborhood street he had known so well before the long winter had come with its heavy storms

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and high drifts of snow.

And it will come again, he thought. First the sky, then the yard, then it will creep to the door.

“But I can wait,” he said aloud. “I can wait for Sarah.”

With that, he gathered his most precious items to his heart, sat in the chair nearest the door, and prepared to wait for his angel.

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Galaxy Girls

Piper Schoon

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The Look

RL Raymond

It was midway upon life’s journey that I, with the cinders of numerous volcanoes lodged in my knees and calves, came to rest beneath the cooling shade of a banyan tree. I remember the country called East Pakistan.

I can’t remember what the trouble was. Over his hornrimmed glasses, my father gave me “The Look.”

Today the locusts are beginning to buzz in the weeds and trees.

They sound like they are winding up a big spring-driven machine.

Someone will flip the drive switch, and suddenly everything will be different, if not for the better. In the nursing home he thought I was trying to defraud him of money and property.

It took a complete stranger to coax him to sign the documents.

Every child

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imagines himself without his parents.

Some chests require stitches that look like the border between Mexico and Texas.

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Narcissus Conclusion

Barbara Shultz

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Friends in Three Acts

Annie Smith Barkalow

I. Emma I have a small table I sit hungry at, feasting on things, the fat of heart scorn.

Ticket stubs worn thin, a playbill scribbled with notes, an old cassette tape, comics from the Sunday paper; such paltry salvagings, for this is how it was: Once, you loved me.

Come see where I keep the split tether, twenty years old and still as clean as the day you cut it.

II. Clara The sidewalk where you broke the eggs is still heaving, after all these years.

You would think someone would have repaved it, by now.

“One of these days someone will break their neck on it,” you said. The eggs were casualty enough.

I gave you two brown ones from my carton, thick-shelled, warm from that day and scrubbed clean.

“Saves a trip to the grocery store,” I said.

Funny the things you remember as you nod to the stranger in the produce section, wondering if she still prefers green bananas to yellow ones.

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III. Althea I read pictures as a gypsy reads tea leaves, probing for signs.

Straining over each pixel, each grainy image, I decipher the clues, panning for gold, for meaning.

Any hint, any at all, for an opening I can wedge my foot in, for a seat at the table.

This much I knew, before privation drove me to divination: The songbird would sprout her wings.

Flapping them as far away as possible, yet here I am with my tether— A good day for flying kites.

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Glass Heart

Gabbie Herzberg

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Bill’s Escape from Skinny Jim’s

Annie Smith Barkalow

Knucklehead Sims lived above the bar he owned in downtown Peter’s Grove. Short, skinny and bald, he rarely came out in the daylight for anything other than checking his mail and emptying the garbage, and on occasion, “airing out” his African parrot, Bill. It was on one such occasion that Bill decided to declare his freedom once and for all. Sims hadn’t clipped his wings for some time, but knowing that Bill was quite tame, was certain he would stay perched on his shoulder for the short bike ride to the post office. Rounding the corner of Main Street onto Second Avenue, Bill crouched and with a mighty flap of his wings, was off into the air.

Sims felt the beating of Bill’s wings on his neck and stopped the bike, shading his eyes as he searched the sky. The unimaginative local robins and sparrows ignored the exotic wonder as his silvery wings beat the balmy spring air in search of a leafy Shiloh.

Sims pedaled the shady streets of Peter’s Grove leading toward Law Road, where Bill was headed, whistling and calling his name intermittently. He coasted to a stop in front of a white twostory house, where a woman was unloading groceries. Two children played in the yard, and the third was squatting on the sidewalk in diapers, intent on sampling the anthill in front of it. They all stopped and looked inquisitively at Sims as he came to a stop.

“’Scuse me,” he said, “I was wonderin’ if you saw a bird come flying through here jes now.”

“Uh-oh,” grunted the baby on the sidewalk.

“What sort of bird?” the woman asked politely.

“Well, he’s a parrot—an African parrot. Sorta exotic looking, with a gray head and red colorin’ on his tail feathers. I seen he come this way. His name’s Bill.”

“Uh-oh,” repeated the baby, now rubbing sand on his fat thighs.

The woman scanned the neighborhood and shook her head. “I just got home. I haven’t seen anything.”

Sims spat in the road before he answered. “Well if you see ‘em, he belongs at Skinny Jim’s Tavern jes downtown. Ya’ll jes holler in and if I’m not around, Leroy will know what to do.”

Leroy himself came down the sidewalk just then to aid in the search, along with one of the bar patrons, Lou Ida Hanover. Leroy was an older jack-of-all trades who could be seen all about town, his scraggly, long, gray hair frizzing out beneath his hat and his equally long, tobaccostreaked gray beard drooping resignedly on his chest. Despite the humid summer afternoon, he wore a green flannel shirt, stained jeans, gardening gloves, and a fisherman’s hat pulled low over his brow. Leroy ambled leisurely down the sidewalk while Lou Ida paced purposefully on the opposite sidewalk, her doughy red face glistening with perspiration. The baby’s ominous uh-ohs followed the trio down the street.

The object of the search was, by now, comfortably seated on the branch of a tall tree whose limbs extended past a third-story window of the Peter’s Grove courthouse. Knowing he was well camouflaged on the gnarly branch, Bill smoothed his ashy feathers with his beak, fluffed himself

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up, and cocked his head listening to the sounds around him. His black, beady eyes shone with curiosity and thrill. This was the first time he was able to assert his independence from the grimy apartment above the bar, and the sights and sounds filled him with vigor. He was side-stepping along the branch when a grackle swooped in to intimidate him away from a nearby nest. Bill flapped his silvery-toned wings, opened his sharp beak and lunged for the bird, which fell back but dove in again. Fed up with this disturbance, Bill flapped a short distance to the end of the branch and closer to the third-story window. Begrudgingly satisfied, the grackle flew up the tree and chirruped epithets at Bill.

It was this brief commotion that caused Margaret, the driver’s license clerk, to get up from her desk and peek out the window.

“What are you looking at?” asked her supervisor, a small, thin woman with angular features.

“Just a couple of birds fighting—Oh!” Margaret suddenly exclaimed. “One of them looks like a parrot!”

Several staff members of the treasurer’s office jumped out of their seats to look.

“How did he get here? I wonder who he belongs to,” said Margaret.

“Open the window and let’s see if we can coax him inside,” said the supervisor.

With some effort, Margaret heaved the window open. “Chickie-chickie-chickie,” she called.

“Does anyone know what these birds eat? What can we tempt him with?”

At that moment, Lou Ida Hanover was huffing down the sidewalk in front of the courthouse when she caught Margaret in the act of opening the window. When she heard “chickie-chickiechickie” she moved closer, her small, beady eyes narrowing. When she saw Bill’s outline silhouetted against the limestone of the building, they grew wide—about as wide as they could go—and she shouted for Leroy and Knucklehead.

Margaret’s eyes trailed down to the lawn where Lou Ida, Leroy and Sims were assembled.

Leroy was by now holding a butterfly net, and Sims was balancing with one foot on his bicycle while clutching a small carrier. It did not take great powers of observation to surmise that one of the motley crew members must be the owner. Nevertheless, Margaret hollered down, “Is he yours?”

Without waiting for Sims to reply, Lou Ida bellowed back, “YES HE IS! HE BELONGS TO SKINNY JIM’S TAVERN!”

“I knowed he come this way,” Lou Ida chuckled gleefully. “I jes’ had a feeling in my gut.”

“Leroy, you go upstairs where they’re at an’ try to net him from the window,” Sims instructed, but Lou Ida cut in.

“Well, what will you do if he flies down here? You can’t ketch him bare-handed. I’ll go upstairs and coax him in ‘en if he flies off down here, Leroy can ketch him with his net,” she said authoritatively. Before Sims could acquiesce, Lou Ida was hoofing it to the courthouse steps and swinging open the doors. Sims and Leroy stared after her.

The staff of the Wilson County treasurer’s office were surprised when Lou Ida barged in, huffing and puffing. “I’m here for the bird,” she gasped, sweat dripping off her brow. The supervisor glanced at her empty hands.

“How are you going to catch him?” she asked.

In her eagerness to save the day, Lou Ida hadn’t stopped to consider that part—although she had considered Leroy and Sims’ parts a great deal. An idea suddenly came to her.

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“Peanut butter. An’ a stick—no, wait—a yardstick. Does anyone have any of these things?”

“Why peanut butter?” asked Margaret.

“Well, he’s a parrot, ain’t he? And don’t parrots eat nuts? And ain’t peanut butter from a nut?” Lou Ida asked condescendingly. Margaret frowned slightly.

Nobody had these items within the office, and in the end one of the customers waiting for a fishing license hunted down the custodian, who was able to supply both peanut butter and a yardstick from his mysterious stores in the courthouse. Lou Ida received these items without a word and proceeded to the window. She stopped short when she realized her girth would be an impediment to her objective. “Can you open this higher?” she asked.

“That’s as far as it goes,” said the supervisor, demonstrating. “It’s humid out and the wood has expanded.” Margaret tried to heave it higher next, and then Lou Ida, all in vain.

“Whelp—guess I’m jes’ gonna hafta squeeze in,” she said, with determination in her voice.

As she inched her way through the opening with the stick, Bill eyed her suspiciously. “C’mon, Bill,” Lou Ida said softly, holding out the yardstick. “You know you like peanut—” Just then, a hornet came buzzing around Lou Ida’s head. With a yell, she dropped the yardstick and tried swatting the hornet away with one hand. Bill flapped to a different branch, and Lou Ida desperately tried to back her way into the office, but found herself stuck.

By now, a small group of people who had business at the courthouse gathered below to watch the commotion going on at the third story window. Two boys on bikes rode down the sidewalk and stopped. “Isn’t that your mom?” asked one of the boys. The other boy on the bicycle blushed scarlet but assented that she was.

“MOM?” he hollered.

“Jackson, I’m stuck—I’m stuck! Leroy, go get your extension ladder! Help!” By this time the hornet had landed on the back of her head and was creeping along towards her neck. Leroy’s beard spoke.

“Not long enough.”

Leroy, who never spoke above a mumble, kept his eyes on Lou Ida as she flailed around.

Sims, who was used to exerting his voice on behalf of Leroy, shouted up at Lou Ida. “LEROY SAYS HIS LADDER AIN’T LONG ENOUGH!”

