Impressions 2001

,.

Advisor: Dr. David R. Solheim

Editors: Theo Bohn Justin Dalzell Eric John Lorentz Lindblad

Tibor (Ted) Munkacsi Rich Stradling Mary S. Stromme

Impressions

2001

Winners: Poetry:

2D Black and White:

First Place: "And I step from" by Kalen Ost Second Place: "Playboy'' by Lance Jacobs Third Place: "Snow" by Jessica Erhardt

First Place: "Angels Aid" by Mollie Zent Second Place: "Cottonwood Lane" by David Craigo Third Place: "Park Bench" by Laureen Evans

Honorable Mentions: ''Bar Scenes" by Kim Halvorson ''Untitled" by Tara Orr

Honorable Mentions: "Untitled" by Jay Johnson ''No More Road Trips" by Tara Reiten

Prose: First Place: "A Mile and a Half Down the River" by Torger J. Hauge Second Place: "The Water Kingdom" by Tara Orr Third Place: "Gasoline Dreams" by Joel Sikes Honorable Mentions: "Rancher" by Jordan Franzen "Off the Wagon" by Lance Jacobs

Cover Photo by Rich Stradling Š 2001 by the editors of"Impressions." The individual authors wholly own all future rights to material published in this literary magazine, and any reproduction or reprinting, in whole or in part, may be done only with their permission. Eligibility for prizes was restricted to full and part-time students of Dickinson State University. The works of the editors and faculty members contained herein were not eligible for prizes. The opinions and representations contained in this magazine do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the editors, university administration, or faculty.

Cry, weep, wail.

No pain, no hurt, nothing to give ...

-from "Reflection" by Tibor (Ted) Munkacsi

Table of Contents: A View from Medora Jay Johnson A Mile and a Half Down the River T orger J. Hauge Untitled (Poem) Tara Orr Snow Jessica Erhardt And I step from Kalen Ost Park Bench Laureen Evans Solitude Sitted Tibor (Ted) Munkacsi The Water Kingdom Tara Orr Metamorphosis Mary Stromme Texture David Cra1go With a Breeze Theo Bohn Yoplait Justin Dalzell Playboy Lance Jacobs Gasoline Dreams Joel Sikes SYNTAX Rich Stadling Off the Wagon Lance Jacobs No More Road Trips Tara Reiten Bar Scenes Kim Halvorson Aged Twelve Years justin Dalzell Reflections At A Graveyard Gillian Kochel-Damjonovich Lane Jessica Erhardt Dusty autumn flre Eric John Lorentz Lindblad Untitled (Photo) Jay Johnson "Hey Man Nice _ _ Bike!"

Justin Dalzell Red Light jess1ca Erhardt Rancher Jordan Franzen Fat Slow Rabbits Tibor (Ted) Munkacsi Cottonwood Lane David Craigo

2 5 5

6 6 7 8 11

12 12 13 13

14 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

For Sale: A Lifetime 28 Mary Stromme Cadillac Ranch David Craigo 30 Cleaning Lady Wanted Tibor (Ted) Munkacsi 31 Solo Ringa March 2001 Enc John Lorenrz Lmdblad 32 Dying Love Jen Chapman 33 Why do we pray?

Bnan Miller 33 Angels Aid Mollie Zent 34 The Fall Theo Bohn 34 Deck Tara Reiten 35 Stretched Dawn Kern 36 impressions ...

Mary Stromme 38 January Tiffany Warner 39 Cat in the Cradle Kalen Ost 39 my shiny nob Rich Stradling 40 Day Dreaming AlLison Rossow 41 Excerpt "Someone Else" (Poem) Frances Farmer 41 Those Eyes Hal Haynes 41 Imagine a World Melissa Hulett 42 Addressing the Wind Theo Bohn 42 scatterbrained Rich Stradlmg 43 Dallas Jay Johnson 43 An attempt at godliness Eric John Lorentz Lindblad 44 Perspective Amanda Taylor 44 Of Bedlam and Braces Mike Powers 45 A Flower Comes of Age Lance Jacobs 45 A Mile and a Half Down the River {cont.)

Torger J Hauge 46 To Emily David Craigo 47 Hocus Pocus 48 Justin Dalzell

A View from Medora

Jay Johnson 1

A Mile and a Half Down the River

By Torger]. Hauge

than she was. He was the proprietor of a used car lot called Crazy Lenny's Used Cars. Every Christmas she would send her father a pair of socks, and Michael fifteen bucks.

Michael was a sixteen,year,old boy stuck in Hilltown, Montana-a shy boy '\-vithout many friends. He spent most of his time in the park across the street from his house. The park was named after a French cattleman named Pierre Le Foot, who was one of the town's founding fathers. The park had been around for a Little over a hundred years, and had several large trees scattered throughout its boundaries. It possessed a dilapidated gazebo; years of neglect had caused most of the red paint to peel and chip away. Its decayed wood showed everywhere, and it was now a moldy brown color. A magnificent oak, which had been planted when the park was first built, was positioned just north of the gazebo.

Michael spent his spare time in that large tree. His favorite spot in the tree was on the third branch from the bottom. It was one of the largest branches on the tree, and Michael would spend countless hours lying in the tree thinking.

He would fantasize about strange places and exciting worlds. On some days Michael would daydream about being a character in a J.R.R. Tolkein novel, heading off on some exciting adventure in Middle,earth accompanied by Pippin Took and Merry Brandybuck. On other days he'd dream of being on the planet Dune, fighting alongside Paul Atreides to defeat the evil Harkonnens. Yet, when the day was over, he would always have to go back home. Michael's father would ask him where he had been, and Michael would reply, "Nowhere." He would then go to the kitchen and fix himself a small meal usually consisting of condensed soup and buttered bread. He would then join his father in the living room, where they would watch TV and not say a word to each other. His father would consume large quantities of booze, and eventually pass out. Michael would then cover him with a blanket and go up to bed.

One late spring afternoon, Michael went over

Michael Delving was born in a place called Hilltown, located in the north central part of Montana, which was named after railroad builder James J. Hill, who brought his Great Northern Railroad through the area in the latter half of the eighteen hundreds. For a Montana city, it was of moderate size having a population of nearly ten thousand. The Milk River flowed through the city cutting the north side off from the rest of the town; the Bear's Paw mountain range was off to the south of town, not much more then a fifteen, minute drive away.

Michael lived on the east side of town in a small dirty house, just across the street from an old, rundown park. Michael's father worked many years for the Burlington Northern Railroad, which in recent years had become the BNSF Railroad. One day Michael's father was injured on the job and he received a large settlement from the company. He lost most of this money on bad investments, and spent most of his time on a recliner in front of the television drinking heavily.

Michael's mother left the family when he was only ten. She said she was going out for gro, ceries, but never came back. She never left a note explaining why she left, she just did. Michael had two older siblings, one brother named Butch and a sister named Jane. His brother was eight years his elder and joined the army straight out of high school. Michael last heard from him about a year ago when he sent Michael and his father a three paragraphed note saying he was fine, and sta, tioned in El Paso where he was seeing a pretty Mexican girl named Maria.

Michael's sister was six years older than he was, had dropped out of high school, and had gotten her GED. She then went to beauty school and became a hair stylist. She moved to Anchorage, Alaska to get as far away from Hilltown as she possibly could. She married a man named Leonard Smith who was seventeen years older

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to the park after school. He walked over to his tree and began climbing through its branches. He noticed something peculiar on one of the branches of a smaller tree off to his right. It was a nest that contained three baby birds. Michael climbed down from the oak to investigate the nest more closely.

He peered carefully into the nest and looked affectionately at the three tiny creatures. He began to gently rub the back of their necks with his right index finger. Michael thought he had found three new friends, and decided to name them Larry, Moe, and Curly. The next couple of days Michael visited his new friends as soon as he'd get out from school. He would speak to them softly and lightly stroke their stomachs. They would often peck at him, but he didn't seem to mind too much.

Michael became concerned about the baby birds because since finding them he had noticed that their mother never came to feed them. They were becoming sickly and weak. Michael was convinced that their mother had abandoned them, and he was determined to take care of them. He placed them in a shoebox and kept them in the garage. He even tried to feed them by chewing up sunflower seeds, trying to spit the mashed up stuff through a straw into the baby birds' hungry mouths. It never worked. Slowly, one by one, they grew sicker and eventually died.

On the morning the third and final baby bird, Curly, died, Michael was distraught and crying uncontrollably at the kitchen table. His father asked him what was the matter. Michael told him about the birds, how their mother had abandoned them, and how he had tried to nurse them back to health. His father just shook his head and said, "My stupid, stupid boy. Don't you realize the mother abandoned them because you touched them? If a mother bird finds out that a person has been touching her babies she'll just leave them on their own." He reached into the fridge, pulled out a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, sat down on the recliner, and began flipping through the channels.

Michael was distraught when he found out he was the reason the birds had died. He didn't go to

school for a week. He just laid in bed staring at the ceiling. After Michael's father received several phone calls from the attendance office, he made Michael go back to school. Michael had always felt alone and isolated, but with the deaths of his three friends he felt even more so. He barely passed his classes, and was almost held back a year.

