Impressions 2004

Impressions 2004 Editors Destini Knapp

Stephanie Burkhardt Jaylynn Huiner Joshua Hlibichuk

Matthew Ramsey

Advisor Dr. Dave Solheim

Front Cover: Amber Crisafulli, At a Glance. Oil on Paper, 9 x 7.5 in.

Rear Cover: Stephanie Dixon, After the Sho'wer. Photograph, 4.5 x 6.5 in.

Stephanie Burkhardt, "Lose Yourself"

Impressions is made possible by the sponsorship of Dickinson State University. It is a literary magazine created and edited by the students of Dickinson State University. including members of OS U's chapter of the English Honor Society. Sigma Tau Delta.

Copyright 2004 by the editors of Impressions. The individual authors wlzolly own all future rights to material published in tlzis magazine, and any reproduction or reprinting, in whole or in part, may be done only with their permissioll. The opinions and representations contained in this magazine do not necessarily reflect the opinions of tlze editors, university administration, or faculty.

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n t e n t s Visual Arts

Untitled Untitled The Olden Days Untitled Almighty Moon Lite Prairie Untitled Untitled Tension Untitled Beep, Beep Hands of Progress Bridge Troll Untitled Untitled Souls Aflame Untitled Outreach from the Flame

Keila Kuykendall---------------------------------------- -8 Fred Rurangirua ---------------------------------------- 11 Cassandra Moos ---------------------------------------- 13 Stephanie Keyser -------------------------------------- 14 Johanna Njos -------------------------------------------- 17 Carmen Novak ------------------------------------------ 18 Steffie N enz ---------------------------------------------- 19 Carmen Novak ------------------------------------------ 2 0 Julia Topholm-------------------------------------------- 23 Vicky Gullickson---------------------------------------- 2 9 Krista Johnson ------------------------------------------- 3 0 CindyMakelly ------------------------------------------- 32 Matthew Ramsey --------------------------------------- 33 Nicole Keller --------------------------------------------- 3 6 Keila Kuykendall--------------------------------------- 39 Lyndsey Amutoy --------------------------------------- 42 Nicole Keller--------------------------------------------- 44 Julia Topholm ------------------------------------------- 46

Literary Arts "Payback" "Condemned" "Mirror Awakening" "Think of Me" "Nothing" "The Poem I Haven't Written Yet" "Indifference" "Erosion" "Winter Scene"

Briet Reed ----------------------------------------------- 7 Tony Kessel----------------------------------------------- 7 Jaylynn Huiner ------------------------------------------- 9 Brian Miller ---------------------------------------------- 10 Joshua Hlibichuk -------------------------------------- 10 Malissa Nicholson-------------------------------------Steaphanie Burkhardt--------------------------------Malissa Nicholson-------------------------------------Karly Bohn -----------------------------------------------

11 12 12 15

"lost in stoney light" ''Aloisa" "Butterfly" "One Week" "Brunette Frolics with Blondes" "Endings" "time" "The Running" "Between Sunset and Dawn" "Early November Mornings" "The Blues" "A New Chapter" "Untitled" "War" "The Bridge" "Icicles" "Paranoia" "Icicle" "Old Lover" "Hi Mommy" "Girl in White" "October" "United and Free" "bleed American" "And Thus, a Measure of Good was done "Aged Laughter and Enigmatic Happieness" "Our Hermetic Hourglass" "Oh, The Horror!!"

"Too Late for a Miracle" "Untitled" "Editorial Haikus"

Amber Nelson ------------------------------------------- 16 Betll lfurt-------------------------------------------------- 19 Cassandra Moos ---------------------------------------- 21 Joshua Hlibich uk --------------------------------------- 2 2 Stephanie Dixon----------------------------------------- 24 Matthew Ramsey --------------------------------------- 26 Tony Kessel----------------------------------------------- 2 6 Michaela Scllmid t -------------------------------------- 2 7 Amy Joe Hoherz ---------------------------------------- 2 8 Jeremy Jepson-------------------------------------------- 2 9 Travis Kuntz ---------------------------------------------30 Rachel Schroeder --------------------------------------- 31 Sheri Johnson -------------------------------------------- 3 2 Stepllanie Burkhardt----------------------------------- 3 2 Matthew Ramsey --------------------------------------- 3 3 Jaylynn Ifuiner ------------------------------------------ 3 5 Malissa Nicholson-------------------------------------- 35 Stephanie Burkhardt----------------------------------- 3 5 Jay1ynn H uiner ------------------------------------------ 3 5 Margaret DeMoss -------------------------------------- 3 6 Joshua ffiibichuk --------------------------------------- 3 7 Jaylynn Ruiner------------------------------------------ 3 7 Dawn Anton---------------------------------------------- 40 Tony Kessel----------------------------------------------- 40 Matthew Ramsey--------------------------------------- 41 Malissa Nicllolson -------------------------------------- 43 Stephanie Burkhardt----------------------------------- 43 Joshua Hlibichuk --------------------------------------- 44 Amy Jo lfoherz ------------------------------------------ 4 5 Michaela Schmidt --------------------------------------46 Impressions Editors ------------------Inside Back Cover

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Poetry

Prose

First Place: "Paranoia" by Malissa Nicholson

First Place: "Payback" by Briet Reed

Second Place: "The Blues" by Travis Kuntz

Second Place: "Aloisa" by Beth L. Hurt

Third Place: "condemned" by Tony Kessel

Honorable Mentions: "A New Chapter" by Rachel A. Schroeder "Early November Mornings" by Jeremy Jepson

Honorable Mentions: "Brunette Frolics with Blondes" by Stephanie Dixon "Between Sunset and Dawn" by Amy Jo Hoherz

Other Media

Photography

First Place: "At a Glance" by Amber Crisafulli

First Place: "Beep, Beep" by Krista Johnson

Second Place: "Almighty" by Johanna Njos

Second Place: "After the Shower" by Stephanie Dixon

Third Place: "Untitled" by Keila Kuykendall

Third Place: "Untitled" by Stephanie Keyser

Honorable Mentions: "Mother and Baby" by Nicole Keller "Moon Lite Prairie" by Carmen Novak "Pressure: Caught in a Web" by Julia Top holm

Honorable Mentions: "Untitled" by Vicky Gullickson "Untitled" by Fred Rurangirwa

Payback

By Briett Reed

Sassy opened one eye. Not even dawn yel, and that stupid bird is singing opera. She rolled onto her back and tried to ignore it. No use. Finally, she rolled back over and stretched, looking at the dark mass of human that was some how sleeping through all that racket.

"Must be nice for humans to be practically deaf," Sassy muttered to herself. Cats definelty had better hearing than those poor creatures. Yawning, she looked over at the third occupant of the bed, a young, orange tabby, who was looking at her sardonically.

"You wake her up this time," He said, "I got thrown halfway across the room last time."

"Amateur," Sassy replied, "you're not supposed to scratch their face if you want them to wake up in a good mood, sly."

She bent down and started to wash.

Maybe Nina would wake up on her own soon. Sasy had no desire to be thrown across the room. The memory of Sly's experience was enough to make her feel

embarrassed for him. A cat had to keep some sense of honor.

Finally Sassy couldn'ttake it anymore.

The obnoxious noise-maker had decided to increase the volume, and alter the pitch.

She walked over to her human and began to purr very loudly. At first, nothing happened but a groan. Sassy climbed into Nina's stomach, curled up, and began to purr so loudly that she thought her brains were going to come loose. Nina opened her eyes at that, and groaned again.

"Bad kitty," she said, pushing Sassy off of her in order to get up.

Bad kitty, Sassy thought, injured. I'm about to do you the favor of getting rid of Mr. Singing-KFC over there and all you can say is bad kitty? Maybe I'Ll give you some of his remains on your pillow! She gave sly a triumphant look and jumped off the bed as Nina reluctantly got up to let the cat outside.

Sly just muttered something about old ladies and litter boxes and rolled over to get back to sleep.

condemned I own nails and a hammer let me drive the first one in if the blood runs clear the world will be dim if the blood runs red bathe me in sin being the son of man heirer of the heirs recruiter for a kingdom their loss is mine to bear condemned, T' II carry my own cross and the innocent be freed of theirs

Sassy grinned as she followed Nina to the kitchen where the back door was.

Even though he was only a year younger than her, Sly was only a kitten by the hunter's standards; he hadn't even killed his first bird yet. Speaking of which, her next kill was still audible.

