Central Review Fall 2017

FALL 2017

central review

fall edition | two thousand seventeen

Central Review The Central Review is a literary journal publishing prose, poetry, and visual art by Central Michigan University undergraduate and graduate students. It is edited and produced during the fall and spring semesters under the auspices of the Student Publications Department.

All submissions are considered in our student writing contest.

Three pieces are awarded top honors upon each publication: one piece of prose, one work of poetry, and one art piece.

Prose Winner: Mark Elgersma for “A Meaningless Bouquet of Flowers” Poetry Winner: Emily Stieg for “Desert Architecture” Art Winner: Kelley Woodall for “Self United, Self Divided” The Central Review editing staff made all final decisions.

Send all correspondence to: Central Review, Editor Student Publications, Moore Hall 436 Central Michigan University Mount Pleasant, MI 48858 Copyright © 2017 The Central Review

by Student Publications First publication rights reserved Rights revert to author upon publication

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Editor’s Note I am wilting into my last winter here at Central Michigan University, and I think it is time to appreciate the opportunities I have had here as a writer. When I arrived, I had no idea how deeply I’d root into this university. I wormed my way into every writing group on campus at one time or another: The Writing Circle, Poet’s Collective, Word Hammer, and Fiction Collective. I got a job at the Writing Center where I meet the writers of this university every day at every level, in every discipline to talk about their work. At any given time, there’s a 25 percent chance I’m in one of the local coffee shops reading, writing, or sharing work with friends and fellow artists. I have found a truly wonderful community of writers, readers, and artists here at CMU who have enabled me to grow.

This publication is about highlighting the incredible work we do here in this community. It is our harvest festival. The night of our release party is a dance under the moon on our reaped fields. It’s a chance for our artists, whether they study their craft while they are here or they are working away at a different degree, to be celebrated. The pieces of art that we share in these semesterly publications are a culmination of our experiences, relationships, collaborations, and education. We, as a community, are proud to share what we have created in this Fall 2017 edition of Central Review. We hope you are proud of us as well.

I would first like to thank our contributors for letting us bring your art into the public eye. Thank you for trusting us with your work. Thank you to everyone who submitted, whether you are published in this edition or not. We truly hope you will continue creating and send us more of your art in the semesters to come. Thank you to the wonderful staff at CM Life for providing us with the resources we need for publicity and publication, especially Dave Clark, our staff advisor. Thank you to my talented and dedicated editors: Ev Wittenbach, Liz O’Donnell, Madison Rodriguez, Shane Guenin, and Jordan Price. I cannot tell you how much they have done for this publication. Thank you to Annah Horak, our graphic design editor, who made this journal look so beautiful. Lastly, thank you to our readers. We hope these pieces move you as much as they moved us.

Delany Lemke

Editor-in-Chief, Central Review

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Table of Contents Bilingual / Colleen Hawke

Page 4

Self United, Self Divided / Kelley Woodall

Page 6

Mad Dogs / Hannah TerMarsch

Page 7

A Meaningless Bouquet of Flowers / Mark Elgersma

Page 8

Let Them Eat Cake / Kelley Woodall

Page 16

Gabriel / Rhiar Kanouse

Page 17

The R Word / Greta Ginter

Page 18

6-78 / William Schaber

Page 20

Call Waiting / Kira Cleer

Page 22

The Mystery of the Bicycle Built for Two / Mattie Barber

Page 24

Jack / Kira Cleer

Page 28

Petroleum / Rhiar Kanouse

Page 30

Manic/ / Glen Parker

Page 32

694 Aurelius Road / Mindy McGhan

Page 34

Deer / Christine Sawicki

Page 36

October 2011 - October 2017 / Jef Fisher

Page 38

Desert Architecture / Emily Stieg

Page 39

Ice / Emily Stieg

Page 41

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Bilingual Colleen Hawke

My parents were not proud when I confessed I would no longer speak with my tongue and that my hands would grow pink, feathery blossoms from vines in my neighbor’s garden.

I loathed our family’s garden since the night when my father took pruning shears to the vines— hacking and whacking until they were no longer part of the ground, no longer to grow effortlessly the way the tongue glides across the hard palate, the tongue shaping air and sound the way a garden is wrought by the weeds that grow within. My reticence began when my father berated my brother a bit longer than the time he snapped the vines around my brain, the same vines that innervate the tongue.

Lodged into survival mode, my body sustaining longer than a late August garden lungs heaving like a gasping, flopping fish when I beheld them—blossoms growing across the picket fence, growing deep and striking with sturdy vines that do not snap when

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the weight of a razor tongue purges the garden.

I could not wait any longer, not a second longer, before I, too, grew petals from my hands, my body a garden once more—a dwelling of vines releasing the tongue to spit caution to the gales. When I consume carbon dioxide I no longer inhale my father’s voice. When I grow I do not allow vines to bind my tongue.

Colleen Hawke is a junior studying Communication Disorders and American Sign Language while pursuing a certificate in CreativeWriting. After graduation she hopes to either enter graduate school for speech language pathology, enter an interpreter training program, or become a hermit in the woods. In the meantime she is looking to hire a professional decision maker.