School finally ended and summer came, Michael's father forced him to get a job working at a fast food restaurant. He hated it horribly; the air conditioning never worked properly and he was always at the griLL The managers were rude and constantly yelling at everyone, and he made slave wages. After several weeks he had had enough and decided to quit. The remainder of his summer was spent either down by the Milk River exploring its banks or at the park in his favorite tree.

Michael spent the Fourth of July in his tree.

He planned to watch the Fourth of July fireworks display from his favorite branch. He never got to see it. The park was full of happy families eating fried chicken, baked beans, and potato salad. He tried to ignore them, but he couldn't get their cheerful voices out of his head. He suddenly became depressed, climbed down from his tree, and headed home. Michael was careful not to wake his father, who was snoring away in his recliner. He turned on the television and watched a special on PBS entitled The Founding of Our Nation.

One day in early August Michael woke up to find a very peculiar thing. On the kitchen table there were bacon, eggs, and toast. He wondered how they had gotten there. Also, he saw his father's coffee mug, but there wasn't the usual half empty bottle of bourbon that regularly accompanied it in the morning. His father came out of the bathroom in a suit and tie, whistling the old Johnny Horton song, "The Battle of New Orleans." "Good morning son," his father said \vtth a grin, "Thought I'd go out and try to find a job today. A man can't sit around and do nothing all day, now can he." Mr. Delving went over to

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Michael and put an arm around his son. "You know Mikey," he said. "I realize that I haven't been the best father around here after the acci, dent and all, and then when your mother ran off.

But I want you to know that I am going to try harder in the future to be a better dad. Also, Mikey, after I land myself a job today, how's about you and me go and do a little fishing?"

Michael almost fell out of his chair. He didn't really know what to say. He and his father hadn't gone fishing since Butch had left for the army.

"Sure, dad I'd love to."

"That's my boy," said Mr. Delving as he rubbed his son's head, and headed out the door.

Michael left the house shortly after his father.

He spent most of the day down by the river and then around mid,afternoon he headed for horne.

He was hoping that his father would be back from job,hunting and they could go out fishing.

He remembered the last time they went fishing. It was Michael, Butch, and their father. Butch was just about to leave for boot camp and they went out to a small reservoir located about twelve miles south of town. They didn't catch anything, but they had a great time anyway. They spent the day in a boat out on the small rnan,rnade lake, talking about nothing in particular. Mr. Delving had allowed Butch to get drunk with him, and had even given Michael a sip of a beer. It was the last real enjoyable moment he had shared with his father. Michael rushed into the house with high hopes, only to find his father passed out in his recliner, with a fifth of Ten High drank nearly to the bottom, resting snuggly in his lap.

Summer soon ended and school began again.

It was Michael's junior year of high school and he hated it. Every day was the same. He would get up and walk the nearly sixteen blocks to school.

He would waste his days in class, wishing he was somewhere else as he tried to avoid being picked on by his classmates. During lunch he would spend his moments in quiet solitude, alone in a corner of the cafeteria. After he'd finished eating, he would spend the rest of the period in a remote area of the library reading a fantasy story about

dragons and dwarfs or a science fiction book about some galaxy far away.

Michael rarely ever spoke to other people with the exception of one person. Her name was Gwen Smith and she used to live two houses down from Michael. This was before his father became a drunkard, before they had to move to their small house on the east side of town. She was a cheer, leader, a member of the national honor society, and probably the most attractive girl in the whole school. She would talk to Michael mostly out of courtesy. She would ask him how he was doing, or how his family was doing, the kind of things people asked in trivial conversation. Michael was absolutely infatuated with her; he would feel shy and clumsy around her, and spent hours thinking of her. He mistook her politeness as a romantic interest in him. He was wrong. She was only being polite.

As Michael was corning horne from school one day in late fall, he was shocked to find a bunch of orange tape wrapped around his oak tree and the whole area surrounding the decrepit gazebo. He read a sign posted outside the marked off area that said the area was to be the future sight of a new gazebo and a jungle gym. The sign also said the city council had planned for the destruction of the old gazebo and surrounding area in early spring.

Michael spent the whole night trying to come up with ways to save his precious tree. He came up with a plan to try and get help from the town his, torical society. He figured the tree had to be over a hundred years old, and hence would be a histoncal monument. He finally decided that if that failed, he would take on city hall single,handedly, not giving up until he had saved his sanctuary.

The next morning filled him with hope. It was the first snowfall of the year. The new blanket of snow covered the dirty city streets and gave the town a new clean look. Michael didn't mind the cold snow on his feet as it became packed into his worn out tennis shoes while he was running to continued on page 46

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Frostbitten wishes mystically flow Continuously through my wandering mind Beautifully, whimsically they travel Turning, twisting, icily transparent.

All so mysterious, unexplainable My heart focuses on our future, My chilled fingers brush away the frost Revealing a crystalline view.

•

Each elegant snowflake to represent Every flawless thought I have of you Softly gathering upon the sleeping ground To create a lifetime full of sparkling memories.

Your eyes took gently upon me Like frozen, crystallized Glittering with everlasting beauty Silently telling me your dreams.

Snow As I pull the zipper of my parka Further close to my face, The honking V of the birds pulls the zipper Of the pale sky open releasing The wind burning winter into my lungs.

As the zipper is pulled further south The birds release white sprinkles That flutter down to my eyelashes Welcoming me home again.

Time breathes slowly Cradling the whitened world Our porcelain hands melt together As we gaze at our boreal paradise.

The whole while never forgetting That our feelings are true - our dreams real We take the winding journey No matter how obscure or impartial To belong to time forever.

-Tara Orr

5

-jessica Erhardt

And I step from Water Completely Warm and pure Onto The unforgiving Feel of Frosty tile.

With each step I leave a warmed tile For a New cold one.

-Kalen Ost

Park Bench

Laureen Evans

6

Solitude Sitted

Tibor (Ted) Munkacsi 7

blues, and yellows, transforming its edges to a rusty orange where the paint had been chipped away. Her mother came rushing in, screaming in shock by the sight of her daughter's white dress splattered with blood.

Eve got down on her knees and felt around inside the dark closet, her fingers swabbing tl1e bottom of the floor. She pulled her hand back only to see it filled with huge gobs of dust bunnies. She looked at them curiously as though she knew they had been there since she had gone, waiting for her to return. She sat back on her heels. The closet seemed to be calling to her, beckoning her to search ... look ... find. She mopped her forehead with the back of her forearm, her white cotton top now soiled. She licked her lips. She leaned forward, swiping the ground.

The little girl's mother grabbed her arm and threw her on to the bed in an awkward gesture.

The girl lay motionless a minute, confused and scared Sticky blood gushed from her small hands and crept onto the white bed quill, staining it an unimaginable shade of crimson. "What were you thinking?" her mother yelled, her eyes narrow slits like that of a venomous snake. The girl tried to speak but no words ever came. 11Get up!" her mother ordered. "I don't have time for this!" She snatched the frightened child off the bed and shoved her toward the door. 11Wait until your father sees what you've done. Then you'l1 be sorry."

The closet was starting to frustrate Eve, and she breathed in deeply to calm herself. She slowly backed out and went to the door of the room where she had left her bag. She took out the bottled water that she had brought along and took a long drink. The room temperature liquid soothed and refreshed her. She sat down against the door and brought her hand up to scrape at it with her fingernail. The dirty, white paint came off in flaky particles, sticking to her black pants. She got up off the grimy floor, brushed off her lap, and walked mechanically toward the closet. The water bottle she had been drinking from rolled slowly to the heat register and stopped abruptly, the remaining

The Water Kingdom

By Tara Orr The sun peeked through the holes of the cracked and rotted siding now significantly aged, which filled the room with a weary light. Eve shaded her eyes with her long slender fingers. It had been years since she had been here. The floorboards creaked and spit dust into her face with every step she took. The window before her was cracked and broken, and a soft summer breeze rustled the sheer, off~white drapery, which seemed to be hanging only by cobwebs. The flowered wallpaper was torn and peeling, falling from the elderly walls. Eve reached out to smooth the lavender petunia sheets, her lips curving with a reminiscent smile. Her dark eyes looked up toward the ceiling, which was swelled and crumbling. The old light fixture was still intact, its antique, pearly pink globe still shone beneath the dust and grime. She noticed that the closet door was open a bit, revealing nothing but darkness.

She reached her hand out timidly and gently grabbed the frail, metal handle. The door groaned as she pulled it toward her, shrieking its abandon~ ment.

The little girl's brown eyes glistened in won~ derment as she gazed into the dome. She watched the bright, translucent glitter swirl and spin landing gently on the castle's rooftop. The melody of uLondon Bridge" played softly, accompanying the floating crystals. She shook it gently, cheerfully.

The glass ball plummeted in slow motion from her fingertips before it bit the shiny, hardwood floor. Puddles of water danced and scurried across the floorboards carrying slivers of glass and dabs of glitter. She knelt down instantly trying to retrieve her broken palace. Droplets of blood dripped off her tiny fingertips like red pebbles, mixing with the ill-fated water that bad pooled on the floor in front of her. She grasped the wooden base of the globe, playing the whimsical melody.

The castle lay tattered in her mangled, bloody palms. Blood smeared its delicate pastel pinks,

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brother, Issac? He was always home before dark.

He looked after her and kept her from danger.

