Impressions 2003

Impressions 2003

Impressions 2003

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Impressions 2003 Editors: Theo Bohn Benjamin Evans

Kim Halvorson

Destini Knapp Alexia Renner

Advisor: Dr. David Solheim

Impressions is made possible by the generous sponsorship of Dickinson State University. It is an annual literary journal created by the students of Dickinson State University, including those that are members of the English Honor Society Eta Epsilon, DSU’s Sigma Tau Delta Chapter.

Cover: Stephanie Dixon, Fog. Oil on Paper, 35 X 28 cm.

Copyright 2003 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.

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Impressions 2003

Literary Arts

“The Great War” “Whirlwind” “The Season of Goodbyes” “My Brother the Con-Artist” “Ripples from the Past” “Lies” “Fog Descending” “Living Without Science” “One Saturday Afternoon” “Farm Life” “I Ran Barefoot” “Prayer to Spring” “Adventurous Fears” “Morning Glory” “The Fire” “This Really Happened” “Path to Home” “High Stakes” “First Time” “The Little Missouri Gilligan’s Island River Float” “Games” “Row Thirteen” “Obsession” “Deity” “Lab 101” “White Witches” “Uncharted Humanity” “Eulogy for a Fallen Leaf” “My Almost Treatise on Canaries” “Family” “The Room” “Distant Voices” “On My Back”

Michael Ford .........................................5 Tara Orr .........................................5 Jaylynn Huiner .........................................6 Tara Deseth .........................................8 Benjamin Evans .......................................10 Tara Deseth .......................................10 Ryan Skaarvold .......................................12 Barbara Schaan .......................................15 Dennis Ziniel .......................................16 Carla Kraehenbuehl .......................................16 Barbara Schaan .......................................18 Theo Bohn .......................................20 Tara Deseth .......................................22 Patty Furuseth .......................................24 Joshua Hlibichuk .......................................25 Matthew Ramsey .......................................26 Alexia Renner .......................................26 Benjamin Evans .......................................28 Alexia Renner .......................................31 Carla Kraehenbuehl .......................................33 Jennesy Raaum .......................................33 Dennis Ziniel .......................................34 Jennesy Raaum .......................................34 Tara Orr .......................................36........

Jaylynn Huiner ...............................38 Elisabeth Spainhower .......................................40 Tara Orr .......................................40 Theo Bohn .......................................42 Matthew Ramsey .......................................44 Margaret Demoss .......................................44 Joshua Hlibichuk .......................................46 Theo Bohn .......................................46 Alexia Renner .......................................48 Impressions 2003

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Contents Visual Arts

Fog Grandma Knapp American McGee’s Mad Hatter I Made It to the Top Snow Day Pigeon Inn Untitled Boys After School Mist Storm Watcher Chapsticks I Lost Something A Leisure Day in Drawing Class Waiting Wolf by the River The Barn Untitled Flame Woman’s Secret Superpower Gamla Stan: Old Stockholm American McGee’s Tea Mouse My Dorm Room Gray Sky, Black Mountains Frosty To Hope for Happiness Weave Through My Heart Visions of the Past Untitled 4

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Stephanie Dixon .................................Cover ......

Destini Knapp ...................................7 Matthew Ramsey .........................................8 Rochelle Kary .........................................9 Lynette Genre .......................................11 Jaylynn Huiner .......................................14 Keila Kuykendall .......................................15 Rochelle Kary .......................................17 Stephanie Dixon .......................................19 Stephanie Dixon .......................................21 Ola Supernat .......................................22 Rochelle Kary .......................................23 Kim Halvorson .......................................25 Johanna Njos .......................................27 Robert Lemke .......................................28 Johanna Njos .......................................29 Keila Kuykendall .......................................30 Destini Knapp .......................................32 Kim Halvorson .......................................35 Ashley Weisz .......................................37 Matthew Ramsey .......................................38 Ola Supernat .......................................39 Carmen Novak .......................................41 Roxann McFarland .......................................42 Destini Knapp .......................................43 Kim Halvorson .......................................45 Kim Halvorson .......................................47 Andrea Dawson .......................................48

Poetry

Prose

First Place: “I Ran Barefoot” by Barbara Schaan

First Place: “One Saturday Afternoon” by Dennis Ziniel

Second Place: “Morning Glory” by Patty Furuseth

Second Place: “The Great War” by Michael Ford

Third Place: “Whirlwind” by Tara Orr

Third Place: “My Brother the Con-Artist” by Tara Deseth

Honorable Mentions: “The Season of Goodbyes” by Jaylynn Huiner “Fog Descending” by Ryan Skaarvold

Honorable Mentions: “This Really Happened” by Matthew Ramsey “Row Thirteen” by Dennis Ziniel

Literary Arts

Awards Visual Arts Mixed Media

Photography

First Place: Fog by Stephanie Dixon

First Place: The Barn by Johanna Njos

Second Place: Untitled by Keila Kuykendall

Second Place: I Lost Something by Rochelle Kary

Third Place: Gray Sky, Black Mountains by Carmen Novak

Third Place: Pigeon Inn by Jaylynn Huiner

Honorable Mentions: Storm Watcher by Stephanie Dixon American McGee’s Tea Mouse by Matt Ramsey

Honorable Mentions: Foggy Plow by Lynette Genre Waiting by Johanna Njos Impressions 2003

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The Great War

By Michael Ford The quiet was strange and unnerving. After the experience of the last few days, it seemed like a different world. His face showed evidence of strength, determination, and the struggle of his pathetic existence. Journal in one hand and pen in the other, he gathered his thoughts...

They had been in battle for a total of 230 days, the last three of which were intense and very dangerous. He had seen 53 of his comrades die horribly in just the last 48 hours, men he had come to know by their last names instead of their first names, the opposite of life in peace time. The landscape around him was one of total devastation; what was once a densely forested area was now a barren, mudfilled landscape. Not a green blade of grass or leaf was to be seen. Everything was the same sickening gray-brown.

The smell of gunpowder, blood, and human feces was overpowering. He decided that living in a trench for weeks in the rain had an obvious downside.

His life before the war seemed like a dream, only a year or so before but so much had happened between then and now. He had signed up out of a mixed sense of patriotic duty, personal ego, and strangely, a need for security. Life at home was a constant search for security in all the needs of everyday life. The poverty and boredom, separated by frantic work when it was available, gave everyone the same sense of insecurity. When the war had started, they had all thought it would be over in a few weeks. He was afraid he might not get to go, that it would be over before he got a chance to put on a uniform and feel the pride of belonging.

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At the time, he was eager to give up the meager existence of a coal seller. It was hard, dirty work, seasonal and crowded with competition. The opportunity to become a part of the infantry was attractive because of the status and the promise of three square meals a day (something he had never really experienced). The reality, of course, was much different. The meals had come whenever there was a break, in the fighting, which sometime did not occur for days at a time. He had been hungrier the last few months than he had ever been. When he did get to eat, it was always the same thing cold,

sometimes green, salt pork, hard biscuits and water. The water always had the arm taste of metal from the large galvanized barrels it was delivered in.

His only comfort was the journal he kept. Every opportunity was taken to write about the boredom, the sounds and smells, the men he shared this hell with. Many of the men could not read or write, so when they discovered that he could write and that he had pen, ink, and paper, he was besieged with requests to write letters home from men who otherwise might not have spoken with him. This actually turned into a means of obtaining some of the small pleasures of life: tobacco, extra biscuits, sometimes even a used but dry pair of socks were exchanged for a man’s thoughts of home and family.

They would speak, and he would write.

They would speak, and he would contemplate the words as he wrote them, wondering what this soldier’s life must

Whirlwind Bubbles blotting out the sun winds calm your hair tame your eyes as your reach for the opaque spheres smiling at the world, spinning— like the sand, in the blusters of the spring I wait for you.

—Tara Orr

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have been like before the war. There were sometimes clues in the man’s thoughts as he dictated them to this battlefield scribe. There would be the occasional mention of a long ago meeting, a tender moment known only to the soldier and the recipient, of the letter, or the enthusiastic plans of what might be done when the soldier returned home. He would sometimes make note in the journal of things he enjoyed writing for the other soldiers.

He felt a sense of purpose in writing the journal; he couldn't define it, but it was definitely there.

He carefully packed the journal and his pen and ink in their place in the back of his knapsack, where they should stay dry and safe. When they heard the call “prepare to move out” blown by the trumpeter, it sounded eerie as it carried over the mud, under the low clouds. He slung the knapsack over his shoulder in preparation. When the order came to go over the top, he climbed, then jumped and ran, rifle in one hand, his other holding on to his helmet to keep it from falling forward over his eyes. In the chaos of the moment, the soldier directly behind him slipped and fell. He actually felt the bullet tear through him before he heard the sound of the fallen soldier’s rifle going off.

As they went through his things, the journal fell out of its spot in the knapsack, and landed open in the mud.

They studied the strange blot of ink on the open page just below the date of Dec. 25, 1917 and realized that the bullet had gone right through the pen and the journal before killing its owner.

One man picked it up and mentioned how he thought the ink blot looked like two angels lifting their fallen comrade to heaven, a fitting last entry. The others said nothing, only trudged away sadly with tears in their eyes. The only sound was the soft sucking noise their boots made as they lifted their feet from the mud.

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The Season of Goodbyes September signals the season of fall.

Gold, scarlet, rust are the color of the leaves that once were green in the tree.

There is an endless chatter from birds all through the day, until evening when the air turns crisp.

Sunlight of day takes away the crispness, but reveals another sign of fall, hidden only in the dim light of evening.

In the branches and leaves are now apples among the birds that fight to be alone at home in their tree.

They peck at the apples in the tree while the air becomes more crisp as if to tell not much time is left to the birds.

The apples start to fall, soon too, will the leaves, hidden only by the darkness of evening.

When daylight says goodbye to evening the child will run outside to the tree, while at his feet some leaves, now brittle on the ground crisp.

He climbs the tree and careful not to fall, picks the apples left untouched by the birds.

In groups now are the birds during the day, disappearing in the evening.

They know here to stay is the fall and they must leave the home of their tree, to fly away in the daytime air now crisp, while on the ground lie all the fallen leaves.

