Carthage’s creative arts journal brings to the public the artistic accomplishments of some of the college’s most talented writers, artists, and photographers. The publication of Volume 44— 2014 continues Centriques evolution into a premiere creative arts journal.
Whether we are transitioning from childhood to adulthood, passing from one season to the next, or moving from places of joy to despairâ€” we are constantly entangled with change. Like the subtle change from summer to fall, some of these changes occur gradually; however, some changes are more abrupt such as the loss of a loved one. We do not live in an immovable world.
The work in this yearâ€™s magazine covers a range of emotions, seasons, and times. Although the passage is not always smooth or expected, the changes that occur in these works are something to which everyone can relate.
Michael Schlecht Cover Image
Visual Flora, Fauna, and Cadillac*
Lights Alyssa Nepper 8 Chess Gabrielle Cypher 11 University In Autumn
Beauty in The Cold*
One Eye Open Michael Schlecht 14 The Chicago Cultutal Center Dome Liza Lanum
Long Live the Endless Summer Nights* Amber Ericksmoen 18 Lost In the Horizon
Glinda Lauren Miller 24 Scarecrow Lauren Miller 24 Dorothy Lauren Miller 24 Wicked Witch Lauren Miller 24 Flying Monkey * Lauren Miller 25 Tin Man Lauren Miller 25 Lion Lauren Miller 25 Untitled Dana Ehrmann 29 The Strength Of Our Wings*
Stretching the Boundaries
Fourth of July Holly Muenchow 33 The Wanderer Kerri Hoehn 34 River Tam Portrait* Kerri Hoehn 39 Gorre Island, Senegal, West Africa
God Is In The Details
Written Highways Taylor Kloha 7 Mechanical Play Stephanie Anderson 9 Frost Katelyn Risch 12 Imprinted Katelyn Risch 16 Snow* Bethany Kanter 20 Leaving Neverland* Katelyn Risch 26 De Onsterfelijke Kreeft
Sorry, Iâ€™m Not Sorry
This Is Not Art
Most Species of Whales*
Homefront Storms* Benjamin DeJarnette 38 The Poem Does Not Progess Chronologically Bethany Kanter 40 The Unheard* Shannon Black 45 What Was Lost * April Schultz 46
* denotes winners of the contests. 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Place are awarded to Visual and Written work for both the Fall and the Spring.
2ndPlace, Fall Centrique
Flaura, Fauna, and Cadillac Annie Boland
Highways Taylor Kloha A “road trip”, such a mundane thing— no longer an experience, simply a seeking— and each Odysseus cannot remember, as his Chrysler hurtles southward down this cauterized highway that was once scored into the soil’s skin (now, even the exposed limestone bones begin to smooth over with scar tissue and ragged thistles), why the blind blue vastness domes over cathedrals of cloud comprehensible only in their awesome insignificance. Ignorant of nothing but ignorance, still he is driven on by the dull discomfort of an empty sky, of a half-remembered Hell encased in ice; or perhaps it is only the vacant unease of miles swallowing each new mile.
Alyssa Nepper 8
Mechanical Play Stephanie Anderson The ticking of clocks is happily ticking ticking and tocking and clicking, going click click click like a clock does work, working in seconds like a clock should when ticking and tocking. Clicking the seconds away, waywardly swaying through time, ticking thoroughly, while the world sways through eternity. Tell me the time, ticking and tocking, and telling, touching time by hands twofold. Fold the hands then relay the hourâ€”flip them over, thereâ€™s still time. Still time to instill the temptation of waywardly swaying to pass the time, passing across the hands of the hour. The hour does approach reproachfully, temptingly, tick-tocking, tickety-tockingly, towering, tracking all across the clock, all across the hours. Across time do the hands move, ticking and tocking and tracking and towering till time does stop. Ticking, tocking, across the hands crossing each other through time crossing the hours, crossing and tracking, transforming, transporting across time.