She hurried past Jefe's bed, the big puppy Labrador who just happened to think cats were a favored chew toy on the farm. Fortunately, he was sleeping deeply today, as was the other dog, Buffy, who was usually trying to prove to the world that she was not getting old by being up at the crack of dawn. She also tried to keep the cats on their toes, just so they remembered who the boss was around here. Unfortunately, she was a tiny white mutt about the size of Sly and a bigger mouth than the bird Sassy could still hear. Sassy looked around for her human, Nina. She found her at the fridge, drinking out of the milk carton.

No way! If I can't have any, neither can you. She meowed loudly, rubbing up against the back door.

"Okay. okay, l hear you, Sassy," Nina said, as she put the milk back, walked over, and opened the door. "You and sly are a real pain in the neck, you know."

Fine, next time I'll seep on your neck.

Thanks for the suggestion. Sassy went out to take care of that bird. An old commercial from Nina's television popped into Sassy's head. I feel like chicken tonight, like chicken tonight.

Suddenly, a big bounding shadow crossed her path. Oh no, Sassy thought.

I woke him up! The giant puppy knocked her over and sent her sprawling. As she got up hissing. she heard Nina laughing.

"Sorry, Sassy. I guess I should've warned you," Nina said between laughs.

-Tony Kessel Impressions 2004

7

Keila Kuykendall, Untitled. Pencil on Paper, 11 x 7 in.

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fmprl'SSIVIIS

2004

Sassy just gave her a glare, and ran to them could get to the cats in the trees. between the girl's legs and smiled as she go find a tree before the other mutt came Sassy climbed dov. n slowly as the two heard Nina yell as a full-grown puppy out and decided to use her body as a clogs got into a wrestling match under slammed past her without even slowing Sly's tree. Sly glanced at her when she down. Unfortunately, Nina was no small bowling pin too.

To her relief, the back door closed was almost all the way down. When he human. and in order to get past her, Jefe without Buffy coming out. finally realized what had happened, he had to go through her.

You meant to do that. you horrible stared dow nat her with his mouth hanging We're even 1zow. she thought with girl. Just because you had to get up a open. She gave him a grin and a flick of satisfaction as she took cover on lop of little earf.v.... I'll have to get }'OU back her tail that said, thanks, and started the bookcase. Buffy tried to climb it, somehow. Sassy started to wash her walking away to find her bird. She didn't yapping. while Jefe tried to jump from the ruffled fur, and noticed that Jefe was want to attract attention to herself by ground to \\here she was. She just ast waiting for her at the bottom of the tree. talking, but obviously the obnoxious kitten there, knowing they couldn't get to her; "Scat, Pup. I' ve got stuff to do." she had other ideas. it was too high. hissed at him. He looked hurt.

"Hey, where are you going?!" Sly "Nope. Not yet. Almost. Just about.

"This early in the morning?" Jefe screamed loud enough for Buffy and Jefe Oh, so close! That's it. Almost had me whined. trying his puppy eyes on her. to hear. The two dogs immediately there," Sassy taunted Jefe with each leap "Yes," she hissed at him, "l'm bird stopped wrestling and looked at her with he made, knowing that no matter how hunting." Jefe burst out in puppy laughter. something far too akin to hunger to give hard he tried, he couldn't make it to the "Well you're certainly in the right spot." her any comfort about the inevitable top shelf she was on. It had taken her he giggled. She hissed at him again. He chase. two leaps to get up this far. and if Jefe knew she preferred to hunt on the ground; I'm going to kill him.' Sassy looked used the coffee-table. Nina's mom would it \\as easier to pounce. To her dismay, over her shoulder as she ran. Yup, they have a fit. he sat down and looked like he was going were both behind her, coming like a Nina came in with muddy-puppy prints to wait for her to try and get past him. rocket. Fortunately, Nina heard the all over her nightshirt. Obviously she Stupid puppy, she thought. Oh well, I racket and opened the door, thinking hadn't gollen out of the way in time. gue\'S Sly isn't going to get much sleep something was wrong. Sassy saw her Sassy just purred with satisfaction. nou•. Mr. Singing-KFC was in another standing there, watching the two dogs ·'Jefe, stop it,·• Nina said, grabbing his tree, still belling out his ear-piercing tune. chase her poor cat. collar to slop his jumping. "You can· t Hello, idea. Time to kill 111'0 birds reach her. remember? You tncd that I am going to put that bird out of its misery as soon as I can, Sassy thought, witlz one stone. It didn't matter that none yesterday." She glared at Sassy. "You glancing down at Jefe. He grinned up at of the unwary partiCipants were birds; meanr to do that." her like a mischievous child and lay down. moments like these came once a Yup, Sassy replied, like master, like Stupid puppy, she thought again. What millennia. Too bad it's 110t the bird I pet. But all Nina heard was an innocent 1 would11 't give for ... hello, what's wanted ro get today. She ran towards meow. going on'! The back door opened again the door, and Nina. Sassy darted in and out came an orange tabby wirh a little white muu close on his tail. yipping as loud as she could.

"I guess I'm not the only one with dog trouble," Sassy laughed as Sly scrambled Mirror Awakening up the tree close to hers. He glared and started swearing very creatively at the Above the surface dog at the base of his tree.

A child releases the stone: "Whoa. kitten, I didn't know you knew Sleeping pond awakes. those words," Sassy laughed, "try to set a good example for the puppy here." Sly -]aylynn Huiner didn't stop; instead he just mentioned her a11d the puppy in his rant. Sassy wasn · t sure Jefe kne\\ half of \\.hat Sly was saying. but she did. What sly didn · t notice was that Jefe had leapt away from her rree to bug Buffy now, since neither of Impressions 2004

9

Nothing

By Joshua Hlibiclwk

Think of Me In life there are issues That come up every day It is often the problem That they won't go away Often you will struggle To find a good side But you must find a way To take tt in stride Know that the strength [s inside of you And when things appear bad llere 's what you do Keep your eyes at the sky An never look down Refuse 10 give in By refusing to frown A smile on your face Wi II negate the bad Think of your love For the good time we've had You have to admit We've had a lot of fun But the real fun times Ha\e not yet begun We've not even started Know there'll be more For as long as J live !leaven will be yours You often ask why I do what I do To this my response Is if not me. then who?

Will treat you just like The queen that you are It's our world right now And you rule it by far So as my final request l would like it to be When you need to be happy Please thmk of me

-Brian Miller

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lmpressiom 200-1

Stop. Go no further until you are absolutely certain you want to read this.

You don't even knO\\ what you're in for yet. Granted, you have gotten this far. and you didn't let the title keep you away.

I must make it crystal clear, however, before you continue even a line further.

You're about to read about nothing. Yes, nothing.

Now, I know what you're thinking.

How can anyone write something that's about nothing? r m here to proclaim that everyone can write anything about something. It is entirely false, though, that nobody can write anything about nothing. ls that a double negative?

Whatever.

Jerry Seinfeld had a whole TV show about nothing. And it is in that same spirit I attempt to tackle the difficult task of condensing nothing. l could ftll volumes on the topic, as well as I think anyone else could if they really sat down to think about it. We do 1t all the time.

The government seems to have the job tackled well enough. No matter how much hot air comes out of the different branches of our federal system, we tend to hear the same things over and over.

In effect. they've become masters of saying one thing once and then saying nothing a thousand times afterward. Very nice work. ladies and gentlemen.

As if our public officials didn't do enough oftheirown prattle, they also have spinsters and public relations gurus to pick up the pieces for them on other issues that get out of hand. They tend not to say anything either - the facts usually speak for themselves. While we¡re on the subject of PR. let's not forget the private sector. This is an equalopportunity essay. A good PR specialist can make Martha Stewart and Enron look like Mother Teresa and Wal-mart. Or die trying, anyway.

Ah, the art of saying absolutely nothing at all. Our government uses it. The companies we buy from use it. Even our friends use it. everybody knows one or two of those people that can talk for hours. The sound is on, but the CD is blank. Their speech is like a radio with poor perception: every so often you can maybe tune in a station. but for the most part you hear nothing but white noise. That's not to say that these people aren't fun to hang around.

It's just that they speak so much and say so very little. These people sa> nothing so effortlessly that we sometimes wonder if they were born with the gift, and we are surpnsed when they say anything at all.

Everyone around us seems to be capable of saying nothing, but the scarier part is that we ourselves are gu iIt y of the very same thing. This is to our shame and our credit.

Some students in both high school and college will admit to each other. but never to their professors, that they can write entire papers without having one single clue what was going on either in the course or in their own writing. Clever wording, creativity, and a little prompting Irom a textbook can produce prOJects and papers \\ith an amazing amount of potential - ranging from passing at the bare minimum to an A+ job well done.

