Kirkwood Cedar Valley Divide 2023

2023

Cedar Valley Divide Kirkwood Community College’s Art and Literary Magazine

2023

Letter from the Editors

The Cedar Valley Divide team would like to present you with our official 2023 literature and art magazine. In this edition, we showcase only a small percentage of the creativity in our community. As much as we would love to have all submissions printed in this magazine, we had to narrow them down to a limited number. After careful thought and debate, we are excited to offer you a variety of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, drama, and art.

What should you expect? In “How to Give Your Cat a Pet-i-cure,” you’ll find a nonfiction essay that might remind you of your own cat. You may even get a zesty taste from “Citrus,” a poem about a strong love interest. In the short story “Anxious Touch,” you’ll encounter the struggle between reality and emotion. You’ll come across “Second Gift,” a play that will surely put you in the holiday mood. And as you continue to waltz through the pages, don’t skip past a painting of the alluring Narcissist who’s bound to catch your eye.

The Cedar Valley Divide team is thankful for every person that took time out of their busy lives to share a piece of themselves with us, whether it was in the form of art, photography, or writing. We encourage you to continue submitting work to future editions. We’re also appreciative of those who don’t submit but look forward to reading the magazine. We couldn’t do this without you.

Sincerely, Student Staff: Myanna Carmody Kelly Hajek Ornele Kwihangana Olivia Strempke Will Wetjen Faculty Advisors: Lisa Angelella Danny Plunkett

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Table of Contents Poetry: A Fleeting Common Good Clouds Son of a Preacher Citrus Not James Joyce What It Is to Be a Mother What They Said

LA Felleman Mark Hanley Tevin Slippy Alena Diercks Rustin Larson Carmen Harrington Evan Konig

4 14 25 26 29 32 42

Fiction: Anxious Touch Heaven is Full of Elephants Father, Brother, Sister

Tevin Slippy Timothy Stammeyer Te’a Ritchie

16 19 34

Non-fiction: How to Give Your Cat a Pet-i-cure A Boy Named Sioux

Rachel Peters Kevin L. Van Dee

45 48

Drama: Second Gift

Tevin Slippy

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Art: African Daisy Carma Close 5 Hollow Threat Jorja Allen 15 Narcissist Myanna Carmody 18 Untitled Terri Carter 23 Self-Destructive Rachel Peters 24 Life Goes On Jorja Allen 27 Golden Pomegranate Myanna Carmody 28 Carnivorous Jorja Allen 31 Sweet Bees Terri Carter 41 Empty Family Photo Rylea Henderson 43 Feline to Feminine Rachel Peters 44 Cracked Emily Hiner 47 Kirkwood Sunrise Ann Sunde Wilson 52

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A Fleeting Common Good LA Felleman Climbing pedestrian ramp Turning right into dawn Morning sky is waking up Purple color spectrum Lord, how you’ve canvased the East Drivers multi-distracting Walkers rushing wrong horizon If only we could have shared This violet-tinted beginning

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African Daisy Carma Close

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Second Gift Tevin Slippy CHARACTERS THOMAS, late 50s or 60s, warm and wise KAYLA, early 30s, dealing with stress but always smiling SARAH, early 20s, full of energy MARK, early 30s, depressed and in need of encouragement SETTING A small hole-in-the-wall shop in downtown Chicago After dark on Christmas Eve, present day

TIME

The scene opens in a small shop full of Christmas decorations. Thomas, dressed in a Santa outfit, is singing “Oh Christmas Tree” as he is on hands and knees sorting items, getting ready to close the shop. The door of the shop dings. Kayla enters the shop.

KAYLA (notices a pair of heels to her right, then mutters to herself) Those look nice. (rises to his feet) HO! HO! HO! Merry Christmas! (smiles) Merry Christmas Eve to you too. (collecting himself) It’s a cold one out there today.

THOMAS

KAYLA

THOMAS

KAYLA (shivers) The wind is what really gets me. But I’m a trooper!

THOMAS (chuckles) Indeed you are! I was just getting ready to close up shop, I wasn’t expecting anyone to brave this kind of weather, especially so late in the evening.

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Oh no, am I too late?

KAYLA

THOMAS No, you made it just in time. Technically we’re open for another half hour.

KAYLA (sighs in relief) Whew, good. That means I got a half hour to figure what to get him. (looks about the shop) THOMAS (getting behind his desk) This person must be pretty special for you to be making a trip downtown on the night before Christmas.

KAYLA (looking away and sighing) Yeah, it’s my husband.

THOMAS I see. Well, let me know if you need anything. (continues to work, dusting his desk etc.)

(Thomas continues to work while Kayla meanders about, holding and looking at different objects. The doorbell dings. Sarah bursts into the shop, frantically scampering about the shop, touching and looking at items, completely unaware of the other people.)

SARAH Shit, shit, shit…. Oh crap I’m in trouble…. DAMMIT! What would he like… ugh…

THOMAS (looks wide-eyed at Sarah for a moment) Ehem… eh…Merry Christmas!

SARAH What?! OH! Merry Christmas to you too!

Sarah!?

KAYLA

SARAH Oh hey! It’s big sis! Looks like you forgot to get your man a present too, huh? Nothin’ like a couple of sisters doing some last minute shopping, am I right? (punches Kayla’s arm in jest) KAYLA Well, that’s not MY situation. (places hand on Sarah’s shoulder, looking concerned and speaking in a hushed tone) Sarah, did you wait till the last minute to get your boyfriend a gift?

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Heh heh, yeah, I guess.

SARAH

(Kayla folds arms) SARAH Ok, look. Your girl’s been busy, alright? I’ve been to four Christmas parties in the last week. Besides, Derrick is so dense, he probably forgot to get me a present, too.

I doubt it.

KAYLA

SARAH Well, it’s gonna be fine, cause I remembered. Like, 10 minutes ago.

KAYLA Well, we better hurry because the shop closes in a half hour.

(The sisters separate for a moment as they look through the various items.)

SARAH So why are you here anyway if you already got Mark a gift?

KAYLA (sifting through items) I don’t know. I guess, I thought I should get him another one this year. (pause) Why is that?

SARAH

KAYLA I was thinking about him a lot today, with everything that happened this year. I was in the car, and thought, you know what, let’s make this Christmas extra special, so I stopped by this shop to pick something out. [pause] How has he been doing?

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SARAH

KAYLA Not so good. You should have seen him at Thanksgiving. Even when we had company over, he hardly came out of his study.

S

It’s that bad?

ARAH

KAYLA He has become so anti-social lately. I don’t know what I can do to get him motivated again. His mother meant the world to him, and when he lost her this summer, he just sunk back into his study for months at this point.

SARAH

Kayla…

KAYLA (looking at the Christmas lights and the décor) This is the most beautiful time of the year, and it’s like he has lost the ability to see color. (tearing up) I just want him to be happy again.

SARAH (placing a comforting hand on Kayla’s shoulder) How are you holding up?

KAYLA (looking into Sarah’s eyes) I don’t think he has thought of me even once in the last three months. When we married a few years back, I never thought I would have to take care of my man so defeated.

(She sobs.) (pause) SARAH With someone like you by his side, he’s bound to get better. If he doesn’t, I’ll kick him between the legs. C’mon, let’s pick something out.

(The sisters pick something out.)

SARAH Perfect, I’m sure he’ll love it. I’ll drive you home, if you like.

KAYLA

…ok

(The sisters make their way out of the shop) SARAH He is soooooo lucky to have someone like you...

(The sisters exit stage.)

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(sighs) God bless ‘em.

THOMAS

(A couple of moments pass as Thomas cleans, then the doorbell rings. MARK, wearing dull colors and a hood enters the shop.)

Merry Christmas!

You too, man.

Quite the weather tonight!

Yeah, I guess.

THOMAS MARK THOMAS MARK

THOMAS I’m just ready to close up shop, so you came just in time!

MARK Sweet, now I just need to pick something out.

(He starts looking at the different items.)

THOMAS Last-minute shopping? Ha! I’ve been there.

Not exactly.

MARK

THOMAS (inquisitive expression) You wouldn’t happen to already have this person’s gift, but decided to get another one the last-minute, would you?

MARK (turns his head sharply, with a discerning frown) Yes, actually. How did you know?

THOMAS (goes back to his work, chuckles) Ah, lucky guess. So what brings you out here on this cold night?

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MARK Well, I just thought I would get a second gift this year, that’s all.

THOMAS Oh, this person must be pretty special then.

