Impressions 1998

Impressions 1998

Editor in Chief Kristine R. Dassinger Assistant Editor K.C. Hanson

Faculty Advisor

Dr. David Solheim

Copyright 1998 by the editors of Impressions. All future rights to material published in this literary anthology belong to the individual authors, and any reproduction or reprinting of this material may be done with their permission.

Table of Contents

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Insideout (photo) by Paula Rebsom ............................................................................. front cover Little Sister (photo) by Kristine Dassinger -----------------------------I Welcome All by Dan Brinson--------------------------------------------------- 2 Behind My Easel by Eric L indblad------------------------------------------------------ 2 Untitled (photo) by Heather Kransky ------------------------------------ 3 Another's Lust by Ryan Divish --------------------------------------- 4 The Darkest Hour by Ruth Woiwode - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 4 Untitled (phmo) by Shelley Raan --------5 Prairie Grass by Robyn A. Nelson - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 6 Full Moon by Billie Jo Lorius ---------------------------- 7 Peaches and Glass Jar by Barbara Bolton ----------------------- 8 S.O.T.A. by David Craigo----------------------------------------------- 8 Untitled by Barbara Bolton---------------------------------------------- 9 Untitled by Rhonda Hecker------------------------------------------------ 10 The Abandoning of Mr. Man by Kristine Dassinger ------------------------- ll The Man with a Wicker Basket by Eric Lindblad --------------------------- 13 Monoprint by Shelly Raan ------------------------------------------14 Untitled (poem) by Darren D. Dvorak-------------------------15 New Car by Barbara Bolton -------15 Untitled (photo) by Amy Long -----------------------16 Three Cubes Worth by K.C. Hanson------------------------ 17 I Have Walked Far by Benjamin Solheim------------------------------ 18 Night Watch (photo) by Paula Rebsom ------------------------------------19 The Way to Knowledge by Dan Brinson -----------------------------------------20 Allie by Brian Michaels -------------------------------------------------20 Child Watching a Move by Barbara Bolton ----------------------------------21 Untitled (photo) by Rachelle Kadrmas -------------------------------------21 Silent from Loud by Shelly ------------ 22 Abuse by Billie Jo Lori us------------------22 The Addiction by Codie L. Parson - - - - - - - - -----------23 Untitled (sketching) by Ruth Woiwode ---------------------------------- 24 Screaming without Mouths by Charles W. Bauer --------------------------25 Morning Rain by Benjamin Solbeim------------------------------------- 27 Angle in Flight by &lee Steckler ------------------------------------27 Educated Man by K.C. Hanson -----------------------------------------------------28 A Pinhole View (photo) by Shelly Raan ------------------------------------------------28 Sling by Charles Bauer ----------------------------------------- 28 Untitled (sketching) by Michaela Mitzel ------------------29 Mouth to Mouth-60s Style by David Craigo-------- - - - - - - - - - - - 30 # l by Charles Bauer------------ - - 31 I Formally Argue that I am a Bean by David Brauhn --32 Water Snake (photo) by Kristine Dassinger --------------------------------33 Three Bags of Sweetner by Eric Lindblad --------------------------------------34 Walks by Donnie Y. Hodson ----------------------------------------------- 34 Critical Essay by Heather Kransky --------------------------------------------------35 Oppression of IGn (photo) by Jill Lindsay ------¡------------------------------------------ 38 The Odd Boule by Mindy Lynam --------------------------------------------- 39 One More Sip by Ryan Divish --------------------------------------42 Ecstasy by K.C. Hanson - - - - - - - - - - - - - ---------------42 UntiLled by Amy Long -----------------43 Epilogue ---------------------- 44

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* Denotes first place winner in student contest. # Denotes honorable mentions in student contest.

Prologue Welcome to Impressions 1998! I hope you enjoy the read.

Some new ideas have gone into lrnpressions 1998. First, this year's anthology was created on PageMaker rather than WordPerfect. Surprisingly, it wasn't difficult to cross computer programs. I don't know why we didn't think of this earlier. Second, to my pleasure, Impressions 1998 has more art, especially photographs, than the last three magazines I've done. Thank you to all those budding artists and photographers out there who decided to showcase their talents.

A special thanks to Mr. David Richmond, professor of art here at DSU. It was with your help that we were able to add pictures to the words. Also, thank you to The Western Concepl, Dr. Stephen Robbins, and Robert Lynam. You helped us out in our time of need on Impressions 1997. Plus, I promised Rob I'd mention my thanks in the 1998 anthology.

Another thank you to Dr. Solheim for letting me run wild with this magazine. Under your guidance throughout the years, I think I'm finally getting the hang of doing this.

A extra special thanks to my assistant editor, K.C. You've pulled through my worries, complaints, and wonder with grace and patience. This year went smoother since you started using your good taste and agreeing with me on major decisions. Just kidding, K.C.! I pass the torch of Editor to you for 1999. I hope you find someone crazy enough to work with you. This someone should be as stubborn as you. Good decisions come from good arguments, and I' 11 miss those discussions.

As for me, this is my last year at good ol' DSU. I've loved the experiences I've had and the people I've met. Thank you Dr. Robbins, Dr. Laman, Dr. Wheeler. Dr. Solheim, Herr Oberlander, Heather, Rob, and K.C. for pushing me to strive higher and teaching me to think and have fun at the same time.

Finally, thanks to all of you who contributed to Impressions this year and previous years. Without you, l wouldn' t have the enjoyment of creating a magazine each year. I appreciate all of your talent and hard work that went into every piece submitted.

Enjoy!

Kris Dassinger editor in chief

Little Sister (black-and-white photo)

Knstme R. Dassmger

WELCOME ALL. Last evening, as I sought the face of God, my rabbit friends paid me a visit.

Sitting quietly a few yards from me as 1 knelt on the lawn, they watched me intently as 1 conversed with God. A mist enveloped us; a cold and quiet moon overshadowed us.

I raised my palms into the chilled air, and bid my friends welcome.

Welcome every winged creature!

Welcome every furry beast' Welcome all who run and crawl and spring across the budding grass!

Welcome, I cried, in the name of Jesus Christ.

Welcome to my yard.

You are safe here, l informed them as ifthey hadn't already known You will not be trapped here!

You will not be shot here!

You will not be chased away!

Welcome, my friends, Welcome

-Dan Brinson

BEfllND MY EASEL Sitting in the comer of a crowded room, gently kissing an ice cube, finding comfort in not finding any comfort at aU. I am God Damn sick and tired of being stuck behind my easel, I am desperately wanting to be part of a painting.

Maybe it is just not that easy.

Letting another night suck me into its charm I am sinking into warm, warm water, and never trying to float.

--Eric Lindblad

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Untitled (black-and-white photo) Heather Kransky

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ANOTHER'S LUST I see it in the way she walks, The way she moves, looks, and talks.

I can no longer bring a smile.

She looks at me with hate and vile.

Nothing I do will change her mind, Disappointment and Anger have left her blind.

I beg and plead for her faith and trust, But aiJ was lost in another's lust.

Betrayal in love, she cannot forgive.

Alone and forsaken, Why try to live?

--Ryan Divish

THE DARKEST HOUR lt's as though I'm in a dark, dark tunnel.

I know there must be a way out, But I can't see the Light It's been a long time. Maybe there's A bend ahead that I'm coming around That's hiding the light up ahead. Maybe. l don't have that trust or assurance that I used To have. It's been so long I feel the tears come To my eyes and they bum and then slip out onto my lashes Where they grow cold and evaporate. I wish more would come To soothe my eyes and my heart, but the few that fell remain Alone. So similar to me. I feeJ so old--so old, and think I have Cried myself to sleep one too many times.

Maybe all this is a sad, sad dream, and I'll wake to hope, But it's been so long. I don't care much anymore. l keep on because I have no choice, and it's expected of me, But it's slowly quenching the fire I once thought I possessed--of youthful hopes, ambitions and dreams I feel as though 1 went to sleep a child once and woke up terribly Aged without the knowledge of when or why.

Someday, I shall be released--of that one fact I have a confident hope

-Ruth Woiwode

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Untitled (black-and-white photo)

Shelley Raan

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Prairie Grass Robyn Annette Nelson Wind through the prairie grass is how I think of us. Gently flowing and wavering in the sun where the hills and sky meet. That wind can blow us in any direction and our roots are tangled and knotted, knots like in my chest again tonight. It is just an old feeling that hasn't quite died yet. It is a feeling like someone is trying to beat the soil out of my roots and in the process they are ripping them apart.

1 know that feeling all too well but there is no reason for it now. No reason to stay up wondering what happened, no reason to let my imagination run away with me. That is all in the past and yet it still stays with me.

I keep hoping that the wind will blow me from the past and yet I am afraid to let it go. The past is a shelter to me where I don't have to live. I just am. The more I let the wind blow me the more I get caught in it. That way I don't have to face the future. I can just live in the past and fret about the future. Then when the future becomes now and I have to face it, I can blame it on the past. Just one more knot for my roots.

