Impressions 1997

IMPRESSIONS

...

1997

IMPRESSIONS 1997

Co-Editors Kristine Dassinger K.C. Hanson

Faculty Advisor Dave Solheim

Copyright 1997 by the editors of Impressions. All future rights to material published in this literary magazine belong to the individual authors, and any reproduction or reprinting of this material may be done only with their permission.

CONTENTS

Photo of Beach, ND by Jeremy Brenner • • • • • • • cover Untitled by Rochelle Raan • • • • • • • • • • • • • • 1 On Philosophy by Dan Brinson • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • 2 Optimism Is ••• by Kathleen Privratsky • • • • • • ••••• 2 +On the Virtue of Vice by David Brauhn . • • • • • • • • • • • 3 Point of View by Sheila Frank • • • • • • • • • • • • • • 4 +The Polka Dot Lady by Jen Wallace • • • • • • • • • • 4 Whatever It Takes by Sheila Frank • • • • • • • • • • 5 Untitled by anonymous • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • 6 +Untitled photo by Jen Wallace • • • • • • • • • • • • • • 7 On the Virtue of Vice by Thad Brinkman • • • • • • • • • • • • 8 Untitled by Jeremy Ledahl • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • 9 Fate of the World by Eric Bodell • • • • • • • • • • • 9 *Memories and a Beetle by Charles Bauer • • • . • • • • • 10 Baby Brother by K.C. Hanson • • • • • • 14 First Snowfall by Larry M. Landis • • • • • • • • • • • 15 Bird-Feeder by Margaret Barnhart • • • • • • • • • • • • 16 Dawn by Kathleen Privratsky • • • • • • • • • • • • 16 +On the Virtue of Vice by Cebe Schneider • • • • • • • • 17 Home from Vacation by Rene'e Beasley Jones • • • • • • • 18 Reflections by Rajin Mangru • • • • • • • • • • • • • • 18 Untitled photo by Jen Wallace • • • • • • • • • 19 Winter Victorious by Spencer Brien • • • • • • • • • 20 Paying for College by K.C. Hanson • • • • • • • • • 21 +Je portai Guillaume by M.K. Thomas • • • • • • • • • 22 Thesis by Jeremy Ledahl • • • • • • • • • • • • • • 23 The Winter's Edge by Nancy Barth • • • • • • • • • • 24 *Naked by M.K. Thomas • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • 24 Richard Cranium by Richard Welk • • • • • • • • • • 25 Home on the Reins by Jake Magalsky • • • • • • • • • • • 26 Untitled by H.A. Wall • • • • • • • • • • • • • 26 *On the Virtue of Vice by Brad M. Gengler • • • • • • 27 The First Time Around by Rene'e Beasley Jones • • • • • • • 28 Two Close by Jen Wallace • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • 28 Untitled photo by Jen Wallace • • • • • • • • • • • • • 29 Jingle Bob Dangler by Jake Magalsky • • • • • • • • • • • • 30 Flying by Kristine Dassinger • • • • • • • • • • 31 Tranquility by Dan Brinson • • • • • • • • • • • • • 34 *Enchanted Forest by Lori Campbell • • • • • • • • • • • 35 On the Virtue of Vice by K.C. Hanson • • • • 36 +Story of Creation as Told by Crazy Uncle Pete by David Brauhn 37 +Hmm ••• by Rochelle Raan • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • 41 On the Virtue of Vice by Kathleen Privratsky • • • • • • 42 +Waterfall by Jeremy Ledahl • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • 43 * Denotes first place winner in student contest. + Denotes honorable mentions in student contest.

PROLOGUE Kristine Dassinger

Welcome to the 1997 Impressions. We've had a few new changes to Dickinson State University's literary magazine this year.

In previous years, winners and honorable mentions were chosen by Impressions' editors. However, this year, we've had the honor of having the non-fiction and fiction prose and the poetry submissions judged by Charles Barnitz.

Barnitz is a technical writer and editor from Denver, Colorado and did his graduate studies at the University of Denver. Barnitz' new novel called The Deepest Sea was recently published by Penguin Publishing.

Our visual art submissions were judged by poet/painter Pamela Sund, an instructor of Art and English here at DSU. She received her M.F.A. degree from the University of North Dakota.

Also, the outside cover was made possible by individuals and businesses of the Dickinson community. From their support, Impressions was able to don a color cover.

I'd like to thank the following businesses and individuals for supporting Impressions: Face and Jaw Surgery Center, Paul F. and Gail J. Ebeltoft, Jr., Mackoff Kellogg Kirby & Kloster, PC, Steffes & Son MFG, and Dr. Dave Solheim.

With their help, Impressions was able to strive for a better literary magazine for DSU and Dickinson.

Personally, I'd like to thank Dr. Solheim for coaching me through some of the confusing times on my first layout of the magazine. Also, I would like to thank Jill Lindsey for struggling to get the wonderful visual art pieces we have. I would also like to reluctantly thank K.C. for having a counterpoint for each point I brought up at meetings, which caused me to think about every decision that went into Impressions.

Gratitude must go to the students and faculty who submitted to Impressions, which without them it wouldn't even exist. Thank you.

Thank you to Impressions:

all

the

businesses

Benefactors - $25 and more -Paul F. and Gail J. Ebeltoft, Jr. -Face and Jaw Surgery Center -Mackoff Kellogg Kirby & Kloster PC -or. Dave Solheim -Steffes & Son MFG

and

individuals

who

support

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1

ON PHILOSOPHY Idle vanityVain Idleness.

Such is the pursuit Of endless inquiries Into nothingnessSuch is the hope Of the Philosopher.

-Dan Brinson

OPTIMISM IS • A gentle zephyr from the hills That brings the rain and thunder.

In haste it flees when sunlight spills And spreads the clouds asunder.

Misty arch of shades and streams That yields a pot of gold For those who follow endless dreams In hope of legends told.

-Kathleen Privratsky

2

On the Virtue of Vice non-fiction essay Vices are wonderful things for people to have. Everyone has vices, and those who deny having them are liars. The Pope, I'm sure, even has a few of them. Maybe he watches too many gameshows or sneaks cookies from the Vatican kitchen when the Swiss Guards aren't looking. Vices are indispensable evils that define people.

Without vices, people would be terrifically dull specimens.

People without vices would not make very good friends . Vices, though evil, are usually pleasurable. People without vices, therefore, would not be much fun. Being friends with exceedingly well-behaved people would be like being friends with onedimensional sitcom characters from the 1950s. What could people do for fun with viceless friends? Play boardgames (Parcheesi is a good one), go to church, hula hoop, pitch horseshoes, or, God forbid, toss lawn darts?

A few viceless people wouldn't be too bad, but think of a world of viceless people. No one would get raises because everyone would work equally hard. College students would get 8.4 hours of sleep per night and never procrastinate homework: they would not need to be rewarded with scholarships. Used car dealers would go out of business because they couldn't lie. Catholics wouldn't have any bad habits to give up during Lent.

If everyone were viceless, then heaven, if it exists, would be overflowing. Angels would smack into each other in mid flight.

Overpopulation would cause tensions to rise, and fist fights might even erupt. If a hell exists, then a demon there would be able to throw a hunk of brimstone and not hit a single soul. I would rather be in hell if that happens.

Vices are necessary evils. Without a bit of evil in our lives, the good in us would not seem so great. What a dull bunch we'd be without vices.

David Brauhn

3

POINT OF VIEW Sex. What a concepti Life.

What a problem!

Death.

What a cruel joke!

Life.

What a concepti Death.

What a problem!

Sex. What a cruel joke!

Death.

What a concepti Sex. What a problem!

Life.

What a cruel joke!

-Sheila Frank THE POLKA DOT LADY I see her in church, the dots on her dress blind and spin my head.

She sings off key.

I see her at the store as wide as her cart with those cherry cheeks.

The dots are calling.

I see her everywhere, those damn dots, those plump red cheeks.