University in Autumn Gabrielle Cypher
Katelyn Risch Frost,
A considerable speck, In white and silver, Glaciating in a boundless moment, Proves bereft. Acquainted with the night, My November guest Thrives under the stars And confirms its devotion To God’s garden and His design. Why do we live with the quandary Of our reluctance— The fear Of all things cold, Of all things devoid— Why do we experience a dream pang inside, Wanting summer, warmth, Asking for roses though They are not to keep? The next time we receive a dust of snow, A sheet of frost, And can’t decide between fire and ice, Perhaps think of it as nothing more than An evening in a sugar orchard—
The oft-repeated dream Of a child, But often fulfilled only
In a poem.
3rd Place, Spring
Beauty In The Cold
The Chicago Cultural Center Dome
One Eye Open
Imprinted .: Thorny :.
thistles and roses tickle and slash, memories of dark and light times. .: Sodden :.
airborne liquid swirls, clings to the tendrils of my hair: Midsummer’s gift. .: Molten :.
swollen and baked by the sweltering sun, blacktop simmers, oozes, cracks. .: Downy :.
sprawled on a plume of feathers, tucked snugly in arms, steeped in Sunday’s glow. .: Pulpy :.
the viscous remains of an orange slip, slither, through feeble fingers. .: Shriveled :.
torn and serrated, what’s left of Summer flutters, red and gold, to earth.
.: Chapped :.
unevenly split, bestow a broken kiss, just like Winter’s coarse lips. .: Jagged :.
fingers slip along the cracks, catch against the edge: a ruby drop wells. .: Parched :.
a desiccated throat, crying without voice for Heaven’s elixir. .: Velvety :.
providing warmth and comfort: a soft theatre seat, or a diamond’s box. .: Tousled :.
the flyaway curls braided through your fingers tie me to you tonight.
3rd Place, Fall 18
Long Live the Endless Summer Nights
Lost In the Horizon Amber Ericksmoen
2nd Place, Spring
Snow Tension makes fists out of her heart. You can see it in the way she’s standing in front of me. Feet spread, a hand holding onto her neck, fingers flexed and holding on to the spine beneath her skin. I pace the room nervously, a leaf in the wind and she just stands there, still as the tile flooring beneath her. She just stands there, her eyes following my movements through the small, bland room. I run into the teal curtain and the rings suspending it from the ceiling clang and scrape and she doesn’t move, just shifts her gaze up to them, and then down again to me. I start babbling about the blandness of the room and the awful teal curtain. I make a joke about it, I think, and her face does not react. No smile, no admonishing frown. I think that I’ve made more inappropriate jokes than that, but at the moment none came to mind. I still babble though, and I think I’m sure she’s listening. I talk about the road conditions on the way here, about the snow and how it looked so pretty the way it clung to the leafless trees, like they were white instead of the dull gray-brown. She does not say that she thought that they were lovely as well, that the snow on the pine reminds her of her home in the north woods, where the snow falls and collects in such a manner as it did through the night, while she was asleep. I have not seen her chest rise and fall with the breaths I think that she must be taking, she takes them so imperceptibly. I cease in the words, but continue to pace, surreptitiously stealing gazes at her, gauging her lack of responses. There is a fluster of activity in the hallway, a gurney being rushed to an elevator. I look past anxiously, but she stands near the doorway facing in, looking ahead to the bed and to the window in the corner of the room. I start talking again, words pouring out of my mouth like water I had forgotten to swallow. I swallow, just to make sure that I do. I say that the snow is falling again, that we should be careful when we go home, that accidents can happen on the roadways, but she does not respond to my cautions. She must be able to see the snow falling outside. I say that the roads will be slippery and that accidents can happen when the salt and the sand haven’t been sprinkled over the asphalt yet and that accidents can happen. I say that winter is deceptive that it looks all still and calm, even as the snow is falling and that things look still and calm. I need her to respond in some miniscule way for me to be able to disregard the way my heart is twisting and writhing in my chest, not pacing but sprinting, hitting the walls of my ribs like a bird in a glass cage, but she does not. Her fingers do not shift upon the spine in her neck. Her eyes still follow me, invisible lines forming intersections, oh no, intersections through the room. I want to stop moving, but cannot; my feet keep moving through the