Like the time she woke in the middle of the night, screaming in terror from her nightmares.

He was there to comfort her. Where was he now?

She bugged her worn, old teddy bear closer to her bosom and gazed out into the dark, star filled sky.

The twinkling stars reminded her of the shattered world, each star a single piece of glitter that land, ed so peacefully upon the castle rooftop. If only that castle were real. She could go there and never return. She listened quietly before she put her chubby toes to the cool floor. Dim light came in under her door, and she could hear her mother working busily in the kitchen. She walked gently over to the drawer and pulled it open carefully, holding her breath the whole while. She bad to bide the cascle somewhere no one could find it. A special place. Her eyes darted wildly around her darkened bedroom.

Eve felt more refreshed and a little less frus, trated. She opened her eyes, got up and walked back over to the window. She noticed a robin was bathing gaily in a puddle of captive water leftover from last night's rain shower. It fluttered in happiness, twittering its little heart out as it wriggled and preened. She smiled a bit, feeling more secure. She turned toward the closet. She was going to check every nook and cranny. She dropped down to her hands and knees and attempted to recheck the walls, the paint bubbled and gritty. The dust started to tickle her nose, and she let out a small sneeze like that of a sick cat. She giggled a bit and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She looked toward the ceiling.

She couldn't see anything out of place, except maybe a few ancient spiders that had starved to death. She sat down on the floor and started to feel the trim along the bottom. She swept her hand across the floor again, frontward, back, wards, sideways. She got the right hand side of the closet. A piece of the floor came loose. She tugged at if for a minute smiling with satisfaction.

The wooden cover came off easily.

The little girl studied her bedroom up and

water inside sloshed in tiny waves. uGo in your room and get fresh clothes while I draw your bath. Hurry up! And don't touch that mess on the floor either!" The little girl's mother exclaimed. She rushed to her room and pushed the door open, seeing her broken universe still freshly destroyed on the floor. The castle, streaked a horrid rusty color, seemed to peer up at her scolding her for her clumsiness, saying usee what you've done?" She moved over to her dresser in shame, gingerly trying to avoid the invisible battlefield of glass. She couldn't look away from the remnants of the shattered orb. She reached down timidly and picked up the soiled castle. It rested lightly in her swollen hand, still holding remarkable beaury. The girl heard foot, steps coming down the hall, and quickly placed the ruined castle in her drawer under her best pair of undergarments. She ran over to her closet, trying frantically to find a dress her mother would approve her to wear around the bouse. Her mother burst into the bedroom snarling at her daughter, 11What are you doing in here? I haven't got all day! u she said, lunging forward coward her. Her falcon,like grip seized the girl's tiny wrist. She pulled her violently in front of her. uGet moving! Now!!" she screamed, pointing toward the door. The little girl obeyed and sped away toward the bathroom.

Eve struggled to find a comfortable position in the closet. She looked about the walls, the ceiling, the floor. It was old and dingy and she no longer felt like looking. She waLked back out into the room, the air stale and full of age. The hardwood floor was cool on her bare feet. She went over to the nearby window, and opened it as wide as she could. Cobwebs and dead moths fell from the top of the trimming, and she jumped back disgusted.

Eve sat in the middle of the room. She closed her eyes. A soft breeze entered the room, blowing back her thick, dark hair from her brow. She breathed in deeply and sighed.

The little girl lay in bed, huddled beneath the blankets trembling in fear. She knew her father would be home soon. And where was her older

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down. There had to be a place. She remembered a place her brother had made to save his silver dollars that grandpa had always given them for their birthdays. He had made her one too, so she could have her own secret, little hiding place. She looked over toward her closet and peered inside.

It was dark but she was lucky that it was open.

She climbed in under her clothes and felt around for the spot in the floor that her brother had carved out with his pocketknife. It took him over a week to do and their father would have wrung his neck had he seen what his son had done. She found it, and moved the cover away, slipping her tiny hand into the small crevice. It was perfect.

She placed her fragile castle into the rigid vault and put the cover back over it. She quickly jumped out of the closet and hopped back into bed. As she did so, the heavy footsteps of her father 1s work boots entered her ears.

Eve could feel something within the tiny space. However, her hands were too large to fit inside. Little droplets of blood began forming from the minute scratches on the top of her hand. She tried reaching in again, her slender fingers brushing the surface of the rocky object. She couldn't grasp it. Her hands were torn and she was hot and sweaty. She got up and looked around the room for something to aid in her discovery. She noticed a thin piece of trim hanging crookedly off the wall in the corner of the room.

She rushed over and tore it off, and hurried back to her rescue.

The footsteps got louder and louder until she realized it was right outside her bedroom door.

The door creaked softly open, and she knew her father was checking in on her. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, hoping that he 1d believe it. He shut the door quietly behind him, not saying a word. The girl breathed out a sigh of relief and snuggled into her cozy covers. She was safe-for now. She gazed out sleepily into the glittering sky and smiled, knowing her castle was also safe. Thoughtfully she drifted off to sleep. Later she awoke to the sound of cushioned footsteps.

Her door opened oddly without a sound "Isaact'

the little girl whispered "Is that you?" A shadow appeared in the doorway, but she couldn't tell who it was. ((Isaac?" she asked again. uS-h-h-h, darling, it's only me," the voice said. uPapa? 11 ur heard you had a bad day honey. Daddy's going to make it all better now. The little girl pulled the covers up to her chin and tried to hide, hoping she'd melt into the bed. It had been the third time that week that he had come into her bedroom late at night and done things to make her feel ubetter". He told her it was how parents and children showed one another that they loved each other. He slowly pulled the covers from her fragile, innocent body. Hot, silent tears rolled down the side of her face, as she lay there motionless, frozen in time.

Eve stuck the narrow stripping into the tiny hole. She pushed and poked until she could see the object in the dim light of the open closet door. She stuck her fingers down once more, pinned it between her index and middle finger, and squeezed them together gently. She began to pull it out slowly. She still held the trimming in her left hand unknowingly and a small nail stabbed her palm, digging into her flesh. She jumped a little, throwing the piece of wood violently to the floor. She still had the object, and she brought it out of the hole. It was the tiny, crumbled castle, covered in dust with dirty orange edges. It showed its age its faded pale porcelain revealing cracks as though they were wrinkles.

Blood dripped from her punctured palm and she looked over at it, holding it up to her brown eyes.

It rolled down her pale wrists soiling her white cotton blouse. Her other hand was bleeding from cuts on top of it. She held the majestic object in both hands, smearing rich blood over its surface.

She leaned against the wall, her eyes blindly searching the object.

*

*

*

*

Her knees slowly gave out and she sank to the floor. Some of her curly locks, dangled above her head, caught in the cracks of the worn paint on the wall. She heard footsteps in the hallway. The

10

sound curdled the blood that flowed through her veins. She clenched her fists together and put them up to her cheeks, pulling her knees up to her chest, letting the casde fall to the hard, merci, less floor. The aged object crumbled into a minia, ture ruin, blood stained pieces scattering in every direction across the hardwood floor. Eve covered her ears, and started to sing "London Bridge" at the top of her lungs. Tears, hot and wild, dripped fiercely down her dirty cheeks, streaking clean all of the dust that had gathered there, and rolled off of her chin like miniscule, muddy marbles. The footsteps came to the doorway and stopped. He was coming for her. She knew it. She let out a cry of terror as the closet door revealed her small,

squished frame huddled on the ground, to the fig, ure that had entered the room.

Isaac stared down at her in shock. Her body quivered and shook as her looked upon her, her head buried in her arms. Her hair, twisted and matted, covered her features. He knelt down to her side trying to comfort her, his body embracing her shuttering limbs.

'The therapist said she'd forget it all in time,' he thought, 'She was only five years old when dad died. His death affected her more than I realized.'

Metamorphosis A frozen heart, as white as winter's snow, Silently sleeping and acquiescent to life lived as one, forever alone.

Hollow and cold world was my existence.

Awaiting, the sun's light sifts through the clouds, warming, softening, melting, awakening my frozen heart, which waked to life out loud, crying yes, oh Yes! to love's sweet beckoning.

You entered, your aura; my heart felt light, luminescent and glowing, life's and love's remembrance of all encompassing bright heat, fire of all that ever is and wasNow, my love, the time is now! For my heart now feels its existence, love, life impart.

-Mary Stromme

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With a Breeze A beautifully crooked tree branch extends out over a lonely side street, clutching its dead leaves.

A trivial figure, mere kindling for a fire, unless a drifting spirit stokes its soul to life with a breeze; ignited leaves begin their rustling and merge with the faint night's glow to animate the tree.

Leaves seem to dance Like fanned flames in the air, falling to cover up the despair of the cold, paved street.

Texture

-Tbeo Bohn David Craigo

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1

Yoplait

Justin Dalzell

Playboy These girls excite me Like instant coffee.

-Lance Jacobs 13

Gasoline Dreams By joel Sikes She just stands there, looking at me with those eyes. I wish I knew what she was thinking about with those weapons of seduction. I wonder if she is interested in me. Should I walk over and ask her out? That might turn out to be my crowning moment of idiocy, or it might be the turning point I've been waiting for.