MARK Yeah, my wife is pretty amazing. You wouldn’t believe all she’s been through this year.

Wouldn’t I?

THOMAS

MARK Heh, she’s been dealing with me. I haven’t exactly been a very pleasant person lately, to be honest.

THOMAS Oh, we all have our ups and downs. Don’t be too hard on yourself. We all are dealing with something.

(MARK snaps, and begins raising his voice.)

MARK Really? Then what are you dealing with? What makes you so happy, that you can dress up as “Santa” and pretend that everything in the world is fine? (begins to slowly walk toward Thomas) Do you realize how insulting that is? (pointing at THOMAS) Aren’t you aware that this whole world is a pile of shit? (pause) (backing down) Sorry…I… It’s fine, don’t worry about it.

Maybe I should just leave—

MARK

THOMAS MARK

THOMAS Wait, I’ll answer your question. (sits down on a seat behind the counter, as Mark stands, one foot pointing to the door, wanting to leave) Fourteen ears ago, I lost my father to cancer. (disarmed)

MARK 11

I’m… sorry to hear that.

THOMAS (speaking calmly) Don’t be, I know he is in heaven. But for a while, I had trouble moving forward. Every holiday from that point forward was tainted black with the memories of my father. I couldn’t think clearly, and I lost the ability to FEEL (MARK steps away from the door, closer to THOMAS.) THOMAS I couldn’t feel the love of those around me, and people that were close to me became strangers in my eyes. I even forgot what happiness felt like and forgot how to attain it. I felt like nobody could understand what I was going through, and that created a rift between me and my loved ones. (slight pause) (calmly but firmly) How do you get through it?

MARK

THOMAS WELL… (looking directly at MARK) It wasn’t until a special person came into my life and taught me how to love again. My granddaughter is the most amazing person you will ever meet, and she is the reason why I can dress up as “Santa.” She is the reason I can actually BE happy, not pretend to be happy.

The joy you see me exhibit is not an act.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to accuse. (chuckles) Don’t sweat it.

MARK THOMAS

MARK For me, my wife is the person that I can look to, to be happy. Like your granddaughter, Kayla has been the person that has shown me that this world still has some light in it. (straightens up) That’s why I want to get her a second gift. She has sacrificed so much the last few months for me. I have been thinking about her all week, and I want to show her that she is still the most important person in my life.

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THOMAS Very good. Ehem, perhaps she would appreciate something from this section. (gestures to the shoe section)

MARK Oh, look at these heels. She would love these.

THOMAS A fine choice. You know what, you can have ‘em for free.

Really? Thanks, man. That means a lot.

No problem. (beginning to leave) Hey, what was your name?

You can call me Thomas. (smiles) Merry Christmas, Thomas. (smiles) Merry Christmas, Mark.

MARK THOMAS MARK

THOMAS MARK

THOMAS

(MARK leaves the shop) (Blackout)

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Clouds Mark Hanley The clouds Were created When I puffed On my pipe First a light Then a draw Then an exhale The pipe Swarms over the mist The mist Is cumulus Nebulous Billow Puff

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Hollow Threat Jorja Allen

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Anxious Touch Tevin Slippy He appeared sometime during my early teens, the strange man. He never gave his name; he just chose me, standing behind me always. I wish he would terrorize someone else.

I often wonder where he came from, whether he fell from the sky or rose from the ground. Or perhaps he is the result of someone’s evil prayer to put a curse on me. He is tall and slender, often crouching under doorways. His flesh is the color of static, with a wide grin and teeth so white. His voice is soft and clear, and his grip is as strong as a vice. Eyeless and weightless, he controls every moment of my day as he slithers behind me.

He is with me when I am having a conversation or at the counter to receive my medication. His hands clench my lips when he doesn’t want me to speak. Other times he places his hand on my shoulder to send a paralyzing current of fear, preventing me to act. The electric current of energy I feel when he touches me is immeasurable, despite my lack of movement. My body feels like I’m on fire while I just stand there, sweating profusely, waiting for him to let go.

He is invisible to everyone else, although I wish others could see him. Perhaps they would understand why I am always sweating and wouldn’t laugh at my stutter. Maybe my old friends would forgive me for abandoning them. Once, I wanted to contact an old friend, when he grabbed my hand and threw the phone to the ground saying, “They will hate you for avoiding them. Better to be a good friend and be out of their life.” I tell myself I am in control and can get rid of him, but his grip only gets stronger. I’ve often chosen to avoid situations that displease him, which is why I have locked myself away from the rest of the world. If only he would let me speak my mind, others would know what I am feeling. They would understand the pain I feel if they could see the monster behind me. They would understand that I hate him. Invisible scars are hard to feel sorry for.

When we are alone is when he talks the most. He’ll lean against the wall, hands behind his head as he abuses me with his words.

“You’re clearly not good enough,” he’ll say, with so much confidence to make me believe it. It could be about anything: washing the dishes, combing my hair, applying for jobs. I usually just shrug, pretending his words don’t affect me. “Obviously you are incapable of success, so why do you even try?” That one hurt. I never respond to him, even when he nags. “Oh, come on, don’t you believe it too?” He leans forward with his obnoxious grin. “It’s not like you’re capable of doing something incredible. At least with me you’ll be safe.” The way he stretched out his arm toward me, inviting me to take his hand, made me feel squeamish. I didn’t want to believe him, but his words were 16

repeated my whole life.

He doesn’t sleep, either. He often gets bored at night and relays to me everything that can go wrong the next day while clinging to the ceiling. “So, I see you got classes at 9 a.m. tomorrow. Wouldn’t want to sleep through your alarm, or you’ll be late!” Duh, that’s why I set the alarm in the first place, idiot. “OHMYGOSH what if that creepy person you don’t like stares at you the whole lunch hour?” The things he talks about aren’t usually important, but the way he says them with such urgency makes it difficult for my mind to be at ease. Sometimes he touches my heart, making it beat faster and filling my body with adrenaline so I won’t fall asleep. It’s usually when I’m about to fall asleep, he reaches from the ceiling, jolting my body awake. Sometimes it’s so startling that it takes hours for me to settle down and stop panicking.

Every now and then, I get courageous and forget his presence.

It’s these moments that I get myself into trouble. I had the pleasure of conversing with my neighbor next door while we were both doing yard work the other day. I mentioned how hot the summer had been, and we began chatting. “So, how have classes been for ya?” I was about to respond when the strange man quickly reminded me who was in charge when he gently rested his hand on my shoulder, with a gentleness that was uncanny. I started choking on my breath, trying to remember how to speak. Thankfully, we were doing yard work, so my sweat looked natural. “You good there, son?” I didn’t know how to respond. The strange man was frowning and looked serious.

It was clear that I crossed the line. I tried my best to smile, while the neighbor just chuckled, saying “well, tell your family I said hi,” waving his hand, as he turned back to his work. The strange man scolded me all the way back to my work area. “Why didn’t you keep your head down and not make eye contact? What must he think of you now?” I felt embarrassed and guilty.

Although the experience with the neighbor was hurtful, it was clear that something changed within the strange man. Ever since that exchange, it has been getting easier for me to converse freely without the input of the strange man. I spoke to my old friends the other day, and they didn’t hate me but were happy that I reached out. His grip is getting weaker each day, as I happily defy him. Nowadays, he has shrunken quite a bit. He has shriveled into a much smaller creature, and his voice is much fainter than it used to be. He has lost his power to cling to the ceiling and now just pouts in the corner of my bedroom at night. His touch barely has any spark to it nowadays. Perhaps my dream of getting rid of him is finally coming to pass.

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Narcissist Myanna Carmody

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Heaven is Full of Elephants Timothy Stammeyer Benjamin was only nine, but he could name every zoo animal in Latin. It didn’t take long for his father to realize it wasn’t a thumb on the stove curiosity. He loved the elephant most of all, and there were signs of his affection everywhere. On the playground, the other kids joined his game of Jungle Chase, the elephant ruling the swings. Most of all, his favorite shoes, ones he wore only around the apartment, made a trumpeting sound as he stepped through the narrow hallway that led to his father’s room. Everyone could see it— Benjamin had a thirst for wildness. When his father saw the ad from Brinkfield Zoo, he canceled his Saturday shift, removing all the money from the emergency jar.

That absent spring day was the last Benjamin had on earth. It started like the rest, eating scrambled eggs with strawberry jam, then sliding into the rusted pick-up that drove them across the country.