The child and his grandmother rake the leaves and watch the south horizon where the birds fly away, warm in their jackets that block the crisp chill in the air before the early dimness of evening.

Left all alone to stand is the tree because the apples, birds, and leaves fly away in late fall.

Someday after this fall, the child will laugh among the leaves high in a branch of the tree among the birds, but for now he waits for evening, when grandmother serves him apple crisp.

—Jaylynn Huiner Impressions 2003

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Destini Knapp, Grandma Knapp, Watercolor on paper, 35 X 25 cm.

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My Brother the Con-Artist

By Tara Deseth Jesse’s middle name was trouble; or at least it should have been. From the moment he was able to walk he was a terror. However, with his puppy dog eyes and big teethy grin always seemed to get him out of trouble. I admired that and wanted to be just like him.

Our mailman would come every day and give Jesse and I candy when I was 3 and Jesse was 5. He would arrive at our door at the same time every day and we would watch him take the candy out of his truck. One summer day Jesse tells me that the mailman wanted us to take all of the candy. So I went out and grabbed as much candy as my chubby little arms could hold, stuffed my mouth full of black licorice and waddled down the hill.

In the mean time, Jesse grabs the rest of the candy and starts running. He yells at me to run so I take off as fast as my chubby little legs could carry me. The mailman yells, “hey kids, don’t you want any candy?” Without thinking, I turn around with juicy black licorice streaming down my face and yell back, “Uhuh, we got it all!”

Taking advantage of my innocence and naive nature was one of Jesse’s favorite pass times. When I was 4 years old we had a lady named Beverly living in our basement who had several cats. She was a very nice lady and let me go and play with them whenever I wanted. I was fascinated that these little balls of fur could jump and climb on anything. Jesse told me the reason the cats could do that was because of this magical food they ate.

So I stood on top of Beverly’s waterbed and shoved handfuls of Meow Mix 9

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in my mouth all the while yelling, “I’m strong! I eat cat food!”

Eating cat food was the least of the things Jesse convinced me of. Most kids learn there is no Santa Claus either just by figuring it out themselves or having someone simply tell them there is no Santa Claus. I learned a different story.

Matthew Ramsey, American McGee’s MadHattter. Pencil on paper, 28 X 20 cm.

We had a fireplace at our house that we kept going every night. On Christmas Eve when I was 5 years old Jesse came into my room in a panic.

He told me that Santa Claus had come in the night but mom had left the fireplace going and Santa burned to death.

At 6 years old Jesse moved to trying to get me into trouble. He took some of my mom’s medication and then planted

the phone that I carried around in my mom’s room. Naturally my mom didn’t believe me when I told her I didn’t do it. I drank enough water to fill an Olympic size pool that night and Jesse sat back at laughed at me.

Tired of being laughed at, I decided to help Jesse out. When I was 7 he and I would stop at every bus stop and con every person there. I would cry into my hands while sitting next to whomever was there. Jesse would come up next to me and ask what was wrong. I would tell him that I had lost my bus money and there was no way I could go home.

Someone would usually give me money for the bus and we would go and buy candy.

We moved away from being con-artists to simply being adventure seeking terrors. My most memorable adventure was when we pretended to be the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. We had a waterway through the city near our house. There were very large tunnels going through the city that we found. They were dirty, filled with mud and who knows what else.

But we adventured on. We would stop underneath the drainage gutters and yell at people scaring the wits out of them.

My brother and I were separated when I was 9. It wasn’t until this time that I fully realized that he was not only the person that got me into trouble all of the time, he was my best friend.

Jesse will still to this day admit that I would have never gotten into trouble without him, but I also know those crazy times are something I’ll never forget.

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Rochelle Kary, I Made it to the Top. Photograph, 24 X 17 cm.

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Ripples from the Past

By Benjamin Evans June, 1987 “Why is nobody here?” Jeff asked in order to break the awkward silence.

“I’m somebody,” Scott answered as he crushed the butt of his cigarette with a worn out leather loafer.

Scott carefully climbed up and sat with Jeff on the hood of his old Camaro. They casually drank beers swiped from Jeff’s dad’s root cellar.

They had parked the old Camaro almost in the middle of the old dirt road, the sides of it were covered with dew covered weeds and Scott didn’t want to pick up any more rust than the Camaro already had.

“You know what I mean! Other people, besides us, there should be at least ten, fifteen more people here.

Where is everyone?”

Jeff did have a point. It was unusual that nobody was here, especially on a Friday night. This place was little more than an open field, but cops didn’t bother to break up the ritual weekend parties because of the isolated location and the smell from the nearby sewage lagoon. This was not the ideal place to hang out, but it beat just driving around for fun. The lagoon was just a nice place to relax and hang out with other town hooligans.

Jeff thought for a minute, threw another beer can into the ditch and then spoke up, “You think it’s the smell? It’s a bit muggy tonight, and you know how humidity can affect raw sewage.”

“No, no,” Scott said, “it’s blowing enough that the stench isn’t too rank,” he lit another cigarette, “only problem is this damned fog.”

The fog was pretty thick this particular evening. “Naw,” Jeff said, “I’ve always liked fog, it’s creepy and mys11

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terious, makes you paranoid, like if a zombie were about to pop out and eat your brains--” “You and your goofy ass horror stories! There ain’t no such thing as ghosts or monsters or vampires or even zombies! I outta--” “Whoa, Whoa, there Scotty,” Jeff said snidely, “I know you’re afraid of the dark but you’ve gotta simmer down. The bogeyman isn’t going to get you out here.”

“Shut up.”

Again Scott and Jeff sat in that same awkward silence that always seemed to plague their friendship. They never truly got along; they were friends out

of necessity because they didn’t fit in with the other kids. Sometimes they truly detested one another almost like bitter enemies because they were so different, “like night and day,” Scott’s mother had always said, but they still needed each other. They both secretly believed that it is better to share slowly going insane, then to be stuck going insane all alone.

After a minute Jeff spoke up, “You know, you have no proof that ghosts don’t exist, people see them all the time.”

“Hey man, just shut up about ghosts for a minute, it’s just too creepy a night to bring up that crap.” Scott took another cigarette from his front left breast pocket.

“You know, those things will kill you,” Jeff said quietly.

For the first time that night Scott managed a smile, “Long before your zombies will, that’s for sure.”

They sat in silence for a while, each kind of wondering what to say next,

Lies Don't tell me that you love me Don't whisper sweet nothings in my ear Because you barely know me And your words are meaningless Empty as the pillow next to me Will be in the morning Don't say you understand When I tell you what I think Your feet are far too large To ever walk in my shoes, And you may be sitting next to me But we will never see the same sunset

—Tara Deseth

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but not worrying if nothing was said.

Scott began to think about his old Camaro. He bought it cheap from his cousin Cindy; he basically ripped her off by convincing her that it was not as nice a car she thought it was. Scott knew that was a dirty trick, and Cindy had always been nice to him, but he really wanted it. Flipping burgers parttime didn’t give him the appropriate funds to make the purchase, so fudging the truth was the only way to get what he wanted. That was all in the past; school just got out for the summer, and now he was thinking about how his car would benefit from a few months of full-time wages.

Jeff, laid out on the hood of the car, was in a similar zone of thought. Next year he would be filling out applications for college, and now he was toying with the idea of what major he might want. He wanted to teach, no doubt about that; but what should he teach? English or Science? He enjoyed both subjects equally, but could he handle the workload of a double major?

He knew he would be more likely to get a job if he could teach both subjects, but was it worth the hassle? Hell, he could barely handle high school, and his buddy Scott had never mentioned college.

Jeff sat up quickly, a thought had

occurred to him, “I know why nobody’s is here. Jessica!”

Scott snapped out of daze, “Oh, yeah! Her party. Wanna go?”

They both answered simultaneously, “Hell No!” Jessica Turner was the snobbiest girl in high school, but her good looks overshadowed that, she was captain of the pep squad, and class President. Jessica was easily the most popular girl in town, and no doubt everybody would be at her party instead of the usual hangout at the lagoon. Jeff and Scott, natural outcasts, didn’t like preppy parties, and they only went to the lagoon because there was usually free beer, or at least

Lynette Genre, Snow Day. Photograph, 20 X 25 cm.

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better beer than what Jeff could steal from his dad.

They sat again in silence, dreaming of the future, the stench of the nearby lagoon unnoticeable. The only witnesses to this quiet conversation were a few birds sitting on the telephone line, a whitetail doe feeding in a nearby field, and an empty farmhouse about a mile away. Jeff, always the inquisitive of the two finally decided to quit wondering and ask Scott the question that had been bothering him all month. “Hey, um, have you… thought about college?”

Scott perked up, “College, yeah! I’d love to date a college girl, they’re--” “No, I mean attending college, and getting a degree.”

“I, ah, never thought of it, maybe.

My car, there’s so much I want to do with her, college is expensive and she still needs a paint job.”

Jeff, had anticipated this, and already had a good reply. “The way I see it, you can just graduate high school, and drive the same old Camaro for the rest of your life, or you can go to college, get a degree, then with that degree you can get a higher paying job and maybe buy a brand new Corvette.”

Scott thought this over, “I don’t know man, I don’t get good grades as it is, a new Corvette sounds pretty awesome, but if I flunk out of school, that’s a lot of wasted…” Scott heard something strange in the distance, “What the hell?” Suddenly over the hill two headlamps appeared, “Oh, crap.”

Both boys were mildly intoxicated by now and not thinking too clearly.

Jeff a little faster than Scott heard the noise too, he knew that with this fog, the other car would not see them in time, he rolled recklessly off the hood, ran to the driver’s side window and reached for the headlight switch.

“Hey! Be careful!” Scott automatically cried when Jeff thundered off the hood. Then he too realized that this other car would not see them. He carefully climbed off the hood, fired up his 13

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Zippo, and stood in front of his Camaro waving his arms and screaming. All he could think of was protecting his baby.

“Slow Down You Drunken Asshole!

You’ll get us all--” The other car, an older model

Chevrolet Impala, slammed into Scott, the Camaro, and Jeff. It cut though the car like butter, stopped for a second, (something was caught beneath the right front wheel) backed up enough to dislodge the cooler, now empty of

Fog Descending Around there hangs a fog, thick and dense, No light can pierce its folds No sound can escape its clutches, But you must find your way through.