She reaches over and pats my head.

-Jen Wallace 4

Whatever It Takes "So, did you do it?"

"What do you think?"

"Good. Let's go."

The funeral was a messy affair. Everyone who was anyone, or who wanted to be anyone, was there. The funeral of the century.

That was what the papers were calling it. But what did they know anyway? It's not like they had ever written a kind word about him. No, they had never even cared who got hurt with what they said, they just said it, sold papers, and got rich. Bastards.

This one had been rich. Really rich. Richest man in the world.

He had earned his ending, no doubt about that. Now everyone loved him because his fortune was to be left to whomever could convince his daughter that they were worthy to get it.

"So, did you do it?"

"What do you think?"

"Good. Let's go."

The daughter's funeral was a truly messy affair. The money had not been awarded, yet she was dead, and everyone claimed she had agreed to give the money to them. She had just been killed before she could sign the papers. No one believed anyone and innuendo was flying faster than the Concord.

An executor was appointed by the last surviving member of the family. His instructions were to get rid of the money as quickly as he could. Give it to anyone. She did not care anymore. This had gone far enough, and she was tired of it. All she had to do was get rid of the money, and she would be free. Just like that.

"So, did you do it?"

"What do you think?"

"Good. Let's go."

The executor and the Misses were buried in adjoining plots. It seemed that they had been deeply in love for a number of years.

They were even found together in death.

The money was now going to go to whatever charity could prove they really truly needed it. As one paper said, "Have you ever seen a charity that has not really truly needed it?" Neither had anyone else so it was decided to raffle the money off. Everyone in the world was given a number. Whoever had their number drawn got the money. Simple.

"So, did you do it?"

"What do you think?"

"Good. Let's go."

5

,.

The search for the killers continued. So far they were wanted for the old man, his daughter, his sister and her lover, and Richard Nixon. That was the one that had finally gotten to everyone. Before it had been possible, the family was the target, now they realized the money was cursed. There were so many police officers and special agents working on the case it would be solved. Sure.

Meanwhile, the money was put into a secret bank account.

Because the last casualty was a former American president, the United States was given control of the money. It was their's to use if they dared.

"I can't believe it actually worked."

"I never had any doubts."

"Good. Let's do it."

The President's announcement was unbelievable. Be would use the money to wipe out the national debt. The United States would be completely debt free. The few million that was left over after that was given to the President in a show of appreciation.

"I did it."

"I knew you would."

"Two terms after all."

Sheila Frank

there is darkness only i can see beyond the blackest black the stifling breaths of agony are the rewards brought forth to me in this world of mire and dank through the cracks in the walls formed 'round.

-anonymous

6

untitled by Jen Wallace

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On the Virtue of Vice non-fiction essay There are distinct differences in attitudes and behaviors of all people. Both nature and the environment around people shape their lives. These differences among people are what make individuals special.

The flaws that people have are what make them diverse from all other people. When people commit a particular sin, they are different from those who refrain from that particular crime.

Because all people are not perfect, it is the combinations of sins and imperfections that make people who they are.

Until recently people considered cloning to be an idea only thought of in science fiction, but this has changed within the last few weeks. The scientific community has announced that they have been able to successfully clone several types of animals.

With cloning of human beings a possibility in the modern era, people must make a moral decision how they will treat cloning. If the imagination wanders, it can create images of people whom all look alike. People could make clones of the most proficient workers of each profession.

For example, many people consider Michael Jordan to be the best basketball player ever. What is preventing the NBA or a particular team from making many clones of him? This would drastically increase the talent level in professional basketball.

This example is suitable in any profession, also.

If cloning were to be a widely used practice, there would be no reason for common people to exist. Most parents want their children to be as close to perfection as possible. If they could choose the child they wanted from a person who has great attributes; they would pay a great deal for the procedure.

Cloning could create a race of non-humans without impurities.

We should resist perfection and accept our flaws because it's our imperfections that make us human.

Thad Brinkman

8

way way down the groovy road take the sherbert fork towards the sun to the lazy fence and over across the pitted field through the evergreens to a patch of grass covering a hole in the meadow where you will find a magic man giving out smiles take one -Jeremy Ledahl FATE OF THE WORLD The wicked one flies through the night, the bird that preys on death and fright.

An evil demon of terrible power, ruling on high from his ebony tower.

The sirens sing and sailors weep; the captain dies in the ocean's deep.

Please, dear god, come to our aid.

This macabre game has to be played .

Yet god looks down with shaded eyes, and so the children continue to die.

A woman's scream, a baby's cry, bombs explode and bullets fly.

A grieving widow, a fresh grave dug, the powers that be are lax and smug.

They cannot see Hades light touch, on everything we love so much.

God had left; it's up to we, the humble beings on this living tree, to stitch and sew, and stop the bleeding, to work, and slave and start the weeding.

Nimrod shoots an arrow of light, to stop the growth of Satan's might.

Prometheus has been released, new hope springs for love and peace.

Knowledge and wisdom can again be ours, but who to choose to wield these powers?

Because mankind is Pandora's box, we must choose who turns the locks.

On this decision we must wait for he who'll lead us to our fate.

- Eric Bodell 9

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Memories and a Beetle The sky was clouding over worse than ever now. John sighed sticking his hands yet deeper in the front pockets of his torn, faded jeans. His hair hung in front of his face; he blew at it often to get it out of his eyes. It was dark and wet; the rain had made it that way, but John didn't notice it too much, just when it got in his eyes.

"Mariea," he whispered. The small stone marked the burial place. Be had placed a small pink rose there earlier; now the rose was wet from the rain. "Mariea," he said again. "God." He left the word hanging limply in the dead silence of the falling rain. He didn't know what he wanted to say to God right now.

John had been coming to the same spot now for two years, since Mariea had died, since she had left him for Leah, a woman he had worked for. He hadn't known that Mariea had been a lesbian, so it all had come as a big shock when she had moved from his apartment to the small house Leah lived in with yet a third woman. Jennet had been her name. It didn't matter he supposed. Mariea was dead; Leah had moved after Mariea had died; he didn't know what had happened to Jennet.

John pulled his hands out of his pockets pulling his hair back and tied it with a piece of leather. John had stopped cutting his hair when Mariea had died. She hadn't liked him with long hair and so he had cut it, three years had it been? But she had died.

He didn't see much reason to keep cutting it after that, and he had always liked it longer.

"Mariea. God. Somebody. Anybody." The words came out of his mouth. The tears streamed from his dark brown eyes. Tears mixed with rain. His words mixed with every possible emotion he could muster up within himself. The strongest feeling at this moment was probably pain, he thought. His chest hurt as if someone had plunged a sharp tool into it over and over again but only where his heart was. He was broken, like an overly used toy perhaps.

No, Mariea hadn't used him. Be was broken like something that is meant to be used, needing to be oiled often and regularly. But in his case, he hadn't been oiled in two years. He was a rusted hulk of confused emotions.

"Why?" John asked. He didn't know who he was asking, but he wanted an answer. No answer came, and he shrugged, knowing that none was going to come; he had been ignored. "You suck, God," he said. "How could you kill something so beautiful?" He grinned. It was not a nice one; it was extremely toothy and evil. "Did she suffer, God? Did you make that lovely angel of mercy that you yourself allowed to be born and live, did you allow her to suffer when she was hit by that car? Did you allow her to suffer while those people gathered around her body to see the blood soaking into the street?"

He was wearing a long, black cloak. He had sewn it himself so that it would be just perfect. Now it too, was wet like his hair, like his eyes from his tears, like the rose on Mariea's grave, 10

like the city that laid around this cemetery. He wrapped it a little closer around his body. It was cold, but he didn't want to go just yet. He was waiting for something, but he didn't know what he was waiting for exactly.

"I wanted to tell her that I was so sorry, God," John said. "I didn't mean to walk in on her and Leah that day. I'm not into that stuff. I wanted to explain to her that it was all right that I understood her feelings. It would have been a lie, but it would have turned out so much better." He shrugged, pushing a bit of mud around with one of his soaking, wet, leather boots.