I get up from the table where I am reading that old tattered book and like a continuous sqeaking of a windmill, I put on a pot of coffee. I can't help it. He liked coffee. Anyway, that is what I tell myself but it's not really the reason l do it anymore. It's just another way to let the wind keep pushing me back to the past where things were "better." Times when I would joke about "coffee" with an up sweep in my voice that gave it a silly accent.

He and I were always together. From the very beginning of our meeting we had been friends-best friends. Nothing could keep us apart and our little spats were minor. It seemed like those spats almost always led back to the poison that just doesn't kill the roots, it kills the whole grass. It was such a minor part of life. Who cared? Well, I did care. But, it was a subject that if ever was brought up was blamed on the past.

See, here I go again, blaming the past.

Through the window I can see the sun rising over the wavering grasses in the pasture, dried and cracked from the summer heat. My hand reaches for the tea. 1 have to have tea every morning-he always made me tea in the morning.

1 sat down at the flowered tablecloth that covers the plain wooden table with spindly legs. This was what he had always wanted-a house after he settled down to provide for his family. It would be as this one is, down a track road set in some hills with a little creek nearby to fish in. The sound of children's voices running wild through the hills and horses everywhere. My mare with a brand new perfect baby by her side.

None of that is here though : no laughter, no horses except my old lonely mare. I can't bare to start raising and training a colt. 1 know it would never be as good as his were.

It was like someone had planted us together side-by-side. One of us would grow a little faster at times than the other Maybe the wind would blow against us in different directions for a while but there we were always planted side-by-side. I'd do this for him and he would give me that.

Sometimes it would rain on us, and on rare occasion, he would shelter me and I would feel safe next to him Usually he had no shelter to give because he was too busy trying to fight off the poison that swelled in his roots Me, 1just stood planted next to him ready to jump in when he gave me the go ahead l loved to watch him work. He made it look so natural and so simple. I loved to watch him sleep

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That was when the wind would die down and not even a breeze could touch us.

That was how we went on-coffee and tea; working and sleeping. While his stalk of grass was growing and maturing, silently his roots were weakening.

The knot in my chest would swell some nights but all was fine in the morning or every now and then, a few days. Even if the knot had anger in it, the smile he bore with the gentle touch of powerful hands always quelled the knot. His voice, so soft it could barely be heard, would soothe me when I felt that all was going wrong. We both looked to the past and blamed the here and now on the then and there.

Then one day it was like we had been uprooted and someone was pulling our intertwined roots apart. I tried to hold on with all my power but his roots were too weak to hold onto mine when they began beating the soil out of us. He was gone, this bright growing stalk Alii had held onto was a few pieces of his roots. But of course they were dead now~ ruined by the poison. The strong stalk was broken and the almost mature head of grass would never ripe in the sun.

The prairie wind doesn't blow through broken grass and it will never wave through his hair again as he teaches his young colts.

FULL MOON At the end, The darkness breaks And scatters into A million gleaming stars.

The heavy mist Breathes out undefined Shadows.

The steady pulse of The night thumps In the wind.

Nightmares are flirting Within the mind.

Things that the day Is sure of leaps From the soul, While the unknown Lurks in every Comer ofthe Eye.

--Billie Jo Lorius

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PEACHES AND GLASS JAR (poem for wall painting from Herculaneum. c. 50 A.D. Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Naples) One tart bite offlesh exposes core and pit above liquid reflections of melted sand.

Frozen unripe specimens now slightly cracked lie between furled leaves against the grains rubbed raw.

Painted with shadows and stripes oflight an unknown artist left us broken bough, broken stem.

--Barbara Bolton

S.O.T.A.* *Staving Off the Aging

David Craigo The other day some fool asked me why I was going back to school at my age. Good grief: Charlie Brown! That's like asking why the Coast Guard didn't rescue the Minnow :SO crew from Gilligan's Island How the bell do I know? Tbey went out on a one hour charter and are still there thirty years Ia ter Thirty years ago l decided to take a short break from school. I just made it back. It took a long time to make up my mind .

What do I want to do with my life? Well, I'm glad l have a shot at living to see a tum-of-the-century.

There's o nly been nineteen of those so far and not everyone gets a chance to witness such a momentous occasion. Just as long as some computer doesn 't void me out.

If I make it to the year 2000, I still might have enough left in me to throw a big, rousing turn-of-thecentury party. lfi survive that, then I'll sit down and actually consider what to do with my life. lt shouldn't be too tough. The most difficult circumstance will be learning how to count in yen.

Other than that, much of what my life has been won't change at all. Elvis will still be buying his Ovaltine at the grocery store in Kentucky. The federal deficit will have grown to the point where we have to sell North Dakota back to the Canadians. Louie, Louie will have been recorded three more times, making a grand total of sixteen times the rock ' n roll tune has been recorded in my lifetime. And the Skipper and his little buddy? They will still be there on the island with Ginger and Mary Ann. On this side of paradise, there are so many fascinating questions still to be answered. Why is it called a " monkey wrench?" How did Hookers get their name? Why did Ginger take all those fancy dresses with her on a one hour cruise? With AARP card in hand, I press on to find the answers. After that l think the rest of my life's work should consist of doing nothing. That way, I will never have to worry about when I should be finished.

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Untitled Rhonda Hecker

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The Abandoning of Mr. Man Kristine R. Dassinger List 74

* nice, thick hair - beautiful to touch

* lovely smile - brightens a room

* healthy, peachy skin - at least most of the month

* my heart hasn't given out on me yet!

My mamma always told me to make a list of all my good qualities whenever I felt sad. That was before she died in a car crash two years ago on my eleventh birthday. I wrote my first list that night, crying in my room. One quality that always worked its way onto my list was "nice, thick hair- beautiful to touch."

1 live with my older brother, Bradley, and our father who we call Mr. Man but not to his face, of course. Mr Man is an absolute asshole. Believe me, living with him without mamma for two years has given me plenty of time to judge this man. Since mamma's death, Mr. Man has turned into a public drunk- public in front of Bradley and me, that is. I have never seen Mr. Man drink before mamma died, but l always knew he was a drunk.

Bradley and I take care of each other though. He's extremely protective and loving. Bradley is beaten only if he interferes between the fights Mr. Man and I have almost every night. I wouldn't mind the beatings so much if Mr. Man would just not hit me in the face. It is so hard to explain to your eighth-grade English teacher why your eyes and cheeks are the colors of a deep, rich plum.

I am writing "List 74" here, just before midnight, in my room again, but rm not crying this time. In fact, it's a pretty long list for me. Since my doctor changed my medications for my heart condition, I've been feeling pretty good. However, I honestly do not know why I write these lists. I don't feel any better after; somehow I feel smaller and weaker.

1 filed "List 74" in an old, tom shoebox under my bed along with "Lists 1 to 73," waiting for Bradley to come in for our late night discussions, which started the night after our mamma died.

Mr. Man doesn't allow us to really talk to each other anymore. He is always interrupting us in order to yell at me for I don't know what - probably just for being alive. Therefore, Bradley and I talk after hours when Mr. Man falls asleep in a drunken state of unconsciousness. ''Mattie?"

Glancing up at my paint-chipped white door, I made out the black-shadowlike form of my brother "Come on in. Bradley You know the door 's always open."

Bradley slowly made his way over to my bed, side-stepping a pile of dirty clothing I planned to wash tomorrow after my 11 :00 hair appointment with Betty.

The mattress bounced five times like usual as Bradley positioned himself on my bed, covering up with the blue and purple quilt I made in home economics last year. ''So, what should we talk about tonight?" I asked. "The end of the world?" I smiled a bit and gave him a wink Bradley didn't smile back at my usual pun on our life in Mr. Man's household. Instead, he began twisting the arm of Mr. Fuzz, my raggedly, thirteen-year-old stuffed turtle that mamma bought for me.

It didn't even have its googily-eyes anymore that moved in different and silly directions when you shook him. ¡'What's wrong?" I said. ''I got something to tell ya that will make ya hate me," Bradley said, untwisting and, then again, 11

twisting Mr Fuzz's arm "Huh?" 1 gently touched the bottom of his chin, causing him to look at me. "Just say it."

Bradley breathed in deeply and held it for about half a minute, causing me to do the same.

"Mattie" He let the full, warm air of his breath hit me in the forehead. "I'm leaving tomorrow."

I frowned and felt my face tighten. "What? Where? What are you going to do?" "l got a job with a construction company," Bradley's eyes began to sparkle a bit, something I haven't seen since he taught me how to swing nine years ago. " They don't even mind that I'm only seventeen and haven't graduated from high school yet" Bradley then rested his callused palm on my knee and leaned over to me "Mattie, the only catch is that it's in a different state. l would have to move."

I just sat there, watching him twist and untwist Mr Fuzz's damn ann. "What about me?" I managed to finally whisper ¡'Listen, Mattie l got it all worked out. I'll take the job and when I make enough money, I'll write ya, sending enough for ya to move in with me."

I said nothing. Just sat, enjoying Mr. Fuzz's mutilation.

'Come on, Mattie. Th1s can work It's the only chance I, we, got." Bradley paused, touching the bottom of my chin now, causing me to look into his eyes.

"Ya mad at me. Mattie? I'd hate to leave tomorrow morning having ya all mad at me and everything ..