Searching for a sign, a sight or sound A certain something to guide you out, But there is nothing there To act as a guide.

Turing in circles Never knowing in which direction You should take your first step, But knowing you must make that commitment.

Off in the folds a faint glimmer This is the sign you searched And hoped for You take a step in that direction.

After a few steps The light begins to flicker and fade You begin to run screaming for the light, But as you reach it, it dies.

As despair descends You see another light far off, Out of a sense of hope you run for it Once again it dies before you reach it.

This cycle of hope and despair Continues until exhaustion claims its price Leaving you sitting there too drained to continue While you notice lights have come in abundance.

This time hope doesn't overcome despair The memory of bitter disappointment Keeps you firmly in place Not to be tricked and crushed by the lights of despair.

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cheap beer, and then took off again.

Jeff was literally cut in half because he had been leaning though the driver side window when the car had hit.

Scott, who had been hit at full speed before the Impala even struck the

Camaro was thrown about thirty feet, and was impaled on a barbwire fence.

---------August, 2002 Ted Volk stood in his kitchen washing dishes when Buster started to bark.

Pulling up your knees Wrapping your arms around them Closing your eyes and dropping your head You give into despair.

The fog becomes thicker As your hope starts to fade It feels like a physical presence Keeping your hope down.

A light begins to shine Dim at first Like the others So it goes unnoticed.

Unlike the others This light grows brighter Blotting out the dimmer lights Until you’re forced to look up.

With the first sight of the light Hope begins to rise, But then the fog is seen And hopes starts to whither.

Your head begins to drop, your eyes begin to close In despair of being lost forever in the fog Until you notice the change in the fog, It is melting off.

This dense clinging monster is receding And the lignt is growing You stand and notice the path is clear And the choice is made.

That dense fog that descends At the most inopportune times Goes by a name that is familiar to all Depression.

—Ryan Skaarvold

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He looked out the window, the fog was rolling in. Showtime.

Ted was a science teacher who liked his privacy, so when he moved to the country he looked for a house that nobody would dare move in next too.

So he searched the countryside for six months until he found this particular two-bedroom farmhouse which was not particularly good real estate because of it’s proximity to the city lagoon.

Sure the place often stank to high hell, but he was never bothered by neighbors, simply because his closest one was three miles away.

When he went to buy the place, the realtor was amused. “That place stinks, literally,” the realtor said jokingly.

“Good, I’ll get used to it,” Ted said, “someone must have lived there before, I’m sure they didn’t mind.”

“No they left for a completely different reason,” the realtor let slip.

“Why?” Ted asked quickly, he knew something was up. The house probably had a bad roof or the basement flooded each spring. He needed to know.

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all...I was just--” “I’m pretty sure the Lemon Law applies to more than just automobiles, if I don’t get an honest answer, I’m taking my business elsewhere.”

“Whoa, Buddy!” the realtor cried desperately, “There’s nothing wrong with the house, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but…” he leaned across the desk and spoke quietly, “that lagoon is a bit peculiar.”

“Is that all?” Ted said excitedly, “Nothing is wrong with the house?”

“Yeah, the house is in good shape, but there the matter of…”

Ted Volk smiled eagerly, cutting off what ever the realtor had to say, “I’ll take it.”

For the last four years Ted has watched the spectacle, and it has never become any less interesting, even though it has never changed. He grabbed his fold-up lawn chair, and took Buster around back and locked him in his kennel. Buster always Impressions 2003

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seemed to become strangely vicious during the spectacle. After Buster was secure, Ted headed across the field adjacent to his house, toward the lagoon, and an old prairie trail road that hasn’t been used in over a decade.

The only research of the spectacle Ted had ever done was in order to find the exact location. The first year he could only hear it, but after a quick trip to the library he now knew where it was. Now he could see it when it occurred. Ted never told others about it, he feared a media circus would destroy his private show, plus it was awesome to be able to see something few other people knew about.

The dog had tipped him off as usual,

he knew he’d see it tonight, Buster could always tell when it was about to happen. He set his chair up about thirty yards away from the scene. He knew this was the scene because when he was searching for it four years ago he happened upon an old aluminum beer can which obviously didn’t belong there, since then this is where he had seen the spectacle take place.

He didn’t bring binoculars, he found out when he used them, they never worked, and if he parked his chair too close, the image would fade. Oh well, this was still more interesting than any movie.

He sat down in his trusty chair; the fog was getting thick now. He hoped he would be able to keep his eyes open

during the end, even for a middle-aged man, it was quite intense. Ted pulled a Budweiser from his jacket pocket.

Just then an old sports car came lumbering down the trail; it parked nearly in the middle of the road. Two teenage boys stepped out, one was smoking, and the other was carrying a cooler.

They both climbed atop the hood of the car. Ted could see right though the boys and their car.

Ted was just as captivated as he had ever been, He held his breath, and faintly he could hear; “Why is nobody here?”

“I’m somebody.”

Jaylynn Huiner, Pigeon Inn. Photograph, 16 X 22 cm.

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Living Without Science

By Barbara Schaan Science is measurement, rational, facts, repeatable, materialistic, predictive, and theory among other things.

Show me a child who fills these descriptions and I’ll show you a mechanical doll. Living with children is living without science. Psychologists to this day are still trying to figure children out. God knows us parents have given up. We just cope. What the psychologists haven’t figured out yet is to ask the children what they want to know. Children will tell you anything and everything, even if you’d rather not hear it— totally unpredictable. Just when you think you have them figured out they change tactics.

Take measurement for an example. If a stomach is full it should take a certain amount of time to work through the intestines. With children this time varies greatly. They can only force down three peas, two bites of meat (one of which made its way to the dog under the table), and a spoon of potatoes and they are stuffed. Five minutes later they have room for four bowls of ice cream with a banana, topping, and nuts.

Rational is something you do with the cookies you baked so they don’t devour them before you get them all out of the oven.

There is no scientific theory or explanation for disappearances of items where children roam. How can you lose the dog in the children’s room?

And if you ask about the dog, nobody seems to remember even having one!

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Children are extremely inconsistent.

They’ll flush the goldfish down the toilet because their brother told them to do it, but if mom tells them to do something they suddenly pull a mind of their own out of thin air. They won’t eat a balanced meal because it tastes and looks gross, yet have no qualms about begging change to buy candy worms, and heaven forbid if you put a bag of dog food within reach of a two or three year old. Poor Rover will have

to sustain on the balanced meal the children slid off their plates to the floor.

I’m sure there are other situations in which we live outside of science, but, I’m also convinced that they all would have the tendency to be just as chaotic.

I’m also convinced that living outside of science would inevitably lead to madness!

Keila Kuykendall, Untitled. Pencil on paper, 20 X 28 cm.

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One Saturday Afternoon

By Dennis Ziniel “Hey Mason,” the eight year old greeted his friend at the front door, “how long can you stay?”

Mason pulled off his stocking cap, uncovering a head of fine blond hair that splayed out in all directions. He shook off his mittens, dropped his coat, sat down, pulled off his snow boots and threw the lot into the hall closet beside the front door. “Mom said she’ll pick me up at six, we’ve got

the whole afternoon. Can we play farm?”

Derrick smiled. “Yeah, that sounds good. Let’s each build our own farm and help each other out. You can have my new John Deere tractor and baler.”

Mason smiled at his friend and the two boys ran off to the attic, which Derrick claimed for his personal playroom.

Farm Life Winter is cold but spring is warm Though sometimes it snows in May, And the children leave the farm.

Mortgage the house, paint the barn, And fix the tractor today; Winter is cold but spring is warm.

The clover blooms and the bees swarm.

The hens have begun to lay, And the children leave the farm.

Threat of drought raises alarm; No crop means we cannot pay.

Winter is cold but spring is warrn.

Government says, “we mean no harm,” But it seems to look that way.

And the children leave the farm.

Country life once had great charm, Now all of the farmers say Winter is cold but spring is warm, And the children leave the farm.

—Carla Kraehenbuehl

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The boys selected the toys that would fit their farms from the shelf and set up fences and buildings. Mason took special care with the John Deere tractor and baler; he really wished he had one of his own. “Derrick, can I have the bale wagon too? I need it to hook behind the baler.”

Derrick looked at the wagon, there was only one, “I need a wagon too, how will I get hay to my cows?”

The boys stared at each other, both with a hand on the bale wagon. It was Mason who broke the standoff. “Well, what if you use it in the mornings and I use it in the afternoons and we park it right between our farrns?”

Derrick stood unmoving for a moment running the idea around in his mind, then he pulled his hand away from the bale wagon, “Yeah, that’ll work okay, but you need to fix the wagon if it breaks.”

Mason agreed and soon the setup continued. The boys carefully placed the cows in the pasture and each set up buildings and fences, which bore a definite resemblance to the real life farms they lived on. When they were satisfied with the setup, they began to play.

“Do you need a hand baling your alfalfa?” Mason was getting into his role as a good neighbor farmer.

“No,” Derrick replied, “I got up early this morning and baled it. Dad says that you save the leaves when the dew is still high otherwise it gets too dry and it looses all its trition.”

Mason nodded with his hand on his toy pickup truck, the only vehicle used by any self-respecting farmer. “Well, I’m all done with chores, want to do something today?”

Derrick backed his tractor into the barn his father had built for him out of one- quarter inch plywood and then closed the door. “Yeah, let’s go to an auction sale. We can buy some more land, and some more tractors, and another bale wagon, and make our farms bigger.”

Mason peered intently at the floor, “I Impressions 2003

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just remembered I have got to cut some more hay for my cows, see ya tomorrow.” Mason drove his toy truck back to his own farm and hooked the mower onto his toy tractor and proceeded to cut hay. The two boys played at their own farms for a short time, then Derrick took his toy pickup truck and went over to Mason’s farm. It was then that he noticed the tear running down Mason’s cheek.

“See you got all your hay cut. I saw one of your cows was out of the fence on the way over so I put it back in for you.” Mason nodded but said nothing.