"Five hundred dollar boots, God," he said. "I could buy myself a living cow for that much, God. I only got part of it though.

Amazing how much just a piece of their skin is worth once it's made into something else besides a cow."

John had been coming home to his apartment that day, ready to ask Mariea to marry him, ready to make that big first step and tell her that he loved her more than anything else in the world.

He would gladly die if she asked him, but then he had opened the door and caught a glimpse of Leah's naked butt plopped firmly on one of his pillows while Mariea had been doing something, John really didn't want to know what they had been doing, and his plans had been ruined. Mariea had been dead less than two months later.

"Cows," he said. "She liked cows, God. I never really asked her why, though. I guess I really just didn't care. Cows are the dumbest animal, God. I guess you know that though. Maybe she was Hindu or something?" He cocked an ear to the sky, cupping it a little so no rain would fall into it. There was no answer, and he hung his head to the ground again. "Quiet today, God. Don't you have anything to say to me?"

He remembered hearing the news of Mariea's death. The police had found his number in her purse. The police had asked him if he was a relative. He said no, just an ex-boyfriend. That, of course, had interested them a great deal since they weren't calling the incident an accident. They were calling it murder. He understood their interest, but he had assured them later, in the headquarters after being brought in for questioning that he had been far away from the incident. He had, in fact, been at a small party held out of town. They asked him what sort of party, and he didn't answer. It wasn't the sort of party one would mention to the police.

"You see, God," he said to a cloud that was beginning to show the first signs of breaking up. "I didn't kill her. I was at that party with all the girls, God. I know you don't like that sort of thing, but it means I couldn't have killed her. It's not my fault the killer turned out to be a friend of mine."

Robert was a friend of his and Mariea's. When Mariea and he had broken up, he had gone to Robert, using him as a comfort zone for a few hours. Robert had grown angry when John had shown up tormented with pain and guilt; he had told him that Mariea deserved to be run down in the street like the whore that she was. John had told Robert that he wasn't angry with Mariea, just 11

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himself. Robert had looked at him, shaking his head.

"You're too damn forgiving, John," he had said. "She deserves to be killed and tortured for treating you that way. What? You think that she did this because you weren't paying her enough attention? You paid so much attention to her that half the time when I or one of your other buddies called, we had to make sure we had a woman with us so she wouldn't be bored. She's a bitch, John. She's a liar and a cheating, lesbian whore. If I had enough guts, I'd kill her myself and bring her head to you on a plate."

Be shook his head. Robert was very aggressive about those type of things, but he supposed Robert had a right to be. Women had treated him like a swill for all of his life; he had a pretty bitter outlook when it came to them.

The police had asked him if he had asked Robert to run Mariea over in the street. He had told them no. Be didn't mention the fact that Robert had mentioned it to him, however , that would have seemed a little too coincidental.

"Bey, God," he said. "Could you stop the rain for just a little while? I'm pretty wet down here, and I don't want to leave Mariea just now." He looked up at the clouds; they were beginning to break a little. Be smiled. "Thanks, God." Robert had been brought in for questioning, but he too had an alibi. Be had been with a group of women that vouched for his placement-their bed-at the time of the accident. John was pretty sure they had lied and that Robert had been the one to run Mariea down, but he hadn't said anything. He didn't really think it was such a big deal. By the time the whole investigation had been over, he hadn't cared about anything too much.

"I was with her for a year, God," John said. "I loved her with all my heart. I think I've probably proven that," he said wiping the drying rain from his face. "After all, I've been coming here to place a rose on her grave for the past two years." He looked up in the sky and watched the clouds break for a long while. "Bow much more do I owe her, God? How much longer before this hold she has on me breaks?" Again, there was no answer, and he really didn't expect one.

When the main part of the investigation had ended, he had gone to Robert's loft where they had fought.

"What do you care if she's dead, John? She cheated on you with another woman! Not only did she betray you, she made you appear like you're less of a man to anyone who knows you!"

"I'm more of a man than five of you, Robert," John had said.

"I ought to go to the police right now and tell them what you said that day."

"It's your word against mine, John. Who do you think they'll believe? You look like you're coming off of heroin. Bow long has it been since you've slept?"

"Never mind my sleeping," he had said. It was true that he hadn't slept so well back then. I still don't, he thought.

"Look, John," Robert said sitting down in a beanbag chair.

"Even if I did kill her, which I didn't." He looked out of the window as he said this, and John knew that he was lying. "Even if 12

I did, you should be thanking me. You would have seen her all the time. You guys lived right down the same damn block from one another for God's sake! This way you never have to see her again, and you can forget about her easier."

It was at this point where John had pulled the gun and shot Robert. Be remembered the look on Robert's face well as he had slumped in the chair and pressed a hand over the small hole in his chest.

"You shot me," Robert had said.

"Yes," he had said and had shot him again in the groin, the source of all of Robert's problems.

The sun attempted to peek out from behind the clouds, and John smiled. He really didn't like the sun that much, but he was soaking wet, and the warm spring sun felt good.

"What the hell," he said. He sat down in front of the stone, dimly aware that he was probably sitting on top of Mariea and scooted back a little. "I don't know why I keep coming back here every week, Mariea," he said. "Maybe I'm obsessed with death."

A small beetle ran by and John grabbed it and held it up in front of his nose. It was dark black; it didn't even shine it was so dark. It had bright green eyes, but he could see the smallest pinpoint of black in the centers.

"You're quite a strong insect," he said. "It's barely spring, and you're out bouncing around. I bet you've got some lady beetle waiting back home for you, though." He put the beetle down and smiled. "Go on with you," he said. The beetle was stunned.

"I'm here, Mariea," he said. "I've been coming here every week for two years now. I haven't forgotten."

When they had been together, Mariea had told him that if one of them would ever die before the other that the living person would be expected to come to the grave every week for two years.

At the end of the two years, the dead partner would come back to get the living one. He really didn't think anything of it then, but in the last two years he had been coming, just to see if anything would happen. Of course, he had started to believe, had even hoped, that something would happen, some miracle that Mariea would come back and bring him to wherever she had been the past two years.

The beetle crawled onto his hand. He looked down at it and brushed it off. As he did, he noticed its eyes . They were so green, like Mariea's eyes had been.

"Mariea?" he questioned, picking the beetle up gently. "Could it really be you, Mariea?" He brought it closer to his face and examined it. The color of the beetle could have been the color of Mariea's hair. It was that close. The eyes were the correct shade of green. Mariea had been a nicely shaped woman, and it was a beautifully shaped beetle.

"It is you,"he said. "I've waited so long, and finally, after two years, just like you said, you've come for me." He nodded and put the beetle on top of the headstone. "I've got something for you," he said, reaching into the pocket of his cloak. His hand gripped a long, hard object and brought it out. It was a modeling 13

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knife. As he brought it close to the beetle, it seemed to realize his attempt and started to scurry down one side of the rock.

"No, you don't," John said. "I've waited too many frigging years by myself at this damn headstone to have you get away now."

He grabbed the beetle by the abdomen with his left hand and held it against the stone as he brought the knife down point first into the beetle's back. There was a crunching noise as the knife punctured the hard shell, then a grinding as the blade hit the stone.

"Do you like it, Mariea? Do you like the pain? I've lived with it for two years. Three, if you count the pain I had while you and I were together. Did you think it was funny?" he asked, almost screaming now as he twisted and jabbed the knife into the beetle's back over and over again. "Did you think it was funny leaving me for two other women, making me feel like I was worthless?"

After some time, he finally stopped, exhausted from killing the beetle, which laid in several pieces. Some of them were still twitching in the final throes of death. He wiped the knife clean on the edge of his cloak and put it away.

"I guess there's no place for you to take me," he said.