Instead of the usual route, his father turned right onto Beaverdale, the road that led to the east part of the county. The zoo was in the nearby city, just twenty miles from their home in Little Creek. It was a surprise, and Benjamin only noticed where they were going when he saw the billboard: “Roar into Adventure.” They parked in the back lot, people streaming in from all over, littering the concrete like shrapnel.

It’s then he saw the sign, “Lucy, the Magnificent Painting Elephant!”

Standing there stunned, he looked at Lucy’s picture, the curve of her back leading to a billowing trunk that held a paintbrush.

It was rumored Lucy could paint the American flag, and the city buzzed with anticipation. As Benjamin and his father walked gleefully through the rose bushes that lined the concourse, old men from the Legion unpacked ceremonial banners at the enclosure’s south side.

Others were putting blanks in their guns for a salute, which seemed reckless next to the flamingos. A choir from St. Luke’s Lutheran Church had been practicing “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” just for the occasion, joined by a bagpiper in full uniform. Like when his mother was alive, Benjamin and his father stopped to take a picture in front of Lancelot the Lion, a trimmed shrub just beyond the penguins. They joined the expanding crowd, still thirty minutes before Lucy was set to take the stage, an oversized easel facing the audience. The elephants were normally at the zoo’s far end, but with Lucy, the giraffes were moved inside to leave space for the show. This meant that the painting elephant was about to perform yards away from where young Benjamin stood. And unfortunately for Benjamin, only nine years old, his life would end in eight minutes.

Of course, neither Benjamin nor his father knew anything about his death and certainly didn’t expect him to die somewhere between zebras and spotted seals, barking for fish in the middle of Iowa.

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Benjamin ran ahead of his father, eager to catch sight of Lucy, who, at the time, was being brought over from the staging area by Joey, her trainer. The crowd grew thicker by the minute—a watering hole of wide-eyed humans. Weaving easily through the crowd, Benjamin veered left until he found himself standing at a tall gate covered in green mesh. Searching like at a treasure hunt, he found a peep hole and peered in. Rounding the corner of the isolation building was the elephant, and Benjamin couldn’t stifle his excitement. He turned back to his father who was busy watching the St. Luke’s choir warm up on the lawn. Four minutes left.

Brimming with joy, Benjamin started to sprint down the length of the gate, running his fingers along the bumpy mesh. The gates at the zoo were automatic, opened only by a key card. With the fame of Lucy, there was an extra security guard at the gate who, unfortunately again for Benjamin, had her friend’s bachelorette party the night before and had fallen asleep, the card dangling from her wrist. Seeing his chance, wise Benjamin lifted the card to the gate and, to his surprise, a voice chimed in monotone—Opening Gate B-2. At this point, the security guard startled and started profaning the boy.

Twenty seconds left.

Seeing the gate wide open, Lucy made a dash for freedom.

After all, elephants are really not meant to be painters, and she was enticed by a taste of opportunity. The security guard was too busy yelling at the boy that she didn’t notice the one-animal stampede.

Lucy didn’t see the boy either, and Benjamin was so in awe of the sixton majesty he just stood there. One second to go.

Everything seemed to happen rather slowly, Benjamin’s eyes wide and dilated, the security guard’s hangover headache starting to intensify, the trainer running desperately behind, leash in hand, and Lucy wanting to return to what she was destined for. In that second, she raised her giant foot in triumph, just a step more until she crossed the threshold. Benjamin, unfortunately, was out of seconds, and his crushed body lay beside the security guard who, in all fairness, was asked to resign from the Brinkfield Zoo. Lucy hesitated for a moment like she noticed a splinter and then paraded through the zoo’s concourse, trunk high. She started running to the seal enclosure, the St. Luke’s choir scattering like a Sunday sermon gone too long. Parents covered their children, strollers rolling like Indy cars, ushering them down the walkway back to the entrance. A woman came over the loudspeaker piped into the zoo, “Remain calm. Please make your way to the exit.” And unfortunately for Lucy, she only had five minutes left to live.

Of course, Lucy didn’t know any of this, as she was an elephant. At the level of her eyes, she spotted a shining piece of metal, which looked rather like a second sun. Intrigued, she ran headlong toward the shimmer, which was really the reflection of a hundred mirrors, part of a sculpture titled “Running Free,” a name rather inappropriate for fifty acres of caged animals. A group of

homeschooled children were standing right behind the sculpture, a day trip that turned unimaginably bad. Quivering and pouting with gusto, Lucy stopped suddenly like at a yellow light. Three minutes to go.

As the children cried, knowing full well that animal science was no longer a viable career path, Lucy stood there not thinking much of anything. Her vantage point was highest in the zoo, making her perspective different from the humans standing below. From that height, she saw the tops of heads, the smooth rocks for seal sitting, the roofs of the small huts that sold souvenirs. With her, the children below stayed still in a game of freeze tag. Ten seconds left.

At this point, zookeepers with both tranquilizers and guns had made it behind the painting elephant, ready to shoot whichever they deemed necessary. Noting the elephant dangerously close to the cowering children, they opted for firepower of the bullet variety and shot Lucy twelve times with slugs the size of strawberries. Like young Benjamin just minutes before, Lucy was out of seconds, lying in a dead heap, her last sight a glimpse of the snack shop.

Everyone was dazed, hunching their shoulders and looking around for someone to say something. But no one did, no one dared to, watching the still bodies as if they would come back to life.

Benjamin’s father looked down at the boy, and then to the elephant yards away, and finally to the police officer who was gently prodding him to leave the boy alone so they could do what any father dreads.

Naturally, the father would not leave, holding Benjamin’s bluing hand like the first day home from the hospital. But the fact remained, young Benjamin would never come back; he was gone to a place beyond anyone’s comprehension.

It was two months and twenty-four days before Benjamin’s father returned to Brinkfield. The organizers of the zoo, prompted by the St. Luke’s Choir, had asked to hold a memorial service at the grounds. Caught in grief, he declined many times, always saying the moment wasn’t right. But, with the urging of his sister, Benjamin’s father caved, letting the zoo move forward with the preparations.

When he walked to the scene, the area where his son died had been scrubbed clean. The only marks of tragedy were the piles of flowers littered on the fence line of the enclosure. There were dozens of little plush animals mixed in with the roses.

Among them, there were no elephants.

There was nothing that even resembled the creature, none plastered to signs or guide posts. At the ceremony, when asked to say a few words, Benjamin’s father declined, too taken by the moment that his throat was dry. Instead, the head of the zoo offered a prayer for the boy, and the St. Luke’s Choir sang, “It is Well with My Soul.”

After they hit their last off-key note, the gathered crowd dispersed, leaving only Benjamin’s father who sat on a bench with the backrest of a zebra.

He sat there far past closing, but no one had the heart to

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tell him to leave. The lights around the zoo still shone brightly, illuminating the place like a prison. After a while, Benjamin’s father heard a slight whistling sound, a tune that he remembered from childhood but couldn’t place. The unseen whistler had feet that shuffled along the broad walkway leading to the bench.

When Benjamin’s father looked around, he saw a janitor come into the light. She was old, her forehead wrinkled, her graying hair wispy around her ears. She took a Kleenex from her pocket, blew her nose, and then, gently like rain, sat next to the man on the bench.

There was something about that woman so familiar that the father told her the whole story.

He told her of Benjamin’s love of animals and homemade jungle java. He told her of his school report on the African Savannah, his flip book of facts that won the prize for third graders at Woodson Elementary. He told her of the death of Benjamin’s mother, the hardship of trying to be a single dad in a world so dominated by what a father is supposed to be. He told her of the past two months, the tears, the therapy visits, the nagging sense that there had to be something more out of this hell.

When he finished, the woman sighed slightly and leaned in.

“Don’t worry,” she said in the sweetest of tones. “Heaven is full of elephants.”

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Untitled Terri Carter

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Self-Destructive Rachel Peters

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Son of a Preacher Tevin Slippy

I come from long car rides and a church steeple at midnight An empty piano sat amidst empty pews I come from uncertain skies and mountains of expectations Each one left its mark I come from a large family, each member with their own quirks Finding comfort in silence and being overlooked I come from screams so silent and a rage so quiet An invisible storm only God can see I come from a mother who taught her children how to pray The father held the scriptures with a frown so certain I come from scattered toys that were flung in a hurry Children running from the fury I come from scrubbing tables and learning hard work Forever my pillow will keep me safe I come from unanswered guilt and years of lessons My sins have made me worthless I come from shouts of shame with a bible in hand The son was flawed while the father was not

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Citrus Alena Diercks

And loving her, it tasted sweet, like citrus.