Derrick continued, “We should go out and bale up the hay you cut, I can come over with my baler and we can do it together.” Derrick was hopeful that this would cheer up his friend.

Suddenly Mason spoke, “So did you buy anything at the auction?” Derrick backed his truck off to the side of the road, a motion indicating that he had time to talk; he flicked his head to the side sending a lock of red hair out of his eyes, “Yeah, I got a real good deal on the big combine and I also bought a loader tractor and I got another two quarters of land. They didn’t have no bale wagon. I split the section with old man Schmidt.” Derrick remembered how his father had talked when they purchased the Bender farm.

Mason unhooked the mower from the tractor and parked it by the fence.

“So who’s auction sale did you go to?”

Derrick thought for a second, trying to come up with a name, “Oh, it was the Renner’s, their land meets up with mine up on the north section by Highway 21.” Derrick again remembered how his father used the highways to describe their land location.

Mason looked intently at the tractor he was pushing back and forth with his left hand, his blue eyes still moist, “Did the Renner’s have any kids?”

Derrick had to think about this imaginary family, “Yeah they had two girls and two boys. Why do you ask?”

Mason continued to push the tractor 18

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back and forth, “I was just wondering what will happen to them? Where will they live? Why do they have to go anyway and what will happen to their farm?”

Derrick was quiet for a moment, “Well, I guess they will just leave like everyone does when they sell their farms. They will go to the city and find jobs and live there.”

The tears streamed down Mason’s cheeks now and he stood up, “But I don’t want to go to the city. I like the farm and now we have to move. Its not fair because I will not get to see you and we will not be able to play farm again.” Derrick stood up, walked over to his friend, and put his arm around his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I should never have brought up that stupid auction sale, I was not thinking about you, I was thinking about playing.”

Mason was sobbing harder now, “I don’t want to leave. Dad said we will have a nice house in Bismarck and I will have lots of kids to play with, but I don’t want to go to Bismarck. I like it here with you and with Jason and Erick. We will never get to see each other again. I won’t be able to help dad in the fields, I can’t help with feeding the animals no more; we lost the farm, someone else might live there.”

Derrick removed his arm from his friend’s shoulder, shoved his hands in his pockets, and looked at a small hole in the stocking on his left foot which seemed to be doing a back and forth dance of its own accord. He wrinkled his freckled face and looked around.

Finally he spoke softly, “Mom said when I go to Bismarck I can come to your house and play. I can ask Jason and Erick to come with.”

Mason wiped the tears away with his checkered shirtsleeve, “Yeah, that would be nice, but that is what they said when Ryan left last year and we only got to see him once at the 4-H picnic last summer, and then he had to go home early.”

Derrick sat back on the floor wanting to change the subject, not knowing

what to say, “You’re leaving tomorrow?”

Mason nodded as he kneeled by his tractor, “Yeah, I guess, in the morning, They are cleaning out the house today and loading everything on the U-Haul.

When I think about our house just setting empty it makes me very sad. I am really glad they let me come over and play today.” Mason suddenly stood up again, “I have an idea, let’s take a blood oath and swear to always be friends, and if we ever have a family we will never move them away from their friends.”

Derrick smiled and jumped, ran to the steps, disappeared down the stairwell, and reappeared moments later with a sewing needle. He pricked the end of his fore finger and handled the needle to Mason, who did the same.

When both boys had blood on the end of their fingers they rubbed their two fingers together and then hooked their fore fingers and held their other arms aloft in typical oath fashion. “We will always be true to the other and swear eternal loyalty to our friendship and we will never move our families, if we have families.” Mason spoke the words clearly.

Derrick repeated them, then both boys said, “swear, may our heads turn into rocks should we ever break this oath.”

Mason was not quite finished yet, “And we promise to e-mail each other at least four times a week for the rest of our lives, swear.”

Derrick picked up the oath and repeated it and again both boys said.

“Swear, may our heads turn into rocks should we ever break this oath.”

Mason gave the needle back to Derrick and sat back down. “I don’t know about you, but I feel a lot better now.”

Derrick kneeled in front of him, “Yeah, I feel a lot better too, but to be honest with you I don’t think I will ever get married.”

Mason nodded, “Yeah me neither, but just in case we don’t want to make Impressions 2003

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no mistakes if we do have kids.”

Both boys looked at each other and in unison murmured, “no way.”

The boys were soon farming again and just as they finished harvesting Derrick’s two hundred bushel an acre wheat crop Mason looked up at Derrick, “Do you think that anyone ever comes back once they leave?”

Derrick sat quietly beside his combine in deep thought, “I don’t think so, and Dad says that no one ever comes to Carson any more. They might come back for a visit, but no one ever stays.

Dad says that pretty soon there won’t be no towns left down this way, only very big farms so if we want to keep farming we have got to keep getting bigger and we have to stay one step in front of old man mortgage. I don’t know who he is but he must be real mean. He said the Cenex in Elgin is in trouble again. I’m not sure what that means but I don’t think its because they were throwing rocks at windows.”

Mason drove the heavily laden wheat truck to the granary but stopped and looked over at his friend, “But why can’t people stay on their farms and what happens when everyone goes away?”

Derrick was driving the combine home, “I donno, Dad says he saw a sign once that read, “Will the last one out of town please turn off the lights.”

I think that is kind of funny. He also said something about a sad farm company but I don’t know where that is. I asked him once if we would ever have to move to town and he said, ‘not as long as I’m still breathin.’ I thought that was a pretty good answer.”

The boys were working cows when Derrick’s mother’s voice filled the attic with the dreaded words, “Mason your mother is here, it’s time to go.”

Mason got up and started putting the farm machinery back on the shelf when Derrick spoke up, “Mason, I want you to take my John Deere tractor and baler, take them with you and pretend we are together when you play 19

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with them.”

Mason nodded but said nothing as he reached in his pocket. He pulled out his 1882 Morgan Silver Dollar and handed it to Derrick. “I know you really love this old coin so I want you to have it and remember me every time you look at it.”

Derrick’s eyes got as big as the

Dollar itself, “Wow, Gosh, Thanks Mason.”

Knowing what was coming next the boys stood silently, heads hung slightly with their hands in their pockets.

They peered at each other with raised eyes and then, Mason turned slowly and walked toward the steps. Derrick followed closely behind, his head still

I Ran Barefoot I ran barefoot through the cold, Rippling, salty waves just for you.

And I lay down in the sun-bathed sand Thinking about what I saw and how I felt.

And I tried to convey these thoughts to you.

I took an extra look, just for you Between the north and south jetty This is what I saw; greenish calm water, Deep water and, oh, so quiet compared To the rest of the furious ocean.

The jetty. Big gray boulders With deep black crevices between, looking like Gray arms growing from the shore into the sea.

A damp darkish gray sky, lighter than the boulders.

At the horizon, a dim blurry line, where green met gray.

It was cool, the last day of autumn When winter was trying to take over.

The wind was whipping my hair, Stinging my cheeks, making them tingle.

And my hands turned numb.

The taste of salt was in the air.

I could feel the spray of the waves Crashing against the rocks.

The smell was so fresh, And clean, and salty.

It made me feel so free.....

So free I could almost fly.... .... And I wrote your name in the sand, So the ocean wouldn't Forget you.

—Barbara Schaan Impressions 2003

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hung low, he did not know why but suddenly his eyes were blurred and he was having trouble seeing.

The farm that was bustling with activity seconds before now sat idle and already one of the fences lay on its side. Snow fell outside the only attic window. In the yard below two young friends were saying goodbye, not knowing when and if they would ever see each other again. It was another typical Saturday afternoon in November, in rural North Dakota.Š

Stephanie Dixon, Mist. Oil on paper, 28 X 35 cm.

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Prayer to Spring Melt by the light of the sun and freeze by the light of the moon— Water flowing down the streets of melting snow in afternoons; I lift my eye to the sun, and know that you will come soon.

—Theo Bohn

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Stephanie Dixon, Storm Watcher. Watercolor on paper, 50 X 33 cm.

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Adventurous Fears

By Tara Deseth It was dark and there wasn’t space on either side of me. The musty smell was making me nauseous. Suddenly I heard a snap. My heart began to race, my breathing got heavy and soon I was in an all out panic. I was trapped.

It all started when I bunch of the young boys around, 7 years old, in the group home I was staying in were playing in a folded up camper in the yard. There was a small metal door that locked automatically when it was shut. The boys had a pencil holding the door open while they climbed inside to check it out.

When they stopped playing I wanted to see what they were doing. So I placed the pencil in the door and crawled inside. There was barely enough space for me; a smaller than average 4-year-old. Just as I was about to get out, the pencil snapped, trapping me inside.

I could hear the sound of the other kids kicking a ball around and screaming. I screamed as loud as I could, but to no avail. A young girl 8 years old came over to the camper and I pleaded for her to let me out. She laughed heartily, pointed at me and left. I burst into tears and cried until I had no tears left. I lay in the dark and began to think I would never get out.

Panic overcame me once more as I began to think I couldn’t breathe. The panic turned into an adrenaline rush and gave me to energy to push the top of the camper with my feet enough to squeeze through. I lay on the ground shaking in fear until my older brother found me an hour later.

This was the experience that started my claustrophobia, which is a fear of enclosed spaces. This experience was only the beginning of many humiliat23

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ing events.

I traveled a lot during my childhood.

I went to Montana, California, Colorado, New Mexico and many other places. Naturally with all that driving I spent plenty of time at rest stops. When I had to go to the bathroom I would make my mom hold the door a little bit for fear of being trapped.

While at a rest stop in Wyoming, my mom let go of the door to take care of my brother. The slam of the door was deafening. I ran to the door and tried with all of my might to open it, but it was too heavy. In the back of my mind I could hear that little girl laughing at

me. I let out a blood-curdling scream and my knees went out.

My mom rushed to see what happened and found me on the floor just inside the door with my pants around my ankles. Her look of horror turned into a smile as she picked me and up and promised me never again.

Unfortunately it didn’t stop there.

Hide-and-seek was horrible for me. I would always get caught because I was too scared to stay in any closed spaces. So whomever was “it” would simply wait for me to burst out from wherever I was.