small hospital room like they’re sliding on ice through intersections. I keep babbling on about the weather and accidents and the way the trees looked this morning, and I realize that I can no longer form words and a groan escapes from the back of my throat, from my spine. She still looks at me. I finally catch my footing as a man in a long white coat quietly opens the door and enters looking still and calm. As he speaks, I look at her. She’s not looking at me; she’s looking out the window. Her heart is a clenched fist in her chest. Her feet are spread. A hand is holding onto her neck, fingers flexed and holding on to the spine beneath her skin. Rain Her shoes finally soak through and the water is dripping in the space behind her ears from the hair. She runs her fingers through it to get it out of her eyes. As she pulled away, a single piece of it clung to her fingers and she examines it quietly as we walk along. She looks so peaceful just now. Not that she ever looks anything other than that. But I guess I’d say she was always still, rather that peaceful. The two are not the same. I told her that, that peaceful and still are not the same and she glances at me, and though her face really doesn’t move, I can see the softness in her eyes. She likes the rain. I remember her telling me once about the smell of rain and the way it makes her spine tingle, like something is coming, without the anxiety of it arriving. I’d laughed at the time. It was exactly the sort of thing she’d say, reverent and unaware of its eloquence. I couldn’t laugh now, just admire the fleeting softness and the way she was dripping in the downpour. Her feet make squelching noises in her shoes and her clothes are hanging heavily from her body. She looks so thin and I suggest that we should grab some dinner while we’re out, but she doesn’t really seem to like the idea. I say that we’ve come all this way and weathered the rain, we deserve an award, but her only response is to finger the end of the sleeves of her sweatshirt, where the ribbing is stretched and the elastic rendered useless from age. It’s a ratty old sweatshirt and I think she should throw it away, but she wears it so often that I don’t say anything to her about it aloud. It wouldn’t be worth it. Not now, when the rain is falling so directly upon us and her eyes are all softness, despite how much she blinks to keep the water out of her eyes. Her hair is in strands and I can see the hair that she pulled still caught between her fingers. I say that I think that the rain will never let up and that I think that I too shall become a puddle if it does not relent and her eyes soften. I think if she were to speak, she would tell me that a puddle would be an excellent state of existence, filling up and then evaporating, to later become a puddle once more. I tell her that to be a
puddle would be an excellent state of existence and I think that she finds the assertion trite, but not so strongly as that, perhaps. Her shoes are soaked through and her feet squelch within them. Her fingers push the hair behind her ears, sopping up the rain that collects and cascades there.
Sun I find her on her back in the grass. I’d mowed earlier in the day, and the parts cut off stick to her skin and I can see the imprints where she has shifted, but the idea of the grass still remains in her skin. I see her from a distance at first and I can’t quite decide to approach her. She is ever so still, looking up into the blue sky. I shield my eyes because the sun is so unobstructed that it’s shooting out shards in every direction from itself and it’s all I can do to keep looking out at her from beneath my hand and the stinging sensation that the sun’s shards is creating. She looks quiet, so very quiet, but there are cars passing on the roadway beyond her grass repose, their motors grinding gently over the asphalt. But they don’t seem to be an imposition; their noises just fade into the dampening of the grass and she’s lying on her back looking up at the sky at its bluest. She lifts up her arm and is tracing shapes into the clouds that aren’t there in the sky. Her hand forms a half-hearted pointer, index finger raised slightly, the rest of her fingers relaxed. I can’t tell which shapes she’s forming, but her hand moves gently across the front of her, an arm’s length above her. I can’t tell what shapes she is forming in the sky, but she knows. The sky is a matte of that singular blue found only today, on this day, of this month, in that single spot in the grass above her. When her arm finally falls from the sky, she shifts it away from her in the grass, arms spread wide, as though she could make snow angels in the grass clippings I left there from earlier in the day. But she doesn’t flap her arms to push the material around. I look down from the top of the hill at her and can see her chest rising and falling with every breath she takes and I wonder how she can stand to be looking so at the sky, when the shards of the sun are so evident on today of all the days, 6 months from the day. I can hear the cars passing on the roadway beyond her, but they are not important. She is looking up at the sky and I think if I were to ask her what is important she would say the blue speck in the same blue above her. But I think if I were to ask her if the speck was important, she would tell me that it is not, nor has it ever been, just a car passing on any given roadway, at any given time of the year. I can see the grass sticking to her arms as she shifts slightly, and there are imprints from the uncut grass set into her skin, redundant among the others. I wish I hadn’t mowed earlier today, but it is not important. She is on her back in the grass and I decide not to approach her.