"No, I'm not angry." [smiled a bit to show I still loved him "I just wish I could leave Mr. Man behind me, too Who's going to protect me when he gets really angry?"

1 saw Bradley wince a bit Tknow it hurts him to see me alone with Mr. Man. I know Bradley loves me. And L know he truly believes his little, perfect plan will work.

"Go. Bradley. Then send for me. l can take care of myself" I paused. "However, 1 have onerequest."

"What? Anything?"

"Don't write me until you can send the money for me, okay?" That's the only way I figured Bradley wouldn't know that I would be gone, too- only he wouldn't be able to find me where I was going.

Bradley frowned "Okay If that's what you want, l guess" Bradley put his left foot on my floor, preparing to leave. " Hug?" His arms reached for me.

"Hug." I reached back Turning as he opened my door, I heard him whisper faintly, "I love ya, sis." He closed the door I wept softly into my pillow, waiting for exhaustion to sooth me. Now, two people I love have left me behind

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I awoke the next morning to a dull, tightening headache and my brother's empty bed Mr Man was still sleeping behind hls locked door. I laid my body on Bradley's neatly-made bed and cried

List 75 * nice, thick hair - beautiful to touch * loving my brother more than life itself Glancing at Bradley's digital clock, the bright red numbers showed that I had only ten minutes to get 12

to my 11 :00 hair appointment with my stylist, Betty.

I placed "List 75" with "Lists 1 to 74" under my bed. Quickly I tiptoed, careful not to wake Mr. Man, into the bathroom and opened the medicine chest. My fingers skipped over the different bottles of pills, grasping an expired bottle of some ofmy heart medicine. Tears formed in the comers of my eyes as I tried not to think about Bradley but only of mamma.

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I dashed into "Split Decision," the salon where Betty works, twenty minutes late. " Girl, T'm gonna have to buy you a watch. No, two! You is always late, girl," Betty greeted me.

I had trouble forming my facial muscles into a smile. I couldn't focus, and my eyes blurred. Slumping down into the chair in order for Betty to wash my hair, 1 closed my eyes. I hoped I took enough pills to, as they say, do the job. Peace filled my head until I felt like it would exploded. My heart was beating rapidly; I felt it pumping and pounding in my veins and arteries. Betty's gentle hands shampooed my scalp; her words echoed through my mind: "Such nice, thick hair, girL Beautiful to touch."

THE MAN WITH A WICKER BASKET An older fellow, not the likely protagonist of the average romance novel, made his way down the corridor with his cane in one hand, and a wicker basket in the other.

His cane held him up.

His basket held a gift for his love.

I don't think he even noticed us that day.

I don't think he thought of us that night.

Although I often think of him, his distinguished gray head propped up against the door, his hands struggling to fit the key into the lock His face so blissful, his mind in such a whirl His heart set ablaze, it was as if those fifty years had never passed.

A young man, not the likely protagonist of the average romance novel, made his way down the corridor with the world in one hand, and a wicker basket in the other.

--Eric Lindblad 13

Monoprint Shel~v

Raan

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UNTITLED Once you may have known, That I could not have shown My innermost dark sideThe pit I tried to hide.

The shell ofwhich I've once been, Flaked away to reveal my sin Nothing left but an empty core, I will not hide my evil gore. l was used up, left for dead On my dreams, the demons have fed.

Lay here bleeding in the aftermath Can you hear my cries? Can you feel my wrath?

Oh, how I wish you could suffer; l will hurt you like no other You use me for your personal gain, Believe me, you will feel my pain.

NEW CAR green light gears shift people fade thoughts adrift

Please, Please reveal your face You have caused my fall from grace ...

-Darren D. Dvorak radio blasts motors roar trees blend traffic soars Yellow Jjght gas down close call concert bound hands clasp eyes shine hearts beat babe so fine Red light cars crash blood bright hopes flash

--Barbara Bolton 15

Untitled (black-and-white photo) Amy Long

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Three Cubes Worth K.C. Hanson

bothered to check). And they proclaim "Oh no!

What shall we do? We've been stuck here for days!" It must just be Hell for these people to have to deal with themselves. Why do they not curl up with their spouses, their girlfriends or boyfriends or that cute thing from down the ball they haven't yet managed to actually talk to? l don't ask them these things, but simply assess their relational status (singality) for my own purposes. They would not understand there is life beyond Wal-Mart.

They venture out into the storm -- or at least wish they could -- to shop, to live in the world of the dollar bill, Nintendo, and rental movies.

Thirty seconds at a time over the course of their lives they have been taught that pleasure lies in the spending of money. They have learned that sex is in the genitals (only pretty people have it) and comes from a fiscal relationship to a product: beer, perfume, car, or clothes. The warmth of another's embrace as shelter against the cold winds of this world is a concept lost, replaced by the radiating waves of cable television.

I miss that warmth.

Do we not all desire the company of another?

Do we not all want, yearn, to lose and find ourselves in a twisted mangle oflove filled flesh, to be reborn and stunned in the deeps of another's eyes? To do the same unto them as they do unto you until all is aU and nothing and everything and all and all?

Now my Whiskey Coke is gone, gone like that most recent ex-girlfriend that first called this evening. She disappeared because one night I was not there to do my part in the conquering of cold; because I was out pouring myself into the realm of the almighty dollar, wasted . Now the whiskey disappears for the same reason -- in the same manner. Some day, maybe, hopefully, 1 will have another partner to rude with and revel in the miracle of such a storm. For now I must settle for whatever happiness the whiskey and remembrance of such a thing can bring; rattle the ice cubes in my empty cup and know that intoxicating Whiskey Cokes, like travel and shopping, are expensively cheap, and she was pricelessy free.

it's snowing. Not those big flakes that, without our famous wind, sit puffy, spin off, or fall clumped from rooftops like sheets of powdered marshmallows in someone's fantasy Christmas special, but tiny bits of hardened Canadian ice hurling eastbound on a runaway Northwesterly --a fast train on a hellish track, its passengers unwilling. The news-man on the television is standing out there telling us of negative sixty to eighty degree wind chills. I guess if you don't wear a hat you can tell these things pretty easily.

And my most recent ex-girlfriend called, probably reminiscing some past storm, those days spent curled up in long-johns and wool socks around a Monopoly board -- the lazy-love-kindof-days that make you think it will last forever, make you wish it were so It was on a day like today that love was bornthe snow the virgin couple's wedding dress, the pure wtlite paint of the earliest church. Love was born in the comfort of warmth and shared solitude of bitter cold. Two people together for their very survival found happiness pure.

But now I am alone in front of someone else's television watching footage of the storm. There are vehicles stranded all over with no travel advised People stand up in airport terminals and testify that yes, oh my God, Mother Nature has ruined their travel plans and they just can't figure out why ' they' can 't keep the routes open.

I stuff three ice cubes into an odd shaped cup, the only one in the house, pour just a sniff of Canadian Mist over the top and fill with flat Diet Coke. Five cubes would be better. I don't feel like refilling the tray.

All my life I have lived for days like today.

Days spent curled up in a mother-made Afghan basking in the warmth of the human body, and preferably bodies, held within its folds. Ma Nature 's cold death blow has been my Utopia, my Paradise, a world where happiness comes without sales tax. But now the phone keeps ringing. "Did your truck start?" they ask and I co ntinually answer 'No' (though I haven't

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I HAVE WALKED FAR 1 have walked far.

I have walked the naked fields of midwest.

1 have walked on the sands of west coast.

I have walked the sun-scorched deserts of southwest.

1 have walked the orange peels of southeast.

I have walked the below-zero grounds of northeast.

I have walked the fine mist of northwest.

1 have walked the rocky oceans of east.

I have walked far.

1 have walked the concrete alleys of poverty. l have walked the rose bushes of wealth. l have walked the blood soaked streets ofhate.

1 have walked the wailing walls of peace.

I have walked the drunken arms of my mother.

I have walked the faceless love of my father.

1 have walked far I have walked the tremble of a first-kiss.

I have walked the cracking smiles oflast good-byes. l have walked the heartless apologies. l have walked the selfish thank yous.

1 have walked the fenceless souls.

I have walked far. l have walked 1 have walked T have walked I have walked

my country as a foreigner. a foreign land as a native. with blue eyes. with brown eyes.

I have walked far.

I have walked the hormones of spring.

I have walked the naked bodies of summer. l have v,..alked the full-bellied fall.

I have walked plastic hopes and joys of winter.

I have walked far. l have walked the drunken souls of bars.

I have walked the meaningless conversations of cigarette smoke.

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I have walked the stench of spermicide.

1 have walked the fear of a child. l have walked far.

I have walked the place we call heaven.

I have walked the hell .

1 walk on.

--Benjamin Solheim

Night Watch (black and white photo) Paula Rebsom

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THE WAY TO KNOWLEDGE Senior burnout.

That's what they call it, anyway.

Tired of going to class Even tired of the ones that actually interest me. lt 's not the instructors, Although some of them are rather boring.

It's just that I don't care to study Someone else's stuff anymore 1 know this feeling will bum offEventually. l am always ready for the next semester!