Most kids are scared of monsters under their bed. I was scared my bed

Ola Supernat, Chapsticks. Pencil on paper, 35 X 28 cm.

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Rochelle Kary, I Lost Something. Photograph, 24 X 17 cm.

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would collapse on me. My brother had to get any toys that were under there so I didn’t hyperventilate.

Sometimes I had a good laugh at myself and so did everyone else. Once I thought the bathroom stall at school was broken and I ended up breaking the lock simply because I was pushing when I was suppose to pull. I screamed and several girls came in just as I broke the lock.

For the most part I have been able to avoid scary circumstances, but the worst episode was unavoidable. I was in Minneapolis with my Family Career Community Leaders of America group for a conference. We stayed at the Hyatt, a very fancy hotel. I found out we were staying on the 28th floor and there wasn’t any stairs.

I panicked, but then quickly calmed myself down by telling myself I was a sophomore in high school and I could do this. So I packed my bags into the elevator and closed my eyes. In no time I heard the beep telling me I was on my floor. I was so proud of myself I thought I would treat myself to ice cream.

My friend Amanda wanted to come with me to check out the hotel and get a sundae. So we took off into the elevator and went to the first floor. As we were heading back up to the room, many of the other schools were arriving. I took a deep breath as I stood in the elevator with 8 other people and their bags.

I was calm until I heard the sound that made all my fears all too real. A loud thud and a jolt letting us know the elevator stopped made me burst into tears. Within seconds I stopped breathing and in the time it took for Amanda to say my name I had passed out on the floor.

When I came to I was out in the hallway where someone had dragged me. There was a very cute guy with sandy blond hair and blue eyes hovering over me to see if I was ok. I'm convinced I said something incredibly stupid like “I like peanut butter...

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you’re hot” because he laughed nervously and said he thought I was ok.

The manager of the hotel opened the emergency stairs for me and I had a good walk for the rest of the trip.

I really wish I could say some amazing event has changed me, but I’d be lying. I still can’t lock the door

at rest stops even though I can close the door now. I can get things under my bed, but my heart still stops for a second when I have to go into the closet. I’m getting better; even if I am taking the stairs.

Morning Glory As the darkness fell away this morning, I heard your every breath I was watching you in the dim light, sleeping in earnest, Dreaming in color Sloping downward, your back, smooth and divine, Asked me for a sweet caress, and gladly I obeyed As longing and endearment escaped from my lips, My fingertips traced along the canvas of your flesh, Your curves guided me on the seductive road of sensation, Every turn drove me to the edge It was your morning kiss, blessed with witchery and magic, That stole my worship forever My heart will never return from whence it came, Captive and conquered, it beats in your very hands It is now with thoughtful contemplation that I see...

You are indeed, The One You are my beginning and my end, He who stands between the shadow of darkness and the flow of light In our morning glory I unfolded before you, As my every care drifted off into a cloudless sky

—Patty Furuseth

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The Fire

By Joshua Hlibichuk Across the room, his eyes met hers— the joining of two lost souls, searching for someone to find them. It wasn’t a moment that stopped time around them. It wasn’t a moment that had resounding orchestral accompaniment.

There were no fireworks. There was no parade.

That didn’t mean it couldn’t change his world.

In a spontaneous act of tremendous will and utter sacrilege, he broke away and glanced at the floor. It was too

late—they had both seen what had been there, but only he was scared of what it meant. He had thought it was all long over; maybe she was right when she said that some flames never die—they just smolder.

He had no idea that such a small act could revive dying feelings, breathing into them a new life he’d almost forgotten. The scary part was knowing it would die again. It would never be a question of if, or maybe, but when. For some people, he’d seen an eternal

bond that could never break. For them, the bond was more like a thin piece of paper, and time dropped grains of sand onto it with every passing day. They could replace the paper forever, but it would always break.

He watched helplessly as she got out of her seat and walked toward him.

Each light step she took shook the floor. Each strand of hair she brushed out of her face caused a gale to blow by. She was shining like the moon and no one could see it.

No one but him.

She came and sat. And nothing more. In silence, they spoke more than any trifling words could ever say.

The roar inside of him was deafening. It was the sound of all the broken pieces he’d had reforming into something new, and then completely shattering once more into thousands of smaller pieces. He knew she’d taken some of those pieces. He would never see them again.

After a few years passed with the two sitting there, he saw her look at him out of the corner of his eye. Even though he’d been filled with new life, somewhere inside, he felt a part of him die.

He couldn’t turn to meet her lonely stare.

Instead, he got up and walked out of the room. He walked down the hallway. He made his way to the front door, and, without looking back, he quietly left.

But the life—the fire—never did.

Kim Halvorson, A Leisure Day in Drawing Class. Pencil on paper, 45 X 60 cm.

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This Really Happened

By Matthew Ramsey In trying to come up with a catchy, in-your-face title for this little story I ended up ditching some of my more colorful ideas such as: “My Dog Does Not Like Beer” and, perhaps the more accurate and to the point, “The Night My Father Tried to Get the Dog Drunk Using a Turkey Baster.” The main reason for disregarding those titles is that I felt that with this title, the question that will certainly arise in your mind at the end of the story is already answered (question that will arise in your mind at the end of the story: “Did this really happen?” answer: “This really happened”—you see?).

I think it would be best if we eased into the telling with a brisk and illuminating round of Q & A. I’ve already anticipated some of your more salient questions: Q: It isn’t very nice to get dogs drunk with turkey basters.

A: Well, he had porcupine quills stuck in his nose. What did you expect us to do—take him to the vet and spend actual money on him?

Oh, and we didn’t really get him drunk—we just tried very, very hard.

Q: I’m calling the ASPCA. A: Don’t bother. He’s dead.

Q: That’s terrible! You gave your dog alcohol poisoning?

A: No, we put him to sleep for an unrelated cause. The alcohol incident was merely a nail in his coffin.

So now I’ve clearly stated that my dog had gotten porcupine quills in his nose and I’ve alluded to the fact that he wouldn’t drink the beer (I had heard dogs just absolutely love beer) so logically the only options 27

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left were to: 1. get a turkey baster, 2. fill it with hard liquor and 3. proceed in forcing my dog to “tie-oneon.” My dog, however, was a teeto-

taler (I’m not sure if that is a trait inherent to yellow labs) and very bad at holding his hooch. The scene forever engraved in my mind is the

Path to Home Trees bend low Branches reach To the sky.

The moon filters Ominously through you.

Your gazing To the stars Seeing their arrangement Falling in the sky.

You smile Another essence Searching for Light in the water Leading to home.

I can see it When I see Through you.

—Alexia Renner

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one of my father kneeling down, struggling with this 90 lb. beast to keep the baster in its mouth as he desperately

tries to empty the contents some where in the vicinity of its throat and me standing frozen in unbelief of the situ-

Johanna Njos, Waiting. Photograph, 20 X 12 cm.

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ation while my friend tries to choke back vomits of laughter.

Q: That's a disgusting word picture.

A: What? “Vomits of laughter?”

Q: Yes. Stop saying that.

A: Well, this really happened.

So after multiple attempts (we realized right away that it wouldn’t work but we kept trying anyway because it was pretty cool) of trying to get the dog drunk with a turkey baster we decided that perhaps he just didn’t like five-year-old Wild Turkey.

I can't really blame him—I mean, it smelt awful. The main concern at this point was that the quills would drill themselves through his brain (apparently they have the power to do that) causing an extremely nasty death and the only benefit that I could see would have been to film it and enter it in “America’s Nastiest Home Canine Deaths.”

Q: There is no such program.

A: Which is exactly why there was no benefit for porcupine quills to drill through my dog’s brain, thank you.

Pay attention.

Q: These aren’t questions—they’re not in question form; I doubt you even know what a question is.

A: Well, you’re the one who’s asking them—or rather, not asking then.

Whatever. Can I finish?

Q: That was a question.

Eventually the quills worked themselves out. Their trajectory was such that they did not pass through his skull and instead, merely bore harmlessly out the other side of his jawbone. The sad thing was he did not learn from the experience and summarily went about doing whatever intensely personal thing it was he did to porcupines to cause him to get their quills in his snout. The whole affair had given me a great business idea and I ended up going through several failed attempts to get a knock off version of a popular American television show, which was based upon home videos, started in Japan. Those people Impressions 2003

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High Stakes

By Benjamin Evans Four scruffy looking middle aged men play a game of poker on a quiet night. They sit around a round table which is covered with poker chips, dollar bills and empty beer bottles.

Charlie sits on the left, Chet sits in the back upstage, Mike on the right, and Greg down stage, with his back almost completely to the audience.

Both Charlie and Mike have guns hidden beneath the table. Charlie is high strung with a controlling attitude. Mike is quiet almost squeamish, but has a dark side. Chet and Greg serve to be little more than props.

-------------------(Lights up)

GREG: Well boys I cleaned out my bank account this morning, and now I’m gonna clean you’s guys out.

MIKE: Not likely, buddy, I got a good feeling I’m going home with all your money tonight.

hand, each taking the appropriate number they need.)

GREG: I call, whattaya guys have.

CHARLIE: (disgustedly throws his hand down) Garbage.

MIKE: Just a pair of sixes

CHET: No way, I’m the one going home rich tonight.

CHARLIE: Will you guys just shut up!

Greg, deal the cards.

(Greg deals, and all four men arrange their cards. They play out the

GREG: Well I got three-CHET : (Stands up victoriously, throws his cards on the table) Full House!!

Suckers!!

(In the commotion Charlie stands up draws a gun, shoots Chet twice, Chet falls back, Charlie quickly shoots Greg twice in the chest, Greg slumps over the table cards still in hand, supposedly dead, then Charlie turns to shoot Mike, but Mike has drawn a pistol and is already pointing it at Charlie, they freeze for a few heartbeats. Both men steadily hold their guns on one another throughout the scene) MIKE: What the hell do you think you’re doing!

CHARLIE: Me? Why do you have a gun? You’re not supposed to have a gun!

Robert Lemke, Wolf by the River. Pencil on paper, 22 X 28 cm.

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MIKE: NO!!! No, No, No!!! You just shot two of your best friends, and then, you were going to kill me, weren’t ya?