The caveat to all of this is that the more we as people endure the jabber of those around us, selves included, who try so hard to say nothing at all, we get better at detecting it. As we get better at detecting it, we get better at crcatmg it, ad infinitum. ad nausea.

Sadly. while this seemingly harmless cycle of nothing continues, people lose sight of saying anything of value or conviction.

Fred Rurangirua, Untitled. Photograph, 8 x 10 in.

When we choose to dance around any issue, when we nuff up a story or idea far beyond its sole merit, we leave behind valuable facts and opinions.

The reasons for this are countless as well as disheartening. We as people don't want to risk. offending others. we don't want to take responsibility. and we want to seem knov.. ledgeable and friendly without opening up too much. Or maybe we just don¡ t want to usc a little elbow grease and creativity. Regardless, the pattern of nothingness is more detrimental than some people realize. but it is, of course. the easy ~ay out.

After all, everyone knows that it's easier to say nothing than come up with something that says anything at all.

The Poem I Haven't Written Yet

-Malis~n

Nicholson

Impressions 2004

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Indifference

By Stephanie Burkhardt

Something strange ic; on the wind. I can smell it. I've smelled it for many moons. War is coming, coming quick to these lands. IL has been long pending.

Yet. I know not when 1t will arrive or all whom it will involve. I'm sure it will involve the world or men, maybe elves or underlings, but 1 suspect only men.

Their kind is quickly taking over these lands. Soon there will be no magic at all left in the world.

1 have come to watch them approaching. I can sec them well from this branch. large and looming in a tall oak tree. They arc not many, maybe a dozen. four on great chargers and the others on foot. They are walking alongside a\\ agon pulled by t\VO mules.

The horses dance around the men ' blowing. snortmg, and smelling the wind.

They are nervous. Can rhe} sense my presence? The mules appear calm and concentrated on thci r work although their load looks not heavy. It must be precious.

I must have a closer look.

Silently 1 spring from my perch and creep ever so stealthily toward this little caravan. l am considered very large for my kind though my kind in itself is

generally large. 1 scale the side of a boulder and crouch lO\\.. I sec them clearly now. They are JUSt as my master described. They have come to see her after all. The five men on horseback arc thick, well shaven, and dressed in fine knights' clothing. They arc clad in very little armor, only a piece around the chest, although they have padded leather protecting their arms and shins. They are not at war yet, soon. but not yet. These men have come to make demands of my master. Still. they are frightened of her.

1 would be too if I were them.

I glance now at the other members of the procession. Several old men and a few squires all bearing no \\.Capons and wearing common dress. They are of little interest to me. The cart though is another matter. It is quite fancy to be drawn by a team of mules. ln any other setting I'd expect a team of two or more palfreys pulling such a cart. but that seems out of place deep in the forest Elmdqua.

The cart is well built. The wood is so dark that it appears almost black. 1 can see remnants of gold accents along the sides and spokes. They must have been purposely stripped or stolen. The cart in

gentle nvers of kindness flO\\

slowly through

unimaginable caverns hidd<!n beneath your laugh "-~3ring

dn"' n my rocky will

-Mnlissa Nicholson

12

Impressions 2004

itself may be a mystery, but that is not what interests me. 1 find the figures seated behind the coachman's seat of most imcrest. There are three figures.

No. wait a minute, four figures JUmbling along with the cart as the mules obediently trot forward. Two of the figures are women the one young. the other very old. They are both dressed in loose fitting shawls. The young woman¡ s shawl is blue as a jay's brow. The seams were bound with gold thread and the older woman's shawl is darker and brown 111 color.

Although their hoods cover their faces, I can tell that the young lady cradles within her arms an infant child. Beside the women sits a young lad of 12 to maybe 15 years. It is hard for me to tell with humans. He is of good stock though. I can smell his health and young strength.

The shoulders are broadening nicely too for a human youth. Humans are such odd creatures. They are weak by my kind's standards and their young take many years to mature; yet they are overcoming this world like a sickness.

There is much I find amiss in the world of men. Their bodies are delicate and their minds easily corrupted. My master tells me to be patient. Much change will come to this world. "Once the threads of fate are tangled they cannot be undone." Her words, still fresh, ring in my mind. My master bid me to let them come. She will meet with them to hear their demands. T wonder if she already knows what they desire.

The wind is picking up. it is now blowing in my direction but it will soon change. I must get to the other side of this pack of persons and follow them to my master before the horses pick up my scent.

Retracting m} daggered claws I spring from the boulder onto some soft moss.

My massive form creates not a sound as I creep and stalk along the trees. 1¡ m well behind them now but they" re still well m v1ew. I can see the cars of the chargers swivel and twitch scanning the forest.

My. they are hot- blooded ones!

They don't trust their surroundings.

Smart beasts. We have a short distance to tra\'el yet so I will study these beasts for a while.

They would all make a glorious meal bull imagine they'd be a difficult catch even for one as strong as I. The beasts arc all male, large gray or chestnut stallions save one. One is definitely a mare. She is carrying the lead human.

That is peculiar. a female charger. /'\'e llel' er seen the like! She is large and well built for a mare.

Her neck is thick and arched and her limbs are sturdy and strong.

She is sable, the color of earth with highlights of gold and amber strung about her forelock. She be one of the finest examples of horseflesh 1 have ever seen.

Funny she should be a charger.

She should be coveted and kept safe in the king's paddocks and serve only to raise more like her.

But, enough of this gawking, I must turn my attention to currant matters. The caravan is coming within sight of my master's dwelling. Soon 1 will spring out to meet her. but not until 1 finish escorting the men to her doorstep. The horses blow hot air into the cool mist that has begun to fall. They are prancing and skidding sideways through the wet grass. Most have broken into a soft sweat.

1 can smell it baste their warm haunches. Even the sturdy mules have perked their ears and are shuffling their small saucer-like hooves nervously.

They sense my master. Her presence, power, and knowledge un-nerves them.

She sparks no such emotion in me. 1 have long grown accustomed to her scent. The aroma of spice. rain. and willows has ti lied my nostrils ever since 1 was a cub. It's natural to me, like home.

The human<, have come into the glade that keeps my master's dwelling hidden.

Among the trees 1 can see it. The d\\elling itself is grand for a simple structure. Tt is composed of stone. birch wood, and clay with many markings carved on the walls. To one side is a small stream nowing and gurgling with water clean as the sweet morning dew.

Pastures, gardens, and fields surround the rest of the dwelling nearly encompassing the spacious glade. The men are cautiously approaching the front of the

Cassandra Moos, The Olden Days.

Photograph, 6 x 4 in. dwelling.

I can see my master. She is standing under the currant tree. At her feet is a small woven basket. around which dance the cloven hooves of three pans. Their skin is darker than that of man. They are also fairly small. barely bigger than the basket around which they dance. On the sides of their heads just above and

behind their ears sprout horns that curl like a conch shell. Their horns vary in color from a clay-bank tan to a tilled-soil brown. The pans cease their frolicking as the men now ascend the small knoll on which the currant tree rests. My master gracefully, delicately, plucks a small twig of a currant branch, the small crimson berries coated in the everclinging mists. She hands it down gently to one of the pans who accepts it gladly and drops it into the woven basket.

For the moment my master's face remains unseen. Tt is covered by the hood from her cloak.

Her cloak is long and black with tresses that reach the forest floor. The darkness is only offset at the hem where it is spun with silver thread. Under the cloak, though I know the intruders cannot tell, my master wears clothes simi Jar to that of a common man. She now only wears the cloak to shield her from the cool, moist mist that clings to the black cloth like millions of stars in the night. If one looks closely, my master's dark leather boots can be seen when she sways.

The men timidly ride their nervous steeds to face my master at the tree. The wagon containing the l\\O women waits at the bottom of the knoll along with the other humans. The knight riding the marc dares approach my master. And for the first time si nee we¡ ve arrived my master shifts her eyes from the tree to the new arrivals.

The men gasp, swallow their courage and step backward. My master's eyes are like the eyes of peacock feathers. "I heir hues change from the deepest blue. to the brightest green. and to the richest gold with the turn of the sun.

Impressions 2004

13

From here T can see locks of auburn strands falling loosely about her cheeks and cradling her neck. Her skin is darkened from the same sun that transfom1s her chameleon eyes.