I love the way he stands there with her right foot angled to the side. I see playful innocence emanating from her body postures. Hands on her hips, the tilting of her head, and those evil eyes are keeping me spellbound, again. I hope this tank of gas takes forever to fill. I am dying with each gallon that is injected into my Volkswagen Bug. I wonder what her name is. Could it be Angel?

Or maybe Jennifer? Those jeans and that Amoco t, shirt cling to her body like an Isotoner Glove. The aroma of the gasoline that radiates from her puts any Victoria's Secret perfume to shame. Maybe I am getting a little high from the ethanol, but I can almost hear her whisper my name.

The night is so clear, and if it weren't for the fumes, the air would be crisp. The circular shapes of light bouncing off of my Bug and the dusk sky provide the perfect ambience for our fateful meet, ing. Please, my object of desire, speak to me and tell me that I quality for your unquenched affec, tion.

Please don't torture me with those eyes .... those damn eyes. My heart rips apart at the sound of the climactic click of the fuel dispenser. I don't have it in me to leave her like this. I was hoping we had something, a few minutes of subconscious passion together. I had twelve gallons worth of love for you Angel ... or is it Jennifer? I leave you my love, with my heart, and a token of our inner passion, fifteen dollars and fifty,three cents for the gas.

SYNTAX .me on now joke's The my sucking I'm

.thumb

and down are pants .out My it figure you If ".hee Hee .haw Haw ?it Get .joke a It's" .this read can and out it figure you until laugh I .me by you for poem this wrote I way the is Backward

-Rich Stradling

14

and feel like an idiot. What a nice guy!

Fact: Men with small penises tend to rely on other things to attract a mate, such as ath~ letics, money or cars.

This friend of hers disagreed with every~ thing I said-at least as long as she was at the table. He called me an intellectual bully. Then he smiled to make it look like a joke. After a while, he stood right next to me-right next to me, close enough that he rubbed his belly on my arm from time to time-and puffed up his chest and hurled veiled threats and insults at me. I didn't respond, which must mean that I'm not a normal guy after all. I need to work on conforming!

Fact: I'm not athletic, l don't have money, and my car isn't nice at all. What does that say about me? I won't write it here: the answer is too long.

Anyway, the night ended up with almost everyone being upset and grumpy. My friend was mad. I just needed to take a crap, which incidentally, happened to look like gravy.

Nevertheless, I felt really good about being as conformist as I was (which I'm told is essen~ tial in order to be a good teacher), and planned to continue my quest for unques~ tioned uniformity in every situation. I did well-until Valentine's Day. On Valentine's Day I fell off the Recovering Non~Conformists Wagon. I didn't have a date, nor did l try to get one. I didn't go to a bar where desperate single girls would be dancing. I didn't go to the college dance. I didn't even rent a pornographic video, which I'm told is some sort of a tradition for single guys on Valentine's Day. Instead, I went to the Greyhound Bus stop in Dickinson, ate an all~too~greasy hamburger, and then went home alone to read.

I fell off the wagon, like l said, and now I can't even see it. All I can do is follow the ruts toward the sunset. Wait for me! Wait for me!

Off The Wagon

By Lance jacobs Somehow I have the reputation of being a non~conformist. l don't know what l did to deserve this reputation, but l have been working hard to overcome it. To be honest, I think the reputation started when I threw away my 41 tighty whitey" briefs in favor of Loony Toon and Dr. Seuss boxer shorts.

Everyone else in my family still wears "tighty whiteys," and I can't figure out why.

I also refuse to eat mashed potatoes and gravy.

Fact: Gravy looks like baby crap.

But since I want to rejoin society, since I want to be a part of America as a whole, I decided to merge with the grand American monoculture. I bought a Back Street Boys' CD, a Look What the Rock is Cookin' t~ shirt, and some white briefs (with a 46A8 inch waist so they won't constrict me too much). And for quite a while, I felt good.

Fact: More alcoholics fall off the wagon on Valentine's Day than on any other day of the year.

Last weekend I tried my hardest to be a good little soldier. I took a girl (not a girl~ friend girl, just a girl who happened to also be my friend but whose friendship doesn't offer or include any of the understood bene~ fits of female companionship-much to the disbelief of many of our individual and mutual friends) to a local establishment that would be more or less appropriate for a man and woman to frequent together. At the said establishment, we enjoyed beverages, pasta and conversation fit for family programming on Showtime or HBO. And we had a great time.

Well, we had a great time until one of her friends (a guy who happened to want to be her friend in the more traditional and not~so~loserish way) tried to make me look

15

No More Road Trips

Tara Reiten 16

Bar Scenes Here I am again stuck in this noisy, crowded bar.

I was supposed to be on a date but the jerk didn't show.

I am not letting my friends set me up anymore!

There's this Harry Caray look,a,like sitting next to me staring through those silly glasses.

Another bald,headed smooth talker is standing over my shoulder.

I'm going to turn around and knock him out if he doesn't put out that cigarette.

My eyes are burning from the cancer cloud lingering about me.

Bartender! Another drink!

This is my last drink and I'm... oh wait. He's cute.

Bartender! Make that two drinks!

Maybe I won't be alone tonight after all.

-Kim Halvorson

17

Aged Twelve Years

justin Dalzell 18

Reflections at a Graveyard

By Gillian Kochef,Damjanovich

Today, my senses are directed to the awesome, ness of this land. It seems I have always known it, just as it has always known me. This kinship is longer than my blink,of,an,eye life. I have sunk my hands in its rich blackness. I have felt the power of its life, by smelling its blood and tasting its tears. I can see for miles all the way to Plum Butte, the butte that shelters the farm that has held and fed four generations of my family.

Sometimes, the setting sun ignites the wind,torn clouds above that butte in a way that looks like the beating heart of the world, or at least my corner of it. I have seen the sunsets as they dip below the mountain peaks. They never made me cry. These Dakota sunsets are free-no peaks, no trees, and no buildings cage them. In all the years I have spent away from home, I missed this sight almost as much as I have missed the wind.

The wild wind blows today, tearing my clothes, my hair, and even my breath from me. It seems to tear the soul from me, only to chase it back again.

It was the wind that pioneer women, the ones that didn't make it, cursed. I revel in it. The wind, like the land, is as alive as any of us who walk the earth and dare to claim ownership. The wind laughs at our presumption, at our foolishness. The wind knows that we, like it, only exist for the briefest of instants and then we move on. It is only the land that endures.

The meadowlark calls me. It is a sound that is unique to the region. Yes, the meadowlark has a widespread range, but the call is different, although unmistakable. I heard a meadowlark call in northern Wyoming. She sounded mixed up, as if she forgot the middle of her song and went onto the next verse, only to tag the missing part on to the end. I wonder if, when granddad was logging in Colorado, he noticed that the meadowlark sang a different song.

All of the four generations that have lived on the puny 16Q,acres I call home have come and gone at different times. We have all perceived our wants as needs and been disappointed. We returned to our Mother's arms. Great,grandpa heard of cheap land in Minnesota, but something called him back. Granddad broke his back in a logging accident and returned to his treeless

Difficult to separate, the soft, custard yellow melds with the dusty greens and silvery tans of last summer's cured grasses. They are so adept at their game of peek,a,boo on this rise in the western Dakota prairie. I wonder if the little daisy,like flowers have forgotten to bloom this spring. I find just enough, as always, to lay on my granddad's grave at the Union Cemetery. This resting place is located so perfectly on this windswept butte, high enough so nearly all the homesteaders and their children that sleep here have at least a small glimpse of the land on which they lived and cried and loved.

My granddad was considered a hard man by some, but once told my mother-his only son's wife-how he'd always thought "those little yellow flowers were so pretty." I guess he didn't know their name either. Names are of little consequence here, anyway. Names do not endure. The cemetery illustrates that so well. The wind, rain, and blow, ing dirt have scoured so many of the names from the stone markers. Some were never engraved, and only stakes mark other graves. The old people and the children that died in the lean years are known only to the ages and to the land and the little yellow flowers that paint it.

I come here at least twice every spring, once to place flowers and flags on the graves of the honored dead and once to remove them. Both my granddad and his baby brother served during WWI, and their graves reflect that service. Uncle Ed was my great,grandma's favorite, or so it seems, as I put the flag at the corner of his large and ornately carved headstone. Perhaps he wasn't the favorite; perhaps the magnitude of the marker is reflective of the magnitude of her grief at losing a son so young. He came home one last time.

A badger made his home at the north end of the graveyard this year. The badger's hole and the mound of dirt beside it seem appropriate. I wonder what brings him here; probably the same thing that urges me to linger after my errand is complete.

Solitude is a thing of beauty. It allows me to wan, der among my memories and to wonder.

19

prairie. Even with this disability, he farmed his land during the Great Depression with only the help of two massive Percheron horses when even his rumored ability to divine water couldn't help him find the water in its underground hiding places. My dad went halfway around the world and he came back. He still learns the lessons the land holds out to him. I left in hopes of faster lessons and got them. They were a lot harsher than the ones I could have received from the prairie. So, here I am, and not just for a visit. I have come home to the sunsets, and the wind, and the meadowlarks, to the nameless yellow flowers and to my memories.