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his chair and careful to keep his gun trained on Mike sits back down) Now I’m not sure what I’m gonna do.

MIKE: Why would you do such a thing? Bringing a gun to a poker game with your best friends who just wanted to have a good time? Now they’re dead. You sick bastard!

CHARLIE: (choked up) I ah, I just wanted… I just wanted a new start.

Sarah left me, I love you guys, but I want a new life. I knew you guys were bringing a lot of money to this game. I figured I could use that, maybe move to Mexico…

money. I need to start over.

MIKE: I hope you’re happy with yourself, Murderer!!

CHARLIE: I just need to… Wait a minute! You’re leading me on, trying to get me to feel sorry for myself. Now answer me this you self righteous son of a bitch, what the hell are you doing with a gun?

MIKE: I ahCHARLIE: All this time you had a gun.

same thing I was! You were gonna kill us all, take the moneyMIKE: (Enraged, he stands up quickly, still training his gun on Charlie) Now listen here! Those guys are dead! I didn’t do it! You did! You murdered them in cold blood! I saw the look in your eyes, you enjoyed it didn’t you?

You sickCHARLIE: Don’t get righteous with me, the only reason you didn’t do the same thing was because I beat you to it, didn’t I. You were going to kill me weren’t ya.

MIKE: Well I. You… MIKE: How dare you accuse me-

MIKE: Why would you do that? After everything the four of us have been through.

CHARLIE: Came here to a poker game with your three of your most trusting friends…

CHARLIE: I had to man, Sarah took everything. I needed too. Even if I had to kill my best friends, I need

MIKE: Chet, Greg… you shot…

CHARLIE: Now, the only thing I can’t figure out. Why? Why would you kill your best friends? You wouldn’t hurt a fly.

CHARLIE: You were going to do the

MIKE: You… (Defeated, he sits down,

Johanna Njos, The Barn. Photograph, 13 X 20 cm.

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Keila Kuykendall, Untitled. Pencil on paper, 28 X 20 cm.

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but he still holds his gun on Charlie.)

I got fired a few weeks ago… For something I didn’t even do. The boss said I was stealing from the stockroom. So yeah, I was gonna kill you guys, take the money, move to Canada. That job was my life!

Thirteen years… Gone. Sad thing is, I know it was this fat piece of crap, (he kicks Greg under the table, his body shakes a little with the blow) who was actually doing the stealing.

CHARLIE: (starts to laugh) Whoa, now! So it was more than the money.

You came here actually wanting to

kill somebody, I believe you got me beat.

CHARLIE: Sarah left me… for Chet.

(He kicks at Chet’s corpse)

MIKE: No no. Those bodies… you made them like that. I would have yeah, but I didn’t. It was all you Buster. Besides, I saw your eyes. You wanted them to die.

MIKE: Eww, I’m sorry man. I guess I don’t blame you. But why did you shoot Greg? What’d he do?

CHARLIE: Did not!

MIKE: Don’t play with me. I’ve known you too long, there’s something more… (Both men stare each other down for a few beats)

CHARLIE: The money remember? Or did you forget? You’re all dead to me, I’m moving on. Wait a minute. You didn’t come for the money. I think you just came for Greg, that gun probably isn’t even loaded. You just wanted to scare him didn’t you?

MIKE: Hey now, I’ve got a full clip here and once you put your guard downCHARLIE: You don’t have the balls, (He stands up stretches his arms out giving Mike a clear shot, Mike raises his gun higher, ready to shoot) or the bullets. (Greg stirs, sits up, and in a dazed/ drunken voice)

First Time With creamiest of flesh pounds with in me. blood of my life

GREG: Charlie… why’d you have… to do that.

POURS

One slender touch of skin glides down my neck. liquid caress STICKS

Awkward warmth of rapid breath chills naked flesh. liquid caress

(Mike swings his gun over to Greg, shoots him five times, Greg topples backwards, dead this time. Charlie still stands with his arms outstretched staring at Greg’s body in disbelief.

Mike still holds his gun on Greg.

Several beats pass. Then simultaneously both Mike and Charlie swing their guns back towards each other. A few more beats pass.)

CHARLIE: Holy Crap!! You were gonna shoot me.

SLIDES

Motion

—Alexia Renner

MIKE: I was.

CHARLIE: I thought you were bluffing.

You killed him. You were gonna kill me!

MIKE: I need the money, I’m going to Canada.

CHARLIE: No you’re not. (He sits back

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down, gun still on Mike) I’m going to Mexico.

MIKE: Your Spanish is horrible, you wouldn’t last a week.

CHARLIE: Your Canadian is horrible, YOU wouldn’t last a week. (Both men laugh almost putting their guns down, but they both quickly raise them back up) MIKE: You know man, we both got our revenge. What do you say we split the money and run?

CHARLIE: No way. I don’t want any witnesses, and you are one big witness. Plus I need as much money as I can get.

MIKE: So what are we gonna do? Sit here all night?

CHARLIE: You’ve got to sleep sometime.

MIKE: So do you.

CHARLIE: Is your arm getting tired?

MIKE: No. Are your eyelids getting heavy?

CHARLIE: No. I can wait forever I have nowhere to go.

MIKE: Neither do I. (Lights fade, several seconds later a single gunshot is heard) (THE END)

Destini Knapp, Flame. Pen wash on paper, 56 X 25 cm.

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The Little Missouri Gilligan’s Island River Float

By Carla Kraehenbuehl I had never been tubing before, but when my sister, Jan, suggested we put a group together and give the Little Missouri River a try, it sounded like a good idea. The day dawned warm and clear, with little breeze. Jan and I packed our supplies and fed everyone a big brunch. Then we headed for the river. We thought we planned the trip well, considering none of us had ever been tubing before. We brought water and pop, snacks, suntan lotion, sunglasses, an inflatable raft to carry supplies, and an assortment of large inner tubes.

We reached our first obstacle about 100 yards downstream from our starting point. The water level was so low we had to walk our tubes and supplies along the river. The riverbed was covered with fist-sized rocks. We hadn’t thought about bringing old shoes to wear. We weren’t ready to give up, so with a chorus of “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” we proceeded to deeper water. We repeated this scene more than once that day. We put old tennis shoes first on the things-to- remember-next-time-wedo-this list.

After a couple of hours on the river, we were surprised when someone hailed us from the shore. One of Jan’s neighbors had decided to see how we were doing. We asked about how far we were from our starting point. We were somewhat dismayed to discover we had only traveled one mile, but since the day was young and the weather beautiful, we chose to stay on the river.

We traveled ... and we traveled ... and we traveled. The sun began to set.

We were getting chilly. Conversation became nonexistent, except for groans and an occasionally muttered prayer of 34

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“Please, God, let the car be around the next bend!”

Although there were seven of us, just as there were on Gilligan’s Island, and our “cruise” was planned for three hours, as was theirs, we were fortunate to make our escape from the great river rafting adventure. Waterlogged and thirsty, sunburned and mosquito-bit,

we dragged our tired-to-the-bone bodies up the bank of the river like prehistoric amphibians evolving their way to land living. No longer caring how muddy or wet the van became, we piled in and went home to Jan’s, where we lined up for nice hot showers.

We’ve decided to go again next year.

Games Lust That initial attraction The focal point in a game One I had never played before So, I figured I’d try it out I soon found out I wasn’t any good But I kept on Telling myself I had a chance with him I pulled all the tricks I had Perhaps I played them too soon But I took the chance Knowing I might not get another opportunity My hand of cards wasn’t any good, I guess ’Cuz it seems as though I’ve lost the game

—Jennesy Raaum

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Row Thirteen

By Dennis Ziniel It was a beautiful sunny Bismarck day and we were on my motorcycle.

We were driving by the Capitol when I remembered it. Ardyce was on the back. I yelled over my shoulder.

“Should we stop for a visit?”

Ardyce yelled back, “Sure, let’s take a look.”

We pulled around to the other side of the Capital grounds. I hit the kill switch on my 1100 cc Yamaha and put down the kick stand. We both got off and studied the situation, not really sure what we were supposed to do.

On the right was the “Wall” and on the left stood a brown tent with tables lining one side. Two men stood inside the tent. They carried that look, the look of being in charge, of being where they were supposed to be. We walked to the tent, and one of them addressed us.

“Are you just visiting or did you want to look up someone in particular.”

That's when it hit me. I saw the H-3 Sikorsky Helicopter spinning out of control, it's hull slipped past my line of vision on the flight deck of the aircraft carrier. I felt a hollowness enter the pit of my stomach as I ran to the edge of the ship just in time to see Helo 76 hit the water. The white helmets of the pilot and copilot stood out starkly against the backdrop of the dismal murky south china sea and the dark navy gray bird. I was aware of others standing around me and of people shout...

“Sir, did you want to see someone whose name is on the wall?”

The voice of the official brought me back to the present, tears welled in my eyes and a big lump formed in my throat. I found it hard to speak but 35

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knew I must. He was looking at me, waiting for an answer.

My voice creaked like a rusty nail being pulled from a weathered old board.

“AZ3 Scotti Moore, United States Navy Reserve.”

To myself I added, “Killed in a helicopter that I performed the preflight inspection on.”

The official looked in his book and

mumbled something about not everyone being listed.

Back again in the Tonkin Gulf, I watched as the flying coffin started to capsize and slowly sink. I stood helplessly as the crew and some of the passengers bobbed in the four foot swells along with the many sacks of mail that now littered the oceans surface, all tiny, compared to the large gray metal bird that was sinking slowly beneath

Obsession He’s my obsession I am fighting For someone I can't have Trying to turn his head Away from his own obsession Persuading him to leave someone That isn't true to him She’s my only obstacle In winning his heart Poor boy must be confused He can’t see What we all see “Love is blind” But that’s not love Its obsession

—Jennesy Raaum

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the surface of the...

“Texas, was he from Texas?”

The state registered dimly in my cloudy mind, “Yes that's where Scotti was from.”

Suddenly, the official looked up, beaming triumphantly. “Here he is, Row ------ column ---------.”

I didn’t catch it, but Ardyce did. He handed us some papers and we began to walk away as the official asked.

“Did you want to take an impression?”

I turned and looked stupidly while Ardyce grabbed the paper and black crayon.