The men have lost their tongues. Why do they not speak? What did they expect of my master\ countenance, an old hag? My master's eyes burn holes in their souls to uncover the secrets they lock there. The men are afraid. 1 can smell the fear seep from them like sweat from a smith's brow. I enjoy the aroma.

It leaves a biuerswect tang on my tongue.

The quivering pound of their hearts excites my senses and teases my mind.

I dig my claws into the soil and play with the din.

My master smile<;, she enjoys their reverence. At length the man riding the

mare comes forward. He is large with broad shoulders and eyes of blue. His hair is that of a robin's nest. woven with golden specks of straw. Alithe other men glance from him to my master. TI1eir eyes remind me of bumblebees hopping from flower to flower sucking their fill before moving to the next.

The golden haired man clears his throat.

I can smell him perspire. I have smelled that scent before and just recently, but where? I creep a few feet closer so that I can listen. ''We are seeking Nevoa, high sorceress of the Western lands on behalf of King Bromdin. May you be she, her great majesty?" His voice is surprisingly clear and bold.

My master smiles softly and turns her head toward the knight. ''My," she begins

as she reaches for another currant branch, ''I see that at least one of the king's mute messengers has found h1s tongue:· Her voice is soft and hypnotic as the rain. '·J am the one whom you seek." She turns and descends the knoll to meet the knight. "Though I do not know you." She stops within feet of the man· s charger.

"I am Sir Giles head of the kings legions." He points to the women and the boy in the carriage. ''This is Queen Amaltheia, and the king's sons young Prince Oryn and infant Esmour, and these are ... " "Enough of names. They are of little importance to me." My master's patience is growing thin. ''Come down from your horse Sir Knight. Let me see who you really are."

Stephanie Keyser, Untitled. Photogrnph, 5 x 7 in.

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The man hesitates, but obeys. Once he dismounts I can see that he is tall, sturdy, and of mtraculous health. He approaches my master. His eyes intensely blue, nearly match hers. My master reaches a black, gloved hand toward his face and brushes the hair from his eyes. Her fingers then fall gently along hts cheek, tracmg the outlines of his face. She stares long into his eyes until he is forced to turn away. Nevoa. my master. glances toward the queen and young prince inside the carriage, then back to the knight.

"She is exquisite, is she not, the raven haired Lady Amaltheia? Tell me how long have you been in the king's service?"

"Eighteen years your majesty, by his side fifteen."

My master glances at the bo)', his hair golden as the dunes by the bay. "Fifteen sounds about nght." The man's head jerks suddenly up to meet my masters.

He is angr)' and afraid. ~evoa puts the palm of her hand over Giles heart. "Fear not, dear knight. This scar you bear has never felt a blade, yet it festers sti II. Keep your secrets from all if you must. but they'll be known to me." He sharply cringes from her touch as if her hand is made of hot iron. My master eyes tum quite melancholy. She begins to calmly stroke the mare's forehead. ''Wellborn marc," my master comments as she leb the knight catch his breath. ''Tell me good knight, how is the dear king? Are his locks still so dark or do they now tleck with the frost of years?"

Gasping, the knight whispers "The king is not well, he ... " "Ah, his bloodline grows weak. I suspect his infant son be born of ill health." She says as she glares at the lump in Amaltheia's arms. Her eyes narrow into sapphire slits. Amallheia shrinks under Nevoa 's eyes and hides her infant son beneath her shawl.

"Enough." yells Giles. "We stand here before you, all vulnerable to your scrutiny.

We can hide nothing, but you hide all. lf you have any grace Master Nevoa, call

out your minion, the stalker who has tmHcd us since the marsh. I cannot state our purpose till our grounds are more equal fewer secrets."

What? He has been aware of my presence the whole time? HoH can that be? This man is more than I first perceived.

"I see." Nevoa eyes peer through Giles to me. "Very well. Jakcn show yourself."

As she beckons, T step out tnto the glade, my coat slick in mist. The humans gasp as they see me. I do not look at them. Their lives are meaningless to me. yet I keep one ear cocked to hear them whisper. "Is that a typard?" asked a mounted knight. "l' ve never seen one so big or so dark of coat." commented an old man. They arc in awe. They arc afraid. I am glad.

I am of a noble kind. Men and many of the like call us typards. We are of a form of large cat. The smallest of us ts the size of a small pony. Typards differ in color and markings. Our fur ranges from pale \\hite, smoke gray, clay red. bark brown. among others rare varieties.

Spots and stripes adorn our hides 111 sparse markings different to each individual.

Typards are noble beasts. We travel alone or in pairs and never associate with men, elves, or the like. I am a rare exception. I was orphaned as a young cub. Nevoa found me and raised me till adulthood. I am free to come and go as

I please, but it is my wish to stay. I call her my master out of respect, which she graciously returns. Because of her I am \\ell known and greatly respected among my kind. Some say it is to Nevoa that I owe my great size, strength, and unique coloring.

None have I seen are the same color or have the same markmgs as me. My fur is as black as the well of a weasel's eye and my eyes are as golden as a goblet that is filled with cider. My markings are of a very unusual design. It is as if some hand skillfully painted the pattern upon my hide. Upon my flanks is a sparse arrangement of white spots and stripes.

1 have the same pattern on the backside of my forepaws and on the nape of my neck behind my ears. My comrades call my markings Nevoa's web. They say they are a great gift. I am revered among my kind.

1 saunter slowly to my master's side.

She rests her hand quietly on m)' back. whtch is leveled. slightly below her shoulder.

"No\\1," declares my master. "This is Jal-.en. My friend and companion for .....

"Your minion!" Giles imerrupts hotly.

"Whatever you may have. Our field's are even. Now speak your purpose. My patience and interest grows short." I sit at my master's feet as Giles speaks.

"As you know, our kingdom is on the verge of war and our king is weak.

Winter Scene Sparking diamonds in the Night, the glow Of the moon ~Vhispers across FroL.cn Lace As exquisite Kaleidoscopes of light Enticingly illuminate a Sparkling blanket of white.

-Karla Bohn Impressions 2004

15

lost in stoney light where are we in cracked and broken nights dim air, gasping for breath beneath clouds that fight beating wings descend by our ears a thousand screams echo our quiet fears. windy nights and flighty stars i'm lost in lhe moon's white my dreams are dancing near my head don't want any love poems tonight we're lost in shades of gray somewhere between black and white color doesn't matter anymore when we've lost our sense of sight wrinkled hands moistened in children's tears love so close to touch and hate is just as near wax wings are melting before the sun goes down dreamers nets are caught on stars beneath lhe moon's satin gown winds change direction as mother sings her song say goodnight to the day before the hour is gone i crave lhe burning sun with burning rays just to burn away all the rest of my days

shadow catchers lost in stoney light i only want a lullaby don' t need any love poems tonight

-Amber Nelson 16

Impressions 2004

We can hold well our forces until young Prince Oryn is old enough to lead his people. The king declares that since you dwell within his kingdom, it is your duty to grant the prince a gift of strength, wit, or something more to ensure he frees his people from the misfortune of war and returns safely to his kingdom and rebuilds its strength.

My master looks on ponderously. "You speak boldly of such a boy. Does he hold your fancy? Do you see in him greatness?"

Giles glances nervously to his men, to Amaltheia, and to the young prince.

"He is a brave, noble youth. I see in him what I wish to see in myself."

"I see." Nevoa strokes my back thoughtfully. "My good knight, I owe the king ne'er a want, whisper, or whim, yet I do fear for the nobility of men. Walk with me and 1 will do thee lhy favor." At this my master removes her hand from my back and motions for Giles to follow.

He does and from a short distance T watch as they walk out of lhe range of human ears. l can still hear them though.

A deal is made. Nevoa will grant the young prince four gifts. One of them she will grant today and the others no less than five springs from now. In return Giles must relinquish his mare to Nevoa.

Their conversation is not nearly as interesting as Giles actions. His face is red as a salmon's gills and his arm flails "Do not mom or fret dear Giles." This is the first time Nevoa calls the knight by name. "She is safer with me than she ever was with you. Besides, in order for the young Prince to succeed, sacrifices must be made."

"Haven't 1 sacrificed enough?" Giles tries to yell but his voice has gone hoarse.

He staggers and his men look surprised.

"Quick!" yells one of them. "Take him.

She has cast a spell on him." The men start for Giles.

"Hold." My master demands. I stand, rolling the muscles in my shoulder, crackjng the stiff joints. They dare not move. I have been bored too long.

Johanna Njos, Almighty. Pencil on Paper, 18.5 x 13 in.