A little bitter, yet something about it makes your tongue want more.

Gulping it down, licking, lapping.

Leaving an acidic aftertaste on your teeth, like you just threw up something delightful, and sickeningly bright.

It’s too much, it churns.

It can’t stay, it burns on its way up.

It’s gone, you want more.

Love sick.

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Life Goes On Jorja Allen

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Golden Pomegranate Myanna Carmody

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Not James Joyce Rustin Larson “...the University of Iowa fired Berryman for screaming drunken obscenities and defecating on his landlord’s porch...”

--Gene Lyons, Entertainment

Eye patch strapped over the left eye, eyeglasses over the patch, hand to chin, ale on the table, a moody lamplight, a slice of bread, a ration, an allotment, some red wine for the liver, a presnitz, a fig roll, a creature comfort, some salt on a boiled egg, a newspaper in Italian, the house a steep climb, nothing, Trieste, a marina, houseboats and other small craft in the hot sun. Joy is a dandelion. Fuck. I’m just kidding. This is all salt and bollox. It’s your local grumpy librarian here, ale, and a bowl of peanuts. I’m not James Joyce. I’m liver cooked and chopped and lightly regarded, good on bread for a quick read if you don’t want to think. Black bread on my table tonight, cauliflower soup, the house all aquiver with solitude. For the love of God and liver, read your books, type at your keyboard, but for joy’s sake, leave me alone. Iowa City, not Trieste, ale ala John’s Grocery, everybody’s puffed upon the salt of ego. Bah. I’m just a grump. Maybe I should salt the ice on the front stoop, maybe feed some bread to the pigeons. I get sick of myself, this house, the bridges, the sunset, the churning ale of the spillway. Who is my opponent? His liver I curse, oh lord; be not mine enemy. Know joy.

Amen. Selah. I feel so much anger, no joy, having been wronged. Oh, this is not the salt of poetry, but a black painting on the liverblack canvas of February. Tonight is the opening of “Eat You Alive,” a show of nine paintings by a farmer boy who ran

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away to Los Angeles. All the cute art girls will be happy to see him and sip cocktails, joy, and laugh and nibble cheese puffs. A table of ale and other snacks await the witty quips and salty observations of the senior art faculty. Like bread, toasted, the paintings charm the sick liver

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Carnivorous Jorja Allen

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What It Is to Be a Mother Carmen Harrington I didn’t bloom in your belly, but you gave me life.

You taught me to walk run pray in Spanish.

Father wanted a son that carried his blood, yet you gave him three daughters, and more births were not possible.

You poured your love into his being, sacrificed everything for his comfort, uncovered he had a lover.

Discovering his deceit was agonizing, your jealousy blinding, killing your rival your chosen solution.

I didn’t bloom in your belly, but you gave me life.

You taught me to read write speak in Spanish.

Yet God detained your bullets.

The courtesan carried a child, the son your husband desired.

When my presence you perceived, your saintly mother’s heart refused to pull the trigger.

And upon discovering she’d abort me, you chose to save me, offered to raise me.

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I didn’t bloom in your belly, but you gave me life.

You taught me to sing care forgive in Spanish.

You waited for my birth, anxious and hopeful.

Worried the pact would be broken yet eagerly awaiting your new son.

The day I arrived and you cradled me, smiled, cried, and accepted me.

Loved me though the baby, the bundle you received, was a daughter.

I didn’t bloom in your belly, but you gave me life.

You taught me to live love teach in Spanish.

You gave me life and taught me what it is to be a mother.

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Father, Brother, Sister Te’a Ritchie Yesterday afternoon, Sister was digging through the cold stone walls of the upper abbey. She removed one brick after the other to uncover a hidden crenel embedded deep within. She hid spare change there—sparse coins that came her way from patrons in the little shoddy town or the clergymen from the affluent north. It was just reassurance in case the church no longer needed her services and she was subsequently forced back onto the road.

Sister Lucille had stumbled upon her huddled over the pile of extracted stone and dust. She made herself known, and Sister had startled so violently that the spare change in her hands was flung ungracefully back into the hole in the wall with a tinkling clatter.

She could see the way Lucille eyed her curiously and envisioned the nun scampering off and telling the whole congregation about how their dearest Sister was greedily collecting money within the abbey’s walls. Sister panicked and proceeded to back the curious Lucille into a corner with violent words and stomping feet. This scared the nun well enough as she escaped fearfully back the way she came and out of sight.

Immediately, Sister knew she had done wrong. Now, it was only a matter of time before the ministers asked her to find someplace else to call her home.

That night, Sister could not sleep. She could feel the ants of anxiety jittering their way through her legs and into her arms. Unable to take the nervous anticipation, she rose with the sun and made her way through the stone-clad halls of the ministry. Carefully, she chose to step on the tiles with the least clack and open the wooden doors with the smallest creak. She still had a chance to prove her usefulness as a nun and crept off to tend the herb gardens.

Once outside, early spring’s chill bit at her exposed ankles, and she scurried over the worn-down paths to remove the protective tarp over the sprouting basil. Some of the shoots were too close together, Sister decided, and she went to retrieve the spade from where she left it. With stuttering hands, she scoured through the various trowels, shovels, and shears propped up against the monastery’s side. The tool was nowhere in sight.

Her nervous shiver had turned sour.

The attached building on the side of the church was a ratty old room with little to no respite from the bitter air. It once served a much greater purpose but was sentenced to a long, painless, and quiet death as a meaningless shed—a meaningless shed that might have stored Sister’s favorite spade had she actually left it there. She threw the outside door open and destroyed the calm serenity of the room. Some rats scuttled away from the sudden commotion and into the walls.

Even amongst the additional storage, the spade was nowhere to 34

be found. The furious bite of anxiety crawled its way through Sister’s throat. She felt the breath stumble away from her lungs as she angrily tried to reign it back. The inner door leading to the ministry fell open.

The nun whipped around at the sound.

“Good morning, Sister!” The cardinal crept into the room and smiled politely. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he moved to set the basket he was holding onto the spare workbench. He was dressed in a bright blue cassock that stung the eyes of anyone who glanced in his direction. His bold choice of clothes disguised his prestigious status from the bevies. This cheerful appearance wouldn’t fool her, and he knew it.

“What are you doing here, Cardinal?” Sister felt the tight strings of panic pull her shoulders taut, and while she hadn’t intended for her words to bite, they fell from her lips. She watched as he smiled again and shuffled through the contents of his basket. There was no way that he didn’t know what had transpired between her and Lucille.

Sister felt uneasy. He could very well be here to inform her of their professional parting.

“I figured you might need this, though I didn’t expect you to come by so early this morning.” He revealed her prized spade and extended it out in offering. She snatched it from his gloved hand.

The man looked exhausted but happy. The weight of his years pulled down on the sides of his face and dragged the dark circles around his eyes further down every time she looked at him. He always knew what was happening. He knew the ins and outs of the church’s finances better than most and arguably knew the job of the ministers better than the men themselves. The cardinal knew Mary Sue was pregnant before she did, and somehow it didn’t surprise him at all that Brother Adam was transferring monasteries. He knew everything—almost miraculously. Sister knew that he knew; she was sure of it.

The cardinal turned back to the desktop and continued to rustle through the items inside the wicker basket. There could be anything in that caddy. The first time he had ever lured her into conversation he had pulled a manuscript for a child’s rendition of the bible and various pens from the woven bin. He pried her early family life from her chest then. The second time he had produced instant coffee and two mugs from within and worked her teenage years from the depth of her memories. He had done it with such ease that Sister hadn’t noticed he had done so until the cardinal had disappeared back into the hidden recesses of the finance office in the west wing. She understood that his intentions were pure of heart, but it would also be kind of him to corner her in a confession box at least once. His eyes would not meet hers there. Sister couldn’t help but quip at the resurgence of memories.

“What are you doing here? No one ever wakes up this early, especially to be here, with a spade and dressed in a hideous blue gown,” she demanded, irked.

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“Why are you here, so early, needing a spade, and upset about my lovely blue cassock?” He never once turned to her to say this, but Sister had a feeling he knew she was nervous with this response. The cardinal relented: “Sister Lucille came to me yesterday with a rather peculiar predicament.”

He definitely knew.

“Lady Lucille said she saw you digging through the walls near the dormitories—something about you moving the bricks around?