"Otherwise, I suppose I'd be in a heap of trouble for doing what I just did." He shrugged and looked up at the sky again. It was beginning to cloud over again, and the newest spring rains began to fall again. He stepped on the pink rose, grinding it into the mud until there was no pink left, no signs that the rose had ever been there.

"I guess I won't be coming back, Mariea. No reason to anymore, I guess. If you're anywhere, I hope you're happy." He frowned .

"God, I don't know what part you play in this, if any that is, but I really wish you'd clue me in some time, okay?" He brought his cloak about him closer, not liking the wet feeling it brought to him and let it fall back loose. He started walking back home, thinking about the old days when he still thought Mariea would come back.

Charles Bauer

BABY BROTHER Pissed Off Cooking Waffles, A Treat, On A Counter Of Dirty Dishes.

Six Foot Tall; Twenty Years Old. -K.C . Hanson 14

FIRST SNOWFALL Quiet. Yes, a hushed stillness.

As though each snowflake seeks to absorb sound The effect magnified by its own stealth.

Slick. As though the ice were polished.

There is a drip, drip, drip in the hush. From the tree.

Melt. The Snow. But not before it is replaced by more.

The ice grows.

It is warm. The snow is thick, a sort of fog.

You can't see far. The mountain is gone.

Houses with smoke. Some campus buildings Yes, and trees. Beautiful!

Branches seem to reach out to grab snow In an effort to clothe themselves with winter lace As though ashamed of their seasonal nudity-Only to become more sensual In the very act of covering themselves.

I am the only one out. As though the morning is mine Along with the snow, the campus, and the world, What I can see of it. Not much.

The walk is short now, through the parking lot Past the Union, across the campus and up the steps.

I go inside, leaving the quiet world behind To be greeted by cheery "Hellos!"

And a card detailing the events of the day.

It doesn't talk about snow!

-Larry M. Landis

15

BIRD-FEEDER I scattered seed upon the ground And watched the birds assemble 'round Delighting in the feast they'd found.

Starlings, robins, and finches came And birds for which I know no name, With feathers golden or of flame.

Then one by one they flew away: Wren and warbler, grackle and jay, But they'll return another day And welcome they will surely feel, Grateful for such a ready meal, That hardly will they see the zeal Of one that watches birds with glee From beneath a cedar tree-My cat who purrs, "Come dine with mel" -Margaret Barnhart

DAWN Dawn, she breaks the bitter night With amber beam and ray.

Defies the darkness with her light And casts another day.

Morning glories bow with grace Too abashed to stare.

Clouds enfold her radiant face And glow of crimson hair.

Meadowlarks rejoice in song As darkness lifts its shade.

Streams of light grow ever strong As nighttime's borders fade.

Dawn, have pity on the eyes That darkness quenched of sight.

Illuminate these somber skies And flaunt your splendid light!

-Kathleen Privratsky 16

On the Virtue of Vice non-fiction essay Is there any virtue in a vice? In the world today nothing is ever one hundred percent exactly what it is purported to be, so yes, absolutely, there is virtue in vice.

For example, honesty is a virtue, but to some it becomes a vice. If my best friend asks me if a pair of jeans makes her look fat, I truthfully tell her, "No, I believe your butt is the problem."

I believe that my honesty is virtuous. She, however, believes that I use it as a vice to behave unkindly toward others, while hiding behind society's inherent belief in the integrity of unflinching candor.

I would truly love to see her husband's reaction the first time she tried sliding her size 11 behind into an $85 pair of size 9 jeans. They'd probably fight over the privilege to kill me for my having encouraged her to buy the tight things.

This reminds me of another vice which is actually a virtue, or virtue which is actually a vice (it gets confusing).

What is wrong with eating too much? Doctors, scientists, aerobic instructors and every other diet freak on the planet is obsessed with weight, fat, and calories.

Studies are done protesting people's immoderate food intake.

Eating isn't a vice--it's a virtue!

First, where would most of the people pushing the importance of weight loss be without the overeater? Further, the suggested psychological reason behind overeating is excess emotion.

I, for one, would not like a bunch of thin, excessively emotional people running around. If eating helps people feel better, let them eat. Isn't it a virtue to handle one's own problems?

Or is it a vice to let others use a vice to solve their own problems? Or is it a virtue? Oh well, vice/virtue!

Cebe Schneider

17

HOME FROM VACATION Seventeen miles outside Sisseton heading north on Interstate 29 toward the only Dakota which is Dakota a hilly crest spills onto a quilt of golden kernels bound by strips of blackened shelterbelts. Patches of bromegrass pale near a square of fire where millions of tiny solar eclipses bob in prairie winds.

Giant strips of summer fallow roll past homes and barns of red and white cranes--far from winter's roost--wade in ripples.

Dakota.

My heart leaps at your landscape stitched with asphalt thread and raveled section-line roads.

But your carefully pieced-together fabric--from Devils Lake to the Badlands, from the Peace Gardens to Mandan-weakens from a missing patch.

Stitch me in place, Dakota.

Let us both be whole again .

-Rene'e Beasley Jones

REFLECTIONS Thoughts surround me like a street from Vegas Lit in neon red and purple High and low, big and small Striving for attention Trying to see, to discern shape and substance But the glare from the signs blind pure sight Each reflects upon another changing, altering it No more is it the same as it would be i f alone Shadows from the blaze Intermarry freely without thought to color Resplendent, dazzling, yet harsh The light somehow a source of darkness

-Rajin Mangru 18

untitled by Jen Wallace

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,.

WINTER VICTORIOUS The hawk blows fiercely down on an unsuspecting world; Spearheading his advance with wind chill's icy beak, Be tunnels his way into dark alleys and cul-de-sacs bleak, And does his powerful thing with hypnotic blizzard wings unfurled.

The homeless and destitute feel first-hand the might of the storm; With savage determination they hunker down over barrels of flame, Flickering upwards into the shadows their light stays ahead of the game, Until, with stronger persistence, the cold becomes the law and the norm.

Howl, ye coastlands far and wide!

For a great commotion is being kicked up from the ends of the earth!

Winter-without-end signifies a cruel new ice age's coming rebirth, Put into motion by some lofty cosmic powers who decide.

Blow cold, blow bold, Blow truly free as some immensely infinite, uncapturable entity; Roaring down the track of the jet-stream, with the color of a blinding white cream, beckoning the dream, of the Valhalla of some huge and shimmering ice-constructed castle of sun-ripened gold.

With mighty talons the hawk holds the world in a firm iron grip; And with impenetrable intensity and matchless spontaneity, He flies forward with strong tenacity and the torque-twister of a capacity that strikes awe into the nations, As they shiver in the wake of his bone-chilling nip.

Who can measure the heartbeat of the hawk, when subzero temperatures are his soul; And his frostbite frosting is served up in some colossal natural bowl; As he swoops forward on an irreversible power-roll, And pauses neither to rest nor to talk.

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Plowing through an immense weight of snow, We are faced with the shimmering Polar-plexus of some eerie, icy glow; And the repercussions of the hawk's hammer resound throughout the earth, With a blaring, blazing clamor trumpeting forth a new kind of mirth that potentializes his power and his worth From the dead of winter to the life of winter's flow.

So ring out wild, And ring free, As the harbinger of some Ragnarok eternity; And brighten our spirits with Your high-flying spirit of impenetrable mystery, Written cryptically on the needles of some towering evergreen tree, Persistently and cogently radiating the glowing icicles that reflect the light and life cycles of spiritual power and reality, Behind all things that are and can be.

-Spencer Brien

PAYING FOR COLLEGE Out of the stacks of Poetry and Prose Down a two-lane To an orange moon To serve beer And make mixers For Monday night mourners Like meandering down the alphabet Coors Light, Bud Light, Amaretto Sour.

-K.C. Hanson

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Je portai Guillaume "Non, non. Claire •.• s'il te plais ••• " Those were the last words I heard from the mouth of my mother.