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Self United, Self Divided KelleyWoodall

Kelley Woodall is a senior studying art and psychology at CMU. She’s a girl who has a passion for Marie Antoinette, Shrek, and anime.

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Mad Dogs Hannah TerMarsch

The dice rolled out of the cup toward him like mad dogs, dogs he’d beaten and abused, starved until their stomachs were so empty you could see their ribs protruding like knives.

When his pockets are empty, he relies on his mad dogs.

When they perform tricks just right, his body overflows with pride.

Enough to fill his pockets.

He watched them run toward him, despair and regret in his eyes.

They did not perform the tricks he wanted, so off came his belt.

And his shoes.

And his watch.

And his new silk shirt.

Hannah TerMarsch is a senior biology major pursuing research in animal behavior as well as a creative writing certificate. She grew up in Troy, Michigan, and plans on traveling after graduating this coming May. She has always had a love for poetry and had a poem published in a children’s poetry book when she was 10 years old. She will be attending graduate school for her PhD next fall.

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A Meaningless Bouquet of Flowers Mark Elgersma

The town of Celeryville, Ohio, in the summer of 1952, was a captivating sight. Preparing for the upcoming election, the aggressively conservative citizens scrambled to organize pro-GOP marches, protests, and rallies. An “I LIKE IKE” sign was posted in every yard, and each lapel bore a political pin. Stan Harpens, the local toilet and plumbing manufacturer, went so far as to paint the side of his building bright red, and carefully pen “EISENHOWER FOR PRESEDENT” in letters five feet tall. His spelling error on the word “President” was first noticed a few days after its initial writing, but the customers that did notice were polite enough to cock their heads and say, “Well, you sure get the message one way or another.”

And they were right. Although technically incorrect, not one person was wanting for meaning. Everyone who saw it immediately understood it, save those who could not read, such as children and dogs, neither of which commonly shopped for toilets.

---------------------Hello hello, hope you all are feeling good today, on this fine day. It’s a rather nice day, isn’t it? I haven’t been outside yet, but it’s been fine in here. Just fine. Maybe I’ll go outside today and tell you all about it. That’d be lovely. Hope you all are feeling just fine.

---------------------Nestled between two inconspicuous houses in the suburbs of Celeryville was WFFM-13, an impromptu radio station opened by Scotty Timmons in his basement.

Scotty Timmons was a man who friends referred to as slim and women referred to as lanky, though neither word was strong enough for Scotty’s particular brand of skinniness. He had a mop of dull brown hair and a pair of glasses that eternally sat tilted towards his left. With a stature such as his, Scotty was expected to be quiet and refined. He worked his damnedest however, to assure that this wasn’t the case. At dinner parties, cookouts, and PTA meetings, Scotty constantly talked about his station. Often playfully referring to WFFM as a “Hamateur” operation, he would garner a small amount of polite laughs. He would then explain the term, a combination between “Ham” and “Amateur,” which, both meaning the same thing in

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the realm of radio, meant that he was an amateur to amateurs.

Having admitted this, Scotty thought that it portrayed a level of self-awareness that other radio operators lacked. After telling his audience this as well, he would flash a goofy smile and hand anyone listening a custom business card, and tell them that he had purchased it from a local business card seller and distributer named Norm Handel, who happened to be a rather good friend of his. He would then hand them Norm’s business card as well and wish them a delightful night.

This oddly enough offended many people, who, in a town with few business cards, were unaccustomed to receiving one, let alone two.

The discussion would usually continue to how bizarre of a man Scotty Timmons was, especially at the PTA meetings, as he was neither a parent nor a teacher.

But some defended Scotty, saying he was brave for being so frank and forward about what was on his mind. Not caring for what others thought was a rare trait, and it ought to be rewarded, some said. “He’s raw. I like that.”

These people would go home at night, and they would find WFFM-13 on their dial.

They then quickly stopped listening.

---------------------I went to the store, and do you know how expensive milk is in this day and age?

I don’t know if these cows are made of—made of gold or something, but my, it’s expensive. Milk shouldn’t be that expensive. It’s the source of, uh, life, and cows are the teat of nature. Milk should be for the every man. Not a rich man’s commodity. I hope your day has been just fine.

---------------------Scotty found life to be rather nice, and had few frustrations. Not to say he had none of course. He didn’t like finding peas in his soup, he didn’t enjoy mainstream radio, and he hated “I Love Lucy.” But most of all, he loathed the Christian Reformed church across the street. He wasn’t anti-Christian, anti-Reformed, or anti-church, he just hated the bell tower.

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Years ago, the church had been one of the first in the nation to install an automated Ring-matic bell system, a point of pride for the small town.

With no need for a bell-ringer, it showed the self sufficiency that a good American business and/or church should. However, the early bell systems’ timers didn’t work very well. That is to say, they didn’t work at all. The bell would bong and bing by its own accord, uncaring of the clock connected to it. (Several centuries later, scientists would find this to be the only truly random system produced in the 20th century, a stroke of serendipity that was forever left untapped.) The church never reported the fluke however, as the townspeople began to believe that the ringing of the bell was God communicating with the town. Of course, nobody actually believed it, as they would all laugh after it was mentioned, but afterwards, the room would grow uncomfortably silent until the conversation shifted to the local riffraff. Such as the damned homeless and Karen VaanMoren’s son.