She also said you yelled and threatened like a young man when she startled you. It frightened her.” The cardinal turned this time and studied her up and down. Sister felt like a child caught with coins from her father’s wallet—despite the softness upon his face. She felt like grabbing the hem of her nun’s habit and clawing at his all-seeing eyes.

“Sister Lucille should be scared. She likes to sneak up on people. It would teach her a lesson.”

“How have your nightmares been recently?”

The suddenness of the question sent a wave of vertigo through the back of Sister’s eyes. The world was shifting on its axis, and she grabbed a hold of a rake to attempt to swallow the thick feeling of dread oozing across her skin. Memories of street lamps, men, cars, and nightmares meshed together into an incomprehensible mess of faux and fact. The anxiety came back with nauseous force. She couldn’t stand to look the cardinal in the eyes any longer and cast her sight away.

The silence that followed was palpable.

“The past haunts us in many ways, Sister.” The cardinal spoke gently and tipped his head to try and meet her gaze. He continued, “It wouldn’t hurt to tell me more. It might help me, help you.”

“It’s been seven years to the mark.” Sister shifted uncomfortably after a while. She had never felt her age before, but in this moment, she recognized the little creases in the corners of her eyes and the little wisps of gray hairs from when she studied her reflection in the mirror. She hesitated before speaking again. “I should be fixed up by now. Mended. I thought that I was heading in the right direction, being kinder, less angry to people who do not deserve it. I want to be someone admirable—but, Sister Lucille, I am afraid she has seen me for who I am.”

“You were nearly thirty when you arrived here in our little village. In that time, I myself have surpassed forty years in age, and, yet, you’ve made more genuine and intentional progress than I. I am proud, Sister,” the cardinal stated firmly.

Sister had nothing to say to this bewildering statement. She breathed in the crisp air of the compact and once important shed. The light from the single window showered the floating dust in a bright orange hue. Such a beautiful thing, and it clashed absurdly with that ridiculous blue outfit.

“Sister Lucille is not a man of the past. She will not lure you

into traps laced with kindness. Whatever it is that you might be protecting within that stone wall, it will not be harmed. She admires you, you know?” He broke the stillness to lean against the workbench.

A wicked flick of hope soared through her chest, and it felt miserable.

“Do not sell me lies with that courteous tongue of yours.”

She could see the way he was beginning to unravel her resistance.

She would not allow him to weave his way into the recesses of her thieving past again. However, a fine layer of doubt clouded her mind, and this time she wasn’t sure why she refused to enlighten him on her financial insecurities before her arrival at the monastery.

“It is the truth, Sister. I will say with my chest that the brothers speak highly of you when I join them in the kitchens at night. When I pass the other sisters in the cloister, they mention how they adore your tenderness towards the livestock.”

“I am but a violent creature. How could they think that?”

“I do not think Lucille thinks of you as poorly as you do. She was confused and scared—it might help to apologize, for starters.

Speaking openly has benefits for both parties. Do you think you’re violent and uncontrollable?”

This conversation was veering into deep waters. It wasn’t possible that the cardinal understood what it felt like to be unsafe in a place he called home. He had revealed to her the ease of his own life.

He’d never left this secluded, dusty village. He didn’t comprehend how to pretend to be a good person so other people might not see the flaws her soul was constructed with. He never had to run from adults who wanted their money back. Yet the cardinal’s slippery teeth had extracted parts of her hidden past straight from her own mouth. It felt vile.

Sister clenched her jaws together and brought her gaze back to his. If she were to continue to spend any time in this shack with this mousy little man, she would be tricked into spilling what few secrets she had managed to keep from him. So, she clutched onto her spade and held her chin up high. She did not need the cardinal to remind her of the time Brother Jude helped her flush the slugs from under the marigolds or the moments when Sister Elizabeth helped wrangle the bull back into the pasture.

Sister Lucille was unfortunate enough to have seen a side of her she considered to be very uncomfortable. It made her jaw tremble thinking about her stock-piling tendencies. Lucille had gone and spilled her story of being threatened to the one man that knew her well. At this point, Sister knew she would never gain back favor— nonetheless forgiveness—from either of them.

Sister stalked hurriedly into the garden, collecting pebbles in her flats as she went. The brightly colored cardinal watched her leave quietly, and his disappointed face disappeared behind the closed door.

It was warmer outside now, and the basil was bound to be happy that the sun shone its pleasant light upon its newborn leaves.

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The air continued to heat up as the morning progressed. Sister plucked the crowded sprouts from the soil and constructed some makeshift trellises for the tomato seeds to weave their way through.

She adjusted the garden bed until it was perfect. All Sister needed now was a watering can, fertilizer, a trowel, and some wooden stakes.

She returned to the monastery’s garden room once more to retrieve the final tools. The grass grew undisturbed around the foundational bricks, and the ruts in the ground leading up to the side entrance were filled with glassy water from last night’s rain. Inside, there was no cardinal to be found. The dirt floor had been stirred by boots and mice. The single window lit the tiny space with the yellow light of mid-morning. The stone walls were warm to the touch, and the once glorious nook was cozy. Sister glanced around for her items in mind. Upon the workbench lay a watering can, fertilizer, a trowel, wooden stakes, and an empty basket.

The thunderous bells signaling the start of the day began to chime, causing the walls to tremble and pulse. The brothers would begin their day in the lower fruit fields. The clergy and congregation would start with morning prayer. The cardinal would be locked away deep within the bowels of the church, underneath piles of paperwork.

Sister Lucille would be in the chapel shortly.

She was there, as expected, sitting in the delicate pew off to the left. It was difficult to see Lucille’s face from the angle Sister chose to sit from, despite being much taller than she. Perhaps it was for the best that her face wasn’t visible. If she was frightened or mad, there was no way to tell. There is an odd comfort in not knowing.

Apologizing to a mannequin is easier than a reflection.

“Good morning,” Sister stated matter-of-factly. It was indeed morning. Whether or not it was a good one was severely influenced by one bird-brained man. An apology was inevitable, but only for the sake of her image and place in the congregation. Appearances mean everything, and she was not about to lose housing security over pesky habits and a one-sided intervention, cardinal be damned.

“I suppose an apology is in order. I did not mean to terrorize you in the way I did.”

Sister Lucille was silent and unmoving. The bells of the morning sounded off in the distance and the choir began their melodious hymns of gratitude. Each sound drifted through the galleries. Light from the rising sun flooded through the stained images in the windows. It danced gloriously across the dark wood of the pews, across the skin of the two nuns. It was all distant noise in comparison to this aching stillness from Sister Lucille.

“I apologize for the crude nature of my actions,” Sister tried again. The hush persisted irritatingly.

This wasn’t working. Sister Lucille was supposed to forgive her immediately and forget anything ever happened. Sister would leave the chapel, image restored, and continue her role as the passive and unthreatening little garden nun. It would stay this way until she found

herself in the grave. Hide everything better, stay away from others, and be more careful for the rest of time.

“Why were you taking apart the walls of the abbey? I don’t think that’s normal, especially for you. I was curious. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been. Why?” Lucille continued to stare straight forward, hidden by the hood of her habit.

“Does it matter?” The response felt vile in an uncomfortable way. Sister regretted it immediately. After all, she was in the wrong.

“It was important enough to you that I was cornered and threatened.”

It was Sister’s turn to be silent.

“What was in those walls?”

“Surely the cardinal put you up to this.”

“He did, in a way.”

“He would.”

“He told me to be kind—mindful—which was my intention all along… but, was it yours?” Lucille’s voice sounded pained almost— like she was trying to hide something important but wanted to be polite.

A trickling sense of something nauseous scratched at Sister’s head.

“He did not put me up to anything in the way you might expect. You know he is good of heart. And I have my own reasons.

Didn’t everything happen because of me? The cardinal was not there.

He does not know what happened. Neither do I… really.”

“He always knows. I’m shocked he didn’t inform you.”

A sigh fell from the other nun’s chest. Perhaps her eye was twitching. Maybe she wasn’t upset at all.

“Are you sure he knows why you did it? Doesn’t that sound odd? Why would anyone other than you know why you are the way that you are, why you do the things you do… kind but quiet. Never talk to anyone. No one knows a thing about you. I doubt the cardinal does.”

“He has his ways. I know he knows.”

“And if he does, so what? I am unaware. And I was scared.”

Sister had to know what Lucille was thinking. Dread and disaster must have adorned her face. But Sister was hidden. An oozy, slippery, and painful gushing of realization lay thickly across her shoulders. It was akin to the feeling of tarnished rot seeping through her collar bones and into her lungs. Everything seemed distant. The chorus of morning hymns and cold stone tiles were all but gone.