Senior burnout, however, ls really more of a realization That what I am taught May not contain a shred ofTruth.

It is knowing That 1 learned as much going through life As I have paid to learn in college.

It IS knowing That no instructor will give me The real answers that l seek Answers which can only be found In God I' m really tired of paying to learn Someone else's ideas Particularly when 1 can just go To the library on my own!

Senior burnout.

ATTIC 1 see

how far you can see I know you are all that you are a time a place a hope we can see we keep each other here inside this crying home we share a breath a kiss long nights in our skin I know this will seem to erase aU our fears you can leave it all behind but I will wait to see that you lived it all with me watching from so far away

--Dan Brinson

keep me home here in the time we shared and let me know this attic I uve in our home has kept the life and peace in your soul

-Brian Michaels

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Child Watching a Move Barbara Bolton Ardel came over this evening. Mom wasn't going anywhere. l didn 't mind because Ardel is the best baby-sitter we have. I like her soft brown ponytail; her big eyebrows and the way she licks her lips after she laughs She is never grumpy, but tonight she is sad I can see her crying outside. She is hugging my mom. It feels strange. I want her to stop.

Why is she crying? Everything is done. I don 't see how we can get anything more into our new trailer I don't like the green paint my father used. I like the smell of the wood better. The green paint is ugly like old grass It doesn 't matter I guess it's still a nice trailer. My father worked so hard on it. I helped him. Well, really, I watched him saw and cut and hammer. He even got mad when pieces didn't fit. I watched him pur the wheels on I got him things he couldn't reach sometimes. I brought water when he was thirsty I told him when dinner was ready I helped, but mostly I watched.

We are ready now. Dad is resting. Mom is carrying out more boxes. The kids are in bed. I'm watching Ardcl and my mom cry and laugh at the same time. Ardel gave my mom a card, but it isn 't her birthday When Ardel hugs me, her tears touch my cheek. I say nothing. I remember her with us at the lake standing on the dock tightening her strap of her swim cap before she turned and dove into the water. I put my hand on her ponytail one last time. She hugged me harder. She let go, turned, and left without licking her lip. I just watched.

Untitled (black and white photo) Rachellc Kadnnas

21

SILENT FROM LOUD What separates silent from LOUD? oppression depression submission denial self trial and all the while need suppressed in the cloak of silence lips are dressed yet eyes express trapped emotions angers or devotions funny how the sick mind works, once accused the words still lurk.

Do gifts buy time? the whore says "yes" and smiles slyly the martyr nods and gags insidely this mind she juggles as she needs to IS this right? ts this wrong? this all depends upon the song that sings LOUD from silent -She/~~~ Raan

ABUSE Who is that man with bitter Eyes and black heart?

He lives with insanity Pulsing through his veins.

Untouchable, unreachable Life has seeped through his Skin and poisoned his breath.

Who is that woman with tear-stained Cheeks and a bruised body?

She is screaming into the Silent world, only her echoes will answer.

Fearful, nervous Caring for people has Stabbed her in the back Death has passed from his Hands to her soul.

Years ofhateful Pain ended.

Peace and joy replace her frown.

No emotions are present.

The man stares blankly at his kill.

--Billie Jo Lorius

22

THE ADDICTION She 's goin' to a rodeo A few hundred miles away.

Running on adrenaline Before the break of day.

"Yeah, he's doing better But my arm got hurt.

Couple days ago my horse spooked And threw me in the dirt."

She¡s had an early morning, Had a later night She told herself sleep is overrated ' Cause she was on the road before daylight.

The cattle are quieted, Helpers are ready.

Try to get a good cow That seems to be the strategy.

She makes good time, Covers a lot of land With George Strait in the tape deck And a Mt Dew in hand

The time has come, It's now her turn.

There's cattle to cut Fetlocks to bum.

She pays the entry fees, Throws on her saddle, And says a prayer For luck of the draw is half the battle.

Win or lose She's pleased with the run, ' Cause more importantly She's having fun.

In amongst the brushes, The hoofpick, powder, and DMSO She finds the liniment And with a quick application is ready to go.

She walks to concessions, It's her tum to be fed.

Then back to the trailer To rope the calf head .

She goes to the rearview mirror To give herself a look, Then tightens the cinch On her Billy Cook.

Her mind is set, The loop feels right.

She backs the gelding into the corner, The barrier is pulled tight.

They say, "lfyou can't take the pain, Get out ofthe arena."

So she cowboys up And climbs up on a mare out ofDoc O'Lena.

A straight runnin' calf Is what she desires As she nods her head Swings, aims, and fires.

A gulp of milk, A swig ofMylanta, She starts the mare trottin' Then asks for a canter.

She pulls her slack, The rope breaks free.

Looks back to the barrier, No, it's clean

Lopin ' in circles Talking with friends " How's your horseSeemin' to mend?"

When the events are complete Congrats and Good Byes are said.

The horses are loaded So she jumps in the Ford to start the journey ahead.

23

Cornin' back from a rodeo A few hundred miles away, Tired but happy Singing with the radio and thinkin' about the day.

--Codie L. Parson

Untitled (sketching) Ruth Woiwode

24

Screaming without Mouths Charles W. Bauer Taping the mouth shut was the easy part, it was the sewing of the lips that took so long; she kept trying to mouth words even while she slept. He finished tying off the first knot and watched to see how she would react The drugs were doing their job; the woman didn't move. He almost smiled, the left side of his bottom lip twitched, that was all, and then started the second stitch.

He finished her mouth, checked her wrists and ankles, which were bound to the bed. She breathed deeply, making her fine round soft bosom rise seductively, but this was not his interest. Her ankles were delicate and fine, as were her wrists. From her ankles drew fine strong young legs and from her wrists were long-limbed perfectly formed arms, which led to the young supple body itself Still, none of these were his interests. What he wanted was her love, her lust for him as he lusted for her warmth and passion of which he had been denied all of his life. Year after year ofhis life spent watching, wanting, always waiting for the ideal moment, but it never came. Finally, after years of wasteful thoughtfulness and bitter dreams and fantasies, he had been forced to make the ideal happen for himself, and so here she lay, his ideal moment Slowly. carefully, he ran one finger along the woman's jawline. It was smooth and thin, forming a face. which looked much like he envisioned an angel's would appear He remembered her eyes had been a dark bright brown, deep and endless, staring and innocent, like a deer's, and then they had shut as he brought the smaU weight down on her neck, making her unconscious. He would wait now until they opened again so he could look into them again, looking for the magic he knew they held. He licked the finger he had touched her with and inhaled deeply as he did so. His ideal moment.

When she woke, he was there to see it Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the semi-dark room He placed a hand over her mouth quickly so she would not yawn and pull the stitches, he didn't want her to hurt.

"Don't yawn or try to open your mouth, sweetheart, it will hurt," he thought. He moved his hand, covering his mouth to convey this to her.

She stared at him with her wide innocent eyes They were so young and dark that they could have been a newborn's A tear rolled from one comer, and she shook her head, knowing her predictament I'll not hurt you, beloved," he said in his mind "I only wish to see you, idolize you, worship your beauty I've watched for so long." He rubbed her hand with his and she did not pull away, allowing him to do what he would.

I Ie brushed at the fine young hair on her arms, watching as they first moved along with the movement of his hand and then went back to their places quickly, like grass being wind-blown He watched her eyes as he did so, hoping to see some other look there except fear and was it? Could it be? Contempt there, in the solid blackness of her eyes? He didn't want contempt to be there, in the eyes he loved so much, and yet it was, and really, there was nothing he could do about it for now, but she would come around in time She had to He went to his kitchen to get the mixture of vegetables, vitamms, and other various ingredients, which he had blended all together He poured a medium glass full of the liquid and brought it to her, placing the straw between her lips. She sucked on the straw, tasting the fluid slowly, cautiously, then drank more, perhaps realizing her hunger.

He smiled as she drank, happy she didn't refuse his drink. If she had, it would have been a hassle to c;how her she must drink in order to live.

When she finished he pulled the glass away. He motioned at the glass with one finger, asking her if she wanted more. She shook her head slowly, wanting to make sure it was okay. He nodded at her and put the glass on his coffee table. He turned back toward her. She looked at the ceiling, a few tears 25

flowing from her eyes, but they could have been from before, when she had first woken. He wiped them away from her eyes. She flinched at his first touch, but then realized what he wanted to do and allowed it. She looked at his face as he did it and he was pretty sure he didn't see the contempt there so much anymore.

He smiled at her and wiped the last ofthe tears away. He covered his mouth with his hand and then covered hers as well, showing her neither ofthem could speak any longer. He traced the stitches of her mouth slowly, letting her know why she must not talk. She nodded at him to show she understood . He looked at her, careful not to smile, rubbing her lips with his fingers, enjoying the small dents in them with his sensitive fingertips She stared at him and blinked slowly, watching his eyes as he did this small thing.

He saw movement down by her hands. She moved her hands again; she wanted to touch him. He nodded at her and slowly undid the ropes which restrained her. She rubbed her wrists slowly after she was loose. The ropes had been too tight and there were red marks. He frowned and rubbed them softly with his hands. She looked at him, her large, brown eyes flowing into his. He bowed his head down to her face and looked into her deep eyes further, wanting to explore their depth. She raised her head slightly, touching his lips with her own. He backed away a little, then allowed her to continue.