But to be honest, Scotty could care less about the little VaanMoren, and he could care even less whether it was Lady Luck, God, or Lucifer himself ringing that bell. Without an impossible amount of soundproofing equipment in his basement, the bell was a nuisance to say the least.

When it rang, it could be heard quite clearly over his station, and that was a breach in quality. Not to say that there was much quality to breach, as WFFM-13 was the poorest quality one could think of.

As a sidenote, it should be recognized that although Scotty referred to his station as “Ham” and “Amateur,” terms that he had found in a 1943 encyclopedia, it was truly not so. You see, these were supposed to be terms that referred to an individual broadcast from an unofficial station.

Scotty’s station, although exceedingly terrible, was technically professional.

Scotty was accidentally extremely wealthy due to a Kellogg’s Cereal sweepstakes, and in his attempt to liven up his existence, he had bought an entire failing radio station. He had the entirety of the equipment, cables, antennae, and such brought in and hooked up to his house, an old brick cube with spires and rooms added on in uncomfortable corners. It resembled a box that had forgotten what it meant to keep its shape. When asked why he didn’t simply purchase a new house to hold the equipment, or ten new houses, he simply shrugged and said “I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

Most people found this not to show character but more a lack of imagination.

These people were mistaken however, as they would surely find, had

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they ever accidentally tuned in to WFFM-13. It played local artists and classical music, primarily Scotty himself singing quite awful songs that he wrote on the spot, and recordings of a Czech Folk-String-Flute-Orchestra. It also played news segments read from a newspaper from the next town, and often had talk opinion segments which were simply a rather intoxicated Scotty ranting about the price of milk over classical music.

---------------------Hello, my love, I hope you are well. I hope you are good, oh I can tell. If only I could be well-good like you, what a pair we’d make, oh yes we two.

I’m sorry, I can’t play guitar. If you folks would like, I can hire a guitar-person to teach me or something. Just call. Call if you’d like that, or even if you wouldn’t.

You all have a phonebook, just look me up. Hope you’re feeling just fine. It’s Scotty Timmons, by the way.

---------------------Walking to Char’s, the singular local restaurant, Scotty saw the VanZuests and some of the Weers in passing. With a polite wave and a “Why hi, how’ve you been?” they all acknowledged the others and went on their merry way. That was an extremely common occurrence in Celeryville, Scotty thought. Just letting people know that you know they exist and moving on.

Nothing more.

He went through the same ritual as he saw the Elgmans, Swanstras, and Betts. Add a “Good, and you?” here, a “How’s your mother?” there, and repeat. The cycle was unexpectedly broken as Don Hansen, a larger man with wet eyes, approached Scotty, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Don said something, and Scotty nodded.

Scotty however was unsure what he had just nodded to. At that moment, he had been very focused on the uncomfortably sweaty and heavy hand that was fixed to his shoulder.

“Fan-tas-tic, Scott. Just, fan-tas-tic. We were hoping you’d see it our way.” Don smiled.

“Oh,” said Scotty, wondering what he had just agreed to. “So, I’m sorry, can you repeat exactly what you just said?”

This time, Scotty pulled his mind off of the damp hand on his shoulder as Don said, “Erm, sure. ‘Fan-tas-tic, Sc-’” “No, I’m sorry. Right before. What you just asked me.”

With a sigh, Don said “Look, I’ll just give ya a verse Saturday, and all you gotta do is read it Sunday mornin’. Alright?”

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“Oh,” said Scotty. “Okay.”

---------------------I went to see the world’s biggest telephone last summer, just to see it. I’m not gonna lie, it was pretty big, but it’s not hard to imagine bigger. Tops, it was 5 or 6 feet tall. Think of a phone the size of a skyscraper, or of the Earth! Now that’s something I’d pay a dollar plus tax to see.

---------------------“Hello?” Scotty said, picking up his phone.

Scotty looked around his kitchen. It was a very average kitchen, with very few distinguishing features, save a very expensive and oversized radio on the counter, a brightly colored cuckoo clock on the wall, and a large wooden toad on the dining room table. Scotty had no pictures or photographs of any kind, instead opting for trinkets and keepsakes to put on his various desks, surfaces, and tables around the house. Even his soundboard in the basement had memories littered on and around it, often getting in the way of quality production. One time, a baseball signed by Dick Alban put the station out of commission for twenty minutes.

His survey of his own house was interrupted, however, as he got a response.

“Hi Scotty. It’s Tom. Pastor John. From First Reformed.”

Scotty rubbed his brow, immediately feeling a headache settling in the front of his head. “Hello, John.” He said. “Is everything fine?”

“Pastor John, and yes, yes it is, Scotty,” Pastor John said.

“Alright, well, glad we sorted that out. I’ll talk to you next time.”

“Scotty-” Scotty promptly hung up, feeling a brief moment of guilt, followed by a much, much longer moment of relief.