It was then that she realized, surrounded by the heavy oak benches and the tall gleaming walls supporting arched ceilings of decorated windows, sturdy rock floors and a lady of the Lord to her left—it was working. Sister had indeed kept her secrets hidden.

Hidden from the depths of the church. Hidden from the brothers and sisters that roamed the halls. Almost concealed completely from one crafty cardinal. All troubles had wedged themselves deep within the

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marrow of her bones, present but never spoken. Memories of the past soaked her skin like tainted grace. For seven years now she upheld an arcane illusion of quiet and reserved. A fancy shell of skin, decorated with desperate flicks of trapped emotion within a dark, misty core.

Sister was merely a puppet, guided and controlled by the deep alcoves of unconsciousness that sheltered her younger self.

“I am sorry, Lucille. I… was afraid. Afraid you would do something to me. For, being caught doing something uncouth. I hadn’t meant to lose control. I hadn’t meant for this fear to manifest in the way it did. You took the brunt of something deep. Something I keep close. I apologize. Sincerely.” Confessing felt different this time. Now, Sister could feel the earth beneath her fingers as she pushed and pulled the reborn spring basil into the new soil, nourished from the decayed leaves of last autumn. The sun had risen further into the sky and a blooming warmth engulfed each new sprout of pennyroyal.

“I am half your height, Sister. And much skinnier. What could I do to hurt you?” Sister Lucille laughed then, and the sound of tinkling bells fluttered through the air elegantly. She turned this time to face Sister. Her face was alight with the hazy morning sun, and a lighthearted smile blessed her cheeks. She took Sister’s hands into her own and placed a tidy pile of coins into her palms.

“Courtesy of the cardinal.” The smile in her eyes deepened.

She laughed again. Sister grinned, too. The stutter in her breath was pleasant this time.

“My friends call me Lucy, you know.”

Sister did know. “My friends call me Deirdre.”

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Sweet Bees Terri Carter

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What They Said Evan Konig They said, “That’s not normal!”

They said, “You’re going to hell!”

They said, “You need better morals.”

I often heard them yell.

They said, “It’s a choice.”

They said, “It’s not natural!”

There was never a time for me to rejoice because of what they said.

They said, “You’ll never get into heaven!”

They said, “You’re a heathen.”

But no one even thought when I was bullied because of what they said.

They said, “You need the lord!”

They said, “You’ll regret it when you’re dead.”

But none yelled when I lost my life because of what they said.

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Empty Family Photo Rylea Henderson

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Feline to Feminine Rachel Peters

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How to Give Your Cat a Pet-i-cure Rachel Peters You’re sitting on the couch watching some television, and your cat walks into the room. He’s fuzzy, he’s cute, and he’s got this little squishy face you cannot go one more minute without having him in your arms. He looks up at you, and you pat your lap to signal him to come and sit with you. With a small meow, he jumps up onto your lap, and there it is. You wince in pain, his little claws, so tiny but so sharp, digging into your thighs. He’s overdue for a trim. What do you do?

Well, the first part is probably the most difficult. You lift him off of your lap to get the cat nail clippers. He sees you pull them out of the drawer and knows what’s coming. His eyes widen, and you stare each other down. You must be careful: one step too quick, and he’s gone. You examine your options. You could step directly toward him and the possibility of him running away instantly is high. Or you could sit down in front of him and let him come to you. Better to let him make the decision. You bend your knees, about to sit down on the floor, his ears back and his eyes wide. But you’ve done it; you’ve moved too quickly. He bolts, and now you must spend ten minutes chasing him down.

Here, we will enter the second part of the operation. You’ve got your squirming cat in your arms, and now you must call for a partner and backup. Your sister comes in to help, taking the cat from your arms, and your mom is close by. Not only do you have your nail trimmers, but you have the full salon. Might as well get it done all at once, right? You select your clippers from your array of tools, among tiny bottles of kitty nail glue and a variety of colored nail caps. In your sister’s arms, he wiggles and yells and stares up at you in fury.

You pick up a tiny paw, and he screams. Startled, you drop the foot and stare at him. He’s the sweetest little guy until you threaten him with a pedicure.

Third, you must have an intense pep talk with your mother.

Your cat lays in your arms, too exhausted to bother fighting when his predator is no longer in sight. She pets him and he looks at her with sad eyes. But don’t be fooled by his pitiful expression as we move to the fourth step. Hell has been unleashed, and it’s coming at you full speed.

It’s go-time. He’s relaxed enough to sit still. With one person holding the cat and another holding out a paw, you whip out the clippers and begin to clip each little nail. He auditions for drama club, singing like an opera singer who’s just lost her true love. He claws and bites, but you mustn’t give up yet. Bandaids are your post-nail-salon best friend.

Now we arrive at the fifth step. Imagine you’ve never done archery, and you’ve got a bow and arrow. Your goal is to shoot a 45

perfect target on the first try. Impossible, right? Well, not impossible, but very difficult. You have about as good of a chance of getting that perfect shot as you do getting the tiny pink nail cap onto a single cat toenail on the first try. You place a small drop of nail glue on the inside of the cap and attempt to apply it to one of the nails. He fusses and bites, and this time his teeth sink a little too deep. Your sister cries out in pain, and her grip on the cat loosens. He jumps out of her arms and slides himself underneath the couch. Your mom treats your sister’s wounds, and you sit on the couch, defeated.

Step six. You are outraged and annoyed. This little guy weighs fifteen pounds and he’s ruling your life. Enough is enough. You reach underneath the couch and grab his scruff and pull him out from underneath as he howls. Your mom takes over the wounded soldier’s role of controlling the monster, and you guys mean business. With the cat’s little arms held to his chest and his head pulled away from within reach of anyone’s skin, you prepare the nail caps. You slide them onto each of the claws, one by one, though one would think you guys were doing something brutally horrific with the way he screams.

Step seven. You’re so close, you’re on the last cap. You can do it, you slide that cap on like it’s nothing. You’re not a scaredy cat anymore. However, your cat is, at the very least by definition.

You’re finished! You release the disagreeable feline; he runs down the hall and hides underneath one of the beds. You put a treat on top of his scratching post for him to find later, even though he doesn’t deserve it; he’s been as difficult as possible.

Moving on to step eight. You must console the little guy.

He’s a pain in the neck, but you still love him. You lay down on your stomach on the floor next to the bed. He stares at you with fear and wide eyes and lets out a little chirp. You grab the treat jar and shake it. He slowly crawls out and sniffs the jar, and you reach in and hand him a treat. He hesitates and slowly eats it and then lovingly rubs his head against your knee. You pet him, helping to calm his nerves and relax after that ridiculous spa session. And you look down and notice two teeth-marked claw caps lying on the floor underneath the bed and two bare kitty nails on one of his paws.

Step nine. Cry.

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Cracked Emily Hiner

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A Boy Named Sioux Kevin L. Van Dee Kinross Middle School housed both fifth and sixth graders, and I was the younger. The year was 1970—a year of change and turmoil in America. The Jackson 5 first performed on the Ed Sullivan Show, Nixon secretly invaded Cambodia, the first Earth Day flopped, the Beatles disbanded, four students were shot dead at Kent State University, the Apollo 13 disaster transpired, Vietnam languished on, Janis Joplin overdosed, and the proudest injustice I ever endured befell my American Indian friend and me. The battle began before the start of the school day while being bussed to Kinross that brisk autumn morning in early October, but racial and class warfare led to the event against my blood brother and me.

For rural Iowa kids, bussing was a fact of life. When the government began closing down our outdated country schools in the 1950s, we were integrated into the city schools. Bussing was the vehicle for that change.

Getting ready for school meant dragging myself out of bed early in the morning as we were one of the first families on the route.

My brothers and sisters and I took turns hurriedly scouting out the first-floor west window of our big two-story square white farmhouse for Bob Hervey’s black and yellow bus to reach the McGuire’s home about a mile up the road. Then we knew it was time to trek down our long, gravel lane—sometimes in the mud, snow, rain, wind, heat, or cold—to synchronize our arrival so as to not upset the man. If we were tardy, we felt his wrath as it slowed him down from his appointed duties.