The office staff, which had been busily trying to un-stick the window and pull Lou Ida back in, conferred with one another. The supervisor sighed. “My husband is a volunteer firefighter,” she said. “I’ll call him.”

As the siren from the approaching fire truck grew louder, Leroy heard a buzzing. Looking down, he saw a hornet twisted in his beard. Looking further down, he discovered that he had inadvertently crushed a ground hornet nest, and that there were now two hornets nesting themselves in his beard. His normally inert body began twisting itself at odd angles and strange noises came from the mess of hair on his face. Lou Ida’s son was openly bawling on his bike while his friend stared open-mouthed at the window, and between Leroy’s convulsing and Lou Ida’s shouting, the bystanders didn’t know who to look at.

Sims had, by this time, dropped his carrier and was alternating between swearing and groaning. The pastor of the Methodist church, who had dropped by the courthouse to renew her vehicle registration, bowed her head and prayed out loud, lifting her hands to heaven.

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Bill, the originator of all this excitement, had disappeared by the time the fire truck arrived.

Lou Ida had, in the span of the phone call to the fire department, been freed by the custodian. Why nobody thought to consult him first was a mystery; but he had deftly pried the window open with a crowbar and pulled a weeping Lou Ida back into the office, only to evaporate back into the musty recesses of the limestone building.

Leroy and Lou Ida were taken to the emergency room and treated for their hornet stings, a dismayed Sims promising them free beer for a week and begging them not to sue him. Lou Ida’s son pedaled back to his friend’s house where he played Fortnite, ate a whole Totino’s pizza, and forgot all about his mother’s mishap. The staff of the treasurer’s office reluctantly went back to work, and the Methodist minister went home thanking God for answering her prayer and crafting a sermon about the dangers of open windows as opposed to open doors. “God Opens Doors, but Never Windows,” was the cautionary title.

At twilight, a dejected Sims trudged up the narrow staircase of his apartment building with his bike, to off-load the carrier before relieving the bartender downstairs. As he unlocked the door and stepped inside, a swarm of flies greeted him. A quick look around the apartment revealed the source of the flies—an open window. Cursing to himself, he crossed the room and shut the window forcefully, causing the glass panes to reverberate. A puzzled chirrup sounded from the corner of the room. Startled, Sims turned around. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw Bill squatting on his perch. His eyes were closed, his feathers were fluffed, and his beak was moving silently as he dreamed of his brief adventure outside. Sighing with both relief and exasperation, Sims shook his head and chuckled softly as he made his way back down the stairs. Tomorrow, he would clip his wings.

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Madam Delta

Kaylee Gosch

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green skies at dusk

LA Felleman

could we move somewhere, where homes sustain rooms, walls retain bricks, trees never twist, roofs rarely lift? is there some place left, where air does not hook, clouds seldom shred, soil remains grounded, as heat heightens wind?

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Paltry Soldier

Ella Ostedgaard

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breaking

LA Felleman

“What he ought to do for the individual is to turn personal troubles and concerns into social issues and problems open to reason.” –C. W. Mills peek-a-booing baby games someticklish distractions necessary respite but insufficient cure infant eyes wonder wide much to parents’ fatigue they hang their heads over this chore pulling home out of thinning means

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Stormy City

Kora West

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The Lady in Red

Irene Schwab

“Do you have your toothbrush, Laura?” Dan asks his daughter over the harmonies of One Direction, while suburbia sweeps past the car windows.

“You asked that ten minutes ago, Dad. The answer is still yes.”

“Right.” Dan turns left while asking, “What about your pillow?”

“The fluffy thing in my lap is not a dog.”

“I’m just checking.”

“Dad, I know you’re nervous whenever I’m out of your sight. Do I need to remind you about my first day of school?”

“No, but you’re going to aren’t you?”

“The principal called the cops because a guy was hanging out around the school intently watching the children. Even as a five-year-old, it was embarrassing when the guy turned out to be my overprotective father.” Laura lays her hand on Dan’s arm. “Kelsey’s dad is a COP. I think he’ll be more than enough protection. Besides, this is not my first sleep over; I’ve survived all the others.”

Turning away from her father, Laura peers out the window. “And it’s not your first time dropping me off at Kelsey’s house, so why did you just pass it?”

“Giving you time to change your mind.” Dan pulls into the next driveway to turn around.

“Oh, Dad, come on. It’s not like the ‘b’ word is going to be there.”

“Aren’t you a little young to know the ‘b’ word?” Dan glances at his preteen daughter out of the corner of his eye, as he parks in front of Kelsey’s driveway.

“Boys, Dad, not bitch.”

Dan gives the don’t-ever-use-that-word-again-look to his daughter before unlocking the door.

Instead of immediately exiting, she leans over the console and kisses his cheek. “Sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at 11. Do NOT be early. Having your Dad drink coffee in the kitchen while you have breakfast after a sleepover is sooo uncool.”

“No promises, but I’ll try.” He watches his angel get out of the car and juggle all her stuff up the driveway while trying to wave at the mass of girls standing in the doorway. He rolls down the car window. “What about toothpaste? Did you remember toothpaste?”

Laura whirls around in the drive. “FATHER! I have toothpaste, and if I don’t, I could borrow some. GO AWAY.”

“Love you, kiddo.”

“You too.” The phrase is casually thrown over the girl’s shoulder, but just as she is about to disappear into the house, she sends a love-you-dad smile back at the car.

Dan rolls up the passenger window and changes the station before Justin Bieber can get stuck in his head. A news bulletin about escaped and dangerous convicts, which gives Dan the heebie-jeebies, is followed by the weather. And then his favorite radio station goes to

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27

commercial.

“Couldn’t they just keep talking about the jailbirds,” Dan mutters to the steering wheel.

“Anything is better than ‘CARS! CARS! CARS!’.”

The radio mimics him and he switches off the noise. To keep his mind off of his preteen girl giggling about the ‘b’ word, he attempts to focus on the cold beer sitting in his fridge, a dark wheat from Belgium. The guys at the shop had given him a six pack for his birthday. He can see the bottles all snug in their cardboard carrier. Six pals just hanging out.

Less than ten minutes later, Dan opens his garage door remotely and parks his Civic millimeters from the lawnmower. Opening the door halfway, so as not to hit his bike, he squeezes out of the driver’s seat. Not only is the garage too small for a mechanic, it’s not attached. On this spring evening, without a cloud in the sky, Dan doesn’t mind, but in January and February…whew, the twenty or so steps to or from his house are brutal.

Dan unclips his keychain from his belt loop and flips through the half dozen keys. He tries to crack his neck while unlocking the door but it won’t pop. Jerry had told him he should go to a chiropractor and get his back checked out, but Dan isn’t interested. Doctors like to ask about the past and Dan keeps the past where it is supposed to be—behind him.

The kitchen is toasty and the distinct smell of pot roast hits Dan’s nose. Normally, he doesn’t mind smelling his neighbor’s cooking, but does she have to have pot roast on a night when all he is going to eat is leftover, takeout, Chinese?

Without turning on the lights, even though it is almost dark, Dan heads directly to the fridge, separates one of the beers from his five pals, and migrates to the living room. Before completely exiting the kitchen, he sets his cellphone on the wireless charger and slides his keys onto the hook directly above. Laura’s idea, so he won’t lose them.

Automatically, he turns on the thermostat in the hallway separating the kitchen and living room. As the fan starts up, he notices that the smell of pot roast has been overlaid with a hint of floral perfume. When had his daughter started wearing perfume? Wasn’t she still learning to ride a bike and playing with dolls? The thought of all the dangers his angel will face as she goes into the world wiggles its way into his mind. One day, he won’t be there to protect her. Dan blinks rapidly to remove the idea, reminding himself that twelve is a long way from twenty-one, and continues toward his La-Z-boy and relaxation.

In one move, he sits, extends the recliner’s footrest, and leans back. This used to be the moment when Dan would swear, stand up, and head back to the kitchen for his bottle opener. The new-fangled twist caps on beers are the best. In no time, the cap is off and the beer’s on its way to his gut.

Dan’s fingers fumble around the end table in search of the remote. He and Laura don’t keep the house spotless, but the remote is always left on the end table. Laura would lounge on the couch and Dan would relax in his recliner when they watched TV, together or separately. Laura says the end table is like the ‘and’ in a sentence. It brings the recliner and the couch together, them and whoever sits on them. It is just like Laura to use words as a simile. She is always entering, and winning, spelling bees. Every now and then Laura drops an outrageous word into conversation.

Later, Dan has to google the word to find its meaning. Laura thinks he should use a dictionary.

28 Cedar Valley Divide

When she had first started using big words, Dan had thought she was trying to sound smart. Out of the blue, he would ask what a word meant. She always knew the definition, often definitions. She still does.

Dan sighs as he presses the power button and the TV floods the room with blue light.

Disney Channel.

No thank you.

March Madness is called for tonight. Strange that Dan would have preferred watching the Disney Chanel with Laura sitting on the couch than hanging out here with his beer and basketball.

Laura must have been doing homework in front of the TV again because the volume is almost to zero. As Dan slides his fingers along the rubbery buttons, he hears a click on the wooden steps of the staircase to the second story bedrooms. Then another. And another.

The noise reminds him of the sound stilettos make on wood.

Slowly, so as not to make a sound, Dan sits up in his recliner, easing the footrest into its folded position. The wood floor creaks as he stands and the clicks on the stairs stop.

Dan moves from the living room into the hall, which glows with the light from the stairway at its far end. He pivots to face the stairs.

“Good evening, Daniel. How was your day? Not too stressful, I hope. I’ve prepared your favorites for dinner. Pot roast with mashed potatoes and green beans. Then we can have…dessert.”

Dan drops his beer. It bounces slightly on the carpet in the middle of the hall before landing on its side, beer washing onto the carpet and making its way to the exposed wood floor. Dan hears the thud and smells the hops, but he cannot take his eyes off the woman on the staircase.

Her feet, or more accurately, her shoes are directly in his line of sight. Slowly, Dan moves his eye upwards. Black stiletto pumps with barely visible red soles are followed by sculpted calves; their flawless skin is not concealed by nylons, the way Dan likes it.

As his eyes continue to rise, they meet the hem of her black dress, right after glimpsing the beginning of her thighs. He takes time following her contours up over her hips, waist, and eventually her chest. The square neckline is brushed over by Dan’s gaze which lands on the deep V produced by her ample cleavage.