She rubbed his lips with her own for a moment and then fell back. She motioned toward the ropes, which held her tied to the bed. They had forced her to fall back down so she could breathe. He nodded at her Of course, my love, he thought. He untied her.

She sat up and held her arms out toward him. He sat next to her and allowed her to hold him. They pressed their lips together once more. The sensation ofthejoining made sent him into ecstasy. He wound his arms around her and held her tight. She grasped to his shoulders and pulled him onto her and they rolled around on the bed like two fighting beasts. Quickly clothing became an annoyance and were swiftly removed, flung to all comers of the room. He entered her and she bucked her hips to him Their lust went quickly and steady; their close-mouthed moans reverberating against each other and against the walls. As the climax came their speed picked up and the headboard bounced loudly against the wall and once the legs of the bed even left the floor. The love was that offrantic animals on the hunt At last it ended and they lay in each other's arms, wound together like a tight ball of yam, their legs intertwined as if barbed wire. Sweat trickled offhis back and down her sides and their scents mingled. It had not been love, it had been necessity.

Later, after he had allowed her to shower, she sat at his kitchen table and sipped more of the drink through the straw. This time the glass was larger and she ate more. He sat across from her also drinking some of the liquid. He had turned music on and both of them steadily tapped their feet and hands along with the music. They stared into each other 's eyes. Neither of them smiled, it would be too painful, but both knew each other's happiness.

He held his hand out to her and she grabbed it. He rubbed the side of her thumb with his fingers and she rubbed the top of his hand with her fingers. This simple act made him anxious for her all over again and he raised his eyebrows to her for permission. She nodded to him. He had her on the table.

In bed, early in the wee hours ofthe morning, she rolled on top of him, her firm breasts pushing into his thin chest. They stared into each other's eyes and read the thoughts conveyed to each other. She traced his lips with her fingers, feeling the old scars she had made there so many years ago, when there had been yelling, screaming, arguments, bad names and swearing, but then the pact had been made that he should be silenced and he agreed because of his love for her, but she knew ofhis sadness that he could no longer speak to her and there was really no need for her to speak to him because he couldn 't answer, so they had come to this decision, to discuss, argue, communicate without words, without language, and finally, after years of warring, there was peace. Now, with no voices possible between them, the screaming had stopped.

26

Screaming without Mouths Charles W. Bauer Taping the mouth shut was the easy part, it was the sewing of the lips that took so long; she kept trying to mouth words even while she slept He finished tying off the first knot and watched to see how she would react. The drugs were doing their job; the woman didn' t move. He almost smiled, the left side of his bottom lip twitched, that was all, and then started the second stitch.

He finished her mouth, checked her wrists and ankles, which were bound to the bed. She breathed deeply, making her fine round soft bosom rise seductively, but this was not his interest Her ankles were delicate and fine, as were her wrists. From her ankles drew fine strong young legs and from her wrists were long-limbed perfectly formed arms, which led to the young supple body itself Still, none of these were his interests. What he wanted was her love, her lust for him as he lusted for her warmth and passion of which he had been denied all of his life. Year after year of his life spent watching, wanting, always waiting for the ideal moment, but it never came. Finally, after years of wasteful thoughtfulness and bitter dreams and fantasies, he had been forced to make the ideal happen for himself, and so here she lay, his ideal moment Slowly, carefully, he ran one finger along the woman's jawline. It was smooth and thin, forming a face, which looked much like he envisioned an angel's would appear. He remembered her eyes had been a dark bright brown, deep and endless, staring and innocent, like a deer 's, and then they had shut as he brought the small weight down on her neck, making her unconscious. He would wait now until they opened again so he could look into them again, looking for the magic he knew they held He licked the finger he had touched her with and inhaled deeply as he did so. H:is ideal moment.

When she woke, he was there to see it. Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the semi-dark room He placed a hand over her mouth quickly so she would not yawn and pull the stitches; he didn't want her to hurt.

"Don 't yawn or try to open your mouth, sweetheart, it will hurt," he thought. He moved his hand, covering his mouth to convey this to her.

She stared at him with her wide innocent eyes. They were so young and dark that they could have been a newborn's. A tear rolled from one comer, and she shook her head, knowing her predictament I'll not hurt you, beloved," he said in his mind "I only wish to see you, idolize you, worship your beauty I've watched for so long." He rubbed her hand with his and she did not pull away, allowing him to do what he would He brushed at the fine young hair on her arms, watching as they first moved along with the movement of his hand and then went back to their places quickly, like grass being wind-blown He watched her eyes as he did so, hoping to see some other look there except fear and was it? Could it be? Contempt there. in the solid blackness of her eyes? He didn't want contempt to be there, in the eyes he loved so much, and yet it was, and really, there was nothing he could do about it for now, but she would come around in time She had to He went to his kitchen to get the mixture of vegetables, vitamins, and other various ingredients, \Vhich he had blended aU together He poured a medium glass fuU of the liquid and brought it to her, placing the straw between her ltps She sucked on the straw, tasting the fluid slowly, cautiously, then drank more, perhaps realizing her hunger.

He smiled as she drank, happy she didn't refuse his drink. If she had, it would have been a hassle to show her she must drink in order to live.

When she finished he pulled the glass away. He motioned at the glass with one finger, asking her if she wanted more. She shook her head slowly, wanting to make sure it was okay. He nodded at her and put the glass on his coffee table. He turned back toward her. She looked at the ceiling, a few tears 25

flowing from her eyes, but they could have been from before, when she had first woken. He wiped them away from her eyes. She flinched at his first touch, but then realized what he wanted to do and allowed it. She looked at his face as he did it and he was pretty sure he didn't see the contempt there so much anymore.

He smiled at her and wiped the last ofthe tears away. He covered his mouth with his hand and then covered hers as well, showing her neither of them could speak any longer. He traced the stitches of her mouth slowly, letting her know why she must not talk. She nodded at him to show she understood. He looked at her, careful not to smile, rubbing her lips with his fingers, enjoying the small dents in them with his sensitive fingertips. She stared at him and blinked slowly, watching his eyes as he did this small thing.

He saw movement down by her hands. She moved her hands again; she wanted to touch him. He nodded at her and slowly undid the ropes which restrained her. She rubbed her wrists slowly after she was loose. The ropes had been too tight and there were red marks. He frowned and rubbed them softly with his hands. She looked at him, her large, brown eyes flowing into his. He bowed his head down to her face and looked into her deep eyes further, wanting to explore their depth. She raised her head slightly, touching his lips with her own. He backed away a little, then allowed her to continue.

She rubbed his lips with her own for a moment and then fell back. She motioned toward the ropes, which held her tied to the bed. They had forced her to fall back down so she could breathe. He nodded at her Of course, my love, he thought. He untied her.

She sat up and held her arms out toward him. He sat next to her and allowed her to hold him. They pressed their lips together once more. The sensation of the joining made sent him into ecstasy. He wound his arms around her and held her tight. She grasped to his shoulders and pulled him onto her and they rolled around on the bed like two fighting beasts. Quickly clothing became an annoyance and were swiftly removed, flung to all comers of the room. He entered her and she bucked her hips to him Their lust went quickly and steady; their close-mouthed moans reverberating against each other and against the walls. As the climax came their speed picked up and the headboard bounced loudly against the wall and once the legs of the bed even left the floor. The love was that of frantic animals on the hunt At last it ended and they lay in each other's arms, wound together like a tight ball of yam, their legs intertwined as if barbed wire. Sweat trickled off his back and down her sides and their scents mingled. It had not been love, it had been necessity.

Later, after he had allowed her to shower, she sat at his kitchen table and sipped more of the drink through the straw. This time the glass was larger and she ate more. He sat across from her also drinking some of the liquid. He had turned music on and both of them steadily tapped their feet and hands along with the music. They stared into each other's eyes. Neither of them smiled, it would be too painful, but both knew each other's happiness.

He held his hand out to her and she grabbed it. He rubbed the side of her thumb with his fingers and she rubbed the top of his hand with her fingers. This simple act made him anxious for her all over again and he raised his eyebrows to her for permission. She nodded to him. He had her on the table. ln bed, early in the wee hours ofthe morning, she rolled on top of him, her firm breasts pushing into his thin chest. They stared into each other's eyes and read the thoughts conveyed to each other. She traced his lips with her fingers, feeling the old scars she had made there so many years ago, when there had been yelling, screaming, arguments, bad names and swearing, but then the pact had been made that he should be silenced and he agreed because of his love for her, but she knew of his sadness that he could no longer speak to her and there was really no need for her to speak to him because he couldn' t answer, so they had come to this decision, to discuss, argue, communicate without words, without language, and finally, after years of warring, there was peace. Now, with no voices possible between theiR the screaming had stopped.