Bob was a tall, slender, handsome bachelor who kept his bus neat and orderly. He had a self-installed, immense, red square radio dialed to the KIOA-AM station (there was no FM radio back then) out of Des Moines, Iowa, where they played the best rock and roll music of the day. The DJs played mostly top forty music like Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” and The Rolling Stone’s “Honky Tonk Women” along with cutting-edge music like Desmond Dekker and The Aces’ “Israelites” and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s “Woodstock.” For this street-wise ten-year-old kid with hip older brothers and sisters, I knew my rock and roll. The music was a part of the times. My brother-in-law had just been sent to Vietnam, and we were all worried sick for his safety. The daily number of dead being reported on the nightly news was staggering. Yet, CSN&Y’s lyrics from their song “Woodstock” that ”the bomber jet planes riding shotgun in the sky, turning into butterflies above our nation” allowed us to hope that peace might somehow be possible while their lyrics that “we [were] ten-billion-year-old carbon” also put our insignificance into perspective.

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Bob had three basic unwritten rules: never disrespect the music, never get his bus messy, and never fight. I liked all three.

However, during my fifth-grade year, I had to agonize through a second bus trip with a different bus driver. During one day in particular, it was anarchic.

Mike Little and I met a year or two earlier. He was a year older than I. One of the first things I remember about my friend was his affirming to me that “I’m an America Indian,” and I proclaimed back to him, “I don’t care.” He gave me that slight, upturned grin I learned later rarely crossed his normally stoic face. It was a nice face—honest, strong, trustworthy, smooth and square. I often went to his house to hang out when we weren’t running around town. Mike lived just west of North English in the country with his mother and stepfather. His parents frequently got drunk on cheap whiskey and fought. Mike also had three younger sisters he rarely talked about. However, one time they all laughed that the ketchup splattered on the false ceiling wasn’t actually their mother’s blood. I wasn’t necessarily convinced.

When classes began in 1970, I was bussed to North English from my farm home eight miles west of town where I then waited to be bussed to Kinross, an even smaller town in our school district about ten miles farther east. We students formed a line to get on the Kinross bus, but there was no supervision and the environment often got chaotic. Lots of pushing and shoving. Country kids were used to being bussed, but it was new to many of the city kids, and some imposed their dominance as the year progressed. I tried to get along, but Mike wasn’t aways that way. He stood up for himself—and for me.

I normally liked that time of year. Being a farm kid, I was close to nature. I liked the changing leaves from green to yellows and browns, the harvesting of crops. Some of the activities going on that time of year were my favorite pursuits —football, hunting and Halloween. Autumn gives me a sense of melancholy that some people don’t like. It’s comforting to me somehow. Both Mike and I shared that love of nature. It was in our blood.

As we boys jostled for position while waiting in line—and the girls looked on in disgust—it happened. Mark Ackerman butted ahead of me from way back. He broke a rule that we all knew crossed the line. I knew it as well, but I didn’t know what to do. The whole world seemed like they were fighting at the time without successfully resolving any issues, so I decided to just let him get away with his aggression.

I looked like a coward to all the other boys, and then Mark turned and laughed in my face! Immediately, I heard Mike’s soaring howl from behind me. “That’s a bunch of shit, Kevin!” I’d never heard Mike cuss before. Then it began. Their bantering over me, both literally and figuratively. It was like something I’d never heard or seen. I’d known Mark a lot longer. He went to our church. His younger brother, Paul, was in my class and was a good friend, but Mark was the black sheep of a well-respected family. (Later in life he would get into

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a little trouble, but that’s another story).

Suddenly, I hoped my problems might end when Smokey Stoner’s bus pulled up, but after we all got on board the prairie wars not only persisted, they escalated.

Smokey’s reputation preceded my first encounter with him.

His driving strategy was the exact opposite of Bob Hervey’s. He was short, chubby, dirty like his bus—with holes in his clothes and in his vinyl seats—and, even if he played music, it wouldn’t have been heard above all the mindless and ceaseless chatter. By the time we staked out our places on the bus, sides had been drawn. There was Mike and me and Mark and several of his gang. I was so scared I cannot remember to this day who the other boys were, but they were the same kids I grew up with. They were good people, just not that day.

Mark and Mike strategized over their conflict. Mark was all mouth, shouting, “Go back to the reservation, Geronimo!” and “You’re ugly, you stinking red man!” while Mike worked on his cold, steely stare like a wild animal stalking its prey ready to strike at a moment’s notice. I was terrified for Mike and myself, but I also feared for Mark.

There had been a turf war earlier that summer between Mike and my cousin, a tough city kid, and Mike easily stood his ground. I knew Mark’s lip was dangerous.

All I really knew was that we were surrounded by several of Mark’s sixth-grade friends who were reveling in the battle, and there was no one there to intervene. If we had been on Bob’s bus, none of this would have been happening. I looked up at Smokey’s face in his mirror for some sort of intervention. I could see he had no interest in what was going on behind him. His gaze was solely on the road ahead.

Smokey was like so many “good” Americans who were oblivious to the problems going on in the country, and he was oblivious to the merciless injustice we were facing from these “good” American kids.

When we arrived in Kinross, the entourage flowed into the school, seemingly unnoticed by all authority. Somehow we worked our way to the second-floor boys’ bathroom. Time passed quickly. Mark continued jawing while Mike glared him down. The other boys were like a crowd at a yard fight, cheering their leader on to victory. Mark continued to hurl insults. The bell rang, and then it happened. Like an overpowering prize fighter, Mike sprung with a blizzard of punches to Mark’s face, and in a matter of seconds it was all over. Everyone grew silent—stunned. We left the scene, awed by what we’d just witnessed.

Such finality. Such dominance. Such brutality.

When Mark emerged from the bathroom, Mrs. Hammes, my homeroom teacher, was right there and shrieked, “What happened to you?” while looking at Mark’s blue and swollen eyes. He immediately declared, “They did it to me!” somehow being able to make out both Mike and me. We were whisked to the principal’s office in front of the West German immigrant, Mr. Columbus. Mark repeated his one-sided account of our guilt while neither Mike nor I were allowed to testify.

The schoolhouse injustice was swift. Mr. Columbus extracted his

instrument, a thick, broad board with a handle that perfectly fit his formidable grip. We were bent over and cracked across our buttocks forcefully, first Mike and then me. We were ordered to bellow, “I will not fight in school!” at the top of our lungs with each wallop.

Our teachers escorted us back to our separate homerooms without further incident. I sat down sorely at my desk and began to cry, not from pain or shame or humiliation, but with pride—pride from of the punishment I shared with my stoic blood brother who had endured this injustice throughout much of his life.

Mike and I never talked about that day, but we bonded even more from our experience. A few weeks later, his mom suddenly left her husband, Keith Seaba, with Mike and his sisters, and I never saw my friend again. (My brother, Duane, and I recently took a drive on some backroads, and we went by his friend Keith’s place. I asked my brother if he knew anything about Mike’s story. Duane claimed “Keith was the one who kicked them out because he and his wife got drunk one night, and she told Keith that he might end up some morning with a knife stuck in him. He believed her and told them all to get the hell out.”)

Mark and I were never great friends, but one summer night several years later when we were in our early 20s I was partying with the usual gang on Main Street in North English when Mark showed up.

We decided to hang out when everyone else went home. As the sun came up while parked along a dusty gravel road, Mark played Johnny Cash’s “A Boy Named Sue.” We sang along together to “I knew you’d have to get tough or die, and it’s that name that helped to make you strong…and I came away with a different point of view.” I thought back to that day at Kinross Middle School, and, looking into Mark’s eyes, I wondered if that day was on Mark’s mind as well. But we never said a word. I’ve thought a lot about why we fought, because, for all Mark’s faults, he was still a really nice guy.

Mark recently died of cancer. I thought again about that cold October day in 1970 when all those boys emboldened Mark and Mike to fight. I played football with some of them in high school. We struggled during the highs and lows of trying to find an identity for our community with one of the longest losing streaks in state history.

We eventually fought to win two games my senior year. I was proud to be a part of those battles. The fight with Mark haunts me to this day.

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Kirkwood Sunrise Ann Sunde Wilson

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Contributor Notes Jorja Allen is a visual artist who composed Carnivorous, Life Goes On, and Hollowed Threat. She is currently working towards an Associate of Liberal Arts degree and then plans to pursue a tattoo apprenticeship.

Allen is grateful for spending the time to cultivate her art skills further while at Kirkwood. Regarding Carnivorous, Allen says, “I used the Japanese firing method called Raku Firing in order to attain the smoky and cracked surfaces of these.” This was followed up with an iron-oxide enriched paint and final clear glazing to top it off. Of Life Goes On, Allen says, “This was my first ever full-piece oil painting.