Stars I wake up to her being next to me. Her eyes might be open, or they might closed, but her breathing is small, it’s subtle, like everything these days. Like everything is receding, a wave going out, pulling sand from under my feet. I thought it would be darker tonight. It was some notion about the passage of time and the effects of emotion and significance on the night. She’s lying next to me and she might be awake and if I had voice tonight, I might tell her about the night on the off chance she’s awake, or with the chance she’s asleep and the notion will find its way to manifest in her dream. Not that I needed to be in her dreams. I was dreaming next to her moments before, and that’s how it’s been, and I think she’d say it’s enough if she were awake and I had the voice to tell her in the night that seems brighter than I had expected. I say brighter, but that doesn’t exactly match with the night. Out the window, I can see the skeleton branches of the maple tree, black against the dark blue sky, speckled with flecks of light. If it were summer, the crickets would be shouting and the fireflies would add to the sky, but it’s late winter and the season is wearing on and I thought we’d be wearing thin, but we’re next to each other in the bed we’ve shared for years. It is so much brighter, less dark than I would have thought, but it’s not snowing like I feel that it should be. I think if I went to the window to look out, there wouldn’t be a cloud in the sky and nothing to obscure the black, except for the skeleton branches of the maple tree and the bits of stars, resisting constellations through strength in numbers. I think I’d tell her that we’ve been resisting constellations if I knew that she was awake, or that I knew that if I spoke, I would have a voice in the lighter night. She would say that we do no such thing, that she is Cassiopeia and I am Orion. I think that I would not argue, out of inability, not that I am wrong. Or that she is wrong. Or that the lighter night is wrong. She is. And I am. And the night is. She breathes. I thought that is would be darker, she says, but I suppose that it is not snowing. Do I even have a voice? I respond. She validates me in turning her head on her pillow, so that it faces me, but I think that she is looking out the window to the tree and to the night. I tell her that tonight she is Cassiopeia and she laughs by way of a stronger breath. I am awake. And she is awake next to me, on a night that is significant because it is not so dark as we had anticipated. Our separation is subtle; it is sand and it is water, and it is receding in the night in the bed we share for years. There is no voice to find, just a skeleton tree and a constellation of night amid the lights.
Flying Monkey Tin Man Lion
Glinda Scarecrow Dorothy Wicked Witch Blown Ink by Lauren Miller 24
2nd Place, Spring
Leaving Neverland 1st Place, Fall
Muffled footsteps pitter-patter Across the pale carpet; Others, heavier and more precise, follow and Pause next to a pink princess bed. Knees join feet and eyes Peer beneath the bed. After thorough investigation, He can reassure her that Nothing, No one, Is lurking there, waiting to harm her. Wide Bambi eyes gaze up at him, Shining with endless trust, And his heart clenches.
As the years pass and She becomes older, this Beloved bedtime routine disappears— As does her collection of Dolls and stuffed animals; Those telltale trinkets of Childhood.
He admits himself confused, And so he ponders for a little while. How could it be, He wonders, That mere years ago, he was Promising his precious little girl— Precious, pure, and innocent— That monsters weren’t real, That she had nothing, No one, To fear? Though he repeated this promise Every day for eight years Of her life, her distress
Never lessened. And now, Now that sheâ€™s learned What people in this world are capable of, Now that she knows That monsters do exist... Now is when her fear dissipates.
Again, a pang in his chest makes itself known, And his breath catches. Frowning to himself, He kneels down and, Before he can stop himself, Peeks quickly but meticulously Under the bed In her new dormitory. Nodding, he rises again. For the moment, Satisfied.
De Onsterfelijke Kreeft
“Three days Three weeks Three months” the immortal lobster.
We had argued about biological immortality. You said no one’s cause of death is old age. You seemed angry but I knew that, like always, you were just being optimistic. Chronology, then. And the passing of time. WE
This particular packet of birth control pills seems to be a map rather than ETH in ill ess tra DYE ol and LEE vo nor JESS trel. Or a fucking magic carpet, or something that sits casually on time’s tongue.