We walked along the wall and I had no idea what section we were looking for. My vision was blurred and I couldn’t think clearly. I had such a feeling of loss, of emptiness. I was back in a period of my life that I thought would not have an effect upon me anymore. I was wrong. The lump was still in my throat. I felt sad for the loss of my friend and guilty for being alive. If Ardyce had not been there I would have had to go back to the official to find my way. She found the spot and we looked for his name. We found his name in row 13. Scotti Moore Jr. Ardyce laid the paper across his name and rubbed the crayon across it

slowly. As his name appeared on the paper, I saw the wheels of the inverted gun ship slip slowly beneath the waves.

It was the last visible sign of the once noble war machine. It wasn’t only the Helo that slipped beneath the surface of the salt water. One of my best friends went with it. There were two other helicopters in the air now and men were shouting, others being pulled from the water, along with the surviving sacks of mail, but, Scotti and I were saying good-bye.

Ardyce pulled my cheek next to hers and put her hand on the side of my head to pull me close. I could not even open my eyes as sobbed, the pain tear-

Kim Halvorson, Woman’s Secret Superpower. Photograph, 20 X 25 cm.

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ing at my insides. I don’t know how long we stood there but I did feel better when we left. The results of the investigation said that the helicoptefailed because it was overloaded. The tail shaft snapped and the tail rotor quit spinning. I have looked at that same tail shaft for the past twenty plus years. I still do not see any flaws, but I may have overlooked one.

Scotti was just one of many and I wonder how many others have felt the pain I felt? Scotti was my friend, my very good friend and he was dead.

I was alive, was that fair? I remember Scotti as a very happy man. He was ever optimistic, so very full of life, and he had dreams of doing and achieving, but first he wanted to go home to his parents in Texas. We would talk of them often. Scotti only had five days of active duty left when he died. I often wonder about the anguish that Scotti’s family must have endured. Scotti was a very young man when he gave his life for his country.

I knew other names on the wall but Scotti’s was the only one I looked up. He represents to me what the war represented. The loss of so much. We lost some of the bravest, brightest, strongest and most intelligent. I have heard that for every loss there must be some kind of gain. Can someone tell me what that gain was? Is it worth what it costs in distress and anxiety for the loved ones of those who are missing in action? Was it worth the pain and suffering for the loved ones of those who lost their lives in that terrible war? If we ever needed a reason not to go to war, could we say that Row Thirteen should be that reason.

Maybe this at least would give his death some reason.

The End

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Deity He has made it now the place...

Where the stars always swim, Where the sunlight soothes your weary face, Where the roots of the world begin.

Where the stars always swim, And the rays of crystal waters glow, Where the roots of the world begin, Encased in the spectra's flow.

And the rays of crystal waters glow, Swirling, twirling with a glance, Encased in the spectra’s flow, His mystic eyes enchantingly trance.

Swirling, twirling with a glance, His match-less fingers sparkle with fire, His mystic eyes enchantingly trance, His magical illusions inspire.

His match-less fingers sparkle with fire, Where the sunlight soothes your weary face, His magical illusions inspire,

—Tara Orr

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Ashley Weisz, Gamla Stan: Old Stockholm. Photograph, 18 X 13 cm.

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Lab 101

By Jaylynn Huiner The man lay in a relaxed position, unafraid that the man standing next to him held a razor blade. The younger man, wearing a white jacket, made sure to hold the razor blade properly as he shaved the other’s face and was careful not to make any unnecessary strokes. The sterile razor glistened silver in the brightly lit room from the lights that hung above. Laid out on the counter on a white towel were razors and scissors.

The young man, named Larry, picked up the razor and began to carefully shave the top of the man’s head.

The younger man was well aware that others in the room were sitting on chairs and waiting to have their turn.

However, they seemed almost too comfortable, in no hurry, and appeared to only want to study their manuals.

One yawned and glanced at his watch.

Then Larry picked up a bottle of disinfectant solution, poured it into a dish, and with a sponge began to rub on the naked, upper part of the lifeless body. Larry imagined how the old man might have looked before he died. He imagined the sound of his voice, him playing ball with his grandkids, and finally, how his family might have remembered him at his funeral. He had learned that the man had died from a stroke. Then he noticed the man had a small tattoo on his upper, right shoulder. It said “U.S. Navy.” Some past to his life had been revealed. It was evident that he had been in the military.

Larry seemed to daydream for a while as his mind left the room and he thought back to his own life. His own grandfather, who looked to be about the same age, had died a year ago. He had been in the military, too. His own grandfather had served in World War 39

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II, and he remembered the fitting tribute they had given to him at his funeral when the planes flew overhead to salute the deceased comrade.

Suddenly, he remembered where he was and what he was doing. His hands shook slightly under his rubber gloves and he was sure a small bead of sweat was visible at his brow.

He reached for one of the tools on the nearby counter. The scalpel was within an inch of flesh when a tall physician, as if he had been hiding in the darkness on purpose, stepped forward.

“Stop,” he said. “Time is up. Human

Anatomy class is dismissed. See you all tomorrow when we make the first incision. You will be taking turns.”

With a tongue in cheek he added, “If you are feeling a bit squeamish already, then you have chosen the wrong occupation.”

At these words nine other pre-med students put down their pencils, closed their notebooks, and anxiously got ready to leave.

He turned to the young man and said, “Good job, Larry.”

Matthew Ramsey, American McGee’s Tea Mouse.

Pencil on paper, 28 X 20 cm.

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Ola Supernat, My Dorm Room. Pencil on paper, 60 X 45 cm.

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White Witches

By Elisabeth Spainhower Some witches dressed in white with strange hats and badges, stole me from my bed. They took me into a large room that felt cold, but it was filled with caldrons of boiling water, which smell very bad. I knew this was the place my momma had told me about.

This was the place where the witches boiled little children, and ate them for

their dinner. I was frightened. I could not scream; my terror was too great.

All could do was hear the sound of my heart pounding in my chest.

I could not move or run away. The white witches had wrapped me up like a mummy. They spoke in a strange language as they stuck tubes and needles into me.

Uncharted Humanity Before a sea of wisdom a wave of fate a tide of differences I search the shore for myself.

The kelp laughs gleefully Unaware of what deadly foam can bring.

Yet I know and I am lost— The sand has swallowed me whole no remnants among the seashells.

—Tara Orr

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They had peeled away my skin, and put grease on me. They liked to torture little kids lost like me. My momma told me how the witches would hurt lost little children.

Even if I were free to run, I was in so much pain I knew I could not go far. I hurt so badly all over my body. I felt weak, and very tired all of the time. I just wanted to sleep.

If I did scream, opening my mouth would cause the skin to crack, and tear open the scabs that had formed, and they would bleed. If I cried, the salt from my tears would sting the burns on my face. I could not move. In my mind I would scream out the terror I was feeling. I always thought of this as silent screaming. Where was my mommy?

One of the nicer white witches came over and place me onto a flat board that had chains attached to it. Then, another white witch that was all black, had even a blacker heart, because she was the one that began to pull on the chains, and I began to rise into the air.

The black witch smiled, showing me her sharp teeth, I knew she was the hungriest. I watched her closely as she lowered me into the boiling caldron.

She must be the cook, no wonder she smiled so much, and I was her dinner!

Aaah! Momma help me! My brain screamed the words.

Once I was lowered into the water I knew I was being boiled alive! The water swirled around me. The white witches gathered around closer. The movement of the water hurt me, and I felt the bubbles dart at my skin in torment. Then, the witches began to take off the bindings they had wrapped me in. Now, the movement of the water touching my raw flesh caused even Impressions 2003

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greater pain which I cannot even put into words. I knew I was dying. I began to swoon, my terror, and horror continued to mount, along with the increased pain. Where was my mommy? I passed out....

At the tender age of three and a one-half years old in March of 1960 our house burnt down, nothing was left. I had been taken to Dameron Hospital in Stockton, CA. I was severely burned, and had been taken to the ICU burn ward. I had been place on the critical list and many had given up hope that I would ever recover.

Ninety percent of my body was burned with fourth, and fifth, yes, fifth degree bums. Fifth degree means chard. I

ended up slipping into a coma that lasted two to three months.

I amazed the doctors when I came out of the coma. My mother had asked me if I knew she was always there, and had asked me why did I leave her for so long. She said she would not have wanted to live if I had died like my father. I answered her, “Oh, mommy I was with the angels, you didn't have to worry.” I smiled a weak smile, and fell back to sleep.

My burns have also miraculously healed, leaving little or no scars. I believe it is due to the power of prayer, and god’s divine grace. It was our Lord who healed me.

In May of 1995 I had to have minor

surgery. I was 37 years old. A few days after my surgery, one of the nurses wheeled me into a large room.

She explained to me that I would be receiving a whirlpool bath. She asked me to disrobe, and helped me onto a platform that had pulleys attached.

The nurse first laid some clean towels down, and gave me some towels to cover myself with. Then, another nurse came to assist the nurse with me, as I was place upon the platform.

The first nurse began to work the pulleys, while the second nurse helped guide the platform over the whirlpool bath.

My breath caught in my throat. I gasped, “Oh my god, it wasn’t a bad

Carmen Novak, Gray Sky, Black Mountains. Oil on paper, 30 X 33 cm.

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dream, it was all real!” I startled the nurses. They stopped short before I was lowered into the whirlpool. I began to tell the story about the white witches from my childhood memory.

We all laughed. We were all relieved for very different reasons.

I was then lowered into the whirlpool tub. As I laid there in the bath I took note of all of my surroundings, and the sensations I felt. The water was nice and warm. It swirled around me and created bubbles that tingled and danced as they flowed around me.

I noticed the strong medicinal smell, and stared up at the ceiling lights. I felt the coldness of the air in the room, as I was lifted out of the water. I heard the dripping of water as it rolled off the platform and onto the floor. I began to get colder as I waited for the nurses to get me fresh dry towels, and a new nightgown. The chatter was friendly, and comments were still being made about the tale of white witches. This time I left the large room, not wondering where my mother was, and knowing I had nothing to fear.

Eulogy for a Fallen Leaf It seemed the leaf was brighter than the older tree, Styling it with summer sun— how it had shined— Into a brilliant gem that sparkled like the sea.