26

MORNING RAIN (a pantoum)

AngeJ in Flight Edee Steckler

On the day of my sister 's birth l hear of my mother's death My sister's birth after nine moons my mother's death after fifty years After three moons now l can sleep after fifiy years my mother belongs Now l can sleep I wonder no more knowing my mother's belonging in the morning rain l wonder no more 1 awake in the morning rain in the finger-tips of my mother I awake in the morning rain in the finger-tips last drops of my mother's tears

--Berljamm Solheim

27

EDUCATED MAN An et1quette coat to cover my hide, A mannerly hat to accent my mind, Grace of movement and air of class, Close cut hair and a clean shaven mask; Banker, Lawyer. Professor of Truth, Power over language concrete and couth.

Say "llil" to the maidens so sweet, so fair, Wine them and dine them and lie 'bout their hair. glide them so graceful while crossing the floor, Int o the moonlight-- out the back door.

"You're pretty, so precious, exotic, divine! ''I 'I! love you forever I" l've practiced that line.

I cat I I sleep! 1- procreate I Live and breathe and -- fornicate!

"Good-bye, my darling, it's getting late," And offl go on my next date.

I am at least -a most literate beast.

A Pinhole View (pinhole photography) Shelly Raan

-K.C. Hanson

SLfNG Burgers on the grill, I le sweats and swears As I drink my Coke, They fry and stink.

--('harles Bauer

28

Untitled (sketching)

Michaela Mitzel

29

Mouth to Mouth - 60s Style David Craigo Oh, Kathy Sue Loudermilk, how I miss you! You bestowed on me, what I consider to this day, my first, real kiss.

Yes, there were the automatic kisses during greetings; a lot of different kinds during dance and parties. There were even some reckless types during a hot date now and again. But nothing like the wild and untamed breed Kathy Sue laid on me the night of t he 4th of July fireworks show in l 964.

That flaming category of kiss was the kind that t hirty-four years later still makes me pucker! And this was at a time when the word French was still associated with fries. Mama never told me there was kissin' like that! l suppose there could have been external forces at work. A size 34 bust and a blue angora sweater pulled tightly over it could have distracted my attention. The full impact on my lips may have been exaggerated by the pounding of my heart. Kathy Sue was built like 1/2 of the Pointer Sisters.

There may have been a lot of different reasons the kisses gave me such a thrill The one thing I still remember, vividly, was that ifJ had taken the tremendous breath I desired, Kathy Sue's size 34's would have been sucked two inches back into her chest! When I did inhale the sweet smell of honeysuckle mixed with Evening in Paris, I produced a sneeze that had Mrs. Loudermilk looking out her front door to see if her daughter was still in the upright position. She always suspected my motives for dating Kathy Sue. When 1 think back on that fateful evening, with Fabian in the background encouraging me to be like a tiger, Playboys guide to unlatching brassieres flashing through my mind, one thing still puzzles me.

If God did not want us to touch them, why did he put them in front and the clasp in back? I sure miss you, Kathy Sue!

Untitled (black-and-white photo)

Heather Kransky

30

#1 Perceiving death is never as much tun as slowly going over the side of madness and watching as my soul mates itself; Joining, it somehow distorts reality, subjecting me to the very thing which drove me to the edge.

HER

Piercing my eye an image of skull, lust and horror, overwhelm my better judgement, and giving in, I throw myself at her feet, begging more, more; Once again, a twirl of hair, a flick of her wrist, and I've given in.

BUT I'LL GET UP

As I come to grip the throats of the monsters lying at my doorin wait, hoping I 'II slip and unlock my mind, allowing access! realize strength does exist, as does bravery, and I can stand, facing them bold, with a smile.

-Charles Bauer 31

I FORMALLY ARGUE THAT I AM A BEAN David Brauhn A bean is a bean is a bean, but only in an ideal, rational world. In truth, a bean isn't a bean. 1 am a bean.

If a person were to look at a bean, he would see a bean. 1f he tasted a bean, it would taste like a bean. lfhe felt a bean, it would feel like a bean. lt would even smell like a bean, too. But is it a bean? or course not.

Beans are only beans because English speaking people have called beans "beans." "Bean" is simply a name which was concocted for the sake of convenience--it is much easier to say "bean" than it is to say "nameless legume." If all English speaking people decided to call beans "dogs" and dogs "beans," there would be no major consequences. A bean would simply be man's best friend, and restaurants would serve three dog soup.

The name " bean" represents the concept of a bean. lftwo people were to examine a single bean, they would both see it differently. The first may describe it as something small and edible, while the second may describe it as a member of the genus Phaseolus in the pea family. Each person on earth conceptualizes a bean differently.

Since the word ''bean" stands for the concept of a bean, and each person's concept of a bean differs, why, then, can l not be a bean? [ declare myself to be a bean.

In the realm of science, this is a distinct possibility. We have not explored the entirety of our universe and do not have a full comprehension of it. It is very possible that we live in an infinite universe with infinite possibilities. Since this is true, it must be a possiblity that I am a strain of bean.

A person may deny that 1 am a bean, but it would be irrational to deny the possibility that I am a bean Unless, of course, that person can honestly say that he knows all there is to know about the universe. Therefore, I will maintain that I am a bean until someone can prove to me that it is not possible.

Don 't be fooled A bean isn't a bean. I should know because I am one.

Untitled (black-and-white photo)

Edee SteckLer

32

Water Snake (black-and-white photo) Knstme R. Dassmger

33

THREEBAGSOFSWEETNER Standing in the gray cold, watching, finding ourselves ankle deep in half melted slush, waiting impatiently for a space big enough between two vehicles so that we can stroll when we jaywalk.

As we wait I suddenly become infatuated with the thought of stepping out in front of a passing bus just for the sensation, just to know, or to end it, but of course I didn't do it.

When our window of opportunity presents itself we make our way across the street step onto the curb and through the heavy doors.

Here I am, safe from my newfound bus fetish, and I get to drink burnt coffee.

-Eric Lindblad

WALKS Today I took a walk and thought about my life traveling deep into nature away from all the strife It was so perfect no one but me No problems to solve no destiny It was like a dream forever to explore No one was yelling no engines to roar If onJy Life could be this grand If all the hatred was gone and there was no demand Ifhappiness spread and not a child to cry And only good things did people imply lfthere were no competitions just given your best And everyone wins every contest No patterns to follow no meetings to attend And around every comer waits a cheerful friend As I noticed the sun beginning to go down I ended my dream and quickly turned around For there were things to do and no time to waste Problems to solve and people to face I think of my walks as more like a quest Or life's little bonus as a wonderful rest.

--Donnie V. Hodson 34

The Compared, Contrasted, and Changmg Relationship between Marie Lazarre and Lulu Lamartine in Erdrich 's Love Medicine

soon be, next to his "sweetness." When Marie replaces the note back onto the table after reading it, at first, she places it where it was, but then, mainly to show that she still holds the cards, she rearranges the note next to the bitterness ofthe salt.

It is possible that the sugar and salt on the table may be likened to the two female characters.

The fact that Nector is redistributed between the both of them only strengthens my argument.

Marie's intentions were simply to keep Nector guessing, but I think Erdrich may have been implying an underlying meaning. Marie even said in response to her slyness, "Salt or sugar? ... he would never be sure" (165). This can be read in two different ways, first, as exactly what is meant with regard to where the note was placed.

Second, it can also be seen as the direct thoughts ofNector; salt or sugar--Marie or Lulu. He would never really know which one he should be with for sure.

Lulu and Nector were the true love birds in the story, but it is Marie who is claimed by Nector, not because of his love, but because ofhis guilt as a result of hurting her with his roughness and raping her. "Sometimes it 's just a big bird I only winged. When I do what I have to do, my throat swells closed sometimes. I touch the suffering bodies like they were killed saints I should handle with gentle reverence. This is how I take Marie's hand ... and I don't want her, but I want her, and I cannot let go" (67).

LULU LAMARTINE Another difference in the women's roles throughout the novel is that Lulu is an archetypal character in her portrayal as an earth mother. It is pointed out by author, Louis Owens, in Other Destinies, that " the web of identities and relationships arises from the land itself..those characters in who have lost a close relationship with the earth are the ones who are lost" (193) Lulu has always known her place with the land.

In the chapter, The Island, Lulu recalls how she reacted to the reservation once she returned " I saw the leaves ofthe poplars applaud high in the wind. I saw the ducks barrel down, reaching to the glitter of the slough water. Wrnd chopped

(from Native American Literature class)

Heather Kransky Louise Erdrich has an immense talent in creating complex characters who are symbols of strength and pioneers of perseverance, more specifically, Lulu and Marie, her main female characters in her novel, Love Medicine. Her abilities are made possible partially because Marie Lazarre and Lulu Lamartine are created so soundly in that likeness that the duo seem almost one, but upon further study, we see that even though Lulu and Marie share many similarities within their individual strengths; they are given roles of opposite extremes in the novel.

James Ruppert justifies this in his book when he states that, "In the novel, the survival ofindividuals is the function of a reciprocal relationship" ( 136).