---------------------I’m sorry, but I truly don’t have a lot for you today, Celeryville. I have no need to tell you how expensive milk is, and I can’t pick up a tune right now. But have a good one regardless. Well, remember to eat your vegetables. And have a great night.

---------------------The truck sputtered as it ran, but it ran nonetheless. In fact, it sputtered, coughed, choked, and gagged, but it ran nonetheless.

Scotty felt the vibrations travelling from the wheel to his elbows to his jaw, where it sounded out in a chattering of his teeth. He was unused to driving in general, let alone driving a vehicle with so much shuddering.

The truck was Scotty’s neighbor’s, and in that moment, Scotty decided that

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he was quite glad it was not his. In fact, the only vehicle Scotty regularly drove was a small riding lawn mower.

With his relatively newfound wealth, Scotty was expected to get a brand new house and car, quit his job, and divorce his wife. The primary problems with that, from what Scotty could tell, was that he had no wife to divorce, had no job to quit, and already had most of what he wanted. Besides house payments, the radio station, and a few Hershey bars, Scotty still had the vast majority of his money, and he hoped to keep it that way. And considering that this was the first time he needed to borrow an acquaintance’s truck in over a year, Scotty was quite happy with how he was doing without a brand new truck or car.

But in fact, Scotty had decided to make a rather large purchase today, which is what the truck was to be used for. Scotty decided to get a coffin for himself on that fine day. He wasn’t expecting or hoping to need it anytime soon, but as they had said in the Boy Scouts, “Always be prepared.” Scotty had never been in the Boy Scouts, but he had heard that saying before, he was sure. From a Boy Scout, or someone associated with the program. And more than just campground common sense, he had been thinking a lot about his funeral.

If a meteorite were to come tumbling down, shooting it’s way through Scotty’s head this very second, turning it into a pulp of red blood and grey matter, what would his funeral look like? Would there be a Priest or a Pastor? A string of eulogies or a lone dirge? Carnations or lilies? Whatever the case, he knew two things: that he would be quite dead at the time, and that he would be in a handmade mahogany coffin with fine brass detailing.

With these two certainties in mind, Scotty pulled up to the local funeral home, which happened to leave him a bit unnerved since he had heard of how the practicing mortician, Mr. Robert Happis, spent his weekends. Each Friday, Mr. Happis would travel just around 45 minutes northwards to participate in Euchre tournaments in Sandusky. It wasn’t unsettling or upsetting, but Scotty thought that it was rather hard to think of the place as just somebody’s job, as opposed to a way of life. Scotty thought it made the funeral seem less romantic, less significant. Regardless, he went inside. It smelled of free coffee and new carpet. Scotty’s eyes were adjusting to the lack of sun, and he blinked in a slow and deliberate way.

“Welcome, Scotty,” a voice whistled out from the yet dim room. “Hope you’re good today?”

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That would be Mr. Happis. The outline of the Euchre player finally took shape, revealing a bouncy toupee, a deep black suit, and the most overly groomed beard in mid-northern Ohio. Beneath the most groomed beard in mid-northern Ohio was Mr. Happis’ chipped tooth. It was a point of self-consciousness for Mr. Happis, but he found that the more bouncy his toupee, the deeper black his suit, and the better groomed his beard was, the less attention fell upon his bad tooth. What he could not hide however was the whistle that came with the missing fragment, or the embarrassed flush that would paint itself upon his face when it was brought up.

“Oh, just fine, Mr. Happis. Just looking for a box today.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Mr. Happis said. “What kind were you looking for?”

“I was thinking mahogany, I guess,” Scotty said.

“Ah, yes, yes, yes, wonderful color, simply wonderful. Have you thought on funeral and flower packages as well?” Mr. Happis asked while shuffling towards some displays.

“Erm,” Scotty sighed. “I can’t say I’ve… Erm... What does it entail exactly?”

“Well, when you buy a coffin, we can do a kind of package deal here.

We include the price of flowers, service, and all the bells and whistles,” Mr. Happis said. His voice broke with the word “whistles”, having gotten too close to home for his liking. After a beat of embarrassment, he waved an arm over a display of flowers and detachable crosses, only emphasizing the already uncomfortable silence.

“Well—,” Scotty started.

“Here,” Mr. Happis said, giving another wave, “which kind of flower arrangement would you like?”

“I like azaleas quite a bit,” Scotty said. “Do you have any with those?’

Mr. Happis grimaced. “Oof, those really generally represent daintiness, and, if you’ll excuse me,” Mr. Happis said, leaning in, “womanhood.”

“Well, perhaps a bouquet of buttercups then,” Scotty said.

“That’d be a sight,” Mr. Happis chuckled, “an adult with buttercups. Look, Scotty, buttercups are really just for real young kids. And that’s about all.”

“Is there any flower that doesn’t mean anything?” Scotty sighed.

“I’m afraid not, they’re all part of flower talk,” Mr. Happis said, smiling throughout. “You want a bouquet? You’re saying something. I mean, I’m no florist, but I at least know a little bit. Every flower you can choose is trying to get something across.”

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“I just want flowers.” Scotty sighed.

“Well, what do you want to say with them?” Mr. Happis asked. He was beginning to get a bit red, Scotty thought.