Next to the tree, the fallen leaf seemed ever kind.

It bent with grace to catch and break the fall of pouring rains When the trembling clouds began to break the peace By falling from the sky.

And then it retained Its humble place; the leaf had gracefulness and ease When many others would have simply drowned.

These are fitting for the leaf fallen to the ground.

But a leaf’s true beauty lies in the lightness of its soul.

For when it comes to blanket you it settles softly slow.

—Theo Bohn

Roxann McFarland, Frosty.

Linocut, 25 X 20 cm.

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Destini Knapp, To Hope for Happiness. Charcoal on paper, 37 X 31 cm.

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My Almost Treatise on Canaries

By Matthew Ramsey I was planning on writing about Canaries. I was to discuss their diet, migratory habits, and mating rituals under three subheadings I was cleverly going to call: Diet, Migratory Habits and Mating Rituals. I also was toying with adding a forth category that was to be called: “Things About Canaries That Don't Quite Fit Under the Subheadings of Diet, Migratory Habits, or Mating Rituals” but in the process of researching these facts I discovered two vitally important things about myself. One, I know nothing about Canaries, especially when it comes to their diet, migratory habits and mating rituals, and two, I couldn’t care less.

Vile little creatures if you ask me.

With no real topic to speak of, I was in a bit of a bind. This sort of situation might normally drive the average person to the bottle (oh my, I seem to have finished this entire bottle of scotch ... this calls for a drink) and as it turns out, I’m stupefyingly average. Actually, I managed to avoid all that nonsense by talking to a table for two-and-a-half weeks to see what its reaction might be (all I’m at liberty to say is that I wasn’t disappointed).

So, without the Canaries or my discourse with the table (and the legal incident that followed) to write about, I decided to tackle the subject of airline food.

Last summer I took a series of trips to Texas via the airplane. Let me tell you, I learned a fair bit about traveling to Texas. Here’s some advice: if or when you travel to Texas—don’t. But I did and along the way I had a very interesting thing happen to me involving a meal served on an airline that reminded me of a certain Saturday Night Live skit. First, the flight atten45

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dant served me my, let’s call it for the sake of the argument, “food,” and then I (so help me) bit into it.

Believe me, I am well aware that in some states this would be solid grounds for an insanity defense. Example: Lawyer: I tell you my client is not guilty because he happens to be barking mad.

Other Lawyer: Oh yea? Prove it!

Lawyer: He has actually eaten airline food.

Judge: Case dismissed.

And there is a reason why you never hear the phrase: “made as fresh as air-

line food.” That reason, to anyone who has ever eaten it (and then used it as a valid defense to kill their family), is quite obvious. I can only say that while I might have been insane at the time, what happened next was truly bizarre.

I discovered that the food was actually not bad. I mean I wouldn’t go throwing words like “good” or “adequate” at it but it did have a certain “not taken out of the sarcophagus of an Egyptian Pharaoh” quality about it.

After the adjective-less meal I drifted off into a peaceful sleep in which no murders took place. At least,

Family Validate each other, No matter where you are.

Strengthen family bonding, Even from afar.

No matter where you go, No matter where you stay, Family is there forever, They never go away!

Thank your lucky heavens, And wish upon a star.

Love your family members, No matter where they are.

—Margaret Demoss

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I assume I didn’t kill anyone since I didn't wake up with blood all over me (no more than usual anyway). There are those who propose that dreams, those strange and wonderful images that fill our head anytime we slip into that state that is so close to death—but without all the commitment—are actually the hidden ambitions, desires and anxieties of the conscious mind. I fundamentally do not—cannot—accept this. Mainly because if it were true I’d have to spend a lot of money on qualified health professionals and I would need to do so immediately.

I simply do not trust dreams much

less their so-called insights. It’s typical to explain a dream like, “I was in my parents house but it wasn't my parents house.” What kind of nonsense is that?

Where else but dreams would that possibly be an acceptable answer?

Example: “Where did you spend the Christmas holiday?” “At my grandparents house, only it wasn’t my grandparents house.” I don’t think so. Also, I’m completely fed up with the fact that any time something horrible is chasing you, you might as well just give up because there is no way to kill the thing. Guns, of any kind or caliber, simply do not work properly in dreams

(a friend pointed out to me that this was due, in part, to the Brady bill). Not that I would even be allowed to have a gun on an airline. I can’t even take a fingernail clipper on the plane with me. I bet fingernail clippers wouldn’t work properly in dreams anyway.

Kim Halvorson, Weave Through My Heart. Photograph, 20 X 25 cm.

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The Room

By Joshua Hlibichuk In a building in the middle of nowhere in particular, there was a room. It was a small room, about the size an inpatient might occupy in a hospital. The walls were a baby blue—or a Carolina blue, depending on a person’s perspective—with white trim. The floor was a traditionally cold tile floor, as would much suit a hospital room.

This was no hospital, however. No bed could be found in this room. In the center of it sat a large mahogany table and four chairs to match, all sitting around it. Those were the only pieces of furniture in the room to speak of— that is, except for the device.

Off in the corner, somewhat near the door, was a tall pole-like object; it quite resembled a coat-tree in some ways, and resembled an IV machine in other ways. It was metallic, with wires protruding in every which way. About three-fourths of the way up the pole— near eye level—four stout cylinders stuck out toward each direction of the compass.

The cylinders were black, and each had a crystal-clear glass lens on the end. Just under each cylinder was a button, circular in shape and with a hypnotic silver and black pattern to each one. Just below each button was a black box, with a slot at the bottom of it.

Also in the room was a man—just an ordinary man. He looked as if he was in his mid to late forties and looked like he might be a businessman, but he was not dressed in a suit.

He was dressed in ordinary clothes, and he wore an ordinary smile. He had about him an ordinary curiosity.

The man walked up to the contraption, the device. He turned it around on its wheels and inspected each of the 47

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four points of it; they were all identical. This was one of the most intriguing things he’d seen in a very long time. The pole looked so cold, so metallic. It looked as if it functioned, and wires seemed to sprout out the top, but in no place was it plugged into a wall outlet for electricity.

The man decided to play with the

machine and discover if it really did work. He pressed one of the hypnoticlooking buttons. The man heard a clicking sound as he felt the cold button depress under the pressure of his index finger, but nothing happened.

He waited for about a minute, and the machine started to whir. Perhaps it just needed some heating up.

Distant Voices Caterpillars are made green on fallow And rain as trees show the first signs of life.

They’re made ancient by the wheezing hollow Sound of a farmer smoking his worn pipe Dreaming of the circled lines made in spring When fields begin showing signs of bearing Like umber cocoons mixed with the stubble.

This is where snow was kicked up as children Ran with a sled as they chased and stumbled To the top of the hill to fall again.

The sounds of distant voices has decayed, Aided by years of a cold vacancy.

Butterflies are all gone brown with wheat dust As the remnants of a childhood remain Locked away within the beaten down rust Colored folds in his known forehead. The same That smoothes recognizably as it yields To the toothless smile of a young child.

—Theo Bohn

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As the tall, slender device spat out what looked like a piece of white paper, the man stuck his tongue out in silly spite at the thing; what a stupid machine!

What was it that it had just given to him? It was—a picture? The man took it from the slot and stared—it had to develop yet, like a Polaroid. He flapped it in the air to help it dry and develop faster.

Slowly, the picture came into full view; the man sucked in a breath quickly, and he almost dropped the picture in his hand. It was a picture, indeed, and of him—sticking his tongue out at the machine.

Amazing! What kind of machine

was this? Frightened at first, the man got bolder and decided to attempt other things, other experiments that would prove the reality of what this mystifying contraption was capable.

He started with the chair.

The man positioned one of the lenses toward the table and chairs, and snapped a picture of it. He patiently waited for the white piece of paper to eject out the little slot, and then he turned it over on the table top so that he could not see what would develop.

The man took the chair on the north end of the table and turned it upside down where it stood. He then sat in the east chair and was at a loss for what to do next. If the machine really worked,

how far could it go?

The man had been paying close attention to time: the time he snapped the picture, the time he took it out, the time he turned the chair, the time he sat, everv single second. He figured he would get up and move around the room a little, keeping track in his mind of where he was at what time, just in case any of the images appeared.

Then he moved to the table, sat down in the east chair and picked up the picture, and once again what he saw startled him; the photograph was of him sitting in the east chair, looking at the photograph.

Excited by this, the man got up and took a picture out of a different

Kim Halvorson. Visions of the Past. Photograph, 20 X 25 cm.

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lens, this one of him, but when the photograph paper came out, it was black, charred, and crinkled—almost like something destroyed it on the inside before spitting it out the black slot.

Irritated and slightly confused, the man pressed the button once more, and this time a picture came out perfectly. The man shook it as he had done with the first to get it to develop faster, and then he took a look.

Instantly as he saw the image, the man became enraged. He dropped the photo and grabbed the southern chair, which was closest to both him and the machine. The man threw the chair at the contraption, breaking pieces of both it and the chair. He tore at the wires and broke off the fragile pieces of metal with parts of the sturdy chair.

The man used a leg to smash each lens and button and debilitate every little black box.

Finally, he dug around in his pocket and found a lighter - he was going to burn that picture. Just as he was bending over to pick it up, a group of three men dressed in black from their ski masks to their boots burst into the room.

One carried a small pistol. The second, the tallest one, wielded a crowbar. The third, a short, stout fellow, had a long knife at the ready.

“This one’s mine,” the knife-carrier whispered, motioning for his compatriots to stay put. He began to chase the man about the room while the other two would-be attackers stood, dumbfounded. The pistol-carrier noticed the picture lying on the ground and picked it up, staring at it in disbelief It was a picture the man being chased, all right, except for something slightly disturbing. He was lying across the table, dead, with a knife stuck straight up in his forehead.

He shivered, and let the picture drop back to the floor, wondering if it would come to pass.

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Impressions 2003

Andrea Dawson, Untitled. Charcoal on paper, 28 X 23 cm.

On my back brittle

branches lining the sky in brown shades.

Breaking Sections of blue.

reach

—Alexia Renner

Impressions 2003

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