We are looking to sit on airplanes to peek out of windows at those imprisoned in paper iron bars painted in ink instead of gawking inwardly as we do outwardly we crave hearing a crinkle when we roll over to kiss one another on the cheek in bed. Wilting in the sunlight, in the elements, only dreaming of the snug comfort between the characters in a poem.
I try to build distance and culture shock out of words. I often feel trapped by the limits of language and poems are my escape route. These poems are not meant to be read, they are meant to be felt. Like flying in an airplane or waking up in a place where air is thicker or thinner words, when freed from the confines of syntax, can uproot and distort. Suddenly, the self is other. See also, Most Species of Whales, pg. 36 28
1st Place, Spring
The Strength Of Our Wings
Sorry, I’m not Sorry
Don’t lie to me, I’ve got you all figured out: You’re pretty on paper then you open your mouth. And you say what you want because nobody has stopped you before, And I swallow my pride to keep you from walking out that door. Don’t say to me, “you’ve built this up in your head”, I don’t dream up situations that leave me seeing red. And you’re good at what you do, and what you do is lead on. When we start to ask questions all the glitter is gone.
And you’ll be Bawling on the bedroom floor. Don’t give your reasons, you know I don’t believe that you’re Broken from your pity war. Sorry, I’m not sorry that I’m not. You can scream at me with your mighty roar; I’ve learned your whole act and now I’ve evened the score. You can swear up and down that this is all me, Or you look in a mirror and maybe believe.
That you’ll be Bawling on the bedroom floor. Don’t give your reasons, you know I don’t believe that you’re Broken from your pity war Sorry, I’m not sorry that I’m not. I build up walls so you can tear them all down, You wail and sob until my will has drowned. Swearing you’re innocent, you make a mess of me. You’re a sinner in white and no one believes that you’re
Bawling on our bedroom floor. Can’t take back what you never should have given before. You’re a hand full of lies and hope that contradicts. You’re nothing but a promise in the wind, Sorry I’m not sorry that you’re my ex best friend.
Stretching The Boundaries
Fourth Of July
The Wanderer Kerri Hoehn
This Is Not Art
My goods are not shapely. My goods are not to sell. I do not peddle them as the masses do: from blinking screens and behind virtual walls encompassing the massive web. Mine are crafted from sweat, human odor and pheromones in between multitudes of cigarettes and cups of coffee. Outdoors or in Between music tapes and throat-trying screams of pleasure and idealism. I am art, as you are beauty And he is fucking worthless. The pit of my passion, sown and planted Grown and manifested and natural. I am ugly and pure as sin I am ugly and pure as love I am ugly and pure as art. Fuck your tired-and-tomorrow-obsolete-musings of vanity and crude feeling.
Most Species of Whales 3rd Place, Spring
Still. Poems often travel on strong winds Like the one that knocked over a tree in Amsterdam yesterday and killed three. Somehow I am more afraid of Russia. Foolishly looking through materials, unworked, chapter titles, moved by glaciers, for shelter Everywhere we collect raw strands Our pen the false loom. Enough travelling shrinks the world, Stretched skin until seams burst
we only feel magic in our veins when we sip coffee And think of Providence only in the face of turbulence on lonely planes. Meditation and water are wedded forever But so easily a writer sees Narcissus in the ubiquitous Precipitant drops, Other.
Do you really want to create something legendary? Why not keep your hands instead? Like the ones that knocked over a tree in Amsterdam yesterday and killed three. Every blossom of a new idea, Reaped by brilliant minds, Until soil meets only necessary darkness.
In New Delhi in October the air is so polluted you can stare right at the sun. The people are bored. My electric blue kurti and dupatta assure onlookers I am no cannibal The fabric much brighter
Strung out are these words! These colors! These sounds! pray to the god in my bicycle and in my shoes humbled by the smallest flower The more languages we hear the less we know our own. Tattoos on palate twelve numbers which rule so justly, cripplingly, So unjustly Suddenly The meaning of brilliance has changed Into what is sweet The genius of simple intimacy, a bosom friend Logic ceases And with it, self-reliance
The Jeremiad traffic horns, a rude awakening Who is pilot? We cannot blame Jonah! If I were him I would not be so brave to run to the sea So deep The vanitas in creativity. But beauty is melancholy.