The bright colors contrasting with the skeleton in the greens and pinks and blues are something I generally do not do in my paintings…

It also has some artistic symbolism to it that I think everyone could perceive differently.”

Myanna Carmody is the artist who created Narcissist and Golden Pomegranate. She is also a valued staff member of the Cedar Valley Divide. She has been drawn to art since early childhood but only began taking painting seriously after attending Kirkwood in 2019.

She says that being around like-minded creatives in art history and painting classes encouraged her to step out of her comfort zone and “drastically changed how I showed up to my easel and canvas.”

She currently works primarily with Open Acrylics and charcoals, drawing inspiration from artists such as John William Waterhouse, Edward Robert Hughes, and Edmund Leighton. She plans to use still life, fabrics, and figure studies to gain the foundation she needs to create genre paintings as she works towards furthering her art career. Regarding the inspiration for her piece, Narcissist, Carmody says, “this is a piece that surrounds religious trauma and narcissistic abuse… The meaning behind it for myself personally revolves around spiritual leaders and role models using false spirituality to tear the woman apart.” More of Myanna’s work can be found at: artbymyanna.com Terri Carter, who works at the Kirkwood print shop, is the creator of Sweet Bees and Untitled. Sweet Bees was created using fused glass.

Untitled was composed of paté de verre (paste of glass) and a sugar fire finish. Carter says, “Glass is an intriguing art medium. It can be smooth and flowing, rough and sharp, shimmering or dull. Learning techniques and processes to create the art will never end. I enjoy trying new ideas and discovering the results when the kiln is opened.”

Carma Close is currently enrolled in the horticulture program at Kirkwood and enjoys taking photos in her spare time. On African Daisy, Close says, “Plants so often get overlooked but being able to stop and appreciate them can be a life-changing feeling.”

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Alena Diercks is a Kirkwood student who plans to pursue a career in mortuary science. She works as a part-time body piercer and loves to read, create, and learn just about anything, with a particular emphasis on the study of languages. She also says, “Writing is something I love dearly, but most of that energy is reserved for school assignments.

Still, I dabble here and there.” She finds Victorian literature very inspiring and is a collector of antique books. Regarding “Citrus,” Diercks says, “This piece of poetry, along with many others, is one I have written with a burst of inspiration.”

LA Felleman is currently a financial analyst at the University of Iowa, prior to which she worked as a seminary professor and a pastor.

She credits the Free Generative Writing Workshops, the Midwest Writing Center, and workshops offered through Iowa City Poetry with her growth as a poet. To give back to the writing community, she organizes a writer’s open mic at the public library (or via Zoom during pandemics). She serves on the advisory council of Iowa City Poetry, is the author of the chapbook, The Length of a Clenched Fist, from Finishing Line Press, and blogs at http://lafelleman.blogspot. com. Regarding the inspiration for her poem “A Fleeting Common Good,” she writes, “This poem is an attempt to bring others into my experience of a deep violet sky. I wanted to express the wonder of the moment, as well as the regret that many of us live too rushed to notice awe-inspiring details.”

Mark Hanley, author of “Clouds,” is a Kirkwood alum living in Cedar Rapids and studying at the University of Iowa. He likes to write about everyday life, as well as the transcendent, especially when the two topics coincide. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, playing the violin, and listening to music. He is known to enjoy a nice, strong cup of coffee. You can learn more about him at https://markthepoet.com.

Carmen Harrington is a US Navy veteran and retired officer’s wife, mother of two, and grandmother of four. She began writing in her late 40s while taking creative writing courses at Mount Mercy University, where she studied for her BA in English. She obtained her masters in Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages from the University of Northern Iowa in 2017 and now works as an adult education English as a Second Language Teacher at Kirkwood while serving the Grant Wood area communities as a Spanish interpreter and translator. Her poetry, prose, and photos are inspired by nature, family, and events in history, and have been published in the Inner Weather, the Cedar Valley Divide, and various editions of the Paha Review and Mercy Creative Review. Her poem “What It Is to Be a Mother,” was written in honor of her beloved mother and matriarch after the discovery of her adoption.

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Emily Hiner, the creator of Cracked, would like to some day own her own ceramics studio. She says, “What I love most about art is knowing that you can express yourself in different ways without speaking a word. Art has become another language to me, and I am proud to speak it.”

Evan Konig is a current Kirkwood student and future creative writing major. He is interested in writing poetry, short stories and novels. In his free time, he enjoys listening to music, painting, and drawing. He is inspired by Lady Gaga and her ability to create despite what others have to say about her and her work. The inspiration for his poem, “What They Said,” was derived from his experience in high school.

He says “When I was younger I wasn’t treated equally by my peers because I was gay. I wanted to write this piece to tell others who are in similar situations that they are not alone and that it’s ok to speak up about your feelings when you feel ostracized by anyone else. I also wrote to bring awareness to the topic of violence and suicide in the LGBTQ+ community and how not much has been done to stop it.”

Rustin Larson, who wrote “Not James Joyce,” has had work published in the anthology Wilds Gods (New Rivers Press, 2021) and in London Grip, Poetry East, The Lake, Poetryspace, Pirene’s Fountain, and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. His chapbook The Cottage on the Hill was published by Cyberwit.net in April 2022. He is on the faculty of Maharishi International University’s MFA in Creative Writing program.

He says his poem“Not James Joyce” was born from trying to write [a] sestina” and that while most of his sestinas “partially or fully failed...I found enough in the efforts to keep, edit, and call poems.”

Rachel Peters is currently in her sophomore year at Liberty High School. She works at the Big Picture Gallery and Studio and is currently developing her AP Studio Art portfolio. She also does commission work as well as makes and sells jewelry. Regarding her essay “How to Give a Cat a Pet-i-cure,” Peters says, “I wrote this essay… with the intention of creating something entertaining for my audience, and for cat owners specifically... I wanted to submit this piece to go along with [one of] my art piece[s], Feline to Feminine...

This particular piece is about the relationship I have had with animals throughout my life, specifically cats… This piece is done in a much more abstract style than I typically use. I created this piece out of of mat-board, using acrylic paint and Posca Paint Pens.” On SelfDestructive, Peters says, “it is supposed to represent my struggles with self-destructive tendencies.”

Te’a Ritchie was initially a psychology major at Kirkwood. Regarding her short story, “Father, Brother, Sister” she says, “I am fascinated by the psychological aspects of the individual, how their past affects their present and the inevitable future. Nothing makes me feel better

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than watching a nameless individual of my own design suffer because they are themselves.”

Tevin Slippy is a Kirkwood student and author of “Anxious Touch,” “Son of a Preacher,” and Second Gift.

Timothy Stammeyer is an avid creative writer with aspirations of teaching creative writing at the collegiate level. He has found writing to be his way of making sense of the world. He particularly enjoys writing literature for young audiences and believes that the future of the world deserves stories that they can see themselves in. Of the inspiration for his short story “Heaven Is Full of Elephants,” he says it “originally [was] an attempt to grapple with life after death, I decided to narrow my gaze to the event itself, discovering that tragedy and comedy are connected.” He has previously been published in Expressions, DMACC’s literary magazine, and has produced an original play for young performers, which has since been accepted for publication by Pioneer Drama Services.

Ann Sunde Wilson is an avid amateur photographer who captured Kirkwood Sunrise. Ann also enjoys gardening and is a Kirkwood graduate with an Associate of Arts. She currently works in the Mail Services department on Kirkwood’s main campus.

Kevin L. Van Dee is an adult student at Kirkwood who is taking classes to enrich his life. He actually began his college career at Kirkwood in 1983 while farming full-time in Iowa County. He says taking classes at Kirkwood has been fun, challenging, informative, and extremely helpful with his personal and professional growth.

Regarding his short story, “A Boy Named Sioux,” Van Dee says, “I wrote this autobiographical essay for the advanced college writing course at Kirkwood. My professor asked the class to write, ‘essays [that] help readers appreciate the event’s uniqueness or special importance in [our] lives by using vivid images and sensory details.’

I thought back to an important year in my life when a lot of change took place both personally and around the world. I thought these events might create a great deal of tension on several levels that would make for a good essay. I also wanted to write a story about my childhood friend who moved away suddenly, and whom I never saw again. This transitory relationship was one that I later learned was far too common throughout my life, especially as a member of several college environments.”

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Submit to the next issue!

Deadline: Dec.15, 2023 www.kirkwood.edu/cedarvalley