After a moment, he sees she is wearing her double strand of pearls: white South Sea pearls. They don’t sparkle like the Tiffany setting engagement ring on her left hand, which she has strategically placed against the strap of her dress. The fingernails painted Yves-Saint-Laurent, La Rouge pop next to the black. Dan remembers the brand and the name. He had once, only once, bought her a random red nail polish. After the scene that followed, he had seared that brand and that name into his memory.

Naturally, the nail polish matches her lipstick. Her makeup is flawless, the matte finishes accentuated by her swept back hair. Dan can just make out the silver filigree of her hair pin. He doesn’t need to see more to know it is a jet oval surrounded by diamond shards; the one he gave her their first Christmas together.

Everything about her is smooth, curvy, and sensuous. Even the smile that misses her eyes.

Dan’s gaze rests upon those pale blue chips of ice.

“Amanda, you’re here.” Dan blinks, twice, but her icy blues are still there.

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29

Amanda saunters down the remaining steps. “Of course, Daniel. Isn’t this where you want me to be?”

Dan knows the question is a challenge; he isn’t up to that challenge. He never has been; he does want her here.

“Sweetheart,” Amanda places her soft fingers against his cheekbone, sending a shiver down Dan’s spine. “I’m going to clean this up while you go change into what I put out for you. Then we will have a lovely dinner and just chat for a bit.”

Trying to ignore the La Rouge nails, Dan sucks in air before nodding. Amanda slides her hand off his jawline, scraping her nails across his chin. She never stops smiling.

“I’ll see you in fifteen minutes, gives you time to shower. No later. You wouldn’t want dinner to get cold.” Amanda steps around Dan and into the kitchen. “Oh, and Daniel,” she calls while opening a drawer, “make sure you shave. But use the electric razor; it’s faster.”

In a daze, Dan climbs the stairs to the bedrooms on the second floor. The master bedroom to the left is his but he opens the cracked door to the right.

Laura’s room is exactly how she had left it that morning, a mess. Clothes are littered across chairs and piled on the floor. A pair of ripped jeans is huddled, inside-out, on the desk.

Laura’s messes make Amanda angry. Dan has to curtail Amanda’s anger. Quietly, he closes the door to Laura’s room.

Dan makes his way over to his own room; the door is already open. Normally the room rivals his daughter’s mess, but tonight it is pristine. The dresser even appears to have been dusted.

The queen-sized bed has been made, pillows plumped, and the throw pillows, which normally litter the floor, are arranged against the headboard. At the foot, neatly displayed, is a suit he hasn’t worn in years. In fact, he hasn’t worn one piece of that outfit since…

He shuts off his thoughts; the action is familiar. “If you don’t think about it, it isn’t real.”

Does he still believe that?

With shaking hands, Dan unbuttons his work shirt, and instead of throwing it over the back of the chair, dumps it in the laundry basket. Next he pulls off his white tee and lets it fall on top of his shirt. Stepping into the master bath, Dan avoids peering into the mirror. He does not want to see the man who will be peeping out of the glass.

Socks, jeans, and boxers land on the floor before Dan turns on the shower. He stands in the hot, pounding water for a long moment, then quickly soaps up and rinses. Within seven minutes, he is out of the shower and standing in front of the steam covered mirror. His electric razor is sitting on the sink, plugged in.

Dan doesn’t wipe the mirror. He’s only got a five-o’clock shadow and no fear of the electric razor cutting him. Seeing his face in the mirror would be worse anyway.

Towel dried, shaved, and in a new pair of boxers, Dan stands before the bed staring at his suit. Tailored, Armani in black.

Amanda had insisted that he only wear, own, and work for the best. Their cars, house, boat, clothes, furniture, even their friends were the newest, most stylish, and expensive. Everything in their lives had sparkled. Amanda had sparkled and shone and dazzled and…

Dan feels his fingernails, as short as they are, digging into his palm. Releasing his fist, he

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tries to release the emotions built up in his gut: awe mingled with desire, shadowed by fear. By the time he is fully dressed in the same red and black as Amanda, Dan knows he isn’t able to let go of that mixture of emotion.

For nine years he has denied his past. He has erased the bad memories and shined up the good. Dan is aware that the shadow of fear should have him climbing out the window and fleeing, but the awe and desire are building as he pulls out and plays those shiny memories. The suit feels good and induces the memory of entering a room with Amanda on his arm to run through his mind.

The pair’s perfection causes everyone in the memory to stop and stare. The feeling is intoxicating.

After assessing his look with a downward glance, Dan notices that the only item left on the bed is the red silk pocket square embroidered in the same color with tiny paisleys. Dan picks it up and the rough skin of his fingers snags one of the fine threads. The miniature loop glares at him the same way Amanda will glare at him when she see it.

The pocket square flutters as Dan’s hand begins to shake.

What am I going to do? She is going to be disappointed. I can’t let her down. She made dinner—

“Daniel, are you almost finished?” Amanda’s voice pierces through the spiraling thoughts.

“I know how terrible you would feel if the dinner I slaved over got cold. Congealed grease is not appetizing.”

“Be right down. I’m fixing my pocket square.”

“Oh, honey, bring it down here. I always do better with those finishing touches than you do.”

Dan bunches the silk in his fist. The fear is becoming more than a shadow.

He leaves the room and stops at the head of the staircase.

Amanda is sparkling and shining and dazzling at the bottom. She holds out her hand, demanding he descend and surrender the pocket square.

For one brief moment, not even a full second, Dan stands at the top of the stairs considering resistance; he had never resisted.

“Come down, Daniel.” It is as if Amanda senses his hesitation. She slips up two steps, coming closer to him, still holding out her hand. “Remember how you dressed before I met you? So unpolished. No style, no presence. I believe the word people used was ‘dork.’” She chuckles softly.

“But then I came along and polished you up. I made people, like your partners, take notice of you.

You never would have been able to climb that corporate ladder without me. You wouldn’t have even been on it.” She crooks her finger at him, a command. “Let me polish up your outfit tonight.”

All thought of resistance is gone.

Dan closes the distance between them, then stands perfectly still as Amanda arranges the fabric.

“Oh my god, this square is snagged.” Red silk flies in front of Dan’s face. “They sold me faulty merchandise. How could they insult me like this? They thought I wouldn’t notice. Thought I’m stupid. Well they messed with the wrong woman; I’m contacting Armani. When he hears about a snag—”

“I snagged it.”

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31

Amanda’s mouth stands open. “Do not defend them. This is shoddy work and I will not stand for it. You know that, Daniel.”

She flings the square to ground, grinding it into the carpet with her stiletto.

When she picks up her foot, the red silk clings to the heel with separated fibers. Icy blues widen and nostrils flare. A red-nailed Queen tears the pocket square from her shoe with righteous vengeance.

Dan watches her balance on the precipice between anger and insane fury. Every cell in his body demands that he pull her back; it is, after all, his fault she’s in this position. He must pacify the Queen before him, otherwise he will lose everything. He owes her; he is upsetting her; he must make things right. If he doesn’t he will lose her and return to the pathetic being he was before she polished him up.

“Amanda.” Meeting her freezing glare, Dan rests his hand on her arm. “What about dinner? I want to have a lovely dinner with you and we can’t let some shoddy work ruin that for us.”

The Queen totters a moment longer on the precipice before coming to rest in sanity, for now.

Amanda drops the torn pocket square on the stairs. Straightening, she kisses Dan’s cheek.

Her perfume is sweet and flowery. Her lips leave a burning sensation which is rubbed away by her cold fingertips wiping lipstick from his skin. She intertwines her fingers in his and leads him into the dining room.

Although the dining room had always held the essence of love, food—not always good—, and often friends and a good time, Amanda has managed to sap all that warmth from it.

A starched, brilliantly white table cloth and a three branched candelabra have been placed at the far end of the table. Two place settings of fine china and crystal wine glasses, from the set that Dan has been saving for Laura’s wedding day, are laid out kitty-corner to each other. Two sets of silverware sit next to the plates, with salad and dessert forks. The light glitters over the whole arrangement. It is just like all those dates in fancy restaurants, where the other diners would whisper in awe of the stylish, handsome couple.

“I’m so happy, Daniel.” Amanda drapes her form against the back of a chair letting her arm, with the hand holding Dan’s, float like a delicate yet unyielding chain between them.

Tugging on Dan’s hand, Amanda pulls him closer. She locks him in place by circling her other arm around his waist. Releasing his fingers, she lifts hers to his hair, curling a strand through them.

Dan can just hear chamber music in the background.

“Daniel.” Amanda’s lips are so near his, he can feel the warm air escaping her lungs. A small part of him is surprised she doesn’t breathe icicles; the larger part enjoys the sound of his name on her breath, her closeness, her willingness to overlook all his faults. “Let’s have dessert first.”

Her lips brush his, then her teeth tug. Dan presses closer to her. The flowers of her perfume fill his nose; her loosed hair fills his fingers; her voice fills his mind.

“I could have anyone, but I chose you. You are mine.”

The screen door bangs shut.

“Dad, I threw up at Kelsey’s.”

Dan’s mind removes a small portion of itself from Amanda’s hold as he disentangles his

32 Cedar Valley Divide

physical self from her. Their eyes meet, the piercing pair holding the blurred one.

“Her mom couldn’t reach you on the phone so she drove me home. Dad? Where are you?”

Laura.

Fully disengaging his body from Amanda’s, Dan hurries through the arched doorway that leads to the living room. Standing in the yellow light from the end table’s lamp is his daughter.

Strands of hair, escaped from her braid, fall across the pale face. Her body is sagging and her pillow hangs limp in her hand.

“You’re eating in the dining room? Don’t like all those friendly ants in your chair?” Laura’s barb misses; her voice lacks the enthusiasm to propel it. “I think I’m goi—” Laura’s eyes land behind Dan and her voice disappears.

Automatically, Dan proceeds towards his daughter. She looks awful.

“Daniel, stop.”

In the center of the living room, Dan becomes a frozen statue. Laura’s grip on her pillow has tightened. She brings it to her chest as a shield.

“Daddy, that’s her. The lady in red. She’s real. You said she wasn’t real. Just a nightmare.”

Laura gives a strangled cry. “How is she standing there?”

Dan twists his head to see Amanda behind him. Her hair, no longer in its clip, cascades about her face sending it into shadow. Her icy eyes penetrate the darkness, accusing. Her back is straighter than a broom handle, with her head alighting at the end of her swanlike neck. Even in stilettos, her feet are grounded, unmovable.