“What I want to say? I guess I want to say ‘here’s a meaningless bouquet of flowers. It has no meaning. I hope you think they’re pretty.’”

---------------------Everyone’s looking for something, a message given at the end. But not everything means something, and I think that’s alright. I, um, don’t mean to offend anyone or anything. It’s just what I think. Anyways. Hope you all are fine. Oh, and, if anyone could ask Mr. Happis to call me from the funeral home, that’d be wonderful. Thanks. I chose a bouquet set.

----------------------

Mark Elgersma is a sophomore. He’s a Broadcasting and Cinematic Arts major. He’s also a worrier, a film lover, a late riser, and a bad driver.

Later in life, Mark is looking to direct and write his own films, and is beginning production on his own short film in second semester. In his freetime, Mark loves to collect and watch movies, read books, and find creative alternatives to doing his homework until the last second.

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Let Them Eat Cake

KelleyWoodall

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Gabriel

Rhiar Kanouse Gabriel is born with too much electricity in his bones. At the Fourth of July, his infant eyes turn white, and my mother begins to scream. I am left cradled in stranger’s arms when they crawl into the white box on wheels with the shining lights. Alone the stranger and I stay out on the baseball field until the stars come out and are kissed by explosions. When the ashes fall, I am nervous I will catch on fire, too.

We grow up, and Gabriel doesn’t shake anymore, but his nose still bleeds, and all the tissues in my bathroom are stained red. I string them across the mirrored medicine cabinet like telephone wire, holding séances under their cloud of metallic stench. The ghosts tell me stories about love, and I practice kissing my reflection.

When Gabriel is sixteen, hemorrhages blossom on the neck of the pony tail girl in the back row of the movie theater. He is scared of what the body can do. He squeezes her hand hard on the drive home. She coaxes his febrile heart, pulls promises out of arteries he didn’t even know he had. The world makes more sense in black and white. He unlocks our parents’ door, but I see them stand together under the front porch light. There is too much red behind my eyelids when I am kissing you, he says. He shuts the door. Goodnight.

Rhiar [RY-er] Kanouse is a made-up name for a figment of your imagination. If you love her too much, she’ll disappear. Maybe you’ll see her again in a gas station.

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The R-Word Greta Ginter

It’s worse than fuck, you’ve been told.

And you have to handle it with caution; it’s dangerous, that word, like a landmine ready to blow up a man’s reputation.

It’s saved for strangers in ski masks who prey on girls in dark alleys and if her neckline dips no lower than her collarbone, and her skirt rises no higher than her knees, maybe then, it’s spoken freely.

It rests easy on the lips of the virtuous and the sober when everything is black and white and they can stamp it in loud red ink across his mugshot.

Ex-boyfriends are immune; it’s nothing you haven’t done before, and too much wine is just a cry for attention.

They will say you never got over him.

They will say it was because he is not over you.

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They will correct you when you use it, that razor-toothed murderess of a word, they will tell you he’s a douchebag and perhaps even a creep, but for fuck’s sake, he isn’t that.

And so you retract it like cat’s claws and you save it away for the day you are stone-cold sober and you say “no” at least three times and your shorts are not too short and your makeup is not too done and you did not agree to be friends with your ex and you are a born-again virgin who has made peace with a god that will not protect you and you wait.

Greta Ginter is in her fifth year at CMU and prays that it will be her last. She uses her own crippling depression as the inspiration for her work because writing is the only therapy her insurance covers.

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6-78

Billy Schaber We talk in short sentences Like Hemingway but without All the subtext and the only Meaning I find is in that way You stare stage left above My shoulder with your relatively Light brown eyes fixated on Some point in the distance. {I’ve thought of girls in the backseat of cars w/ the wind against my face and the music loud enough to quell conversation} I don’t like your mood, and the Content of yr words, “People talk too much,” Is just another way to say That you read books and Also that you’re romantically Disillusioned from the society That bore you as if your shitty Aphorisms, Roy Orbison Vinyls, Cool haircuts, are helping.

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Billy Schaber is a senior. He’s studying political science He’s also getting a creative writing certificate. He works at the Clarke Historical Library. He’s from Grosse Pointe Woods, Michigan. He likes reading books and listening to music.

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Call Waiting Kira Cleer

Kira Cleer is a freshman at Central Michigan University who is pursuing a degree in photojournalism. She has been doing photography for almost two years and enjoys doing portraits and trying out new photo things. Kira shoots with a Canon 70D, a Minolta SRT 202, and a Fujifilm Instax Mini 7.

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The Mystery of the Bicycle Built for Two

Mattie Barber

As she’s walking home from work, Alice sees a man on a bicycle ride past her. A seemingly normal enough occurrence, initially. She does a double take only to find that the man is atop a bicycle built for two, but he is alone. Where one would think another person would be, there is no one.

It strikes her as very odd, and also very sad. Alice looks over to the empty sidewalk next to her, enough room for someone to be standing and walking with her, and ultimately decides maybe she should be less judgmental. The man pedals away from her, his direction and destination unclear. Alice tries to push it out of her mind, thinking It’s not that serious anyways, just a little out of the ordinary. The sort of thing that takes you aback for a second or two. No need to fixate on it. But fixate on it, she does.