It must be time to go; Old Man Coyote is

heading out for his nightly wanderings. He's about a half mile away. I know he was aware of me long before my eyes spied him. He lopes across the pasture as I get up. When I turn my back on him, he slows, watching as I move to my truck, and when the door latch pops he's off like a shot. The engine roars and he slows again, knowing I was not going after a rifle. He doesn't stop moving, though, until I start down the hill leading home. Then he does stop to watch me, just as I watched him. He probably wonders what I was doing on his land.

Lane Your hands wave over the wheat that surrounds your new place.

The snow.. globe sprinkles flakes across your face and the spring Buds tickle your toes and the earth around you lives and is Producing new life.

However, your summer was robbed from you and all those Remaining here trapped to remember.

For us the wheat is spoiled, the snow.. globe is shattered and New life is the final reality that you are missing.

-jessica Erhardt

20

Dusty autumn fire of my mother's father Ignoring a burning cough, I gather the fallen leaves and clumsily thrust them into the blazeaway from my body into the ashes.

Away from my body.

Into the ashes.

Over now.

Grandfather's galvanized water pail leaves a smoldering black sog to be W i n d s c a t t e r e d across the plains.

His rough, oversized, Scandinavian hand leads me away Older now.

Evening sky behind barren trees.

My own sighta novelty.

-Eric]ohn Lorentz Lindblad

21

Untided

Jay Johnson

22

Red Light The lights of night glisten off your helmet as you pass by where I sit trying to imagine who you really are.

Are your saddlebags filled with extra baggage or are they looking to be filled with new items?

Are you trying to run from your past or are you trying to discover your future?

You ride your Harley far into the night: but what are you looking for?

Are you a clean,cut businessman looking for a wild rebellion?

Are you a rebellion living on the memory of your image?

Your shiny wheels reflect the danger in your image.

Why am I even wondering who you are? ~

You are an intriguing stranger, Much like the icons of the Marlboro Man or James Dean, Your dark brooding image brings my pulse to race, while I try To seductively look like I am not looking at you. But you notice That I am trying not to notice you. You cock your head in my direction but You do not give me the satisfaction of fully looking my way. You try to coyly Glance when you think I am not looking but I still am. I pull on my shades and Try to give you the best Marilyn Monroe toss of my curls as the light turns green and it Is my turn to leave the light, leaving you wondering who exactly I was or who I am about to be.

-Jessica Erhardt

Rancher

kitchen and my wife was making dinner. It looked so warm with the bright lights and little gas heater that I felt a great yearning for my huge chair and the roughly woven afghan my wife had made for Christmas one year.

I stopped to let my horse breathe and continued to watch my wife. She was a hard woman with lines on her face that made her look older than her years. Though I had never told her so, I loved her for those lines most of all. Each one was a tes, tament to an idea, each one proclaiming that she would stand by me no matter what I had to fight.

My daughter galloped up the stairs to "help" her mom. She was a miniature version of her mother, but she had already shown, in her ten years, that she held the inner anger of her father. I had hoped she wouldn't make anger her compan, ion as I had. It had made my life hard. She was going to come into her own hard times soon, and I felt it was my fault.

I turned up to the barn. I was getting angry again, and my wife was sure to reprimand me when I got in the house for pushing myself too far.

I rode to my horse's stall and tied him off. My frozen fingers fumbled with the cinches, my strength so low I could barely work them anymore.

As I struggled to Lift the saddle off my horse's back my anger grew. My breath had grown so short I had to stop. I turned to the open barn door and stared my defiance at the darkening skyline.

My rage ebbed away as I looked out that door.

This had always been my favorite place, on top of the mountain. Here I could look down and see all that I owned in the world. The warm, inviting light in the house. The blue snow at the bottom of the valley. The ocean of pine. I once again thought of my daughter and her fierce life. Her face was that of her mother, and I thought of her mother's lines. When I thought about these things that I had, and the things I would never get, the wasted husk my body had become became a little Lighter. I started the journey to my house and to the rest of my life.

By Jordan Franzen The cold was seeping into the creases in my oil,leather jacket by the time I started back up the hill. I had been riding all day in freezing tempera, tures and my body could no longer shrug away such a heroic effort. It seemed as if my body was a paper,thin boulder pulling my spirit along in its wavering path downward.

I bent low over the neck of my paint gelding as he picked up speed going over a rise in the ground.

After he crested a mound of rocks, I reined him in to look at the land that I had made my home.

Yellow sandstone composed the dirt my horse stood upon, and it seemed as if an ocean of pon, derosa had defied gravity and flowed up the walls of the canyon. Snow settled in patches that would not melt for three more months. The cold made this place home to me as much as the trees, or the horses, or my family.

I inhaled the cold air as hard as I could so it would make me cough. It was a clean feeling. With all the hospitals and doctors everything seemed to have a sheen of filth on it. Their constant needles and radiation were foreign to my experience, and made me angry for reasons I didn't want to under, stand or think about.

I nudged the paint horse lightly and he began walking again. The more I thought about the last three months, the more angry I got. Everything I had achieved in my life I had fought for. I had beaten my head against this mountain trying to turn it into a ranch for twenty years. I hadn't got everything that I had wanted, but I had got enough. And I had done it the way I wanted to.

But this disease was something that working till the daylight fled could not fix. I could do noth, ing but die, and all the rage and weakness I felt would have no effect. I had fought my entire life and there was no reward, just a fade into fragility that would not bend.

As my horse crested the rise I saw my Little yellow ranch house. The lights were on in the

25

Fat Slow Rabbits

Tibor (Ted) Munkacsi

26

27

For Sale: A Lifetime

By Mary Stromme

ing to a seemingly never,ending wind. I have often drawn strength and courage from mere thoughts of my grandfather's actual courage and conviction, which he acted upon at such a young age.

Did he ever long for the sight and smell of the ocean? The sound of his mother's, sisters', brother's voices and laughter?

His father, lver, died when he was just a child. Did that influence or direct the path he chose to follow in his life? Or did he so immerse himself in manual labor, as to only sparingly allow himself the longing and introspection of such notions.

Did he realize when he left Norway that he would never see his mother again?

I still have postcards she wrote to him over 80 years ago now. Faded foreign words written in penciled cursive, revealing the concern and love she felt for her son, and also her fear that she would depart this earth without ever seeing his face again, which sadly became the reality.

Soren worked for his uncle Brown (no one remembers Brown's first name, or any other facts about his life, other than he was probably married at the time), consci, entiously saving any and all money he acquired. I remember my father pointing out the spot of land, now just grassy pasture with a few tall trees, where my great, great uncle and my grandfather lived. With no photographs to look at, I have only my imagination on which to refer for a picture of what their structure of residence may have looked like from the years 1909 until 1920.

It is both interesting and comforting to me to know that there were many other Norwegian people also living in the area where my grandfather came to reside at this time. He was not totally alone. There were people surrounding him that were familiar with the language and culture of

It is difficult to comprehend how a piece of land, the sale or non,sale of it could begin to have such a profound effect on my life. But the more I think about it, the more I understand why this is so. This singular choice - to sell or not to sell and the ultimate decision which has been made, has inadvertently brought to my mind some never,to,be,answered ques, tions, as well as an assorted collection of thoughts and beliefs I have about a man who died seven years before I was born. A man whose choices and actions, as well as genetic makeup, have so inherently contributed to the environment of my childhood and the person that I have become today.

This man was my grandfather. A man named Soren, who was born in Norway on November 2, 1891. 1 know nothing of his childhood, only that he journeyed to America at the hopeful and strong age of 18. He did not know or speak the English language. He only knew that he had an uncle in a state called North Dakota with whom he could live and begin what would become his life's work. Soren came to America on a ship in 1909, leaving behind his mother, Katrina, four sisters , his twin, Nellie, Brita (the eldest in the family), Matilda, Erna, and one brother, Elert.

Several years ago I was introduced to a book entitled Giants in the Earth and, while reading it, imagined that the visions and thoughts described in the text were what he had felt and seen as he came to this new land. Growing up in a mountainous country adjoining the ocean, seeing the immensity of water every day of his child, hood, and then moving to a state of plains filled with oceans of grass endlessly sway, I

28

the land where he came from, and since so few of them ever moved before I was fully grown, I was able to grow up among daughters, sons, granddaughters and grandsons-descendants of his neighbors and friends.

Gradually, laboriously, he was able to purchase land, small pieces at a time, which eventually exceeded 2,000 acres of western North Dakota. He moved into his own one room dwelling sometime around 1920, which I now vaguely remember as a vacant, dilapidated building left standing in the corral during my childhood.

He did not have time for women or marriage during his youthful years, which is attested to by the fact that he didn't get married to my grandmother until he was in his late 40's. Everyone I have spoken with (neighbors, friends, relatives), remember him as a kind, serious, hard, working, yet generous individual. At some point over the years he grew interested in registered Hereford bulls, which he began to raise, breed and sell. By the time he met and married my grandmother, he was financially able to support a wife and family.

Soren was 50 years old when my father, his only child, was born.

Shortly thereafter, in 1945, the house that I grew up around and within was built. He purchased the materials and helped to build this two story, 3,600 square foot home for his small family. He also built a garage, wooden corrals, barbed wire fences and two barns, generous in size, with roofs (I am told) of the same architectural design as that of those which were built in Norway.