In total black, she is the picture of a nightmare.

Still babbling, Laura backs towards the front door. She stumbles against the end table. Her elbow knocks the lamp to the floor. It shatters.

Dan hears the crash.

Dan heard the crash, even over Amanda’s ranting and sprinted to the foyer.

Laura stood surrounded by shattered crystal that was once a vase, her bare feet peeking out of her sopping wet night gown. She turned and Dan could see a drinking glass tipped forward in her hands, still dripping milk.

“Daddy, don’t tell her, ‘kay?” Laura’s tiny three-year-old voice shivered.

Before Dan could open his mouth, Amanda shrieked behind him.

“You little bitch!”

Dan hurried over to Laura and began to pick up the crystal shards.

“That was hand cut crystal, from Poland. It was a gift.” Amanda’s face flushes red. “We are going to be even later, now. I have been planning this evening for mon…Daniel, get off the floor!

We are going to be late. The babysitter can pick that up.” Amanda gripped Dan’s arm with her claws and dragged him to his feet. “As for you, you …,” the icy chips that passed for Amanda’s eyes found the child. “I am going to teach you a lesson you will never forget.”

Both Laura and Dan gazed, frozen, on the vicious goddess before them. Her floor length gown, with a slit up to her thigh, was the same color as her nails, lipstick, and purse.

Blood red.

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Amanda’s eyes flashed around the room and fell on a large piece of the broken vase. Her icy eyes lit up from within. She snatched the sharp-edged glass up in her hand and lunged.

Dan moved in front of her. “Amanda, no, she’s just a little girl. Our daughter.”

“I think not. She has ruined everything. She steals your time and your affection. You think more of her than of me.” Amanda towered over Daniel, even though she was half an inch shorter than him. “That little bitch is driving a wedge between us and I am going to put a stop to it now.”

She swiped her hand as if to push Dan aside. “Move, Daniel.”

Daniel moved to Laura, wrapped his hands around her ribs, and began to lift her up and away from the glass splinters. “Go upstairs—”

Amanda yelled, raising the sharp crystal high in the air.

Dan’s arms stopped reaching out and instead shrank inward, towards his chest, bringing Laura with them. Bundling Laura close to him, Dan fell to the ground, pain sprouting in his knees as they met with sharp crystal.

The pounding in his ears was too rhythmic. Pain seared his arms where nails clawed to get at the trembling child.

A harpy was shrieking.

In the midst of the shriek, Dan heard a splintering crack followed by shouted commands. He squeezed Laura tighter as police flooded the room.

An officer eventually squatted beside him. “You’re safe, now. Babysitter called in a domestic disturbance. We’d been knockin’ but busted in when we heard screaming. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Daddy,” Laura wails. “She’s coming.”

Dan moves towards his daughter’s voice, Amanda’s stilettos clacking as she follows him.

“God! I had hoped Daniel would have gotten rid of you by now.” The voice causes Dan to freeze. “He really doesn’t know what’s best for himself.” Amanda places her hand on Dan’s shoulder, the chill, as well as her touch, making him shiver. Out of the corner of his eye Dan can see the red nail polish. “Don’t worry, Daniel, I’ll…take care of her.”

Dan’s mind automatically begins to placate the monster, but his ears are filled with his daughter’s whimpers. He can’t tell if they are coming from the twelve-year-old on the floor or if, transcending space and time, they are from the three-year-old he had clutched in his arms amid broken Polish crystal. All he knows is Laura, his joy, his walking dictionary, his child, is in danger.

“Laura, you need to run.” Dan keeps his voice calm.

Laura remains half-seated on the floor, a death grip on her pillow.

For the first time in her life, Dan yells at her. “RUN, LAURA. NOW!”

The unexpected snaps Laura out of her paralysis and she scrambles to her feet, throws open the screen door, and flees into the dark.

“You always did choose that bitch over me.”

Dan feels the moisture of Amanda’s breath on his neck. It is no longer warm.

She rakes her nails down his shoulder to grip his upper arm, digging in her claws.

“Now, we are going to have to leave.” Her grip tightens and she pulls him towards

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the kitchen. “If you had just let me deal with that interloper earlier NONE of this would have happened.”

As they enter the kitchen, Amanda flings Dan away. His hip hits the edge of the counter.

Amanda yanks open a drawer and pulls out some documents. She shows Dan two passports, birth certificates, and a marriage license, all fake.

“New life for us, sweetheart, present from a friend I met in that hellhole you let them send me to. None for her.” Amanda waves the papers in front of Dan’s face, words tumbling faster and faster from her lips, as her pitch and volume rise. “You know, it’s as if your fucking mother is haunting me from the grave. If she had just minded her own business.” Amanda pulls the papers down so she can glare at Dan.

“But she was always jealous of me.” Amanda snorts. “Wanted you all to herself. Called me gold digger, and whore, and…worse. Even when everything I did, all the men I slept with, all the women whose reputations I destroyed, all the planning and manipulating, was for us. I mean there was no way you were going to get anywhere in life, so I had to do something. Not something, everything!” The papers come down on the kitchen counter with a dull thud to emphasize her point.

“Oh, but your mother never understood. Always spying on me. Do you know how she found out I was pregnant? Went through my trash! And she had to pull out the pregnancy test and show everyone so I couldn’t get rid of the thing quietly. Just my luck, I was too far along for a plausible ‘miscarriage.’ She knew she was going to die soon and had to make sure something was pulling us apart.” Striding to the opposite counter from Dan, Amanda grips the laminate as if she could penetrate it with her nails. Her breath is coming in gasps as she lets her last barb fly.

“And you let her. And then you let them lock me up. Do you have any idea what I had to do to escape?”

Dan can image what she did. He can imagine her honey-dipped tongue talking her way out of prison or if that failed, her body doing all the ‘talking’. Nearly smacking himself for being so dumb, Dan remembers the news bulletin. For the first few months after Amanda’s conviction every such report had sent him scrambling to the internet for more details. This time he had barely heard the report.

But it doesn’t matter now; Laura is safe. And the lovely scent of beer is coming from the bottle next to him. The smell is comforting, like his six pals are in this with him.

After a few moments Amanda’s breathing calms and she releases the laminate. Calm, cool, and collected, she pushes back from the counter and rotates to smile at Dan.

Her mouth opens to speak but another voice freezes the word on her lips.

“Leave my dad alone.”

Rage replaces cool as Amanda’s eyes freeze into deadly splinters of ice that Dan can’t look away from. He doesn’t want visual proof that Laura is standing in the doorway with Amanda between them.

“I’ve called the police.” Laura’s voice shakes.

The ice splinters release Dan’s eyes and freeze Laura in the doorway. Amanda moves at glacier speed towards the girl, the stiletto clicks separated by long silences. Dan’s ears focus on the hiss of thin metal being dragged up the side of the nickel sink. He can’t see, though he fears he

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35

knows, what Amanda has drawn from the basin.

Laura stands tall; there is no quiver in her posture.

“I would never hurt Daniel,” Amanda snarls. “Although you are a cancerous tumor that I am going to cut out of his life for good.”

As Amanda lifts her hand above her head, the knife she is holding becomes visible.

Dan’s swift movement causes a splintering crash drowned out by his cry.

Razor-like edges tear, over and over again, until the kitchen is sprinkled with blood. The back of Amanda’s shredded black dress is soaked with darker patches that continue to widen. She slumps towards the counter and slides down the cabinets to the floor.

In the air before him, lit red by the light of arriving cop cars, Dan can see the feathers of Laura’s pillow floating.

He drops the broken beer bottle’s neck on the floor, not hearing the glass clink, and steps over Amanda’s body to pull the pillow down from his daughter’s face. Wide, fearful eyes meet his.

“Look at me, Laura. Just keep your eyes on me.” Dan places his hands on her face like blinders.

But Laura still sees the Lady in Red.

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Hotdog Water

Isaiah Haveman

Cedar Valley Divide

37

Silence

Savanna Snead

I was always close to my grandparents. I was, despite my mother’s status as the black sheep of the family, their favorite grandchild. We shared the same interests; I devoured books with my grandmother, treasured visits with her to the library. My grandfather and I shared a birthday: July 4th. We shared cheesecakes for our birthday, and he would tell me he was proud of how smart I was when I was a child. He would trot me out in front of guests and ask what I wanted to be when I grew up.

“Supreme Court Chief Justice,” I would recite.

He would beam.

My grandmother taught me how to sew, how to embroider pillowcases, and how to suck the blood from a wound when you pricked yourself. She gave me money for school trips when my mother was short, gave me folded twenty-dollar bills for my good grades. She taught about sighs and about loving people even when they took more than they gave, about marriage without love.

She was a good woman. A good woman let her husband lead, a good woman sighed and put up with his irrationalities, a good woman didn’t complain.

I loved my grandmother enormously when I was younger. While I wanted my grandfather’s respect, only my grandmother’s love mattered.

When he was alive, my grandfather used to glue himself to the television. He would come down into the living room at four in the morning, still in his plaid pajamas, and burrow himself into the sofa. Sometimes he’d watch a religious program. Sometimes he’d watch old episodes of Bonanza. More often than not, however, he’d settle into his favorite channel: Fox News.

My grandfather always considered himself to be an educated man; he had several degrees, was a professor at Mount Mercy, and had flown planes in his youth with a friend. He loved Robert Frost, a fellow Scotsman, and would recite his poems with a twinkle in his eye. He surrounded himself with books, with news, and with new technology.

A college professor of physics and mathematics, a lover of poetry, and a man who accepted my father’s Blackness--during an even less accepting time--becomes a believer of conspiracy. He begins to believe that the White race is being threatened. He gives me a book about a native race of White South Africans who were annihilated by their Black oppressors. This book, he says, was recommended to him by a speaker on Fox News. They have the truth of things, he says to me.

He says to me, “Savanna, you know that you aren’t really Black, right? Not even half.

During slavery, the African blood was diminished in your ancestors by procreating with White people. You can’t really claim to be even half ‘Black’ or ‘African’ because their blood has been mixed with White people. Really, you’re much more White than Black.”

He tells this to me when I am fifteen, with a twinkle in his eye.

My grandmother says nothing.