They ring still in my ears, unchanging, though it has been twenty years since they were uttered. Now, holding my daughter in my arms I realize I would have gone crazy, too.

My parents had gotten the sickness just days before I left. I was only eight-years-old--! did not understand. What else could I have done? It was the smell. The smell of death made me leave.

I will never forget it. The stink was so strong that one would never be able to forget. It was a suffocating odor. One of sweat, blood, and fear. Fear, I think, that was what made it so bad. But it was not just on the sick--it was on everyone. It was on me.

At first, people were compassionate and wanted to help the afflicted. Soon it changed. Everyone was suspicious of each other. It was safest to assume that we all had it and could die at any moment. Men walked along the streets yelling about God. Women wailed and screamed, mourning for their dead. The city was in chaos. I had never been outside of Paris, but people were leaving and moving to the countryside. My uncle wanted us to leave with him but father had "business."

My mother would not let me go outside the house alone. We walked to the charcuterie every day. We saw signs that read "Closed owing to the Plague" on many shop windows. Each time we saw one she would grasp my hand so tightly that it hurt.

"Ah, mama. Je suis mal ala main!"

"Je suis desolee, rna cherie, mais c'est necessaire."

She was right. It was necessary. The disease was everywhere now. Death was everywhere.

It was the summer. It was hard not to go outside and play with my friends. I had not seen them in so long. I played inside with Guillaume, my little brother. I made up games for us and put on little shows for my parents--during the happy times. During the other times, I was quiet.

Mama cried all the time. She fought with Papa about leaving.

He was quiet, too. He was always quiet, though. He would only tell her that we could not leave until he settled his business. I do not even know in what business he was. Guillaume barely remembers him.

He came home early from work one afternoon. I thought we were going to leave. It was time. Then I saw how pale he was.

"Marie ••• " he whispered to my mother, and they went into the bedroom. I never really saw him again. Mama took care of him for hours until he told her to stop and let him die. Let him die!

She did. She let him die. Then she crawled into bed with him and slept next to him.

The next morning she was singing to him and caressing his face.

"Mama ••• Mama." She would not answer me. All day she stayed in that bed with him. I brought food to her, but she did not see me.

I yelled at her, but she did not hear me. She had been wearing 22

the same clothes for three days, so at nightfall I went in to make her change into bedclothes. That was when I saw it--a swollen ball on her stomach. I had heard of these, even seen some, I think. I might have known before, but now it was plain.

She was dying.

She would not let go of Papa. I do not know why I did not go for help. Maybe I knew I was going to leave. I tried to take care of her. I did everything I knew. Water. Wet cloths. Water.

I hated going in that room. The stench of death was unbearable. My father's dead body, my mother's dying body. Each time I left, I felt the death clinging to me. I scrubbed and scrubbed my skin to get the death off of me ••• I could not get the death off of mel It was then that she started to call me Claire. I knew I had to leave. Claire was my mother's sister.

I got Papa's traveling bags and packed what I thought my bother and I would need or want to keep. I do not know if I knew what I was doing then or if God was blessing me. He spared my life.

I did not leave without saying goodbye. For a minute I think she understood. Her eyes seemed to be telling me, "Go. Go cherie." But then she thought I was Claire again.

I carried Guillaume and the valises. We walked with a caravan of people heading for the countryside. Some slept in tents, but we slept on the ground, on blankets. It was summer. Warm enough.

I wrapped Guillaume up tight and slept with my body half-covering his. There was one night I could not sleep. I was hot and sweating. I almost fainted the next day as we were walking, but by morning I felt better. Guillaume never got sick. He was a good boy.

At the end of a few days, we came to a house where someone in the caravan said the people wanted to take us in. God must have blessed me. We had food--a home. I grew up, Guillaume grew up.

But I still remember the smell.

M.K. Thomas

THESIS the rule of man to stand and speak more eloquently than the beast has failed -Jeremy Ledahl 23

THE WINTER'S EDGE Cold crisp air caresses my body, I'm wanting to get inside and have a hot toddy.

I'm strolling through the dead falling leaves, thinking of a Summer's breeze.

Then reality hits.

Alas! I've gone amiss.

I'm looking down at my cold winter boots, then I look up at the white frosty roofs.

I can feel the chill of my aching extremities, wanting to get out of life's calamities.

I walk briskly to a corner lot, thinking of how great it would be to be hot.

I have a few more blocks to go, I have to get through this Winter's snow.

My snow boots change color as I go, watching; as I walk; the show unfold.

A car speeds past with wondrous blunder, like there's no tomorrow in the spell it's under.

I'm almost there because my feet are numb, it almost feels like I have a nonexistent thumb.

I see the chimneys emit smoke, and light in houses as the night unfolds.

I'm finally at the bottom of my stairs, with white snowflakes patterning my hair.

I walk up my steps in a slow fashion, not wanting to fall in Winter's condition.

I extend my key and proceed to enter, now leaving that place that was so bitter.

I head for the hot toddy and sigh, today was a great day; even if Winter is nigh.

-Nancy Barth NAKED get rid of all the flowers and I'm a morbid soul floating in the sun with a mouthful of sin my eyes are dead hands are huge with hate i've no sanity left in my little toe. caught up in the lights of blue and green heat, heat exuding from every side flaming words , funny words and curtains tied the laughter and my naked body and my uncovered soul.

-M.K . Thomas 24

"Richard Cranium" by Richard Welk

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HOME ON THE REINS Howdy Folks, I'm a cowboy; And I'd like to share with you a little problem I've been havin'.

It doesn't have to do with ropin' steers or brandin' or calvin'.

Ya see, when a cowboy is ridin' the range, and his bladder is jigglin' around, He has to dismount and get his relief, by lettin' it out on the ground.

And while he's standin' there doin' his duty with his reins draped over his arm; In this it may seem to you folks like there isn't any harm.

But when he zips his fly and snaps the elastic on his Banes, He looks down and sees that he's just piddled all over his reins.

Now rich folks need a porcelain bowl, and people go through terrible pains, But as for us cowboy folks we're right at "Home on the Reins."

-Jake Magalsky

pale hot desperate lost we must succeed whatever the cost. tears pain jealousy rage consumed by wealth, lost in an age. none to follow, refused to be led pale hot desperate dead -H.A. Wall

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On the Virtue of Vice non-fiction essay Although our families, cultures, and genetic makeup are all important factors which create our individual personalities, the vices in our lives are just as important and necessary to the shaping of our personal identities. Our vices, whether good or bad, help separate and distinguish one human being from another.

What would the world be like without vices? There would be no smokers, beer drinkers, or people who eat too much chocolate. No one would ever take a pinch of snuff or yearn for a cup of coffee.

Ultimately, habitual behavior of any kind would not exist and people, for the most part, would all be alike.

Obviously we do not live in a world without vices. Bad habits, fixations, and fetishes of all kinds, all seem to be common character traits of human beings. Granted, even though some vices can be either physically or mentally damaging, we cannot deny that they are a part of who we are as humans.

Virtues, on the other hand, are the opposite of vices-or so we are lead to believe. Honesty, kindness, and loyalty are common virtues, which are held in the highest regard by most people.

Vices, however, are thought of as character flaws, especially by people who don't have them. Therefore, a distinct difference exists between a virtue and a vice, with the former being much more desirable than the latter .

On the contrary, a vice is just as much a virtue as honesty, kindness, or loyalty . Even though a particular vice may not be accepted as a virtue, vices in general are virtuous in that they help mold the individuality of each person. Vices comfort the reality of existence by allowing us to not only be unique, b ut also to have or do certain things which make life bearable.

Brad M. Gengler

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THE FIRST TIME AROUND With ankles the size of half-grown birches, she scuffs about in her husband's houseshoes.

She tunes the tube to Donahue then balances a plate of pancakes on her tummy-turned-table.

Later, she's down for a nap. But her familial contents all but shove her lungs out her nose, so sleep comes upright--in fitful snatches.