Alice takes off her scuffed Vans, and leaves them by the door. She notices that there is another pair of scuffed Vans by the door— not hers, or her roommate’s, which leads her to the conclusion that a boy is somewhere in her apartment. As an out and proud lesbian, Alice has no patience for boys, or men for that matter. Especially not in her apartment. Nor does she care to still be thinking about why on Earth a wrinkly old man would be wandering around the downtown area, leisurely riding on a bicycle built for two. It just didn’t make sense to her.

Her roommate’s door is shut, and there is light shining from underneath the closed door, so the owner of the shoes, and the host to the owner of the shoes, must be in there. Safe for now, she walks to the kitchen.

Food. Maybe that’s all she needs to stop fixating on the bicycle-riding man.

Unfortunately, the cupboard situation is… dire. The current contents of her cabinets are: one piece of moldy sourdough bread, a box of cake mix (but without the necessary ingredients to make said cake), and some chia seeds (from when she tried to be one of those people who enjoyed drinking smoothies for breakfast, but ultimately decided she was more of a classic cereal kind of girl). Dire, indeed. Exasperated, she makes her way to the kitchen table, and sits down.

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Why was he on a bicycle for two, when it was just him? It didn’t make sense. Alice began to feel sillier and sillier for becoming so fixated on such a trivial occurrence, but it was weird. She decides to get a second opinion, so she bites the bullet and asks her roommate and her roommate’s guest about it. She walks to the door, pressing her ear against the wood. It seems quiet enough, but there still could be suspicious activity happening, so she knocks gingerly, half hoping there’s no response.

“Alice, what?” Her roommate answers the door, only opening it a crack, so just a sliver of her face is present. It’s apparent she’s naked, although Alice is still undeterred.

“So, I was walking home from work and I saw a–” “Alice! I have company over…”

“Yeah, I know! He can help too!” Alice says as she pushes through her roommate to enter the room.

To her horror, it is not just some stranger with Vans who is sprawled out on her roommate’s bed, but it’s her older brother, Todd. As if today isn’t weird enough already. Her brother scrambles to put his clothes on, as Alice shuts her eyes, not wanting to see any more of her roommate’s or her brother’s naked body, but feeling glued to the floor all the same. She did come in to ask a question, after all…

“Todd, I’m going to pretend I didn’t see you naked. I’m going to really pretend I didn’t see that. But, anyway, I was walking home from work, and I saw—” “Alice, get out! Of my room, and for that matter, the apartment! I’ll text you when you can come back.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Alice says as she’s pushed out of the room.

Perhaps it’s for the best that she’s fixated on the bicycle man, because otherwise she would have to think about the fact she had just seen her brother and her roommate naked, and not only naked, but naked together.

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But now she is kicked out of the apartment, and still with no answers. Her stomach begins to make itself known, and grumbles loudly. Alice supposes it would be a good use of her time, preoccupied mentally or not, to go to the grocery store and pick up some food. The essentials, anyhow. She grabs her keys, and heads outside. She tells herself that she’s admiring the beauty of the day, but really she’s trying to see if there’s a certain bicycle-riding man making his way through her neighborhood. No such luck.

Alice wonders if she should even be driving, this whole thing has her so worked up. She’s been single too long, she decides. Maybe that’s why she’s fixated on this. Maybe we’re all just men on bicycles built for two, alone, she muses. When she arrives at the grocery store with no concrete recollection of the drive over, she comes to the conclusion that she really shouldn’t have been driving. The thought of grocery shopping is draining, but she can’t spend her whole day daydreaming about men on bicycles— something she never thought she would be doing.

The inside of the grocery store looks foreign to her, and Alice realizes that it may have been longer than she thought since she had last come here. Did they remodel? She can’t find the cereal aisle, but she also refuses to ask anyone working there for assistance, so she continues to look. The aisles all look the same, and she’s not overly invested in this trip to begin with, making this excursion all the more difficult. She manages to find the breakfast aisle, and she begins to load up her cart with cereal. Five boxes, to be exact. Cinnamon Toast Crunch, to be even more exact. She manages to find the aisle that contains the almond milk, and picks up some of that as well. Her deep hatred of grocery shopping, and her less than deep pockets make this a short trip, and she finds herself at the counter already, having her purchases rung up.

“Paper or plastic, ma’am?” the bored cashier asks her.

“Uh, neither. I’ll just carry it,” Alice absentmindedly says.

“Are you sure? It’s kind of a lot.”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Alice says, as she begins to grab her items off of the conveyer belt, pretending not to see the if-you-drop-this-on-the-floor-and-Ihave-to-clean-it-up look on the cashier’s face.

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Alice shouldn’t have forgone the bag, but she isn’t about to embarrass herself, so with the strength of a mother whose child was stuck under a car, Alice begins the walk to her car. As she begins to load up the car, she wonders if she should grab a handful of cereal before driving home, as she’s still feeling quite shaky, but ultimately decides against it. She still hasn’t received a text from her roommate giving her the okay to come back, but she has almond milk that needs to be put in the refrigerator, so she may head home anyway. An oversight on her part, but it’s her apartment, too.