38 Cedar Valley Divide

It’s a late November Sunday in 2016, two months after my mother has passed away and over three years since my grandfather has passed. I sit in an unbalanced metal chair at a Chinese restaurant with my family, every movement causing my chair to rock between its two uneven legs.

My adopted cousins tease each other while the owner of the restaurant, a friend of my aunt’s, tries to teach my uncle how to say good morning in Chinese.

My grandmother says, “Well, I’m glad that the election is finally over. We all voted for Trump?”

I am vehemently opposed to Trump and to Republicans. I despise his racism and his other moral failings. As a half-Black, half-White woman in America, I have seen my fair share of racism.

I know what his kind think of people like me, of what his leadership will do to this country. I do not say anything.

She sighs, “She would have run our country into the ground, that Hillary. He’s not much better, but he’s something.”

Our family agrees. My uncle delights in telling us about his far-right political beliefs, to which the rest of the family nods in approval of. He tells us, in front of his adopted Asian children, that the Left is trying to take away our heritage and culture. They’re trying to take away what makes us American. Trump will put us back on the right course, he says. My grandmother tells him that he has a good head on his shoulders.

I tell myself that once she has died, I will never see these people again.

It’s the summer of 2020. I’m at work when I get a text from my cousin. My grandmother has just died. We don’t know when the memorial will be, due to COVID-19, but they will tell me as soon as they know. Call Aunt Heather ASAP. She has things for you, things that Grandma wanted you to have.

I call my aunt, listen to her tell me that my grandmother died of natural causes, that she loved me very much and was proud of me, that we’ll have her memorial at her favorite Chinese restaurant when we can, that Grandma set aside things for me to have that she will give me at the memorial. When I hang up, I cry in the bathroom, and then go back to my clients.

Three weeks later, I am sitting in a recently remodeled restaurant where the chair no longer wobbles. I smile at my family, hug my cousins, and tell them about my life. I show them my new car, listen to their complaints about my pink hair and remember the woman who we’ve lost.

“She was something,” my aunt says.

“She was,” I agree.

When we begin to leave, I hug them and tell them that I love them. I do not tell them that I will never hug them again, that I will never answer their calls, answer their texts, that the thread that has bound us together has been cut. Instead, I drive back home and look at my inheritance: a scarf from Israel, a pair of silver earrings, a framed picture of my grandmother and me as a child, and her beloved gospel CDs. These are all that remain of Lois Macfarlane, 1928-2020.

I think of all the things she taught me, of her love and of her silence.

I loved her, didn’t I? I loved her for her love for me, blind as it was. For the sighs, and the hugs and the “oh honey’s.” She was good to me, if not to people who looked like me, wasn’t she? I

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think of the kisses on scraped knees, how she drove me to the hospital when I gouged out my leg and needed twenty-six stitches. Her silence had been a mercy, I think, a mercy that let me love her when I was younger and kept the truth of her thoughts from driving me—away-- at least until I was old enough to know.

I look at the framed photo of my grandmother in her wedding dress that hangs in my living room. She is happy and younger than I have ever seen her.

“I accept who you were,” I say, looking into her still eyes. “And I love you.”

She is silent.

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Neglect

Kristina Bower

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The Rite of Spring

LA Felleman

Yes, the morning is delightful so wonderful to see the sun shine after all that gray but must you pipe up all at once?

This delicate light is no match for your muddled mix of sparrow, robin, wren perhaps you could pause Cease chirping over, around, through to hear solos in different keys rather than more of that same note solely attuned to those like you

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Lady

Gabbie Herzberg

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Past, Present and Future: A Villanelle

Caroline Garrish

It seems as though time is just an illusion A marriage of thoughts and appointment slots Make us agree to follow our clocks I feel as though we’ve met before I swore by our elusion, our time would never be concluded It seems as though time is just an illusion We’ve done this all before Our Saturday fights of flaws and Sunday walks with god Made us agree to follow our clocks Remember our past life?

Our confusion when we first discussed our lovers’ collusion It seems as though time is just an illusion Remember our renaissance years?

Our paintings in chalk and potential unlocked Made us agree to follow our clocks Remember the end?

I watched you cry into my hospital gown as my eyes fell into you yet again It seems as though time is just an illusion Lovely, follow your clock into our next profusion

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Feeling Blue

Hally Rittmer

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Vertical Daylight

James Van Eaton Cast Sylvia, a woman in her 70’s Mary, a woman in her mid 20’s to early 30’s Katarina, a woman in her 20’s Scene 1: Friday

A diner There is a hostess stand stage right with a coat rack nearby. A table and chairs sit upstage center.

There might also be a counter or table stage left to represent the kitchen/prep area.

At lights up, MARY is bent over the hostess stand, making notes and sorting receipts. SYLVIA enters in a rush of motion, shaking off water from the storm outside.

MARY: Hey Sylvia. How’s it— SYLVIA: (Talking over MARY) My god, it’s wet out there! Going to need a raft soon. Or an arc. (She fumbles out of her raincoat and hangs it on the coat stand before collapsing her umbrella.) Is there somewhere I can put this thing? A bucket, maybe? ‘Course, you’re going to need that in a minute to bail out the parking lot. (Laughing) Wait, what am I saying?

MARY: Not totally sure…

SYLVIA: Oh, don’t mind me, Mary. I’m just…being weird. Comes with age, you know? It’s funny, though. For a second there I was actually worried about the carpet. Tell you what, why don’t I just let it drip? Maybe then we can finally get Roman to replace the floors in here.

MARY: I feel like you’re underestimating how cheap he is, but I guess it’s worth a shot. Actually, you know what? Just so I don’t have to hear about it later, let me get you a… (Looking around) something to put it on, a newspaper or something.

SYLVIA: Oh, that would be perfect. Wet newsprint always reminds me of a bird I used to have.

MARY: Why would it…? Oh. Eww.

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SYLVIA: Yeah, well, there are some things worth forgiving. I take it you’ve reserved my normal table?

MARY: Right where you left it. Though, it was kind of cheating on you earlier. Some younger guy with glasses. Took him about an hour to eat a cheeseburger, so I think they were hitting it off.

SYLVIA: A cheeseburger? (Addressing the table) You little floozy! (To MARY) Was he cute at least?

MARY: The guy? I mean, I guess. If you’re really into Harry Potter, maybe.

SYLVIA: (Sitting) Are you not into Harry Potter?

MARY: (A little awkwardly) I’m more into…Hermione.

SYLVIA: (A pause) I’m just going to pretend that I know who that is.

MARY: And I’m going to let you. You ready to order?

SYLVIA: Oh, I think so. What’s the special?

MARY: Really, really terrible.

SYLVIA: Aren’t we blunt?

MARY: It’s not like you ever order it anyway.

SYLVIA: I like to keep my options open. Boy, you really know how to sell a product in here. Remind me again why I come in all the time?

MARY: Must be the company.

SYLVIA: Must be. Alright, Miss Mary, since you know me so well, what will we be having this evening?

MARY: Well, it’s Friday, so…Oh, the tricky one. Okay. I got this. Chicken cobb salad, no tomato, Dijon vinaigrette, and a “medium” slice of cornbread. Then the ten-inch rib-eye steak, medium rare, with green beans and garlic mashed potatoes.

SYLVIA: Not bad.

MARY: And to drink, strawberry lemonade, with real strawberries…

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SYLVIA: Damn right.

MARY: …And for desert, a… (Trying to recall) sliver of caramel apple pie with the scoop of vanilla on the side.

SYLVIA: Very good.

MARY: And a tiny umbrella.

SYLVIA: (A pause) A what?

MARY: Making sure you’re paying attention.

SYLVIA: I see…

MARY: So, how’d I do?

SYLVIA: Not bad. Not bad at all, except that you forgot the…

MARY: Oh, shit, the…sorry, but the…the Greek yogurt. Okay, that’s not fair, though. You only just started ordering that.

SYLVIA: (Pointedly) Making sure you’re paying attention. My doctor says it’s good for me, but what the hell does he know? I think I’m just being punished for my overall good health.

MARY: It does seem a little suspect considering all the— SYLVIA: He’s probably just feeling inadequate. A doctor who can’t find something wrong with a woman at my age…? He’s probably second-guessing his entire career. (Imitating) Oh! Why did I waste all those years in medical school? All he can do now is try to push those vitamin supplements on me. But I won’t do it, I tell you. I just keep saying no.

MARY: Nancy Reagan would be proud.

SYLVIA: (Laughing) I bet she would. Wait, are you even old enough to make that reference?

MARY: No, but there’s this thing called the internet.

SYLVIA: Mm. So I’ve heard. It makes all the young people snarky.

MARY: Just one of its many fine uses.

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SYLVIA: So maybe I should just start ordering my food there. Cut out the middleman.

MARY: Uh, excuse me, middle woman! And, you can’t do that! How would I pay my rent? My cats would end up on the street and have to sell themselves for cat food, and probably get addicted to catnip, and it’ll be all your fault!

MARY: Funny girl. You ever considered doing stand-up comedy?

MARY: Oh, don’t think there haven’t been offers. But how could I leave this cushy job? And the best heckler ever? Nope, sorry, afraid you’re stuck with me until the end. Which, considering your average order…

SYLVIA: And the time it’s taking you to put it in…

MARY: (With mock offense) I’m trying to save your life here, Sylvia!

SYLVIA: And don’t think I don’t appreciate it, dear. (Patting MARY’S hand) But if you don’t bring me some food soon I’m going to start gnawing on your arm.

MARY: (Yanking her arm away) Whoa! Hey! I need that. It’s a good thing you tip well.

SYLVIA: I don’t tip well. I tip fairly.

MARY: In this place, that is well. (A pause) Alright, well, I guess I’ll get this in.

SYLVIA: And I’ll be right here cheering you on.

MARY: Aw, thanks Mom. That means a lot.

SYLVIA: (Laughing) Grandmother, more like. Now bring me my lemonade, child, before I get ornery!

MARY: Okay, okay! Jeez. Hungry people are so cranky. I’ll have them start on your mountain of calories.

SYLVIA: (Overly sweet) Of course you will, dear. And I’ll be right here waiting for you.

MARY: (Slowly backing away) Okay. Not creepy at all…

SYLVIA gives MARY a little wave.

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SYLVIA: I’ll be waiting…

MARY slowly turns and exits left. SYLVIA sits and smiles fondly after her.

Lights fade to black.

Scene 2: Saturday SYLVIA sits at her normal table. MARY enters from left.