Impressions 2004

17

Carmen Novak, Moon Lite Prairie. Watercolor, 8.25 x 7.5 in. ''How, do ... " Giles gasps as he finds summers from this very day and I shall his air. "How do 1 know you'll be true to give you a sword to smote the most fierce your word? You said you'd grant the enemy and a shield to block the strongest prince a gift this very day. Do it now blow. But greatest of all I shall give you while I have strength enough to trust a war horse unlike the world has ever you." seen." Nevoa drops her hand to her side "I will grant him a gift, but not now. and 1 watch the boy's eyes widen with He will have it before the sun sets low wonder. beneath the hollow hills. Now go. I tire We gaze into the horizon as the of your company." My master turns to caravan melts into the descending sun. walk away.

"Jaken." My master places her hand "But how will I know! How will we softly on the nape of my neck. know." begs Giles. His eyes plead as his "Something strange is on the wind. Do brows keep them from sweat. you smell it?" ¡'You won't." Nevoa halts and then Smell it? Oh course I smell it. This pivots to face the knight, "But he will. forest reeked of such a stench since Now be gone before !lose any value for yesterday. your Lives."

"It's the stench of strange men from Two men drag Giles and lift him into the north.'' My master muses. "They the wagon beside Amaltheia and Prince have come to kill the king's only heirs.

Oryn. He looks at Amaltheia and she The men shall meet Giles at Dtahhtor's softly touches his cheek. The wagon jolts pass. They will kill everyone." forward as lhe mules engage in a trot I look at her puzzled. Did not she just toward the castle. tell the prince to return five summers Before the wagon jostles out of view from this? my master raises her black-gloved hand ''Jaken. You must beat them to it." then yells, "Oryn, Prince Oryn." I can To what? see the boy stand and wave at Nevoa.

"Go Jaken. Sharpen your claws and "Oryn. return to me no less than five quench your thirst for blood upon them.''

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The strange men?

"No. Giles, Amalthia, the infant, Oryn and all who accompany them slay them.

Slay them. Slay all that you can. Spare not man nor beast."

I don't understand, but I grin and start to purr. This shall be entertaining!

"As for the strange men, leave them be, they will need to report to their king.''

I rise up my haunches and spring forward eagerly.

"Jaken. one more instruction you must follow." Nevoa's voice rings within my head. "Jaken, kill and drink to your liking. but you shall not pursue any who make it beyond the Mahri tree.'' None will make it thai far. I chuckle.

"J aken, if Oryn makes it past the Mahri tree, let him be."

I doubt such an event l will Let happen bur if it does, he will hate you Nevoa.

"Hate us, Jaken." My master's voice grows faint as I quickly cover the ground beyond her view.

"He will need that hate, Jaken. He will need that thirst for revenge. We must let it fester and forbid it to heal. A kind, meek heart can not win wars."

Aloisa

By Beth llurt

Deep in the hills of a land long forgotten, lived a young woman, untainted by the liberal acts of humanity and sweetened with the airs of natural purity.

She was called Aloisa. In the village 111 which she resided, hidden by tall hills of grass and wildflower, the word "Aloisa" was used to describe that which was picturesque, for if ever in this world there was a truly beautiful woman, it was she.

With hair as sable as a bedarkened sky and soft eyes of livid violet, young Aloisa could capture the regards of any being, man and woman alike. But perhaps the aspect that made this angelic creature most attractive was the fact that she and she alone was the sole mortal who did not possess knowledge of her radiant looks. Vanity had not corrupted this

youthful soul and the beauty within her shone through intensely.

Aloisa lived alone with her father. for her mother had died years before in the event of childbirth. Her father loved her greatly, but he still grieved over the loss of his young wife. Everything in the vicinity of him reminded him of his poor deceased companion's beauty and youth.

The village in which he lived was a constant reminder of her memories and the short life she had experienced.

Therefore. Lord A lcottae retreated to the dark chambers of his estate and rarely showed his face to the sun, for its luminosity served only to depress him and remind him of the love he would surely never see again.

It is believed that had Lord Alcottae not confined himself to the shadowy seclusion of his home, that had he not withdrawn himself from the world and his daughter, the events of this dreadful tale would never have happened. If there is truth to this thought, we shall never know it, for what happened in the years of yesterday will remain forever unchangeable ...

*

* *

lt began on a day much like any other.

As soon as the sun shown its pleasant rays through the window of Aloisa's quarters she arose from bed with the intention of a quiet walk in the village where she spent the majority of her lonely hours.

Steffi Nenz, Untitled. Photograph, 5 x 7 in. lmpressio11s 2004

19

She dressed and ventured from her father's estate down a crude path sunounded by chamomile and bunches of sweet-smelling crocuses. On an ordinary day, Aloisa would proceed to the town square, where she would spend hours in the warm sunlight reading passages from her most treasured novels.

But by unfortunate spontaneity, on this particular day, Aloisa decided to instead

pay a visit to the village Inn. When her shadow tilled the doorway, the attention of the men was immediately drawn to her entity. Aloisa was vaguely aware of their gaze as she made her way to a vacant table. Uncomfortably, she lifted her head to give the strangers what she felt was a welcoming smile. The expressions on the faces of these men

Carmen Novak, Untitled. Pencil on paper, 11 x 9.

20

Impressions 2004

made her gasp. What were they staring at?

Awkwardly. Aloisa stood from the table and made her way to the kitchen to se if she could not help herself to a cup of tea and a bt of pastry.

The behavior of the group of strangers bewildered her and caused much concern in her mind. Once in the kitchen, she found young William, the son of the Innkeeper, sweeping the hard packed earth that served as the kitchen floor.

Now, William was a shy boy and always had been, from the time he was small, quite taken by Aloisa's grace. When she approached him to ask permission to serve herself, he quickly looked down and away from her eyes. William had never been able to look Aloisa in the face. and why she had not noticed it until this day, we shall never know. B ut his behavior in addition to the disposition of the group of travelers alarmed Aloisa.

She quickly left the Inn with the intention of escaping the uncomfortable atmosphere found there.

As she ventured through the streets, Aloisa became aware for the first time in her life of the unyielded looks she received from the townspeople. Upon passing a group of girls her age, she could not help but perceive the whispers they shared while jealously eyeing her.

Aloisa felt panic surge from the depths of her body, engulfing her in its capacity.

She desperately sought for answers as to why the people of this world reacted so strangely to her presence.

Suddenly, she recalled stories she had heard about the old hag in the woods. It had been said that Gretta Lockwood. the eccentric old woman who lived alone in a cabin beyond town, possessed wisdom beyond that of any in this world. Gretta Lockwood kept to herself and did not take kindly to the constant pestering of those who wished to know the secrets of the world. Aloisa realized then and there that the one person who could explain to her the behavior of the people was Gretta.

She set off out of town toward the unkempt cabin of"Oid Lady Lockwood.''

When she arrived. she paused momentarily before mustering the courage to rap on the hollow wood of the cabin door.

"And what be ya wantin''?" asked the old woman, after opening her door a minute crack.

"Please Madam, they say that ye and ye alone hold within the answer<; to all our inquisitions. It is of this that 1 seek ye¡s assistance."

The old woman hesitated a moment, and then reluctant! y opened her door and bade Aloisa enter.

After they were seated before the hearth, Aloisa spoke: 'Today, while in the village. I could not help but notice the odd activities of those around me. They seemed to all be staring at me and speaking of me, and I know not why."

The old woman cackled a dry and sardonic laugh, "My girl, 'tis evident the reason for the actions of these folk."

"Oh madam. I implore ye. bestO\.,. upon my intelligence the answer for this troubling occurrence."

Old Gretta\ face grew grim, ''Foolish lass, the reason is there, right there in ye's face! 'Tis no wonder that they gaze, for upon ye's shoulders is a mtu¡vel to behold!" She then quickly dismissed the girl from her home.

Outside the cabin, Aloisa broke down in frame-wracking sobs, for she had misunderstood the old hag\ words and took them for a very different meaning. "'Tis all very clear to me now ... l am hideous! How could I have never before noticed this unfortunate curse? My father. .. ' tis no wonder he discloses himself in the depths of his chambers ... for he is ashamed of the ugliness of his offspring!''

With that, Aloisa departed for home, where she hid in her quarters. desperately seeking a solution to her unfortunate predicament. One night, after suffering an endless battle of sleeplessness. a solution came to her mind. Aloisa loved

her father very much. and knew that with her obviously disfigured appearance she could never live a happy life. But that was certainly no reason why her father must also hide in shame. So. she took it upon herself to make a great sacrifice.