All of this time he spent mostly alone: working, saving, persevering the hoped,for bountiful falls, the cold, sparse winters, the ever laborious springs and the hot, praying,for,rain,to,come,at,the,right,time summers from 1910 until the 1920's. He

endured the hopelessly dry, desperate sea, sons and years of the 1930's. This, his 36 long years of endurance after coming to America, is what brought his dream forth into reality. By 1945 he was an independent landowner, homeowner, husband and father. His dream was the reality that I was born into and raised amidst.

Nearly 40 years after he left Norway, in 194 7, he returned to the land of his birth, bringing with him his wife and 5 year old son. His mother had passed away several years before, but his sisters, brother, nieces and nephews all welcomed him home through laughter, smiles and tears.

My father only vaguely remembers the two week journey aboard the ship they traveled on to his father's native land and the sub, sequent summer they spent visiting his foreign speaking relatives there. But the memories that he does have of that place he got to visit so long ago are filled with family, slowly eaten meals, much laughter and fun. He could not, at that young age, begin to comprehend the significance of such a vacation. He would not know until many years later that this was the last time his father would ever see those family members again.

Soren died in the summer of 1956, at the age of 64. He was out riding his horse in the pasture, not far from his house, checking his cattle, when he suffered a massive heart attack. My father was 14 years old. A hired man and my father found him lying in the grass next to his standing horse, brought him back to his house and laid him on his couch.

When I think about what little I know of this man, my heart aches for more knowledge, more wisdom from his life. But there is none for me to know. I will never speak to him or see his face. Only old black and white photographs remain for me to look into his eyes, attempting to

29

fathom his character and accomplish, ments. I look into his eyes and see not only my father's eyes, but my own as well.

I wonder how much of my grandfather's courageous, caring, persevering, hard working temperament I have inherited, and I hope on some days, know on others, that these qualities reside within me abun, dandy.

And so, the decision to sell my grand, father's land, which was passed on to my father, is what initiated this accumulation of thoughts to my mind, along with a desire for some sort of resolution to the inevitable fact. How can the sale of one man's dream, which became a reality, tan, gible proof of his life's work, and finally an heirloom, ever be resolved? How can one man's life-the courage, determination, sweat, tears and hopes realized by the

purchase of this piece of earth, the build, ing of a home on it, the raising of a family on it , be transferred to another individual and lost to this one man's descendants in a single day? The monetary, physical resolu, tion is easily accomplished in one day. The emotional resolution within my heart is infinitely harder, for on this day I feel as though an actual part of my body, my childhood and my heritage, are all being sold as well. Perhaps because this small piece of earth which I walked on, made mud pies of, planted seeds in, played soft, ball on, cried on, learned how to ride a bike and drive a car on, grew on, laughed on and lived on was one of the true living, breathing alive parts left from this man I never knew: the giant that was my grand, father.

Cadillac Ranch

David Craigo

30

Cleaning Lady Wanted

Tibor (Ted) Munkasci 31

Solo Renga March 2001 sound of puddle as my tires spray it into the air fast,food worker slamming dumpster lid stairway creakingbrick buildings of this alleyway pigtails leap from park bench Coke beadsthe ring left on that coaster faded jeans new grass stains frost of lime Popsicleafternoon sun black strap of back pack warm water of kitchen faucetnon,dairy creamer dryer load of towels still damp clumps of mud in the kitchenwell. . wom sandals

budding elmssounding of church bells labrador retriever squeezing through swinging door patches of grasssun behind cloud scrap1ng mud flapsheater kicking in hitchhiker in black jeans two crows take to the air from behind a dumpster heal,toe of white tennis shoes streaks of light through the boards in the canning cellar four extra cherries in a Shirley Temple sawdust just beyond the push broom old albumsoak cabinet

32

Little League team still in uniformpassing locomotive sunflower shells dusty floorboards buzzing of refrigeratoran afternoon nap stiffness of old flannel shirt chewing on cinnamon gumno bubble empty clothespins on the line the give beneath dusty clothred pick. .up truck passed ballchain,link fence young woman tightly wrapping wireboutonniere's base "Spring Rain" Air freshener

-Eric john Lorentz Lindblad

Dying Love He said he'd love her to the end of time his words so powerful all in rhyme.

She believed that he would because her heart was full of good.

She'd give him this one last chance to let their hearts begin this dance.

He took her out all in fun feeling this bet he had really won.

He made a mistake and fell in love and prayed to heaven up above to let her heart feel the same and he'd quit playing his little games. ln time she found out what his love was all about.

He begged her to listen just once more but all she could do is walk out the door.

She left him with tears in her eyes and in her heart she wanted to die.

As she left he felt no choice but to shout out in his loudest voice "!love you," he said, "and isn't that enough to look past all this other stuff."

But she couldn't listen anymore to all the things he's said before.

She felt no hope for all of life so she grabbed her own little knife.

Tonight she would end all the heartache.

She felt that this was her fate.

Her heart empty of love and joy she hated that she had been his toy.

With her heart consumed by fear and cheeks stained with all the tears to her wrist she drew the knife to take her own precious life.

As she drew it across her skin she watched her life drain from within.

He arrived to her surrounded in red and found his love was already dead.

To his love he came to late and it was himself he did hate.

He held her in his arms and cried and knew it was his fault she had died.

His heart was full of sadness knowing that this was all his mess.

He laid her to rest with deep sorrow and felt no hope for any tomorrow.

He vowed to never love again for he had played a game he'd never win.

Why do we pray?

What do you pray for As you lie there in bed?

What exactly is it That goes through your head?

Is it the thought of your life?

Or how it may end?

The breaking of hearts?

Or if they will mend?

Do you pray for the heavens That rise up above All of the hate And bring us our love?

Why do we pray Night in and night out?

Is it one of those things We can't live without?

Or is prayer just a thought That's not even real?

And if that is true Why does it heal?

It doesn't really matter As long as we say "Amen" and "I love you" And continue to pray.

-Brian Miller

-Jeri Chapman

33

The Fall paint falls drop by drop from a sunless sky forming shadowy images that settle wherever blown like sand on the gray of the grass in the valleys of my hand shadows juxtapose with light a web spun by chance encounters begins to show its form on the sides of beer glasses a face is softly felt softly slipping drop by drop to a sunless sky forming shadowy images that settle wherever blown like sand a maiden christens her sails in the valleys of my hand

Angels Aid

Mollie Zent

34

-Theo Bohn

Deck

Tara Reiten 35

watering hole along the trail.

Clem, the leader of the pack, startled him from his daydreams, "Let's get a move on! We ain't got all day! D'you think these steers are gonna drive they'selves?" As he rode by, he mumbled something about dumb kids and how he would have took on Bart's brother if he wanted another idgit in the gang. It wasn't a big group.

After all there were only four of them before Jesse came along. Ike was old and dirty. It was apparent that he had no respect for anything or anyone, including himself. His stench gave that away. Ike was lazy and fairly easy,going. He wouldn't bother anyone that didn't bother him first. Johnny, on the other hand, was young, agile, and crazy-a real loose cannon. Rumor had it that he once drug a man behind his horse for a quarter,mile because he spilled a drink that ended up on Johnny's rawhide boot. And he was, of course, the first one to object to Jesse joining up with them for a one,time job. He said Jesse didn't have the nuts to ride with them and that he'd rather go into a shootout blind than have to worry about some greenhorn covering him. "If only I had done Johnny the favor and moved on, 1 wouldn't be stuck clear out here and I wouldn't have to worry about a price being tacked on my head," he mumbled.

Either way, money was his life. For Jesse, the idea of helping Clem's gang out with one small rustlin' sounded easy, at the time. After running up a five hundred dollar gambling debt with MacGregor, anything aside from suicide was worth a shot. If he could raise the money, just this once, and have a bit left over, he could get a fresh start for himself and Isabelle. Then maybe they could be married and his beautifulisa wouldn't have to scrub rich women's petticoats any longer. Instead, she could stay in the shack and keep a home the way it's supposed to be kept. They'd get a good start on making future farm hands, too, so they'd be grown by the time his pa couldn't work anymore. "Oh, Isa, I wish I was with you now. It won' t be 1ong ' t1¡u me 'n' this ole horse come ridin' into paradise. You can

Stretched

By Dawn Kern The afternoon was hot. On a July day like this, a man could expect anything. Sometimes, a cloud will creep over the horizon and drizzle just enough to burden the dust. Sometimes, nothing happens-not even a breeze-and the nighttime air won't cool the earth. But sometimes, a wind will start, and riding it is a plum vaquero capturing the night with his unforgiving lariat of rain, wind, and lighting. He was hoping for the drizzle. Even though his wet bedroll would be a discomfort come morning, it couldn't outweigh the relief from the blazing sun. "If ya don't think of it, it won't be botherin' yas. That's what I do. I just change the subject, but in my head, ya know.

Johnny said to 'tend I was cold, but it didn't help as much as changin' the subject." Bart wasn't a real bright man-probably why he was always full of useless advice. But, thinking back, Jesse thought he might give it a try since nothing else was working.