MARY: Hey Sylvia, I didn’t see you come in. Found the usual table, I see.

SYLVIA: I did have a little help. A very nice busboy trying to earn his merit badge. Either that or trying to cop a cheap feel. Either way he performed admirably.

MARY: (Playfully slapping SYLVIA on the arm) Sylvia! You know he actually was a boy scout. At least until we corrupted him. And now he’s trying to corrupt you! What have we done?

SYLVIA: Nothing I wouldn’t have done in your place, I’m sure.

MARY: You’re in a mood tonight. (Leaning in) I love it! (She produces a newspaper from her apron.)

Here. For your umbrella.

SYLVIA: The Times, huh? Are you trying to make it pretentious?

MARY: Sure. Why not? Give it a little culture. An umbrella should be, you know…well-rounded.

SYLVIA: (Groaning) Go child. Go now from my sight. I disown you!

MARY: Oh no, Grandma! Don’t cut me out of the will!

SYLVIA: It’s what you deserve.

MARY: (Flippantly) Can’t argue with that. Hey, speaking of…?

SYLVIA: Ugh. MARY: …How are the kids?

SYLVIA: Ingrates.

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MARY: And the grandkids?

SYLVIA: Ingrates to be.

MARY: (Fearfully) The ex-husband?

SYLVIA: Still alive.

MARY: The bastard!

SYLVIA: Tell me about it.

MARY: Well, at least you’re living well off all that sweet divorce money, right?

SYLVIA: Of course. How else could I afford all this overpriced comfort food?

MARY: Wait, you actually pay for this? I just kind of assumed you had a deal with the government.

You know, for finding out how much cholesterol fits into the human body. You really should be compensated for this.

SYLVIA: I’ll talk to my lawyer. In the meantime, what’s on the menu for tonight?

MARY: Oh, you mean you actually want me to work? Here I thought we were having a real bonding moment.

SYLVIA: (Hesitating) I wouldn’t want to keep you.

MARY: Please, I could do this job in my sleep. Watch. (She closes her eyes and recites) Sylvia’s Saturday meal consists of… (Opening her eyes) uh…

SYLVIA: Soup?

MARY: Yeah. But I need to know if you want the French Onion or the Corn Chowder.

SYLVIA: Corn Chowder.

MARY: Cool. Got it. (Closing her eyes) Sylvia’s Saturday meal consists of Corn Chowder, jambalaya with medium spice… (A pause) That’ll go really well Corn Chowder.

SYLVIA: You’re stalling…

MARY: I’m giving my professional opinion. The jambalaya with a slice of sourdough on the side, and

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a…moderate slice of cherry cobbler. (Opening one eye) Is that right? Moderate?

SYLVIA: Uh-huh…

MARY: Followed by the customary scoop of vanilla, and ice tea to drink, even though that doesn’t really go with anything.

SYLVIA: It’s all vaguely Southern.

MARY: (Opening her eyes) Okay, yeah, you got me there. Actually, ice tea sounds pretty good.

Maybe I’ll grab some too. I think I’ve only used, like, four or five of my two breaks.

SYLVIA: You may need to work on your math, dear.

MARY: Isn’t that the whole point of learning rules? So you can break them? Or is that English?

SYLVIA: That’s English.

MARY: Well, now you know why I’m just a lowly waitress. One southern heart attack comin’ up.

SYLVIA: I shall await your return with bated breath.

MARY: Guess I better hurry then.

SYLVIA: I guess you’d better.

MARY: Think you can make it ‘til I get back?

SYLVIA: (Playfully) I’ll see what I can do.

MARY exits right. SYLVIA sits in enigmatic contemplation. Lights down. SYLVIA exits left.

Scene 3: Sunday KATARINA hovers over the hostess stand. She is searching through a stack of receipts as SYLVIA enters from left. SYLVIA is in the process of taking off her jacket.

SYLVIA: Ugh, it’s still terrible, but I haven’t managed to drown quite… (SYLVIA regards KATARINA in some confusion) …yet.

KATARINA: Hi there, just one tonight?

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SYLVIA: Yes. It’s just…me.

KATARINA: No problem. We can do that. (Gesturing) I have a table available right over here.

SYLVIA: (Hanging up her coat) Actually, I was hoping I could have my usual table. It’s something of a tradition.

KATARINA: We don’t really do that. I mean, I guess if you really…

SYLVIA: I’d appreciate it.

KATARINA: Sure. No problem.

SYLVIA: (A pause) I’m sorry, are you…are you new here, uh…?

KATARINA: Katarina.

SYLVIA: Katarina. That’s a very pretty name.

KATARINA: Thanks. Here, have a seat. I’ll get you some water.

SYLVIA: Oh, I feel like I got enough of that outside.

KATARINA: (A pause) What? Oh, right. Because the…sure. Hey, let me get you something for the umbrella. I think I have a plastic bag somewhere.

SYLVIA: Oh, a newspaper is fine. It’s actually been getting pretty good at the crossword.

KATARINA: Why would you…? It would just get all over the place. I’ll get the bag. It’ll be better.

Be right back. (She starts off left, then turns) Wait. Did you actually want the water or no?

SYLVIA: Sure.

KATARINA: Okay, I’ll grab it.

SYLVIA: Thanks. Uh, Katarina?

KATARINA: Yeah?

SYLVIA: Maybe I’m just getting old, but isn’t this a night that Mary works?

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KATARINA: Who? SYLVIA: Mary. She works here. She’s a waitress.

KATARINA: Are you sure?

SYLVIA: I’m very sure. She’s in her twenties. Brown hair, curly. Wears it short, but does it up in different styles?

KATARINA: Oh, yeah. I think I know who you mean. Yeah, I’m pretty sure she quit.

SYLVIA: (A pause) (Devastated) She what?

KATARINA: Yeah, no, it’s been crazy here. Apparently a whole bunch of people left at once. Or maybe got fired? Not really sure. They were pretty vague about it. But yeah, I think that Mary girl left with all the old people.

SYLVIA: They missed one.

KATARINA: What?

SYLVIA: (Shaking it off) No. Nothing.

KATARINA: Sorry. I don’t really know. I’ll get the water.

KATARINA moves off left SYLVIA: (Distracted) Okay. (Calling after her) Thank you.

SYLVIA sits, disconsolate. She tries to look out a window, but there isn’t one. After a moment KATERINA returns with a glass of water and plastic shopping bag.

KATARINA: Here you are. You ready?

SYLVIA: (A pause) Yes. Let’s see, today is Sunday, so…

KATARINA: So…?

SYLVIA: (A pause) You know what? Why don’t you just…bring me a cheeseburger?

KATARINA: Okay. How would you like that cooked?

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SYLVIA: Surprise me.

KATARINA: I don’t think we can do that here.

SYLVIA: (With a small, bitter laugh) Alright, then how about…well-done?

KATARINA: You got it.

KATARINA moves off and exits left.

SYLVIA: I guess that’s something.

SYLVIA deliberately removes the knife, fork, and spoon from the paper napkin and aligns them on the table before taking a long, steadying breath and staring straight ahead.

The lights dim to a near blackout.

In the near-dark SYLVIA places a hardly-touched cheeseburger on the table before her.

The lights brighten.

KATARINA: (Entering from left) Hi there. Looks like you’re…finished?

SYLVIA: Truer words.

KATARINA: Did you need anything else?

SYLVIA: (After a long pause) No. No, I think that’s it.

KATARINA: How was everything?

SYLVIA: I’m sure it was very good. Is that the check?

KATARINA: Oh. Yeah. Whenever you’re ready.

KATARINA starts to leave, but SYLVIA stops her with a raised hand.

SYLVIA: No time like the present.

KATARINA stands uncomfortably as SYLVIA places a couple of bills in the check holder, thinks on it, then adds some more, before scribbling down a note on her copy of the receipt.

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SYLVIA: If you happen to see her at some point….

KATARINA: Who…? Oh, you mean the…

SYLVIA: You know what? Actually, never mind. It doesn’t...It doesn’t really matter.

KATARINA: Okay, well, if you don’t need anything else, have a good night. Don’t forget your umbrella.

SYLVIA looks at the umbrella for a long time.

SYLVIA: Why don’t you give that to someone who needs it?

KATARINA: You don’t need it? It’s pouring out there. Don’t you want it?

SYLVIA: No, I…Not tonight. (Rising) I hope it works out for you, Katarina. The job and everything.

KATARINA: Thanks, but are you sure…?

SYLVIA: I am. I wasn’t, but… (She moves right, pauses at the coat rack, seems ready to leave the coat there, but after a moment claims it and puts it on, then smiles wanly back at KATARINA.) Here we go. (She starts for the right exit) Once more, into the— MARY: (Entering from right in a frenzy, shaking off water and tearing off her coat) Oh my god, it is crazy out there! I’m pretty sure the cars are floating. (Shaking off water) Ugh! Oh, hey Sylvia.

How’s it going? You’re not leaving, are you? I didn’t think I was that late.

SYLVIA: (Momentarily speechless) Where…?

MARY: What? You didn’t think I abandoned you, did you? My roommate needed the car, so I decided to be insane and take the bus for the first time ever. Totally missed my stop. Had to walk through a torrential downpour. Super fun. (Spotting KATARINA) Hi, Katarina, right? I’m Mary.

So sorry I’m late. I guess we’re doubling up until Roman gets everything sorted out? Should be pretty easy assuming I can figure out how to get here on time. Give me a second and I’ll take over Sylvia’s table. I just need to get cleaned up first. Stand under the blow— KATARINA: Oh, it’s okay. She was just leaving.

MARY: She…what? (To SYLVIA) There’s no way you ate all your Sunday stuff already. That’s too fast, even for you.

KATARINA: She just had a cheeseburger.

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MARY: A cheeseburger! Sylvia! What are you trying to do to me? I miss two stops and the whole world goes crazy! Okay, well, if you don’t want the chicken parm, at least let me bring you the Sunday sundae. That’s the whole point of coming in today. Besides, I need some tip money to start saving for a second car.

SYLVIA: I suppose I could find some room.

KATARINA: Okay, but we already closed the ticket, so…

MARY: We’ll start another one. It’s cool.

SYLVIA: If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.

MARY waves a dismissive hand.

KATARINA: So wait. Do you want me to stick around or…?

MARY: Nah, I got it. (Combing her fingers through her bedraggled hair) Sylvia and I can be wild women together. (To SYLVIA) That work for you?