Homefront Storms 3rd Place, Fall
I pray. The wind changes from a dull breeze To a steady howl, brazing through the nooks Of the linoleum white evergreen trees. The night falls and cracks open, Unleashing clouded memories of childhood.
The storm took them away. Black, fast, unforgivingly furious. The T.V. man said something about the Bible, About Moses and the Exodus. Mama’s eyes teared up, Daddy was in the kitchen.
Mama was in the barn when the wind Plucked her skin like feathers. She was drying what Daddy calls “Indian Chuck” When a banister broke a swung down Into her, throwing her out of the barn And into the darkness, where she quickly faded from sight. Daddy was thrown into a tree, Trying to run after her. His body broke at the waist, Snapped in half and parted. All I saw were his lips, wide open, as his face Was devoured in the darkness and rain.
I’ve watched it every night for fifteen years, My own face falling into the shadows. The rain taps on the window above my head. When I open my eyes I see Mama and Daddy, Yelling at each other. Mama hits Daddy. I pray.
1st Place, Fall
River Tam Portrait
This Poem Does Not Progress Chronologically
I. You cannot blame him for becoming a voice. Several days protrude from the man’s inquisitive and short face and my right arm is twisted behind my back and I feel as though someone is pulling it incessantly.
A white house is set upon a four acre plot of land which extends to the back of shadows cast over the immaterial line of prose. The point isn’t whether the measures provided in the Code are rigorous, but whether they are needful to prevent the death of half the population.
I’ve never been good at subtlety and my dark purple shirt is turned lighter by the distinction between a poem and a lyric: either intention or semantics. The tile flooring and windows set in fine wooden frames hid the nature of the building they resided in. “I was trying to find the top of the world when I realized I was standing on it,” she says amidst the clouds of Sunrise Point. Think of all the things that have been murdered in the course of your day.
II. At some points in the spaces between the squares, objects which are smoked by those who walk over the squares are wedged in the spaces struck underneath the sentences that resonate with me. I scratch the clay off of my fingertips and it flakes off and falls onto the canvas table. On the opposite end, the speculative and non-textual form even less desirable statements.
Rain collected, first in droplets, then in puddles, in the half-moon depression of the coffee cup lid, darker blacker colors are matched and green and white are shared between the two.
The girl suspends herself across the couch and the blue highlights in her hair are spread across the cushion; the pressure of it is not enough and is dispelled through the cinderblock walls, expressing through emotion without articulation that weaponry is the topic on Monday and a faded word can be either parties or poetics.
III. She says comedy like it’s a bad thing. He says that she is a small planet, not a moon. The umbilical cord wraps up in front of the leg and there is a deadened popping noise as he chews through each nail. Apparently, he’s in my mind this week; I should read him. I wonder if he remembers the time I thought he looked something mysterious when he came out of the sulfurous smoke. As each foot falls on the tiles, her mouth silently forms the shape of a number. The small boy turns around in the car and pulls down his red sunglasses, grinning. A year earlier, she and I had walked on the edge of the sidewalk where the crunchy leaves had been piled. Winter has swept in fast I think and internally correct my grammar. IV. She tells me that I cannot pull off red lipstick and I realize that she has an accumulation of disgust for ordinary life. As the sun slips through a break in the cloud and shines golden over a marshy pond, casting a glow over the reeds on the banks, I’m a day behind, but I’ll catch up. The poem does not progress chronologically. Women have more body fat, and thus float better.
The inside of the house is caught in the darkness before we enter, but with the lights turned on, the orange of the single wall casts itself around the kitchen and dining room and it smells faintly of cooking. See everything upside down through glasses or another form of visual modification; right the image within days. I emerge with sap on my forearms. The poem does not progress chronologically.
V. The focus shifts rapidly; reading and understanding become interchangeable in the abnormality. I outlined my hand and then decorated it to look like a hand. I can feel my skin burning.