On the brown, plaid sofa--where more than once she nailed her husband to the springs-she's jarred awake by dreams of hubby fondling tight asses and firm tits (none of them hers).

The next day at Kmart, some fool says, "You have a lovely glow."

How would he know she belches and farts like a race horse and pees when she laughs, sneezes, or coughs.

And snores now, too.

Gad! The idea seemed so ••• so .•• wondersome eight months ago--when her ribs showed, When she fit under a steering wheel, When she blissfully pounded the sheets like a double-jointed gymnast.

-Rene'e Beasley Jones

TWO CLOSE Tangled fleshy mess entwined, sinking deeper into love: we hate.

-Jen Wallace

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untitled by Jen Wallace

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JINGLE BOB DANGLER I was workin' for the Cremers On the lower Sweetgrass camp Ridin' colts and gettin' jolts My saddle pads were always damp Calvin' cows out in the open Lookin' all around for pairs Ridin' through sage, comin' of age Much too young to get grey hairs As a kid I rode a stick horse Totin' plastic .45s Little britches, mama's stitches Tryin' new boots on for size Now I'm breakin' buckin' broncos Cussin' cows on loco weed Build a loop and give a hoot Choke that ole cow to her knees Swingin' 60 feet of nylon At a calf without a brain But it don't wanna go to mama Must be that crazy Cremer strain Some sing "Just a lonesome cowboy" Well, I ain't lonesome at all Sittin' straddle of my saddle Ridin' proud and ridin' tall I've got the stars and moon above me Sage and cactus on the ground Cedar breaks and rattlesnakes God's creations all around The Good Lord is my Shepherd That's a fact I will not hide I've got no greed, my only need Is a real good horse to ride So I'll stay on the straight and narrow Try to live the best I can Sow a seed where there's a need Slowly grow into a man And when I ride the Spirit Trail When I'm a ghost rider in the sky I know where I will go Because I'm not afraid to die - Jake Magalsky

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Flying Dust rose up from the deserted country road, circling inside the old Chevy truck with a large dent in its chipped-red side, choking Marie's throat, causing her to cough twice. Brian, the man next to her who lazily glanced her direction, continued to drive, swerving periodically to miss a pothole.

The woman scooted closer to the passenger door. She leaned her tired head on the back of her tight almost white fist, closed her eyes, and sighed. Her dirty blonde hair wisped in the wind outside the partway open window. She absentmindedly brought it back inside and patted the wind blown curls on top of her oval shape head.

Marie thought back to her thirty-first birthday party two months ago. Two of her friends were there to witness Brian coming home drunk and passing out. She spent the rest of her birthday that night and the next day cleaning up puke and listening to him complain and shout about the mess he called life , which, of course, was all her fault .

She didn't want to be here . She only went to please him. He always got a big laugh out of telling her friends that the girl he was to marry was afraid of heights. Brian loved danger and adventure. Marie guessed that was why she was initially attracted to him. She thought she needed some of that in her monotonous life.

He prodded her to go parachuting with him for three months. Brian was an expert, at least that's what he told her. He had gone up three times, so, of course, he believed himself to be an expert.

They had been driving for about half an hour now in silence, and she could see the plain- looking, abandoned airstrip up ahead.

Marie glanced around outside. Leaveless trees, scattering in no particular pattern, decorated the desert. Grasshoppers sprung onto the pickup's already gut-spotted window. A few managed to bounce off the glass and land dazed in the dirt. She began to count them in her head, occasionally glancing at her fiance, looking for any smattering of reason to enter his brain and turn the truck around.

Brian steered the truck into a space beside what looked like a grey mud-covered vehicle with clean windows shining in the hot sun.

Brian bounced out of the Chevy to greet a sloppily dressed, bald man with a filthy grey beard that touched the middle of his flat stomach. Slowly opening the door, Marie placed one foot on the gravel ground. A whiff of some sweet fragrance whirled around her nose. Seeing nothing from which the scent could have originated from, she ambled over to Brian who finished speaking to the old man and was waiting for her to approach.

"Marie," he called. "It's all set up. Frank's going to do the flying. We'll be putting our parachutes on in the plane."

She nodded, eyes pleading for him to give her a way out, but he was already striding toward the small aircraft. She reluctantly followed and struggled to enter the tiny craft. The engine roared, and she could feel the vibrations jump throughout her body.

"Who packed the chutes?" she asked as Brian helped put her's on.

"I did, of course," he said.

Their eyes locked for a moment. Be broke the communication to 31

talk to Frank up front, leaving Marie to sit alone with the chute uncomfortably on her back.

Her fear increased in those few seconds. Be packed the chute.

Did she trust him that much? Why should she? They had been engaged for almost a year, and she caught him cheating on her three times already. She also tried to cheat on him twice for revenge but couldn't go through with it. Brian didn't know about her attempts.

She was almost positive about that. And, she was sure he didn't know that she found out about his affairs. Marie just didn't know if she loved him anymore, but Brian was all she had. She just wasn't able to live in loneliness like that before Brian came along. She was trapped.

Brian gestured to Marie to come forward to him. Unsteadily, she staggered over.

"Get ready. In a few minutes will be over the jump spot," he shouted above the engine.

Marie nodded and sat back down at the back of the plane. She began to panic. Did he know about her attempted affairs? Would he fix the chute to not open? She didn't want to die alone.

Brian's jacket laid next to her. Quickly, she fished out the pocketknife he kept in his front pocket. With her eyes fixed on Brian's back, she clumsily cut partway through the pull cord of his chute. Beads of sweat formed on Marie's forehead and on the bridge of her nose as she struggled with the knife and cord.

While folding the knife back into its original form, Marie sliced her forefinger. Automatically the finger went into her mouth, and she could taste the sweet saltiness of the blood. She prayed Brian wouldn't check his chute before the jump.

Brian turned and walked back to her to put on his parachute. He gave a strange look at the sweaty figure sucking a finger.

"Come to the hatch. It's time to jump," he extended his hand.

Breathing rapidly, Marie stared at the spotted pink palm facing her. She stood and steadied her body by placing her palms on the aircraft's metal ceiling. Finally, Marie grabbed his hand with her own wet hand. Brian laughed once and rolled his eyes.

"I don't understand why you're so scared. It's so easy. And you have a parachute packed by me. So don't worry."

"I'm not," she shouted. "You love me, right?"

Intently staring at the tiny marked spot on the desert ground, Brian didn't seem to hear her question.

"Ready?"

Her eyes watering, her bottom lip pulling into her mouth, Marie's mind raced, searching for new excuses to escape from this doomed event.

"Okay, okay. We'll count to three." Brian lined up with Marie next to him and slightly ahead. "One, two, three."

Marie jumped. Her eyes closed, and her stomach flipped upsidedown. The pressure of the air prevented Marie from screaming loudly. Finally, Marie glanced out of the corner of her eyes at Brian. Smiling, his teeth white against his tan face, he made a motion for her to pull the chute release.

Marie's heart skipped a couple beats. She was so afraid, didn't 32

he see that? He didn't care. Brian never cared about what she thought! She was to going die but at least not alone. She would never be alone again.

Marie saw that Brian's main chute wasn't opening. She sighed to herself, relieved that she cut the right cord, and lightly pulled her own chute. Her eyes widened, and she screamed as the open chute caught the air and yanked her body into a slow decline. This was not what she had planned to happen.

As she floated downward toward the marked spot, she watched Brian plummet past her. Be was busy trying to unjam his emergency cord.

It opened about fifty feet from the ground. Brian tumbled roughly into the sand, kicking up dust, and landing in a heap with the parachute tangled around his body.

Marie's body landed softly on the ground next to Brian. She rushed over to Brian's twisted, silent form.

"Brian?" she whispered and poked him in the shoulder. "Brian, answer me. Are you okay?"

A moan strained from the back of his throat. Marie's eyes teared. He was alive? Be couldn't have survived that fall.