SYLVIA: I think I could…adjust.

MARY: Perfect!

KATARINA: Okay, so I’ll just…

KATARINA exits left with some bewilderment.

MARY: (After KATARINA) Thanks, girl! (To SYLVIA) Okay, let’s get this going. Is your umbrella…?

(Looking around) Oh, it’s still at the...table? What, no newspaper? How is it supposed to keep up on current events?

SYLVIA: The conversation has been a little one-sided tonight.

MARY: Well, yeah. No wonder. Here, have a seat. I’ll find you arts and culture or something.

Something with some good talking points.

SYLVIA: (Sitting) What would I do without you?

MARY: Considering all the ice cream I’m about to bring you? Probably live a lot longer.

SYLVIA: I doubt it.

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MARY: Well, whatever, just give me a second to get my bearings. Hopefully all the new people haven’t blown up the kitchen yet. Some new restaurant just poached like half our staff and Roman is hiring whoever he can. Which means, sorry, no more Boy Scout.

SYLVIA: I think I’ll live. You’re still going to be here, though, right?

MARY: Oh yeah, they can’t get rid of me. I mean, I did get an offer, but…I don’t know. I kind of like it here. It’s comfortable.

SYLVIA: Glad to hear it.

MARY: Hey, since everything is out of whack already tonight, you want some extra cherries on that sundae?

SYLVIA: I can’t think of anything better.

MARY: For the rain to stop, maybe?

SYLVIA: No, I don’t think it’s going to, but it’s alright.

MARY: Well, there’s always hope. Anyway, I’ll get the sundae going for you. You good till I get back?

SYLVIA: I am. You go ahead, dear. I’ll be right here.

Lights down The end

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Elementary Cardiology

Sarah Bran

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Danny

RL Raymond

Ran into Robert Ledner at Revelations this morning.

Couldn’t remember his name at first, he couldn’t remember mine.

I used to sit in his dorm room, talking.

He didn’t like long poems, so he would read my short ones.

He’d grow luminous wheat grass near the small window— its juice sending a small electric shock across my palate, through my brain and down my spine. He would drink that, eat huge alfalfa sprout sandwiches and study.

In Corvallis he went to graduate school. It was there he last saw Danny Graham, one of our old dorm mates, 1982 or 1983.

On August 14th, 1983, at Caroline’s and my wedding, I saw Danny.

He had ridden to Des Moines on a freight & called and asked if he could stay and arrived at the door covered head to toe in soot.

We ordered him to take two successive showers, & scrub the befouled tub.

I might have received a letter shortly after— some strangely worded postcard

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with Herbert Hoover smoking a pipe and looking wistful.

He had a good photographic eye, any type of camera— even a pin-hole number he once made from shoe box: misshapen worlds as seen from the eyes of ghosts—spruces sleeping on their sides, bricks flowing like rivers.

I hope you find your way back.

In a slowly ascending hot-air balloon I’d treat you to a pack of Fuji film and a bowl full of organic grapes.

You’d sit squatting on your haunches, as was your habit, savor one red globe at a time, the green quilt of earth spread below.

Truly, I don’t know where you are.

Ledner was staying at the Landmark, visiting for a few days. I met him.

He was getting a cup of coffee before going back to his hotel room to meditate.

He mentioned you.

It was spacey talking— too much of the past clamoring for attention all at once: faces, old friendships shipwrecked, buildings splintered by the wrecking ball—it made me feel feverish, dizzy. I knew there was no way in hell of ever catching up.

Not this morning, at least.

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Uncle

RL Raymond

Stiff on too many

vodka shots, eyes wide

as targets, sleek black horns curving

through a mass

of Bohemian hair questioning

the existence

of almighty Joe. Shield collage

of Catholic beliefs

in one fist, black-feathered spear

in the other, he was going to kill

the fearsome animal, feast on its flesh

in a celebration

of smoke, yelling,

dance and beer.

I coveted his handmade running

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shoes of deer,

his tail feathers of a hawk, his determination

to crouch silently

in the cold, not uttering a word

until the beast

was standing over near blind

but acutely sensitive

in the snout— a great blast of blood

as uncle’s spear ripped out the belly--the roar

of the death dance steaming blood among icicles

of prairie grass.

What a trance you can imagine

to see him

in the hospital those last days—

he asking

for a double to chase

a triple bypass—

the tribe circling,

crying, “No, it

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is not your time,

mighty one; not yet.”

The random smoke

of his cigarette.

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Pieces Aly M. Antczak

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California Dreamin’

Karin Ulery

Cali Coast Parade of Roses, No Rain or Snow, Celluloid Superheros Rock Music Rolls

desert sands, that is a greater truth. everyone lies under the sun, plastic surgery, eternal youth.

A Benign Smirk Botox Makes all Faces Kind More Money Makers Move Hollywood Sign Hovers in the Heavens jobs come and go as fast, as the auctioneer’s song. money, security? we all laugh, in a blink of an eye it’s gone. all that is real is traffic and noise weinstein and epstein knowingly ignored in their search for toys The City of Angels, Fallen and Dead In Iowa I’ve Found My Real Home At Last I Can Lay My Head

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Blue

Gabbie Herzberg

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Double Death’s Due

Ella R. Sipp

I picked her up when she was sleeping. A tiny thing, the girl was. Her name was carved on the side of the cradle: ‘Emmy’

What a shame it was, taking one so young. She was only two. Emmy. The word tasted of honey.

Still, she was the last one. My resolution was complete. Around the time humans call “last year,” I decided to make a goal of my own. Such an interesting tradition. Writing one’s plan for improvement on shortcomings at the beginning of a New Year.

Ha! I couldn’t resist. I so rarely have fun.

Allow me to introduce myself. They call me Death. The end. The beginning. I go by many names. Many names, one job. I create and I destroy. All at once.

Back to Emmy. Her soul rested in my arms. She was still white. Like a pearl. It made sense.

Her heart was young. She hadn’t gotten the chance to soil it.

I folded Emmy’s soul up and neatly tucked her in the envelope. My bag was rather full tonight. I grinned, even though it was wrong.

What’s my New Year’s Resolution, you ask? Why, it was to get twice as many souls this year.

And I succeeded. Very spectacularly, too.

Last year I was so angry, so fed up with the hate humans were giving me. All they wanted was to live. I was the enemy, their one true opponent in life. No one gave a thought to what Death felt. No, no, no, no, no. It’s clearly the villain here, they said.

There are those rare ones who accept their fate and fold gracefully. Then there are others.

I’ve had the rich cower before me and beg, crying and wailing for their souls to be left alone. I’ve had men try to dodge me, screaming and throwing curses all the while. They’re the ones I leave alone. Oh, how triumphant they feel when I back away. Only do their faces fall when they see. When they realize they’re trapped. Only I can reunite them with their bodies, and only I can take them away. If I do nothing, then they are stuck. Hovering in limbo between worlds. I hate to admit how much I relish their anguished faces.

It was one such soul that tipped me over the edge. Caused Death to take double its due.

One year ago today, I was taking a soul as usual. This time it was a girl of about sixteen. She was rich. Spoiled. Awful. Her soul was the color of spit. The color of mucus. The color of pus.

She opened her eyes and looked at me as I picked her up. Then she told me.

She told me that everybody loved her. The maids, her friends, her parents. They all adored her, but nobody would ever love something like me, something so vile and wicked.

Then she threw back her head and laughed before closing her eyes and being still. As if I was still going to take care of her.

I stopped folding and set her down. I must say that this punishment would be no less than

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she deserved. I gave her a smile and left, just like that. No recompense or punishment. At least, that’s what she thought. All I had to do then was wait.

While the girl was stranded in her room, she saw the nurses sigh with relief over her dead body. She watched her friends scoff at the terrible news and turn away, unaffected. She watched her parents shaking their heads, saying that they would do better next time. She watched her entire existence disappear. No questions asked. Why should they?

And only then did I come to retrieve her. But she still. Didn’t. Apologize. So I left her again.

But her words stuck with me. And that’s when I made my vow. Instead of trying to be kind and taking less, I would let the humans have it and take double.

This past year I made no exceptions. I snatched those on the brink of death. Stole souls from just-beginning diseases. Took the sickly babies. Captured the half-drowned. Thieved the young, the old and everyone in between. I couldn’t stop. But the screams felt good. They felt so good.

Instead of shouting my name, they whispered it. No one dared curse me, because I came for those who did.

At the end, there was one last thing to do, to complete my resolution. It was time to retrieve the girl.

I floated above the rooftops, gathering souls as I went along. The night held its breath as I went past. And there she was, crouched by the window.

I came up from behind. Baring my teeth in a wicked smile.

Are you ready now? I asked.

She painfully turned her head. No, because I was right. Now, no one could ever love you. It came as a whisper.

I folded her up anyway, deciding she’d had enough. I remembered my resolution. And I knew she was right.

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Turquoise Waters

Shelby Blazek

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The Fates

Ella Ostedgaard

I. Clotho Thin spool between fingertip Pinched end pulled, rolling Threads bent to Her will Into the Eye peering, squinted An eyelash emerges and falls Rolled upon Itself under knotted hands Half the length held taught Positioned to pierce soft skin Hung limply, lifeless in unwoven form II. Lachesis Each stitch minute A Wishgiver strung up in a row Snug to the fringe with a tug Each breath gives way to shape Carefully incisioned And suddenly snipped Fates determinable under blade of silver Strands like fine double helix fraying Endlessly unwoven into nothingness.

III. Atropos Allotted under the God thought Which speaks a tongue of many layers Incoherent in our Eyes of order and entropy Misunderstood through inflexible translation The Spinner of illusion Weaves her webs and snips her cords As is what must be done For the Loom to produce the cloth Of the Winds and the Seas and the unknowable Truth.

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The Forgotten

Johanna Wallace

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Into the Sea

AJ Taylor

The cliff fell away and we were standing in the mud, Drinking our Kool-aid in the bright of the sun, Living off the land and the land off us as well.

Tan station wagon resting for forever and another forever.

Setting sun on a table of squash and homemade burgers— stretched with oatmeal.

Hiding in the stalks and the ears and the weeds: A fort— nothing but a good try in an ocean of mulberry roots.

The gem swung around but around the can kicked down the road—we tried to hide.

But under it all we were just worms waiting for the world to catch us: Hook us, wipe its hands, and cast us lost into the sea.