Because of their need to feed off of each other's characters, it is very interesting to see how their relationship changes and adapts throughout the story of two proud women and their families

NECTORKASHPAW Nector Kashpaw, a common denominator and lover of both women, identifies the first of one of the more obvious differences between the two with his own perception ofLulu being his "candy," while Marie is the "bitter" taste, which he also cannot live without in the chapter entitled. !he Plunge ofthe Brave "Her (Marie's) taste was bitter I crave the difference after all those years of sweetness But I still had a taste for candy. I could never have enough of both... that ts the reason I continued to think ofLulu" ( 126).

I think it may be possible to see this idea of different navors in two different lights during the part of the novel where Nectar leaves Marie and leaves her a simple letter explaining his actions next to the sugar jar, exactly where he plans to 35

girl's pregnancy by just a touch, and how she knew that Germaine was hoarding the commodity flour and said to give it away because it was getting worms in it. She is also the one who finally forces him to listen to the story ofhis parentage.

MARJE LAZARRE Marie is portrayed from a young age in the novel of being the extremely strong-willed one She does not have any spiritual gifts that give her strength, she has herself, "a dirty old Lazarre," and she is determined to make that enough. She didn't have that much Indian blood in her, but she demanded respect for who she was, and she always made a point of seeing herself and portraying herself as "just as good" as those around her.

This is her motivation near the beginning of the book when she walks up to be with the nuns The second time she decides to go back to see Sister Leopolda with her daughter Zelda, her motivation was to show them how well she had done in the world.

Marie is portrayed as the ultimate, enduring woman. From the age of fourteen her endurance is tested by Sister Leopolda and her acts of burning out the devil and her consistent attempts to overpower Marie. Later in life, it is her husband and her children who test her strength and devotion, and again she finds her way to hold true.

LULU AND MARIE BEFORE HECTOR'S DEATH Throughout most ofthe story, there's hardly any relationship between the two women except that they are aware of each other because they see each other as the other woman. For many years throughout the novel, Maria and Lulu simply tolerate each other. Even when Marie has apparently been left by her husband, her thoughts of retaliation only last a brief amount of time. "I thought the sight of Lulu Lamartine's blood would do me good. I saw her face, painted up and bold, and I thought 1 would cut it right offher neck. Yet really, I wasn't angry" (161) It's very ironic that later, through no actual fault of her own, Marie takes out her jealously

the clouds to rolls that rose and puffed whiter, whiter Blue Juneberry, tough diamond willow. I watched my own face over the grass, traveling alongside me in the dust of the bus window, and 1 grinned, showed my teeth. They could not cage me anymore" (69) Lulu has the free spirit of the earth inside her, which gives the strength needed.

Later in the novel, she returns to her daily tasks having felt that power return to her. 'Td hear the wind rushing, rolling, like the far-off sound of waterfalls. Then I'd open my mouth wide, my ears wide, my heart, and J' d let everything inside for a while after letting the world in I would be full. I wouldn't want anything more but what I had" (277).

Her environmenLal freedom may also account tor her ability to frivolously have sex with various partners, ultimately bearing many different-fathered children by her couplings. She keeps many generations from dying by bearing her children Lulu justifies her actions with these men by stating in the chapter entitled, The Good Years. that "There were times 1 let them in for just being part of the world I believe that angels in the body make us foreign to ourselves when touching In this way I'd slip my body to earth, like a heavy sack. and for a few moments I would blend in with all that forced my heart" (277) Along with the title of an earth mother, she also claims the role of the female trickster. One of the clues is when Beverly visits her and she prepares a meal by filling pots of food by what seems to be merely a point of her finger. According to Gale Research, "She too, is a Pillager, as readers find in The Island" (281 ). So heredity, may be the explanation as to why she has these qualities.

Another appearance of her trickster-like qualities appears later in the novel when we see Lipsha has learned the art of''crimping" cards rrom her when playing the game. Lipsha describes his grandmother as "the Jabwa witch" and as the woman who "put the spelJ on Grandpa Kashpaw in his youth" (332). Lipsha also makes many references to Lulu's strange abilities. He speaks of how she knew about a 36

on Nector Even more ironically, her revenge comes by the means of what is supposed to be a love med1cme for the severed, old couple. Marie allows Lipsha to make a medicine out of two turkey hearts in her attempt to gain Nector 's devoted love. When Nector toys with her pride by refusing to eat the heart, she smacks him on the back and, according to Ruoff, "inadvertently 1s responsible for her husband's death" (86).

LULU AND MARIE--UNITED Lulu and Marie are united by their abilities to survive. They both have persevered through the strife and harsh realities that life has relentlessly dealt out to them and have come out with their minds and the wisdom that they have acquired throughout the years.

Another, not quite so obvious, similarity are their hands A connection, which Gale Research deems, "of particular importance to the female characters in Love Medicme" (284). Both of the women bare scars on their hands that are visible and invisible reminders ofthe hardships of their lives and their ability to survive.

Also. the surprising outcome to Nector's death is that it is Marie's and Lulu's mutual grief that brings the two women together completely. They both have learned that true love is seemingly impossible to hold Marie has loved her husband but has never had the pleasure ofhaving that same love returned to her Lulu, having lost that opportunity of true love with Nector, to Marie becomes Erdrich's version of 7he Wife ofBath, and admits that, "It's a sad world, though when you can 't get love right even after trying it as many times as I have" (218) There IS a new beginning between Marie and Lulu It IS as ifNector's death released them from the way they were supposed to react to one another, considering their circumstances, and allowed them to start over. That is the sense when Erdrich wrote of the two when they first came together in the Center " It was enough just to sit there without words We mourned him the same way together That was the point. It was enough" (297) It is also at this point that Lulu sees Marie as a real person other than just the other woman.

Throughout all of her affairs, she speaks of never really thinking about the women she was affecting. In her old age, and through the love that two women felt towards a late lover, she is able to break down the wall of indifference, at least, toward Marie. She said, "For the first time I saw exactly how another woman felt, and it gave me deep comfort, surprising. It gave me the knowledge that whatever happened the night before, and in the past, would finally be over once my bandages came off' (297). The idea implied here is that her new sight is going to give her the ability of new sight, a new beginning.

Once these women are joined in friendship, together they each become even more powerful characters. In the chapter, The Tomahawk Factory, these women really come to life together. It would seem ironic that these two women should ever come together at aU considering their circumstances, but looking carefuUy at their characters, it has a way ofbecorning clear simply because they are not women who ever let outside circumstances get the better of them. They would never let a negative power outweigh their own strength. They had to handle the situation between the three of them, including Nectar, somehow, and they both chose to keep their pride and face reality. Neither of them had Nectar anymore, and they became each other's only link to their love for him. They were also able to share their strengths into one viable means of survival and actual enjoyment oflife.

The trials of love between Nectar and his wife and Nectar and his mistress had come full circle and now it was time to throw off the burden and move on. In the beginning, their knowledge of each other was treated with indifference. In the end, they have grown to depend on one another.

The study of these two characters and the development of their friendship is a fascinating journey to take. Erdrich is a wonderful weaver of intricate stories and even more intricate characters. If the survival of individuals is the function of a reciprocal relationship, then Marie Lazarre and Lulu Lamartine could survive anything.

37

Oppression of Kin Jill Lindsay

38

The Odd Bottle Mindy Lynam There was a lanky, shaggy, faced man sitting in the booth across from the coffee pot in the dimly lit cafe. The light from the Motel Six blinking vacancy sign reflected in his glassess that sat unevenly at the end of his angular nose. Above the glasses stared out eyes as wild as a deer's in the headlights of a swift moving four-wheel drive pick-up.

Whatever had happened to tum his eyes wtld is probably what turned his hair gray. He held the newspaper and pretended to read, but he just kept looking around the room as if someone or something was after him.

Back in the kitchen someone's toast popped up, and the man ran out the door not even paying for his coffee. ############!! !!#H#!/ !/J.!/l/1################################1!/IJ/N !1/1######/1# !/l!#lf#!J####### The next evening the man is there again in the cafe and the question comes to mind. What is this man's trip?

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& "Give me another beer," shouts Dean across the bar.

"Us poor college professors can't even afford a good drunk on the wages they pay at this University.

Hell- it's bad enough the Ten Commandments loom in every damn room on campus, reminding me that I have two more to break: Thou shall not kill, Thou shall not commit. ... I'm just slacking off" The bar keeper was used to the rambling dry jokes of the ancient coUege professor and was numb to his off-colored remarks, but the other people in the bar were looking at him in wonderment, possibly questioning his sanity.

Dean really wasn't a threat to anyone. He never had more than one or two beers on any occasion when he was in the Irish Bar. When he had a beer or two, it was just enough to let aU of his odd thoughts and dreams run wild. Nevertheless, tbe people in the bar were giving him quite a few odd bottle looks.

"I trunk you need to go home, professor. It seems to me that you're getting a little too vocal tonight," the barkeeper said.

Dean never was the type to argue when he didn't have the wits about him because he hated to lose an argument, especially to someone who didn't match him intellectuaUy. And as far as he was concerned, no one did.

Home is where he was headed -to the only things left from rus ten year marriage... a toaster and a dog. It wasn't just any toaster. It was shiny, warm, and reflective; more so than his ex-wife, who was dull, cold, and one-dimensionaL The other thing left from his marriage was his dog named Dog. Dog was a little crazy.