Glancing around the area of Brian's body, Marie noticed that they were encircled by gigantic rock formations. Frank would not be able to land the plane inside the formations. Marie suddenly became aware of the airplane circling high above the scene. Watching it, Marie understood that Frank was trying to land it behind a large rock formation on the other side of where Brian laid bleeding.

Marie's eyes glimpsed at a large, sharp edged rock near her.

Her eyebrows frowned along with the rest of her face in anger.

With a long hypnotising stare at the rock, Marie's mind left her body. Angrily, her hands grasped the large rock. It's points pricked the delicate skin of her palms. She dragged it over to Brian. The rock was about the same size of his entire head.

Marie saw that Frank disappeared behind one of the rocks that enclosed her and Brian. Slowly, Marie lifted the rock onto her bent knee. Like a weight lifter, in tiny steps up her body, Marie finally held the rock high above her head. Brian moaned once and hearing the annoying sound of his pitiful voice, angered Marie even more. With all of her strength, she hurled the heavy rock at Brian's head, which cracked and gushed blood immediately. Marie, then, pushed Brian onto his stomach and placed the rock under what looked like his broken misplaced nose and chin.

She stood and backed away from Brian's dead form. Frank appeared, running and waving his arms madly above him. Marie began to saunter over to Frank and stopped when he grabbed her arm.

"What happened? Is he alive? Are you hurt? Jesus Christl Is he dead?"

Marie looked at Frank. ''Be's dead, Frank. His head hit a boulder and split open."

Frank saw that her eyes were glossed over in shock or grief. "I don't understand what happened." Be covered his eyes with the palm of his filthy, greasy hand. "Do you know for sure that he's dead?

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I'm going take his pulse." Frank started to jog over to the body.

Stopping, he called back to Marie who was walking over to the aircraft. "Are you sure you are okay?"

Marie continued toward the plane. "I'm fine, Frank. Just fine."

Kristine Dassinger

TRANQUILITY Without shades it is impossible to see anything on this sea of crystalline beauty.

The sun blinds all in its reflection, the horizon is enveloped in fire.

Not so much as a tree can be seen in any direction •••• This is the Arctic.

Standing atop a mountain of glacial ice a soft breeze connects me to the world far, far below.

Silence reigns-but for our intrusion, up here there is little confusion peaceful tranquility purrs.

We climb back into our Choppers to flee this place of peaceof beautyof Raw, Untamed Power.

-Dan Brinson

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"Enchanted Forest" - Lori Campbell

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On the Virtue of Vice non-fiction essay I was driving home half-cocked last night after a stint as barkeep at this funky little establishment in Richardton--ten hours of drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and carousing with wild women--when I spotted what I thought might be a hallucination. I stopped; sometimes hallucinations can be interesting.

It was an older model sedan, purple with four doors, slumped over into a snow-filled ditch, hazard lights flashing.

I propped my beer carefully against the seat and stumbled out the door, spilling the beer and falling down in the process.

I might have cussed once or twice.

An elderly couple sat in the car, generic looking--white-haired and wrinkled--patiently waiting to be pulled out. The man was wheezing heavily.

I handed him the inhaler that too many cigarettes have required me to carry and tossed her the blanket I keep in the truck in case some pretty young lady doesn't want to get dirty in my rather dirty truck.

I told them I'd have them pulled out shortly. I get stuck quite often, drinking and driving, and so am experienced in these matters.

And I did. I strapped the chain between the undercarriage of their car and the tow hook on my truck and a few jerks later they were safely back on the road and ready to be merrily on their way.

Well, not exactly. First they wanted to pay me, and when I wouldn't accept that, insisted on calling me a Saint for fifteen minutes, an Angel for another ten.

And so I stood there, freezing my drunk head thinking of expressions like Saint Budweiser, Saint Marlboro, the Angelic Host of Latex Condoms, because that is why I was where I was, doing what I was doing.

I wonder if they have any cute granddaughters?

K.C. Hanson

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,.

Story of Creation As Told by Crazy Uncle Pete In a galaxy a wonderfully long distance away, there was a tiny, green planet that orbited around a pair of bright, cheery stars in a figure eight pattern. This was a very tricky thing for a body of mass to do in respect to the universal laws of physics, but this planet managed to pull it off nicely, and thus it was almost constantly bathed in a phenomenally perfect tone of toasty sunlight. The few primitive humanoid inhabitants of the planet enjoyed this arrangement immensely and praised Curtis, their only god, for creating such splendidness.

The rest of the planet, though, was quite destitute of such splendidness and could even be said to be completely unsplendid.

Except for a few marvelous lakes, formed by natural springs and a couple of hills, the landscape was void of any distinguishing geographical features. It was invariably covered by a bluish-green grass which, unsplendidly, was the only species of flora on the entire planet. It grew to the height of the native's ankles and was very soft and luxurious, which was good, as the natives hadn't invented footwear yet.

There was only one species of fauna that existed, and that was a type of freshwater fish that dwelled in the marvelous spring lakes. They were not breathtakingly big, nor impressively small, nor flamboyantly colored; they were just normal, gray fish that happily swam here and there. While swimming here and there, they often stopped to cannibalize each other. Needless to say 1 this species of fish possessed the ability to multiply astronomically fast.

Evolution on the planet had seemed to take a few wrong turns or maybe some bad directions at some point because it ended up somewhere in the backwaters of the genetic pools.

The natives, which numbered only seventy-three do to slow reproductive cycles and somewhat short life spans, were concentrated in a settlement which they called Hool. 1 To survive, 1

Long ago, the various nomadic tribes of the planet reached a consensus to consolidate and form a single settlement next to a large, boringly round body of freshwater. They had discovered that being nomadic was extremely pointless on a planet such as theirs, where every place was just as astoundingly drab as the next. As legend has it, the natives were divided over what the new settlement was to be named. On a planet where roughly nothing happens, this was a sizeable crisis. At any rate, a lengthy tribal war ensued. Through many meetings and exchanges of rather neat rocks and other gifts, the various tribes made a compromise: as they couldn't think of a mutually acceptable name, they decided to call the colony Bool (when literally translated from their language, means "town by the lake") as it was a name that they all agreed to hate. The lake was then called Boolthak (literally, "town by the lake lake") a name which they thoroughly despised, and all was well.

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they effectively utilized what little nature there was to their advantage. Sod chunks and rocks, which were never in short supply, were used to make round little huts. The more artistic natives coated their huts with a smooth layer of mud on which they etched various decorative scenes such as a fish eating grass; a big fish eating a smaller fish; a native eating a fish; or, in more abstract etchings, sod eating a fish. Curtis was sometimes etched on their huts also, but they didn't exactly know what he looked like, so he was usually portrayed as a nonspecific blob.

As important as grass was, fish were doubly so. The natives dined exclusively on fish and were always lean, if not from the sheer wholesomeness of fish, then from trying to get by with eating as little of the bland tasting meat as possible. Bones from fish were used to make various trinkets, toiletries, and tools. The native men wore kilts, and the native women wore wraparounds; all fashioned from attractive fish hide.

Fish were caught using a very ancient, refined method. The native men waded in to the water and waited motionlessly to grab any unsuspecting fish passing by. The fish were all basically unsuspecting, as they were not exactly teeming with wit, but the men prided themselves on their catches nonetheless.

While the men mucked about in the Boolthak most of the day, frequently dipping their heads underwater to see if there were any fish about, the women, in turn, spent the day turning fish carcasses or grass into useful material. The children of the village did what they could to help with the chores of living, and when they weren't doing this, they usually swam in the lake, chased each other, or beat each other up, as there wasn't much else to do.

Living conditions on the planet were supremely optimal. The weather was routinely mild and sunny; in fact, instances of light rain were terrifically exciting for the natives. Food and water were always in ample supply thanks to the bountifulness of the Boolthak. There were no predatory animals, dangerous insects, or nasty plants.

All things considered, the lives of the Hoolish people were amazingly dull.