A sacrifice with the intention of salvaging some happiness for her beloved parent.

Under the light of the broad summer moon. Aloisa plunged tnto her breast a blade of unspeakable sharpness. Upon taking her last breath, Aloisa smiled at the thought of her father walking once

more through the rays of sunshine that she had so grown to love. It was like this that she was found, resting lifelessly in a crimson pool, with a content smile upon her face.

And so is the fateful tale of sweet unselfish Aloisa. It is said that m the mornings. just after the sun shines its rays through the windows of the homes in the village, she can be seen roaming the hills in the sunlight, surrounded by chamomile and bunches of crocuses, a satisfied smile upon her beauteous face.

Butterfly 1 sit close to you and wish I could speak my mind, To whisper my thoughts like a gentle breeze into your open ear

But instead you hang ovt!r me like a heavy gray cloud.

That assists me in the memory of all my regrets.

Reminding me of the warm raindrops that have fallen down my checks, After my stormy mind has released its fury.

But every gust of laughter that tickles my cheeks Blows me again towards you, And reminds me of all that\ good.

Like your smile that feels like the warmth of sun's rays, And the charm you project that's like a precious jewel.

My eyes sparkle like stars each time 1 see your face While a lightning bolt strikes my heart Knowing our different feelings are galaxies apart.

If only you'd be a butterlly With one last flight before the winter frosts set in.

To know there will be more someday to take your place, As you leave your legacy in my soul forever.

Why won't you niucr away from my tangled mind.

Like a butterfly in a gentle breeLe.

-Cassandra Moos

Impressions 2004

21

One Week

By Joslzua HlibicJwk

. . . And that. m} friendly tra,·eler, is how 1 managed to escape the clutches of the Turks and best death t'" ice in the very same day. An incredible talc it is, I know.

But I'm sure you are bored with my banter. You'd rather drink in the restful atmosphere of this tavern than listen to me talk.

What's that? You want another story?

My. you are the curious one. I suppose I have a lot to tell. In fact, I have another recent story that you might enjoy. This one's a bit incredible. I admit. but I trust you 'II put your faith in my descnptions.

1 was sirting in my garden the other evening for tea with my tiance and her brother, when a most mtriguing chain of events transp1red. We sat convcrsin<Y and minding our 0\\ n bus mess'' hen ou~ of nowhere Sunda} came to pay us a visit. T hadn't not1ced ll at first. but my dear Alison gave a bit of a shriek. When I looked up to sec the trouble, there was this bright and bold Day sitting to my right, across from my beloved.

A Day? Why, a Day of the Week, of course.

At this point you might begin to wonder just how we would recogni;c them at all.

It's quite simple. really. We humans spend one seventh of our lives with each of them. Imagine that - about ten years spent with each Day. I should think that a person would become quite familiar with anybod) after spendmg even one year with him or her. So ll should come as no surprise to )OU that we knew Sunday as soon as she had joined us.

Sunda) made hc!'\clf comfortable in the garden chair and looked rather relaxed. though she \HIS 111 such startled company. We hadn't been expecting visitors, you sec, especiall} not visitors as illustrious as Sunday. Pouring her!:ielf another cup and taking one of the cakes off the tray. she sat in silence. enting

22

Impressions 2004

slowly.

"Sunday:· I began. attempting to break the ice. "tell me, what occasiOn gives us the honor of your presence?" Our guest lazily continued to con-,ume her snack. saying nothing. Her radiant gold hues had dimmed into a burnt orange now, and she sat back in relaxation.

"Not much for conversation, is she, John?'' Michael spoke to me from across the small round table. I shook my head.

"No, she doesn't seem to be the talkative type." Ahson offered Sunday another cup, but before she could respond. she was gone. Now Monday sat in her place.

'Thanks. miss," Monday said gmftly as he took h1s tea and sipped quickly.

Monday didn't ask for cakes. but he did hold his cup out expectantly for a refill once he had downed the tirst. Michael and I watched him drink in silence.

AJison willingly fiUed it. 'That blue looks absolutely stunning on you, Monday." ·'Thanks, miss.'' It seemed more in response to the tea than the com pi imenl.

I could do nothing but shrug my shoulders in bewilderment when Alison stared dumbfounded at me.

Monday looked tired. It is the only way I can think to explain his demeanor; not sour or extroverted or arrogant. Just tired. Monday seemed to be in a hurry. too, but at the same time, he stayed longer than Sunday. The lot of us let out a sigh of relief" hen he finally disappeared.

Tuesday greeted us in a shamrock green blazer and dark green pants. That stood out the most to me about h1m. aside from his eccentric behavior. Immediately after his arrivaL Tuesday got out of his chair and began walking around the table. gazing intently at each one of us as if we were being investigated by the Spanish Inquisition. Once he began to speak, his

voice was a rounded bass that boomed with authority.

'That white lace. my dear. is absolutely manelous on you. John. I must compliment you on your taste in the fairer sex. And on your garden. as well."

"Why. thank you. Tuesday." I began. but that was all I could push out.

"I only "'ish I could get petunias to bloom as you do. Michael! Try not to wear that color this close to the feast of Saint Anthony. You would benefit by some style lessons from your sister. And don't slouch; no one likes a slouch, Michael."

We were afraid to contradict this towering Day even a bit: frankly, I must admit that we were afraid to even speak at all. for fear that we would say something incorrect or unsophisticated.

Round and round, he circled our table until at last he stopped behind me. I flinched just a bit but tried not to sho" m} apprehension. Tuesda) rested both of his strong hands upon m} shoulders.

Just as quick!) as he had placed them. they were gone. and I felt a daintier pressure on my shoulder blades. I knew that Wednesday was with us.

"Good evening, everyone," she greeted us, sliding her left hand off my shoulder and to her side. Her voice was silky smooth, but her face plain. Wednesday glided to the open chair and curtseyed grandly behind it before taking her seat.

"Wednesday. your attire .... " Michael was taken aback that the woman donned a white lace sundress to match Alison's perfectly. Wednesday winked at Michael and pretended not to hear a \\Ord. "I QQ wish I was closer to Saturday." she sighed heavily as I did the honors with our half-full pot of tea. Wednesda) nodded gratefully at me and sipped it slowly. She seemed not to be in any kind of hurry ,., hatsoever.

"Saturday?" I asked. tipping back the teapot and gent!) setting it back on our table. "What could be so spec.al about that Day?''

T regretted the question as soon as I had uttered it, because Wednesday shot a terribly ugly glance in my direction. In the next moment, those same gray eyes danced with delight as she spoke.

"Saturday. He's solo' ely. Such a laidback Day. but he can be industrious 1fhe must be. Saturday's sunrises and sunsets are ... breathtaking. Everyone looks forward to them." Wednesday twirled a finger in her hair and sighed again before continuing. "That Friday doesn't even know what kind of treasure she has.

What a pity that a wild and outrageous Day would be able to spend all her time alongside Saturday."

Presently Wednesday seemed to be inspired by some unseen muse, and she took to composing on a sheet of ruled paper. The Oighty girl filled It with her longing, '"riting poem after poem about her favorite Day. I grinned slyly at Alison, who merely blushed in return. She knew J'd been thinking about all or the poetry that she· d written for me. which I'd come upon quite by accident one day not more than a month before.

Once Wednesday had filled her page to the brim with her unrequited love. she and her poetry both were gone. Thursday now sat in her place.

Thursday came with hope. '·Friday's on her way!'' he said, smiling from ear to ear. "She's so amazingly grand. l wish I could be just like her."

"Why don't you try?" Michael asked, shifting in his seat. ·Too much to finish up. If I don't do my work, Friday gets frustrated. Can't have that. Can't have that at all."

Thursday spoke quickly, but he wasn't in a hurry like Monday had been. He seemed strained, and l could see wrinkle lines forming at his eyes. Thursday certainly had a lot to keep m mind.

He took only one cup of tea and one cake. 1 began to worry that we wouldn't have enough for Friday or Saturday, who would most likely be willing to drink quite a bit. I leaned in to Alison to ask her to prepare another pot, when Thursday

seemed to intuit my request.

"You'll need more tea for Friday, won't you John? Of course you will. Allow me." For the first time since Sunday, a Day had given us a moment of resr. ·This is all rather entertaining,·· Alison confided in us. "More enjoyable than having the Zodiacs over." Michael grunted in affirmation. " I swear those constellations were completely star-crossed. They all had their heads up in the clouds." Much as I agreed with Michael's assessment, I didn't have the heart to speak out against the star signs.