She buckles up her seatbelt, and makes her way out of the parking lot.

The traffic is surprisingly busy, and Alice finds herself getting more anxious and wound up – not just about the traffic, but also that Godforsaken bicycle man. She takes her phone out of her purse to send a quick text to her roommate as she makes her way to her neighborhood. She fumbles with her passcode, and begins to compose her text when she hears a thump.

She throws her phone down, and puts both hands on the wheel, and a heavy foot on the brakes. There are no other cars coming, and this was a quiet neighborhood, so she parks her car to survey the damage. Had she hit someone? She gets out of the car and sees, to her complete and utter terror that she had hit someone.

“Oh my God, oh my God, are you okay? I’ll call 911, are you okay?”

She leans down to see a man. A man who is not breathing. A man who is not alive. Not knowing what to do, she leans down next to him, eyes frantically scanning him, looking for a sign, any sign, of life. None to be found, she scans the area, some sort of evolutionary need to know one’s surroundings when faced with an emergency. Her eyes dart around to see something that had been flung across the street upon impact with her car.

In a shocked daze, she walks over to it. In the grass, mangled and broken beyond repair, is a bicycle built for two. A bicycle built for two, with not a one person riding atop of it.

Mattie Barber is an extroverted introvert who loves angsty poetry, hiking, and breakfast food.

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Jack

Kira Cleer

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Petroleum

Rhiar Kanouse

My throat is lined with petroleum.

When I kiss strangers in rising sun, Rainbow puddles blossom On front porch cement.

Boys push their sisters into The spill, make them dance In oil slick patterns. The smell of me Clings, and children’s soles Invite me inside for dinner.

I sink into the carpet.

Husbands inhale me deeply, Their faces masked by newspaper print, And wives scrub at the flooring.

Their painted claws can’t seem to get me out.

The neighbors whisper about the air Between my thighs. Their mouths Hang open when my sequins fall Like droppings, like snakeskin dress.

They pretend to not remember How my pelvic bones tore their sheets.

Ignoring the glittered grime, They build their doorways narrower.

Their daughters are not allowed to splash In parking lot pools. Shoes come off Outside the lip of the doorstep.

They do not understand me.

And my secret is, I do not need them to.

Alone, I collect gasoline girls By highway fruit stands, Their voices sing perverse Mother Goose,

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Fifty cents for a peach, A dime piece for a pinch.

I show them my tricks, and They ask if the rumors are true.

I tell them surviving is also an art.

With hands like our grandmothers, We paint our faces in broken mirrors, And our mouths ache for new love.

Dazzled, we dance around the cul-de-sac And invite the boys out to play With our fire.

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Manic/

Glen Parker

You once read a poem to me Beneath the Golden Gate Bridge That had something to do with the bridge, And the park we were in, And how much it meant to whoever wrote it And to you, with me, there, Listening to that poem I can’t remember After coming back from the Children’s Museum because We were in the city and we were both adults, And we were both children, And we were friends And you were pulling back the curtain on this corner of your life, This world of meaning behind the words That I was still too young to see past the surface of, That I was still too happy to really understand Why you were crying and laughing and waving your arms As if to tell me This is who we are, Brother, This is what we do.

You once had too much to drink While Mom and I were visiting you in Chicago, In your room filled with milk crates and newspapers And told me to tell you if I ever heard voices, And Mom told you to shush And I don’t know what I hear anymore When the lights are off or the room is full, When the neighbors never seem to sleep, When every single-syllable word sounds vaguely like my name, But I know I’m just like you, And I know why you were crying now, And I know it’s only when the voices Stop that you can hear your own

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Repeating all the words that hurt, Reminding you of all the reasons you want to forget about rehab and drink And all I can do is listen, And all I can say is This is who we are, Sister, This is what we do.

Glen Parker is a fifth year English major who hopes to one day have his own canon of publications. He enjoys sci-fi classics and friendly arguments, and tries to see a new movie in theater every week.

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694 Aurelius Road Mindy McGhan

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Mindy McGhan is a sophomore and is pursuing a degree in social work. She hopes to have a career that allows her to change the lives of children around the world for the better.

She enjoys photography, dogs, and mashed potatoes.

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Deer

Christine Sawicki Deer do not look before they cross The street, they prefer to take risks And let their kids go first.

Deer live to eat, they do not abide by that old expression.

They gnaw at twigs and leaves and dirt until something Tastes even the slightest bit sweet.

They prefer to move about at night, the forest A college town piled high with hot does And bucks who stumble home alone.

They are addicted to sugar beets And their elders yell at them to lay off the fungus.

They prefer the modern music of a Jeep humming by, And give dirty looks to the opossum and his troupe.

Much like us, they only ditch their crew When they are interested in another kind of fun, “When in heat,” Deirdra jokes and I mean hey it’s the rut.

Deer are old-fashioned, the Mothers gather and gossip About the other herds while their fawns play freeze tag In the feathery field.

Deer are not afraid of war. Each October, bullets buzz past their Ears, but they do not wonder, they just steer clear.

Deer print their calendars on the sun and the stars.