There was one thing that the natives did have to relieve the monotony of their lives, though, and that was Wogum. 2 During this day of festivities, the native men held a contest to see who could catch the most fish, the winner receiving a new fish-skull mug or an equally wonderful prize. After the contest was finished, the women gathered to gossip, trade recipes, and prepare a feast from the mounds of nutritious fish that were caught. Children frolicked about the whole day and participated in various traditional games, 2

Wogum: in Hoolish means "happily recurrent day ... The natives had initially meant for this day of festivities to take place once a year, but, since the years and months were somewhat undefined, as the sun never set, they simply decided to wait what seemed to be a long time in between Wogums. A "long time 11 usually turned out to be a week or so.

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\•

such as flump 3 , smert4 , and especially slarpo5 • It so happened that during one Wogum, something completely unexpected occurred. A large spherical object landed in the middle of the village. It was silvery, shiny, and big. The natives, having little experience with things in color or shiny in texture, were very impressed, the women especially so. They were so taken by the silvery, shiny object that they didn't even notice that it had completely crushed most of their huts and not to mention Crug, one of Hool's more accomplished fishermen.

Fork, the village's sage, stroked the long hairs of his white beard and stared at the object. Fork was very knowledgeable of things like the One-Eyed Talking Fish, which supposedly lived in the Hoolthak, and the elusive Sod Creature that appeared from time to time. He was even knowledgeable of things he knew nothing about.

He was a very good sage.

Fork hobbled over to the object and rapped on it with his old, yellow fish-spine cane. It made a hollow metallic ping noise with each rap. This amazed the natives, as they had never heard things like pings much less metallic pings. The natives stared in awe as Fork circumvented the object, tapping on it as he went. Suddenly there was a loud whooshing sound as a small hatch opened in the top of the sphere. Fork backed away from the object quickly and shook his cane at it in an attempt to convince the natives he had conjured the hatch open. As Fork shook his cane and made little circles in the air with it, he secretly hoped that something would happen soon to make him look good.

Fork conjured and waited. Nothing happened. He conjured some more. Nothing. Then, just as his arms began to fatigue, a green skinned creature with a big galooty nose and three purple eyes emerged from the hatch.

The natives all presumed that this was Curtis who had emerged.

They fell to their knees. Fork, wanting to make a good impression, grabbed a fish, tossed it towards the creature as an offering, then prostrated himself. The creature, who had been looking the other way, did not see the badly thrown fish which struck him in the rightmost eye, but he did see the cringing, guilty looking face of Fork and vaporized him with his Vapo-Master Model 3000 Centennial Edition Ray Gun. Despite what the natives of Hool thought, the green skinned creature with the big galooty nose and three purple eyes was not Curtis. His name was Jerb, and in his free time he enjoyed hunting Greater Slarths in the Bamuella Sector, racing his starship, a topof-the-line Planoopa Lounger, and frequenting bars.

But unfortunately for the natives, he was not there for pleasure, he was there for business.

3

Kick the fish.

4

Kick the sod clump.

5

Kick a random person in the shins and run.

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Jerb was a real estate agent from the planet Garmth. Garmth was mostly desert and completely unfortunate.

Garmthians were genetically predisposed to be persistent insurance salesmen, cutthroat lawyers, or sly real estate agents. The insurance agents on Garmth spent most of their lives trying to convince the lawyers and real estate agents to pay them for accidents that they may never get in. The real estate agents spent more of their lives trying to sell useless desert property to the lawyers and insurance salesmen. The lawyers spent most of their lives suing real estate agents over useless desert property that they bought and telling the insurance salesmen to get off their desert property before they sued them. Garmth was a wholly miserable planet, and no one in the galaxy ever went their for vacation.

It had never occurred to the natives of Hool that a ruthless creature like Jerb could exist. They began to suspect something was wrong when the creature who they had presumed to be Curtis transformed Fork into a patch of black, crusty matter. This was a truly devastating loss for the natives. Never again would they hear stories about the Extinction of the Poisonous Wumpbats.

After taking a few notes, Jerb ducked back into his ship, closed the hatch, then sped off noiselessly into space. He departed as mysteriously as he had arrived.

Jerb was very excited about the unclaimed planet he had found.

He soon sold the planet to the Hurglers, a charming couple from the planet Mopulent, who happened to be looking for a spot to spend their winters. The Hurglers added a few mountains, streams, valleys, oceans, and rivers, among other things, to spruce up the otherwise dull planet. They installed animals, and, since Mrs. Hurgler had a fondness for such things, a host of microorganisms.

With an Instant Lunar Body Kit, they gave it a moon. They even did away with one sun and added eight more planets to the solar system.

The Hurglers had pondered exterminating the natives, but they decided that they weren't hurting anything and kept them. The Hurglers named their summer home after their Vlugulleran Thub Hound, Earth.

The Hurglers seldom visited Earth, and it fell into a state of disrepair. The natives proliferated and took over the entire planet. They are going to will it to their son, Chuck.

David Brauhn

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"Hmm ••• " - Rochelle Raan

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On the Virtue of Vice non-fiction essay The world has never been in black and white. Everything appears in shades of one color or another. Therefore, it is difficult to say whether or not a thing is right or wrong, or good or bad, without understanding the circumstances from which it originated.

To further clarify this point, consider the common "vice." A vice can be consider an evil and immoral practice or habit. Lying, cheating, stealing, and selling oneself for financial gain, might all be considered vices. Yet, colored in a different shade, each of these vices might also be considered a virtue.

A classic tale of Robin Hood describes how a vice might be regarded as a virtue. Although Robin Hood stole from the rich, he gave these goods to the poor and was honored for doing so. The vice of stealing did not carry a negative connotation considering the motive which prompted the action.

So what is a "virtue?" It can be described as an exceptional quality in a person, such as honestly and righteousness.

Impulsively, we might label such traits as assets. But there is such a thing as too much honesty and overbearing righteousness.

Historically, there are many examples of virtues turned to vices. The missionaries sent to convert natives of uncharted territories had the intention of saving souls in the eyes of the church. Instead, however, they introduced corruption, disease, and a lack of respect for culture and heritage. This is just one example of a good deed gone sour.

Looking at vices and virtues and virtues and vices in a logical manner cannot be done. Contrary to popular opinion, there is not a distinct boundary between the two . Nor is there a clearly defined point at which one becomes the other. In other words, there is nothing exactly black and white.

Kathleen Privratsky

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WATERFALL my dream of you and i and all else . thunder purrs and mists glide in circles overhead, nary flap of a wing. water leaps the edgedaring the romance of the moment, to embrace love, midair.

But unto below the soft fall is broken, by unforgiving arms of stone. the water scolds the rock with bitter regret and pain, as love's brief, precious life, -is dashed yet again.

-Jeremy Ledahl

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EPILOGUE K.C. Hanson

In a way, it is very fitting that Kris should write the opening and I the closing of this magazine because what lies between is the product of our many disagreements. I particularly enjoyed, while doing my semi-final edits, noticing there was little here we actually agreed upon. I wonder if either of us was right on anything.

Perhaps that is the benefit of having more than one editor and such a myriad of contributors--the whole becomes somewhat a damned mess, and thus creates a more complete picture of the University we suppose to represent.

I think most will agree it is a fitting and positive picture, full of the diversity of the individual and the support of the Community. We received serious and funny poetry, western and archaic, rhymed, unrhymed and strange metrical arrangements. The prose and visual art were similarly diverse.

And of course there is always the question of money when you are trying to keep a magazine growing. We talked of selling advertisements and even possibly selling magazines. In the end we turned to the local business community, to whom we are extremely grateful. They are largely responsible for the color cover, which is not cheap.

I guess for this whole I have many to thank, Doc Solheim and the contributors, the University, and the students who go here, the businesses and individuals who supported us, but most of all I should probably thank Kris--for making this whole thing near unbearable and very entertaining.

We hope you have enjoyed the read.

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