"I wonder..." Alison began, "what will become of the days once Saturday comes and goes?" Tt was an interesting question. Rubbing my chin between my forefinger and thumb. I concluded that ! hadn't an answer for it. and neither did Michael.

Much as it had been entertaining. 1 doubted I could take another Week. Each of the Days seemed to be so very different. It was hard for me to understand hO\\ they managed '" ith each other.

Thursday intemtpted our wondering when he returned with a full pot of tea and another tray of cakes we weren't

exactly running out of those, and I had no idea there had been more in the house, but we appreciated his efforts nevertheless.

Before we could thank him. however, a beautiful girl with curly brown locks and dark brown eyes had traded places with Thursday. If I could note one thing about Friday. it"s that she sparkled. l don't just mean that her spirit was bubbly and effervescent; I mean that the Day literally glimmered in the sunlight.

"Thank you so much for having me over," Friday began politely, pouring her own cup of tea and munching heartily on one of our cakes. Friday had already allotted two others for herself, as if telling us how many she had decided to eat.

She washed every bite with a sip of tea and followed with an "Mmmm." of pleasure. "This is a fantastic evening tea, John," she said sweetly. "l hope you've been enjoying your visits by the other Days. I knO\\ they can be a handful and more at times. but they really mean the best. They really do."

"Yes. l suppose you're right." I said. thinking about her statement. "In reality.

I've enjoyed you all immensely. but you seem to be the brightest of the bunch.''

Julia Topholm, Tension: Caught in a Web. Pen and Ink, 10 x 8.5 in.

Impressions 2004

23

me Locke or Hobbes any day." 1 filled "And so lovely," Alison commented.

Friday's cheeks became ruddy with blush. Saturday's cup, and he thanked me " I thank you for your grace and with a nod. hospitality," she said quickly, but stopped "l suppose 1 agree with you," he short on her next thought. ll was almost said. "Political philosophy is more as if she wasn't sure whether or not to practical. But it doesn't matter much say what had been on her mind. Seeing to me. T' m much more literary. this, 1 took no action in steering the Philosophy intrigues me, but not as conversation. Perhaps she would come much as the poets do." Alison lit up.

"Really now?" around.

"Do any of you take an interest in ''Of course. 'Shall I compare thee philosophy?" to a summer's day?"' Saturday had What an absurd question for a Day to not been lying: he could apparently ask. Thus far, we'd heard but small talk quote Shakespeare. from each Day - for the most part, at ''Outstanding," 1 said. After an least. Now Friday wanted to engage us awkward silence, sipping more tea and in a philosophical discussion. I had no enjoying the air of the night's descent idea that the Days could be so intellectual. upon us, Saturday rose from his chair.

"I do, a bit." Alison's brother had He spoke graciously and with almost always dabbled in things like literature and exaggerated gestures. The movement philosophy. Friday grinned at him. of his hands mimicked that of his eyes, "Tell me, what do you think of the which darted back and forth from classical philosophers, Michael?"

Michael to Alison to me.

"I think Plato and Socrates were both "I wish 1could stay longer, but I have off their rockers. to be quite frank with much to do. A hard Day's work lies you." Friday delighted in merry laughter ahead of me, and if I want any time to at his pointed statement, and in her relax later 1 should really begin work laughter she seemed to glimmer even soon." more until she sparkled out, leaving ¡ "Thank you for coming, Saturday," I Saturday to greet us. said to the Day, his hazel eyes He ate one of Friday's cakes and reflecting my own. "It's truly been finished her tea. great to have you here as well."

"1 do love her," he began. "She's a 'Think nothing of it, John. I speak fantastic, lively girl. And such a gentle for all the Days when T say you have spirit. Oh, you were saying, Michael?" been a most gracious host. No one "I was finished. rather. I don't think has shown us more kindness - or highly of those two particular men. Give patience- than you, your Alison, and

Brunette Frolics with Blondes Two Blondes one sunny day, Pondering an Puzzled with key, 1 Wondered and the curiosity got the better of me.

Key will not work to their dismay, Wing window open, only minds of Personality. " Roll down the window," said the Brunette, Stephanie.

- Stephanie Dixon

24

lmpressiol!s 2004

Michael. For that, we thank you.'' He bent over the table for a final sip of tea and disappeared.

We sat in si lence for three minutes or more, wondering if something else was in store for us. I looked around my garden quickly; everything was in order. lt seemed as if nothing had happened.

"No one's going to believe a story such as this," said Michael, rising from his chair and scratching his head. "When T get older, I'll probably look upon this as madness." Michael kept ranting. attempting to joke. ''And to think we've been through such a hectic week with nothing to show for it. No pay, not even a note.'' I now rose from my own chair.

As I did so, something caught the corner of my eye.

"Maybe not, Michael," I said. I bent over to look more closely at the chair the Days had used. Siuing in their place was a large silver coin. I picked it up for a closer look.

Around the edge of the coin's head were Lhe names of the male days Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday - as well as the words "Harmony in all things ... " Emblazoned on it was a sunburst behind a cloud. The coin's obverse side had Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday, and '' ... every sunrise and sunset." On the same side was also a picture of a sunset, I assumed.

Or a sunrise, perhaps.

"What a lovely piece of memorabilia," 1 mumbled, handing it over to Alison.

"This will be well kept, I'm sure."

With nothing more to say or do, we cleaned up the tea and retired inside for the remainder of the evening; there was noth ing I cou ld do to get my mind off of the Days, the coin they had left, or our incredible time with them.

And I'd show you the coin myself, but I left it at home, on my mantle. I wouldn't dare lose such a thing.

Destiny Knapp, Untitled. Photograph, 8.5 x 11 in.

Impressions 2004

25

Endings

By Matthew Ramsey

The small room was lit with the glow of a fire softly crackling in the hearth. ln the center of the room sat an old man in a big, brown leather chair. The chair was positioned to face the fire, the room's only light source. In his left hand was a brown. leather bound book that was badly pealing at its edges and in his right hand he held an elegantly shaped blad. phone receiver which he was just now placing back into its cradle.

The call he had just rcce1ved had been from a persistent man who had wanted to talk about various aspects of aircraft design. 1t seemed that no matter hov..· much the old man explained that he really could not help the caller with things like: lift. drag. surface to \.\·eight ratio and the like. the caller would emphatically insist: ··or course you know! How do you do it if you don't know?" To v.hich the old man would respond: "It is only a metaphor, I don't actually do it.'' This just angered and offended the caller and the whole thing would start all over again.

The receiver fell into place with a soft click as the man glanced urounclthc room.

Everywhere he looked was hard edges and metal cogs. The fire in the hearth reflected off the surface of the slowly turning gears giving them the fantastic appearance of being fashioned out of molten metal. Indeed, the only things that gave the room any resemblance to normal living quarters were the hearth, the worn leather chair, the phone (and the table that it sat upon), and the book. to which the man now turned his auention.

To the casual observer the book appeared to contain a little over three hundred pages (but certainly not more than five hundred). This was, in fact, not even remotely close to the actual figure.

Not by a long shot.

Not by a bucket load.

The old man nipped open the volume

26

Impressions 2004

and began to pour over its contents, already forgetttng about the annoying phone call he had just seconds ago received. The book, to put it simply, was about everything. It was not only a history book, and not only a book about the future, it was also a book about the present (which, as physicists and philosophers would tell us, is far more difficult to write about). Not only did it contain every conceivable fact and figure that the human mind could imagine it also contained a great deal that the human mind could not (this posed no great difficulty to the old man) It had no pictures and so it had to descnbe any images it wished to convey (and it w1shed to convey them all) by explaining color. shape. spatial orientation and all the other information the brain takes 111 to make sense of visual stimuli. It was. as the old man had always thought, a deeply fascinating book (even the innumerable pages describing every single angle of

every single point in the near infinite void of "empty" space).

The book contained information on every aspect of every creature that walked. crawled. flew. swam or otherwise traversed the earth. including one particular human named Einstem.

This Einstein was only mentioned just now because the old man was a lillie unsettled by the fact that this person seemed to somehow know quite a bit about him.

The phone rang again jarring him out of his unsettling thoughts. The old man placed the thumb of his left hand between the covers of the book, picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.

"Hello?" He paused as a question was asked.

He then said, "Yes, this is."