"A funny thing, heat. It takes two hours of a lit fire to heat a small tent in January. Imagine the kind of fire it takes to heat the whole damn coun, tryside on a late July scorcher. A'course, rna says how God is vast and powerful. If He can tum up the heat this fast, why doesn't He turn it back down a little quicker? Why doesn't He do a lot of things? Take that rabbit over there. Behind him's a fox in the brush anticipating his supper. One careless move, and WHAM! That cuddly ball of fuzz is hasenpfeffer. Now he didn't do anything wrong. And if he did, what could be all that bad that a young rabbit could do, anyway? No matter, He could just decide to take the unsuspecting rabbit, and so it would be. Amazing. I guess you just never know what God is going to decide to do with your life. And apparently changin' the subject nor talking to yourself works to ease this damn heat!" The cattle were listening to him ramble, grazing around the trees. Jesse thought they were probably thinking about the next cool

36

be sure of that. Then, I'll be free from debt and we can start all them plans we've been talking about. Isa, Isa, Isa... I can't wait to have you in my arms again. It'll be all right, I hope. Yeah, sure it will, soon's we get these fat steers loaded in the boxcars at Denver, there shouldn't be a problem.

After all, we put our own mark on 'em since Mr. Chism didn't have 'em branded yet. The worst river's already been crossed to boot! Plus, there aren't any witnesses anymore, besides God Almighty Himself." Jesse could taste sweat on his lips and smell the mix of gunpowder with blood from the first night. "What could go wrong?"

To them, the plan seemed foolproof. But then, so did the first one. They were to ride out to the Chism Ranch, the largest in New Mexico territory, during the camouflage of night and just cut a cou~ ple hundred head. It was Bart's job to ride to the Chism homestead and make sure the cattle baron was there, inside for the night, and out of their way. The weather was on their side as wind drowned out the bawls, whistles, and beLls. Everything was going smoothly until Ike was jerked from his saddle by a dry grass rope. Their faces told a story worth a thousand words when they raced over to see the commotion and found Mr. Chism rolling with Ike in the dirt. At most, they expected a hired wrangler out checking stock and predicted one would be easy to get rid of. If only Bart had known it was Chism's brother in the house that night, the operation would have gone down differently. Instead, they stood face to face with the one man that would certainly have them strung up. With split temple bleeding on the ground, Chism growled, "You'll hang for this!"

Before he could suck in another breath, Johnny pointed a .44 between his eyes and replied, "You won't get a rope around my neck! We'll all die before you see us to the gallows! 'Course, you won't see us fer long, anyway. Who else is gonna know but you?' Then, he grinned like a cobra and shot him. Chism's words still ran icy down the young man's spine.

That reminded Jesse of the time when Ol' Doc Connely was sent to the gallows. He had

been a good man most of his life. But he turned bad once drinking and wild women became a weakness. So much that he gunned down a wanderer in Juana's Saloon one night when he danced with Doc's treasured Lolita. The next month found him on his last living day walking to the town center. Only, he didn't make it to the hanging. Instead, as he was nearing the crowd, a stray bolt of lightning struck him down, dead. It must have been the shackles and chains that attracted the electric frenzy. Jesse couldn't decide which death would be worse. Still reminiscing, the young man tethered his nervous horse to make camp.

The sun was creeping behind the hills, as if it were hiding from what the darkness of night could bring. The mountains loomed in the dis~ tance, shedding their casual colors for more formal shades. He spread his bedroll listening to the large group of cattle stir as a hot breeze picked up.

He was glad he didn't have the first watch. The day's heat took a lot out of everyone so rest was a welcomed notion. However, with so much on his mind, he found it difficult to sleep. Jesse was trying to convince himself that the situation he was in was only a means to an end. Besides, Jesse thought, Mr. Chism wasn't revered as a nice, Christian gentleman by anyone's terms. After snatching small farms from peasants and mistreat~ ing his help and business associates, who, besides his wife, would miss Mr. Chism? Would anyone go looking for the killers, or would they just breathe a sigh of relief after bidding his widow their condolences?

He contemplated his own life now. What would his rna say if she knew what they had done? He'll have to dish her a tall tale about his absence and where he got the money to pay off his debt to MacGregor. She just wouldn't under~ stand otherwise. She always said, "Treat others as you would like to be treated and the good Lord will smile upon you." That, of course, was always followed up by a small lesson of the Ten Commandments-"love thy neighbor as thyself" and what have you. His pa, on the other hand,

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just had plain logic that he never read from a book, although it would fit into the Good One just fine. He'd say, "Life ain't worth livin' unless you live it right. And, boy, if you ever learn one thing, that's the one thing you wanna learn."

Living a life worth living would just have to wait until returning from Denver for Jesse. Living a good life would be easy, though, once the drive was done because lsa was waiting for him. He knew that for sure, she said so when he left, "Jess, go only if you must. But, if you've no choice, return home to me quickly and I will be waiting here for you, mi amor."

Oh Isabelle, sweet, beautiful, voluptuous, adoring Isa. I'm so glad to see you here, my love.

The reflection of your necklace is blindin' my eyes with your every move. Stop blowing in my ear, you tease! I can feel your wet kisses on my cheek... wait a minute ... "what- what's that?

Rain drops? I must have been dreaming. When did the wind get so vicious? Ah, that lightning is hard on sleepy eyes. Wait a minute. Why is the earth trembling? What in the world is going on?

What's everyone yellin' about? I can't make out what they're saying. Where're they goin'? Why are the horses cryin'? I can't see the moon's light for the dust and ugly, purple clouds. Wait a minute, no ... what's that sound?' As the ground shook more vigorously, the dust thickened and began choking everything in its territory. The only thing he could smell over the dust was fear. The only thing he could hear over the thunderous whir was his heart beating out of his chest. The dark ivory tusks of fate were seconds away, now, each pair traveling via four pounding death traps with so much inertia nothing would stop them.

He began to pray, although some how, he didn't think he had the right.

.

.

tmpresstons... sunken shadow in the sand small impression of a hand fragile measurement of depth indentation barely kept old grey shadow of a face years of travel left their trace words unspoken, kept inside showing through now, cannot hide impressions left by you, me shadows, lines, trace history what we live or leave behind seen by others, made to rhyme

- Mary Stromme

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January

He took her hand in the crowded room and lead her to the hall.

Deep into her eyes he stared trying to find the words, he didn't dare.

She knew what was coming, but couldn't figure why.

He tried to break it gently, but gentle, hearts don't fall.

She bites her lip as tears start to fall, on his shoulder one last time she'll cry before turning away and letting him go.

-Tiffany Wanner

Cat in the Cradle

by Kalen Ost The man who taught me everything, the man who taught me to be a man sits with another drink in his hand.

He doesn't seem to focus on anything in particular, not the TY, not the wife that is talking to him, not the life that he is gradually pissing away. It isn't that he fails to realize he is pissing his life away, he just chooses to ignore this fact for the moment, it is convenient and dulls the pain that he is trying to escape, but is powerless to see. He sits and stares, remembering old friends/lovers/enemies seeing their faces and the moments that have caused them to be where they ended up in life. He looks at me and for a minute his face changes slightly. For a minute he forgets that his first wife left him because he is/was an abusive drunk, he forgets for a minute that he continued this abusive streak with his second wife, but she is still there, why he doesn't know. He looks at me and sees all that he could have been: all the possibilities, all the future, all the hope, all the good. It is a passing look; he needs another drink and the motion of drinking causes him to have to look forward, and once again becoming transfixed on some distant memory that is too painful to forget.

I sit with another 12,oz friend in my hand, trying to watch some kind of TV show that I know I don't care about, tying to convince myself that I do. I sit and think about the man who I call dad, I think that he and I aren't so far apart. We both look at others and see the potential, but refuse to acknowledge it in ourselves. We both see our lives as wasted, as something that can't be changed, as something that could be changed, but we lack the sight to see how. I see friends and I automatically know how their lives will turn out: he will marry so and so, he will become married but will always think that he could have done better, he will live with his mother until he is 39, he will knock up some chick and then be stuck with her, she will always try to be with someone she can never have, she will move from man to man looking for something that does not exist, etc, etc, etc. I see everything about their lives that they cannot see. I laugh when I think about it. I look at my own life and I see nothing. I see me being the observer, the watcher, the one who takes down the account of what happened, but was never really involved or played a part in the final decision, he just took notes. I wonder who out there sees my life, sees my future, and sees it so clearly and plainly, as I can see others. I think that there is someone out there that can cause my life to be more meaningful than I find it, some driving force that I can champion, some beautiful corner of the world I call my own. And my beer can empties and I take another.

Wishful dreaming they call it. Self,prescribed medicinal therapy they call it. I call it getting closer to my old man than anyone will ever know.

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40

"who cares, who shares ... and who the fuck is Linda Blair" From the poem "Someone else" -Frances Farmer

Those Eyes Eyes that danced with fire A reassuring look of love The twinkle of laughter A wink of fondness The dark stare of despair and gaze of heartfelt pride a scorn with whimsical roll Joyful and playful the windows to the soul

Day Dreaming

Allison Rossow

A tear, Those eyes with a tear and hearts never the same

- Hal Haynes

41

Imagine a World Imagine a world without violence, without hate, the racism that has always been.

Imagine a World where everyone was trustworthy, so much so everyone left everything unlocked and nothing was ever stolen.

Imagine a world where in the big cities children can walk to and from school without fear of being shot.

Imagine a world without fear.

Imagine a world where everyone is accepted as the person they are, not the person they aren't.

Imagine a world that is perfect.