To deconstruct stitches made wrongly, a small, pronged object is placed through every other loop of white thread and pulled, and, since a dead man has no substance unless one has actually seen him dead, a hundred million corpses broadcast through history. The bottom left corner is not perfectly square and leaves a half inch of space between the work and the black object that functions as a frame for the entirety of the pervasive cold that worked its way through. Red lipstick comes off, wrinkling like the skin on my lips. The fact that this is coming to me today has no correlation to the day. He reeks of cigarettes.
VI. If her water breaks, the child will drop out immediately.
After, the man blames murder on the menstrual cycle, a joke about cannibalism. We were late for the parade.
An image of her hunched over her motherâ€™s table, a certificate beneath her and she curses softly. The difference is arbitrary, she tells me.
The flattened corpse of a frog lies in the center of the driveway, its skin and bones all flattened and dried by the sun. The tension is too much and it snaps in the middle, exposing the true color of red. The little girl asks her if it is dark in her tummy and says that it is dark in her own tummy; she has been there herself. The difference is affirmed in the separation between the woman and the husband. VII. A heart made of triangles is seen through the bleeding of the ink through the page. The postman leaves it in the snow just outside the door. The imitation leaves are strung from invisible lines that catch themselves as the breeze blows past and through them. More precise lines are formed by a sharper edge. Hasidim is the plural of Hasid, meaning pious. India ink still stains my fingers in fading blotches.
As the nine months wear down, she is expanding in every direction, but I find distance more graspable in terms of hours.
There was the poetry of cornfields and marsh trees poking a tiny mark into my skin, bleeding for a surprising amount of time.
Goree Island, Senegal, West Africa
2nd Place, Fall
The noise will play again in a moment. Listen and look down. See that swollen, dark planet in the center of a destitute child ravaged by yellow worms who feed more than he. He needs! Look at him! See his bonesthinly covered and countable. Look at me! My guilt stains like sitting tar, thick and disgusting in my throat and chest and pants pockets. But I don’t know how to help. God, surely I’ve done my best. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my Starbucks.
And the noise plays again and again, unheard and the shrouds are brought out.
What Was Lost 1sr Place, Spring
Bursts of flame erupt sporadically from within the wastebasket. Though heated with dark intensity, the tin remains cool and reflective. Smoke wafts upward, flattening into stormy tufts against the ceiling. Stray embers leap about the room, staining the carpeted floor and plush furniture a rusty yellow. The bed protrudes from the far wall, facing the door. It has been made; corners are neatly tucked at a ninety degree angle. A musty smell of neglect permeates the comforter and the flowery pattern lacing the spread is faded and bleak in the dim light. The door awkwardly creaks open and closed, casting a strange shadow upon the already unnatural appearance of the room. Dust coats the shades drawn over the window adjacent to the basket. All that can be seen of the vibrant moon is the single finger of light creeping through a bent crevice. The intruder shines upon a pearl necklace thrust carelessly to the floor. The beads glow with a curious intensity. The necklace lies among a litter of disheveled books layered on the floor in a condition to be scoffed at. Their bindings are bent, pages ripped and covers torn. The imprints of muddy shoes soil many. A large cluster of the prints surround the furiously burning wastebasket. One glowing ember flies onto an opened page, searing the paper, replacing the word â€œlostâ€? with a jagged hole.
God Is In the Details
Staff Sara Wuchte Executive Editor Anesce Dremen Literary Editor Alex Ash Assistant Editor Gina Sipka Art Editor Jenna Dahlke Merrisa Stevens Andria Bowlsby Rebecca Fields Emily Brownell Kaitlyn Brahm Briyanna Sanders
Centrique is produced entirely by students of Carthage College. Its contents are copyright of the respected artists, authors, and photographers. Volume 44, 1014 is a limited edition of 250 copies. Further copies may be obtained by contacting Centrique, Carthage College, 2001 Alford Park Drive, Kenosha, WI 53140. Text is rendered in Cambria Math, Palatino, and Garamond in various point sizes. Printed by Badger Press. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system or transmitted in any form, by means electronic or otherwise without express written permission from Centrique. Copyright on individual works reverts to artist upon publication.
Carthage’s creative arts journal brings to the public the artistic accomplishments of some of the college’s most talented writers, artists,...