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Quiet Illumination

Kristina Bower

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Contributor Notes Aly M. Antczak, a Kirkwood nursing student, paints as a stress reliever in her free time. She comes from Grand Junction, Colorado where she grew up surrounded by the majesty of nature. Of Pieces, she says, “I think the human body and the mind are beautiful masterpieces. I wanted to incorporate the idea that we all have many pieces/parts, both mentally and emotionally, that come together to make a magnificent whole.”

Annie Smith Barkalow studies communication and creative writing at Mt. Mercy but is a Kirkwood alumnus and former staff member of the Cedar Valley Divide. In her free time she enjoys reading, baking bread, photographing abandoned houses, running, and texting stupid memes to her sisters.

She says her poem “Friends in Three Acts” is “a reflection on the three good friends I have had in my life, and the sorrow that follows after a separation—whether it’s from a move or a change of heart.” Of her short story “Bill’s Escape from Skinny Jim’s” she says, “This is based off of something that really happened to me. I was unloading groceries when the owner of a local bar rode his bike up to my house, asking if I had seen his African parrot…The town authority (my hairdresser) says the parrot was indeed recovered at the courthouse and still resides with the bar owner to this day.”

Shelby Blazek studies industrial maintenance technologies at Kirkwood and is a repeat contributor to the Cedar Valley Divide. She loves creating art in her spare time and is inspired by nature and vibrant colors, like those in Turquoise Waters. She says, “This year all I want is a beach vacation so I’ve made my daydreams a reality with digital art. Starting with a blank page I drew, layered textures and many colors to make an ocean scene.”

Kristina Bower, a nursing student at Kirkwood, dreams of being a travel nurse some day and also of writing a medical drama series. Currently, she blogs on tapestrytales.wordpress.com. She says her photograph Neglect “speaks of the power of neglect as an agent of destruction. We think of neglect in the passive form, but it’s an active form that leads to disintegration.” Of her photograph Quiet Illumination, she writes, “I stepped outdoors for fresh air one night and realized my garden globe was doing exactly what it needed to do—quiet reflection. To me, it spoke of bearing hope through a dark time, nationally, and of persisting in being the light amidst darkness.”

Sarah Bran is a Kirkwood alum and assistant in the Allied Health Department with a passion for art and the written word. She is inspired by nature and the human form and enjoys hiking and reading a good book accompanied by a cup of herbal tea. Of her work Elementary Cardiology, she writes, “I was inspired by the elements of nature, and how they form the ‘heart’ of our world, which is why they’re in the shape of an anatomical heart.”

LA Felleman is an accountant at the University of Iowa and former seminary professor. An active member of the poetry community in Iowa City, she participates in the Free Generative Writing Workshops, organizes open mic nights at the public library, and serves on the advisory council of

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Iowa City Poetry. She is a frequent contributor of poems to the Cedar Valley Divide. Of “The Rite of Spring,” she says, “The birds’ chirping reminded me of my family enthusiastically talking over one another, but also of humanity’s tendency to only listen to like-minded opinions,” and of “breaking,” she writes, “This poem was inspired by an interaction with a young couple I know. I could see they were exhausted, so I played with their infant, giving them time to rest. Their exhaustion was caused by more than the sleepless nights of all new parents. It was also rooted in our society’s economic and political systems, which make it difficult for poor families to find security.” Her poem “green skies at dusk” also appears on these pages.

Caroline Garrish describes herself as a “musician turned recent poet.” Of her “Past, Present and Future: A Villanelle,” she says, “I’ve always been drawn to the concept of time and the idea of reincarnation. After learning about the circular format of villanelles, I felt the two concepts were a match made in heaven. As I was writing, I thought it would be beautiful to also discuss soul mates in the poem. The sense that soul mates really do carry over across lifetimes makes me indescribably happy, and I thought writing about it would be fun.”

Kaylee Gosch, a Kirkwood student, CNA, and the artist behind Madam Delta, is inspired by Salvador Dali, Vincent Van Gogh and abstract and surrealist art in general. She says her piece depicts her husband’s family’s bulldog Delta and explains, “I decided I wanted to make personal gifts this year for Christmas and decided to paint their pup like a Renaissance painting.”

Isaiah Haveman is a Kirkwood student who enjoys books, creative writing, and messing around with a software called Blender where he creates 3D art. He says of his piece Hotdog Water, “My friend jokingly claimed he was the CEO of a successful hotdog water company—and I had to create some promotional imagery.”

Kirkwood student Gabbie Herzberg says of her glass course, “Being able to sculpt with glass is an experience I will never forget. The way glass moves is magical and powerful. Relaxing and being able to ‘talk’ and interact with glass makes me want to do it for the rest of my life.” Her Glass Heart was a present to her sister upon graduating nursing school. Of Lady, she writes, “The human figure is inevitably flawed and fragile but understanding those flaws is what makes you powerful.” Her glass piece Blue also appears on these pages, and three of Herzberg’s paintings can be found in last year’s Cedar Valley Divide.

Ella Ostedgaard, Kirkwood student and repeat contributor to the Cedar Valley Divide, says of her photograph Paltry Soldier, “The contrast between the fragility of the small insect and its sharp and menacing armor against the delicate petals brings to my mind many other ways we exist in a paradoxical sort of way.” She also has a poem in this volume called “The Fates,” of which she writes, “I was weaving together some bones I found into a dreamcatcher and pondering the Greek myth of fate. I was intrigued by the idea of our lives, our happiness, and our suffering being determined by these strings which are woven and cut by Clotho (the spinner), Lachesis (the allotter), and Atropos (‘inflexible’, the cutter of the string).”

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RL Raymond, community member, lives on a goat farm in Van Buren County. He says of his poems, “Uncle,” “Danny,” and “The Look,” “I wrote these poems in isolation during the Covid-19 pandemic.” He is a fan of Samuel Beckett and Gertrude Stein.

Hally Rittmer, the artist behind our cover photo, Purple, as well as Feeling Blue, says, “I have always had an interest in photography, starting out with disposable cameras before I could even access the real deal. I worked as a freelance journalist and photographer for The Preston Times (my hometown’s newspaper) throughout high school, which prompted me to enroll in an introductory photography course at Kirkwood during my third semester. After learning the basics, my passion really caught fire.” She now has her own “Photography by Hally” brand.

Piper Schoon, a Kirkwood student who hopes to become an elementary school art teacher, enjoys creating digital art. Of her piece Galaxy Girls, she says, “I like to make original characters, and I wanted to make a piece with young girls who were having fun together because I feel like media lacks a lot of representation for that age group. I love drawing alien or monster characters alongside human characters because it’s an obvious way for me to depict people overcoming large differences to be friends.”

Community member Irene Schwab says she has always been fascinated by stories. She recalls that as a child her mom read books to her and her Nana told the most fantastic tales. She started telling her own stories by acting out imaginary adventures, which she eventually put to paper.

Schwab says of her “Lady in Red,” “This story was inspired by a prompt. When I read the prompt, one of the characters showed up, and I couldn’t get rid of them without writing the story.”

Barbara Shultz, the artist behind Narcissus Conclusion, is a retired high school art teacher and current instructor of art history and art appreciation at Kirkwood, where she also takes a course on glass. She says, “In Professor Christopher Gray’s class, we had an assignment entitled ‘Inspired By .....’ We were asked to research glass artists and find an artist whose work inspired us. I chose Narcissus Quagliata, one of the most innovative glass artists currently working in this art form.”

Ella R. Sipp, a Kirkwood student, is the author of “Double Death’s Due.” She says she wrote the story “as a way to portray Death similarly to how The Book Thief did. I really didn’t write for any philosophical purpose, the concept just fascinated me.”

Hairstylist, cat mom and Kirkwood student Savanna Snead finds herself inspired by James Baldwin, Megan Whalen Turner and Barry Manilow. She says, “My relationship with my grandmother inspired this piece. Meditating on how to love someone who expresses racist beliefs led me to write this.”

AJ Taylor, who is studying software development at Kirkwood, enjoys reading, writing and playing basketball in his spare time. His poem “Into the Sea” appears on these pages.

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Karin Ulery, the poet behind “California Dreamin,’” is a 45-year-old single mother who studies political science at Kirkwood. She writes, “I became disabled and decided to change my career. I have always been a writer, and even as a poli-sci major my emphasis is in communication. I wrote this poem after I moved from California to Iowa two years ago.”

James Van Eaton returned to Kirkwood after a twenty-year absence from college. He’s an avid reader of classic works and a huge fan of theatre who also enjoys getting lost in open-world video games and playing with this cat, Rocky. His goal is to become an English professor. Of “Snow,” he writes, “I took a theatre class last year where the focus was absurdism and I became inspired by the sort of augmented reality which can occur when a fictional character’s perception of their world differs from that of the reader. It’s not quite speculative fiction on a level with the Twilight Zone, as everything ultimately makes sense, but it lends an additional layer to the drama and makes for (I hope) a very interesting read.” Of his play Vertical Daylight, he says, “Years ago, while eating at a diner, I noticed an interaction between an elderly woman and a peppy young waitress which seemed almost familial. While the waitress stayed to talk, the old woman would be light and smiles and animation, but she would lose that spark whenever she was alone. This play is my attempt to explain what might have been going on beneath the surface of that interaction.”

Johanna Wallace graduated in graphic communications and is now back in the Digital Media Program at Kirkwood. She writes, “I hope to have a career that allows me to express myself artistically in some way in the future. My hobbies range from sewing, drawing, collecting house plants, hula hooping and playing video games, and I couldn’t go a day without my two cats, Oliver and Poogie.” Of her photograph The Forgotten, she says, “This photo is part of a series that I did for Digital Photography this semester. The unit was about focusing on shutter speed and expressing or capturing moments in time. I’ve always loved long exposures, and this was the result of a lot of experimentation.”

Kora West, the photographer behind Stormy City, juggles a full-time job with a full-time schedule at Kirkwood but still takes time to be creative. She writes, “I enjoy taking photos, doing digital art, as well as painting. I’ve learned that art is a really good way to take a minute and just do you.”

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Submit to next year’s magazine! www.kirkwood.edu/cedarvalley Due date: December 18, 2021 Students, staff, alumni and community members are all invited to submit.

To inquire about joining the staff, contact: lisa.angelella@kirkwood.edu

♦

“Purple” by Halle Rittmer

CEDAR VALLEY

DIVIDE

2021