Addressing the Wind As I walk by a bare tree, it shudders.

Shaking snow from silver, it covers me As a breeze blows through its branches.

Slowly, its fit ceases. Then I meet, And first sense, the tree's bane.

My thoughts start and stop as I can manage, And then the wind; the snow falls again.

Once again, I assess the damage.

Undone, my hair messed, and ready to go, I stop the thought from being expanded.

As its leafless branches droop low I speak to the tree and demand That He can gather composure. Restrained, Quietly it stands, as if to say.

-Melissa Hulett

Once again, I assess the damage, And then the wind; the snow falls again.

Quietly, it stands, as if to say Shaking snow from silver covers me That He can gather composure. Restrained, As its leafless branches droop low, And then the wind; the snow falls again.

As I walk by a bare tree, it shudders As I.

-Theo Bohn

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scaTTerbrAINed

i'm scared and

i don't wannabe shaking scattered riddled with fear i'm nervous and sweaty terrified of the unknowingnothingatall the light i see is inside of me but it cannot escape through an oriface the mouth the ear the eye the nose the anus flatula, tion belchification ejaculation of a thought the light is bright light bright things are made for your delight ahhhh ahhhh afternoon delight sung the band from atop blue, berry hill and they still came all of them openminded wills to learn thats whats abouts isnts its? what is life and shy me i pay my taxes i do no wrong fighting the law and the law one more time johnny got his gun and he is intending to use it does it have to be this way if so why? and the band played on through the night and it is good

-Rich Stradling

Dallas

Jay Johnson

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Perspective Am I not perfect?

What is my flaw?

I Look and See.

An attempt at godliness The sprinkler system splashes Campus Drivecity streets still wet from this evening's rain.

Deception usurps my placid being, Drowning, Overflowing me with Rippling reality.

I Trickle, Buckling Slowly.

Skipped.

Used.

-Eric fohn Lorentz Lindblad

I am alone.

My flaw is myself?

No My flaw is YOU. I am who I am.

I will always love you.

I hope you still love me.

-Amanda Taylor

Of Bedlam and Braces

I smiled because I had an answer for this one.

"Adverbs are sort of like verbs but they are not verbs. They modify the action of verbs. They add to the verbs. That is why they are called ad, verbs." Immediately, the lights came on. I could see my reflection in her braces.

And they never told me how it would feel to make a difference in David's life. Junior high is a refuge for David. It is a place where he can get away and they serve breakfast. David, who now just might make it through high school.

And they never told me about the eager fresh faces who need to get a drink of water 100 times a day. And the noise, the exciting noise of youth.

The noise that makes my teeth hurt and makes me smile two minutes before the alarm clock goes off.

Now I understand. I understand how much my students want to learn, how much I want to teach them.

Tabula Rasa.

Sidney Poitier, move over. There is a new uSir" in town.

By Mike Powers I am standing in the middle of a hallway. The ceiling is high and both walls are covered with rows of tall blue lockers. There is a lot of noise.

From somewhere behind my left shoulder I hear somebody yell, "Hey Mike." I tum around and see nothing but little people scurrying every, where. Instantly, I realize they couldn't have been talking to me. I know this because earlier some, body called me Mr. Powers and I answered them.

I had to. My father wasn't anywhere to be seen.

The bedlam that is junior high engulfs the waning moments of my college career. The cushy chairs of Klinefelter are a faint memory. The early morning, anticipating faces of eighty,eight 13 year olds is my reality.

They are there, waiting for me. And I better be ready. If I'm not, they'll tear me to pieces. The custodian will find suggestions of my new K,mart clothes plastered all over the chalkboarded walls.

But I am ready. DSU has taught me how to be ready. DSU has taught me about lesson plans and over,preparedness. They have given me the confi, dence to show up each day relaxed. They have taught me about teaching to the objectives and student,centered learning.

They never said anything about the young eighth grader in the first row who, when asked to get up in front of the class, pulled his wrinkled white t,shirt up over his ears and tuned out the world.

They never said anything about the farm kid in the back row who sleeps through first period because he has been milking cows since 5 A.M. They never said anything about the pretty blonde's mother who is in my face every after, noon to make sure her daughter is getting special treatment.

They never said anything about the study halls and playground supervision, after school detention or lunchroom rotation.

And they never said anything about the look on Amanda's face when I explained to her about adverbs. ur jUSt don't get it, II She Said.

A Flower Comes of Age for Chelsea, age ten

Before our unsuspecting eyes Secretly and stealthily she grows

In backyard roofshade By garden walkways That which was first a seed a stem a bud Blossoms into something new And beautiful.

-Lance Jacobs

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and get him down, but he just kept climbing higher and higher. Until finally, there was a snap, and Michael came tumbling down through the branches, hitting the ground hard.

It was a couple of weeks before Michael got out of the hospital. He suffered two broken ribs, a punctured lung, his left leg was broken in three different places, and innumerable cuts and scrapes from where the branches had snagged him on his descent downward. His sister and Crazy Lenny sent him a get well card while he was in the hospital. His brother had sent their father a three paragraphed letter telling him that he should consider sending Michael to a military school somewhere in Virginia, and the police told Michael he would be lucky if he didn't end up in a reform school. Eventually Michael's wounds began to heal and he was as good as new except for his leg, which healed a little crooked and shorter than his other one. He didn't return to school that winter. He planned to return in the spring quarter.

When spring came around he went back to school, but didn't go too often. He'd pretend that he was going off to school and then head down to the river instead. The day they tore the gazebo and his tree down, Michael didn't watch. He went over to the park the next day and looked at the space were his tree had once been. There was nothing there now except for an entanglement of dead branches and a few scattered acorns.

Michael picked an acorn up, placed in his pocket, and started to walk down the road.

He passed the Rutting Buck Bar and found an old homeless man with one eye sitting beside a three,legged dog outside the doorway. He asked Michael if he could spare some change. Michael would have given the man all his money if he had had any. He just said, "No," and walked on by.

Next, he passed St. Luke's Catholic Church. He stopped in for a moment, trying to find a bit of solace. The church was full of old ladies praying with their rosaries. Michael tried to pray as well, but found he wasn't any good at it. He hadn't been to church since his mother left, and even

A Mile ... continued from page 4 school. He didn't even mind the cold air as it crept into his bones, through his old jacket that had originally belonged to his sister. The air was brisk and revived him. He was so confident in himself that nothing could stop him this day.

He ran into the halls. The first place he stopped was beside Gwen's locker. He was going to ask her out on a date. She couldn't deny him, not on a day like this, not on a day when he was invincible. He waited for a few moments, which seemed to last forever. She finally arrived with a group of her friends. "Hi, Mike can I help you with something?" She asked.

"Yeah, uhm Gwen, I was wondering. Well, if uhm, you weren't doing anything this Friday.

Would you mind catching a movie with me?" A shocked look came over her face, and her friends began to laugh hysterically, "You mean like a date?"

"Well yeah, I mean if you weren't doing any, thing."

"I'm sorry Michael, but there's no way I could ever go on a date with you," 5he said with an appalled expression on her face.

"Oh, okay," he said as he quietly walked away.

He could hear all of them laughing behind him. Michael heard one of her friends say, "OOOh! How gross was that." He heard another say, "Can you believe the nerve of that dork?" He became infuriated and stormed out of the build, ing. He headed straight for the park. He uprooted the sign standing outside the area that was to be the future home of the new gazebo and jungle gym and began to smash it against his oak tree.

He then proceeded to tear down all the orange tape which surrounded the area. An elderly neighbor spotted the destruction of public proper, ty and was more than happy to make a call to the police about a young vandal running wild in the park. The police came and tried to catch Michael, but he was too fast. He eluded their grasp and scurried quickly up the oak tree. The police then called the fire department to bring ladders to try

46

when she had been home the only time they went to church was at Christmas and Easter. He just sat in the church pew rubbing the acorn between his right index finger and thumb. He slowly got up and exited the church. He started his journey again, crossing the viaduct over the train yard, and finally came to the bridge overlooking the Milk River.

He paused for a moment looking down at the tumult of water made muddy by the spring thaw.

He took out his acorn and threw it down into the river below. He watched. It didn't even make a ripple when it landed in the murky rush of water.

He waited for a second, and then followed the acorn. In an instant he was submerged beneath the river. Michael gazed through the river's raging current and could make out some of the sun's rays shining through the turbid water. He stretched his hand out to reach it, only for a moment, then closed his hand into a fist and drew his arm away from the light, allowing the river to take him away.

Michael's body traveled a mile and a half down the river that day. His soul traveled somewhere else.

To Emily Wild Nights-Wild Nights!

Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury!*

Ah, Emily-Emily What moments they would be!

Shivers of ecstasy to see Naked in waltz,time to be.

Burnt by the fire of your eyes Frozen to your soul by desire, Immortal our love will be For what has passed for eternity.

Forevermore till time does pass The Beauty of your name will last, The Spirit of our lives will sing What more could any lover bring? *after Emily Dickinson's 11 Wild Nights , Wild Nights" (1861)

-David Craigo

47

Hocus Pocus

Justin Dalzell 48

to live for the sake of breathing hope dashed on the rock of ignorance and impatience ...

-from "Reflection" by Tibor (Ted) Munkacsi