They live between trees but worship the grass.

They take but give more to their homeland.

They count their points, not their money. They surrender with Their white flags, and they laugh when they realize It was the wind, not a man.

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Christine Sawicki is a communications major and a theatre minor. She is twenty-two and will be graduating in December. Christine enjoys fishing, hunting, traveling and spending time with friends and family. She is also a member of Trap Door Improv, a comedy group on campus. Christine has always enjoyed writing and has dreams of becoming a screenwriter; her interest in poetry was reignited upon taking the creative writing course on campus with Professor Jeffrey Bean. Christine’s poem “Deer” was inspired by a recent hunting trip and her interest in animals and conservation.

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October 2011-October 2017

Jef Fisher

You’ll see pictures of new loves with arms draped lazily across waistline known so well.

You’ll be ransacked by the nostalgia of being young and photogenic with her against foreign skylines, of smiling impossibly wide, buck toothed the both of you, illumined neon in a Ferris wheel’s penumbra.

Spare a thought also for fear of separation that leads to stasis and suspends lives transatlantic, for ever growing distance and the eventual heat death of every known relationship in the universe, for the culmination of six years not to arrive as furious lexical body blows, but as resignation: no, you’re right, it hasn’t felt the same for awhile.

It’s no coincidence that I’ve felt abattoir bound since the moment we met, impatiently awaiting the most probable end.

Had to try though, didn’t we?

Jef Fisher is a graduate student from Muskegon. His only future goals are to see as much of the world as possible, to own at least three dogs, and to be a Jeopardy! champion. In his spare time, he enjoys playing with words, kicking soccer balls, volunteering, unsuccessfully studying foreign languages, and making excessively mediocre music.

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Desert Architecture

Emily Stieg

Inspired by theYouTube video: Survivalist Tiny Dorms at Frank LloydWright’s Taliesin Architecture School i.

The desert aches and my swollen self seeking rain and shelter somehow finds peace in the severity— the dryness my nomadic soul cleansed—sanded down and smoothed, rocky crags mimicking the parched earth. ii.

All the spiky things breathing, crawling, expelling oxygen into my lungs; nurtured in sweltering heat welding me back together, as if needles to a thread. iii.

Though scorpions crawl to greet me, I do not feel their bite, as if I am too poisonous for their sting.

The contractions of the sand castle kingdom rise and fall around me and they delicately troop— one by one by one.

Like me they are drawn by unseen force a hand on high.

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iv.

The rain compels us— controls all things, and we dance in circles to meet its coming, fighting to wash ourselves in greys and thunders cleansed by lighting and holy fire. v.

I feel God in the residual heat of day.

He brings me into night and I am born again by the frozen moon.

Emily Stieg is a Chinese American adoptee. She’s a senior at CMU, and is working to acquire an English degree with a Creative Writing Certificate. Emily is a fanatic cat lover, song-belter, plant mom, and sweater weather enthusiast. She can’t remember a time when language didn’t astonish her, and credits the Harry Potter books as the series that got her into reading. Someday, Emily hopes to be a librarian and a published author, based somewhere near the mountains.

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Ice

Emily Stieg

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Meet the Editors Delany Lemke | Editor-in-Chief Delany is a senior studying English with a focus in creative writing. She works at the Writing Center and enjoys visiting the local coffee shops wherever she goes. A poet herself, Delany once submitted her work to this fine journal and was promptly rejected. She’d like to take this time to tell everyone that rejection makes you a real bonafide writer, and who knows, maybe someday you’ll be in charge of that journal that said no.

Keep writing.

Elizabeth O’Donnell | Copy Editor Elizabeth has no choice but to take pictures of every body of water she comes in contact with, stagnant or flowing.

She doesn’t discriminate against creeks or rivers. Here we see the cold Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Maine in early May.

Evan Wittenbach | Copy Editor Ev likes poems, coffee, and naps. Not breaking any stereotypes here.

Jordan Price | Copy Editor In another life, Jordan Price’s name was Rory Gilmore. She can be found dropping “Hamilton” lyrics, despairing over the woes of college life, wearing socks to bed, and unashamedly enjoying country music. Her dream is to work at Dunder Mifflin Paper Company, but she’d settle for any job in the publishing industry.

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Madison Rodriguez | Copy Editor Madison most strongly identifies with the quote “she was a vixen when she went to school.� She may have sharp teeth, but she promises not to bite. Unless, that is, you encounter her in the wild, in which case survival experts suggest playing dead to avoid serious bodily harm.

Annah Horak | Design Editor Annah can sing any Jonas Brothers song.

And is not ashamed about it.

Shane Guenin | Copy Editor Just as the Norse believe life was formed at the song of fire and ice, Shane was formed by an unholy union of unabashed egotism and crippling self-doubt. A connoisseur of trees, poetry, and the occasional bird, Shane aspires to be a hobo. Or at the very least a starving artist.

About Us Visit Central Review: www.thecentralreview.com Like our Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/TheCentralReview Download our podcasts by subscribing to Central Michigan Life on Soundcloud and iTunes Send submissions to cmucentralreview@ gmail.com for the 2018 Spring Edition