One night, Dean had come home from the bar with the idea to teach Dog how to type. Since Dog was a cow dog, Dean thought that it would be appropriate to teach Dog to type the word "cow" first For hours and hours until morning, Dean kept yelling the word "cow" at his loyal dog, Dog. Dog just sat there in front of the typewriter staring.

In the early morning, Dean finally gave up and went to bed. When Dean got up that afternoon and went outside to check on Dog, he was running around the yard as if he was herding something. Well,

39

this night of freed thoughts would be no different when Dean returned from home.

Dean stood in his kitchen holding his shiny toaster staring out his kitchen window looking at the garden where he grew his prized garlic. He loved his garlic and figured all good things come from the ground ... well, not toasters or dogs. One of the happiest and most prized things in his life, his toaster, didn't come from the ground. So, how could it be good? That's when the idea struck Dean. If he planted toasters they would grow. Where to plant the toasters was a whole new dilemma.

If you plant dill with tomatoes it keeps bugs away from the tomatoes. Plant turrups and potatoes by com they'll stay sweet. Cabbage away from garlic and onions or else it will be bitter. Dean still standing at his kitchen window staring at the freshly turned earth wondered where to plant his beloved toaster.

In the morning his friend, George, would be by to plant the garden. Most everything that he grew started in a green house because the growing season is shorter in North Dakota. So, if he didn't get his toaster in the ground tonight, he wouldn't have another opportunity to plant his glorious toaster: The toaster that was the center of all his affection. That is when the idea ofwhere to plant his toaster came to play.

When designing his garden he had laid it out in a wheel shape fashion with the outside light being the center piece The reason he did this is so that he could look out his kitchen window at night and see all of his crops. This formation didn't use the space at hand the most efficiently, but it was unique Dean's toaster- being the center of his affection to him- gave the message that the toaster should be planted in the center of all that is good in his garden Dean quickly and quietly went out to his tool shed and got a shovel and rake. In his shed were all of his tools clean and shiny; organized according to type, size, and color. The floor in his shed was neatly washed and waxed on a regular basis. The tools after each use were washed, oiled, and polished The shovels were cared for a little differently because after every use they may become dull. So when they're put away, they are washed, then sharpened, then painted exactly one inch from the edge of the blade upwards . Then the wooden handles were oiled and lightly waxed That way the wood would remain clean and wouldn't get brittle.

Underneath the glowing florescent yard light, Dean crept to the center of his garden in the middle of his yard and began to dig a hole. This hole had to be perfect; not too shallow (like his ex-wife) and not too large. This hole had to be exactly one inch bigger than the toaster and three times the toaster's height Dean had finished digging the hole about an hour later and gently placed the toaster carefully in the hole, loosely patting the dirt on top of his beloved toaster. Dog ran in circles bearding the unseen COWS

Dean had decided to leave the cord out that way he could measure the toasters growth rate. Dean returned to his shed and cleaned his tools and swept and mopped the floor even though it looked just as clean as it did before this excursion to plant the toaster. Dean was cautious. If anyone was to find out about his glorious toaster planted in his garden, they may try to dig it up.

Back inside ofhis kitchen, Dean was getting himself a glass of milk before going to bed and looked out his window one last time at his garden and his toaster, evaluating that no one would be able to notice his secret project. Feeling secure in the task of planting his toaster, Dean went to bed.

The sun shined on his old tired body; the rays danced in different patterns across Dean's room as the wind moved the tree branches outside of his bedroom window. The warmth ofthe sun was the right thing to get his stiff body going. As he got up and looked out the window at his dog, Dog. He noticed that nothing was different with him. Dean could not figure out what happened to his dog. For about two months now, Dog had been running around the yard as if he was herding cows. Dean wondered to him.;;elf if this is what happened if a dog got mad cow disease? No matter. George would be here soon to help him get his garden planted.

40

Dean wandered into the kitchen to get himself some breakfast, taking the bread out and went to put it into the toaster.

"Now where the hell is my toaster?" Dean said aloud to hlmself Not being able to find his toaster, he settled for cereal. But the question of where his toaster was irritated him something awful. Dean being a very organized man could not think ofwhat happened to his toaster. Maybe hls damn ex-wife came by and took it. She was greedy. Maybe she decided to take it because it was one of the few things that she hadn't taken in the divorce. ln court, she had told the judge that sometimes he would forget long periods oftime and do odd bottle things and then not remember them, which he knew was ridiculous. She just wanted to sound really pitiful so that she could have everything that she wanted. Thank God he rented his house or she would have taken that, too. Hell, his ex-wife was so mean that she took his underwear when she packed up her clothes. Anyone who would take another person's underwear would stop at nothing to get everything they could.

Just then, George walked in. "Are you alive in here, Dean?" " Yeah, come on in. I'm just finishing up breakfast. Are you hungry?"

"No, I ate some fried potatoes and bacon and eggs for breakfast."

It was no wonder that George was a round man, but this didn't matter to Dean because he was a true blue friend.

All day George and Dean slaved away in the garden making it perfect down to the last plant in order to match the picture that was drawn out earlier. Dean bad long since forgotten about his toaster.

George was wheeling the last load of his Grade A sheep shit to the last spot in the garden when a cord of some sort caught in the tire of the wheelbarrel. George looked around and didn't see where it went to. Then George thought that it may go to the water pump because Dean used well water to water his garden. George plugged it into the outlet on the outside light pole and went back to work.

Unknowingly, George had pulled the toaster up to about two inches below the loose-packed surface.

But also when he pulled the toaster up unknowingly, it had jammed the toaster on so that it was toasting the soil. Dean's dirt wasn't just dirt. It was Grade A, it had a lot of straw and dried leaves in it.

George had gone home and the garden was done. Dean's mind returned to the toaster. Where was that damn toaster? He stood staring out his kitchen window trying to remember where the toaster was when he noticed smoke coming up from the garden. It wasn't a lot of smoke, just a thin trickle of it.

Dean walked out to the garden wondering what the hell could be smoking. The dirt was smoking.

Dean went to the shed and got a small gardening shovel and began to dig.

"All be damned. It's my toaster," Dean said to himself in almost a whisper.

Someone was trying to drive him mad . That was why they planted his toaster. They were not going to succeed, Dean thought to himself Dean went inside and went to bed, locking the doors to his house. Something he had never done the whole time that he had Lived there. But, the time had changed; he could trust no one. He couldn't trust George now, and he couldn 1t even trust Dog. Everybody was out to get him.

That night, Dean dreamt of toasters popping up with different people in the bread slots trying to get him to put butter on them and eat them.

***** **************************************************************************** I guess that may be why the old man ran out of the restaurant. 1fl had a mind like that, I guess I would be edgy, too.

So the man sat there petrified of the world. Not trusting anyone or anything, leaving his mind to consume itself.

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ONE MORE SIP Bittersweet whiskey warms my heart, Away is the coldness of being apart.

Just one quick drink, but then I pour, Enough to have, one sip more.

One sip more, to cloud my mind, Thoughts of her are left behind.

One sip more, to numb the pain, And pray to never Jove again.

One sip more, to help me think, Blind with rages, I try to blink.

One sip more, for what seems, The total loss of childhood dreams.

One sip more, to help me sleep, Shut my eyes and begin to weep.

Finally, I toast a love no more, Another reason to have one sip more.

--Ryan Divish

ECSTASY A single sweat drop slowly slips Slickering down your spine And spy do I with sweet surmise How slowly it does slide So that my lips in secret skip Scooping from your skin Salt of excess suckled sweet Stinging savored sip And soft across that sacred sweep I stop but just to taste Till by my lips that sweet drop slip I slowly slurp on in.

--K.C. Hanson 42

Untitled Amy Long

43

Epilogue As an alcoholic yearns for bourbon, so a writer yearns for inspiration. That small, sometimes insig-

nificant little piece of story from which he brews a Liquor of sorts to intoxicate the reader.

Often that piece comes from what we have read. We read of Adriane's ride to Olympus in Dionysus' panther drawn chariot, and it moves us to write or draw or paint. We attempt to render the mirror to the imprint that piece has left upon us.

We have little of that in this magazine.

Instead, we have largely what the soul has puked to the page -- in some ways grotesque, but in some ways beautiful. It is a tribute to the close hinges between our artists' lives and their work. One might even say that the mirror has been folded over to the artist, the reflection, if distorted, being one of their actual lives -- a xeroxed beautifuL But it is not my job to determine this, or even to think if this is a worthy thing to do in poetry. I am only to pretend that I know the art of brewing poetry well enough to determine "thjs is rendered welJ: suitable topic, suitable theme, suitably done."

Still, I love this job. Kris made me copies of all that was submitted, and I have revelled in the intoxication of those pieces here printed, and those not. They were all joyous, wonderful potions of life wrought from the souls of those truly living.

Thank you. Thank you all.

And thank you, Kris Dassinger, my fellow editor. It bas been a fine and pleasant misery working with you these past years -- the people should know you are the brewmaster of Impressions, the one who fits it all together like fine malt. I know that we all shall miss you, but I will miss you the most.

Our love travels with you in the bottles you see.

K.C. Hanson assistant editor