A woman on the other end said, ''1 don· t want to bother you but. well. .. I just wanted to say-you know how John and I dated for three years and then he left me for that g1rl he worked with at the supermarket and how I wanted to kill myself for months and months after that-well, I just wanted to say ... thank you.

time time burns holes in the souls of those who wait time doesn't know what I don't know disregardmg fate time as it flees away as it pleases the price that I' II have to pay I ask of time as time asks mine pleuse give me the time of day

-Tony Kessel

I mean, I really feel like I' m over him now, like I can move on, ya know?"

'T m sure you're very welcome." The old man rried his kmdltest voice. It wasn't that he didn't care about people it was just that he wished they \\Ouldn't bother him so much. Take Lhas call for example.

It was probably true that most people would appreciate a 'thank you' if they had done something he Ipfu I for someone but he hadn't done anything ... not really.

It was just his nature. That, he was sure, was hardly something to thank someone for.

The two hung up and he returned to his book, glancing up once when he heard the pop of a log splitting an the fire. It seemed that recently he had gotten quite a few calls. All sorts of calls from all sorts of people. Calls from old people requesting more of has presence, calls from prison inmates asking for less. On and on it went. Annoyances. he decided, were like bullies and thugs-they waited until you wercn 't lookmg and then they attacked you all at once.

The old man pushed those thoughts aside and engrossed himself in lm book.

There was a polite knock at the door.

The old man froze, eyes burning holes in the page opened in front of him. Apart from the soft crackle of the lire the room was barhed in absolute silence; the memory of the sound hung in the air hke an in-law on day three of a two day vistt.

His brain tried to make sense of what it thought it had just heard by replaying the sentence: "there was a knock at the door" over and over. He tried different variations like: "there was a knock at tlte door," and: "there was a KNOCK at the DOOR" but none of it seemed to make sense. There had never been a knock at the door.

Ever.

A knock implied a hand. a hand implied an arm, an arm implied a torso. then a head and then a host of other appendages.

T he man knew all this but having never seen such a conglomeration in his agele<>s life he wasn't sure he was up to the shock.

The Running Moving all around Sneaking, howling, rustling Unknown to your eyes.

T urn around, they're not there.

Hearing them.

Panic.

Looking right, left Can't lind them anywhere The sounds of them running all around Scared to move Yelling, screaming at them No where to run, no where to hide Flash of something behind To the right, left closer and closer Silence No sound, no movement The running stops Left there, frozen One, then another, then another Then its over, gone.

-Michaela Schmidt

He looked at the phone. Maybe it had been a ring and not a knock at all. Yes, that must be it. How foolish of him to think otherwise. Then the rational parr of him spoke up and helpfully pointed out "It wasn't a ringing phone you old rwir!

That \\as a knock! At the door!" The other part of him. the part that was roo c;hocked to consider such a possibility said: "Oh yea? And how would you know?"

To which the other. saner, part replied: "We heard it with our own ears!" The man breathed a sigh of relief as he thought to himself, ¡'Oh, is that all. .. I haven't trusted them for years."

He turned his attention back to the book confident that the sound was simply an auditory hallucination-he had read about those. Then the knock came again, slightly more urgent this time and a little less polite. There was no mistaking it now. The rational part of him folded Its arms, leaned back and gave him a look that said: "I told you so." lie steeled himself for what he was about to do next. Standing up. he put the book on the seat of the chair. walked slowly over to the door and rested hts hand on the brass knob. He let out a stream of air from between his lips and then, somewhat arthritically, turned the handle.

There was a dull click and the door swung inward.

On the other side of the door stood a thin, well-kept man in a black tailored suit.

His right hand was balled into a list and raised in the air. He slowly lowered the hand once he realized he would not have to knock again.

"Hello.'' He said jovially, placing his hands behind his back. His medium length black hair was slicked back. there was a white flower pinned over his left breast pocket and he spoke in a precise and clipped manner that gave the old man the impression that he was a manager of some over-priced hotel.

"Hello? What's this all about?" The old man demanded. He wasn't used to company. Come to think of it. .. he wasn't used to humans, if that's what this thing in front of him was.

Impressions 2004

27

It was hard to be sure. One couldn't take these things at face value-he himself v.as proof of that.

"Well. .. it's over." The man at the door said, faltering a little at the annoyance contained in the old man's voice.

"What's over? What are you talking about? Speak up!" The old man kept his annoyed tone but even as the last words left his mouth he knew the answer to his questions.

"It." The man said simpl].

"Everything.

So ... so we \\>on't be ... needing you're. urn. services ... anymore." The man smiled a small. reassuring smile. One that seem to say. "Look, I' m really sorry about this but that's just the way things are."

The old man said nothing. He understood of course-knew that it was going to happen sooner or later. It \\as h1s nature to end.

The man at the door took the silence as mcantng he was required to say more.

"We'll, uh, we'll give you a good reference ... I'm sure that. .. " He trailed off. Suddenly he looked stricken. as if he hadn't expected it to go quite like this.

Well what did he think, the old man wondered bitterly. that he \\US just going to waltz in here, say: " It's over." and then I¡ m supposed to smile, shake his hand and leave like nothing is wrong? Anger rose up inside him but as soon as it did that other part of him-the part that up until now was acting quite relaxed and smugplaced a consoling hand on his shoulder and said: "It\ alright. This is how it's supposed to be. We knew that it was our nature to one day end."

As rationale returned, he straightened himself. looked at the man in the black suit and nodded his head.

The man stepped aside as Time looked around what had been his room since an.vone could remember and then slowly stepped through the door. knowing that he would end but wondering, like so many physicists and philosophers had before him. if that was actually possible.

28

Impressions 2004

Between Sunset and Dawn Late at Night I lay awake Afraid to fall asleep Scared to think the thoughts l think And dream the dreams I dream I wrap myself in blanket~ I pull the covers tight I long for something strong and warm To save me from the night I cling tightly to my pillow Praying for sunshine Thinking gleaming happy thoughts I tell myself I' m fine Even when I know for sure There's really something wrong l' m afraid of what my mind makes up Bet ween sunset and dawn Princes of the Darkness And evil queens of night Shadows hiding enemies Friends holding bloody kmves I¡ vc seen friends kill each other I've seen them kill themselves I've seen them turn and come for me And killed them by myself I' vc awakened screaming Crying hard and shaking The-.c thoughts I think and dreams I dream Arc horror in the making Come see this evil twistedness In my mind the films roll on Tickets only cost your life Between Sunset and Dawn

-Amy fo Hoherz

Early November Mornings

By Jeremy Jepson

Five o'clock a.m. and the alarm clock is buzzing; the sun won't be up for almost two hours, but 1 am. It's cold and windy outside; I had better put some warm clothes on, but what do 1 expect, it's November in North Dakota. Once dressed, 1 walk into the kitchen where my dad is already preparing for the day's activities. He tells me that I had better get something to eat before we go, so I pour myself a bowl of cereal, and quickly eat it. Once 1 have finished eating I gather up everything I will need for the day; I had better not forget anything, or I could miss out on the opportunity that I got up so early for.

As always my dad asks me if I have remembered my license; I have it, we are ready to go.

We load everything we need into our old ford pickup truck and head down the snow-covered, gravel road. I may not seem too excited right now, but I know that at some point in the day my adrenaline will probably be pumping.

It's almost six o'clock, and we have a half-hour drive ahead of us; our timing should almost be perfect. As we drive, we see others with the same idea we had. sitting in their spots, waiting for daylight and the perfect opportunity for success.

We make it to our destination. which is my uncle's land in the Killdeer Mountains; it's just about sunrise, the perfect time to be out. We are still driving. hoping to find what we are looking for. As we come to a fork in the road my dad decides to take the road to the right, "Maybe we'll find what we are looking for down at Crosby Creek," my dad says. As we slowly drive my dad and 1 are keeping a careful watch hoping to spot something. We have barely made down the fork to the right when my dad spots it, standing proudly

in the middle of the road that forked to the left. No more than one hundred and fifty yards from us stands a five by five Muley buck; I don't want to blow this, opportunities like this don¡ t come along every day. This is the point of the day where my adrenaline is pumping. 1 slowly crawl out of the passenger side of the truck, with my dad's 30-06 rifle. 1 jack a shell in the chamber and try to calm myself down. To my luck the deer just stands there oblivious to what is about to happen. My heart is racing, I take a deep breath and calm myself just enough to take aim and fire. 1 hear a loud Whap!

The deer falls to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Now my adrenaline is really pumping, is he going to get up and run?

I've seen it happen before. I went on one hunting trip with my dad and this happened. He shot a buck, very similar

to this one, three times with 180 grain 30-06 bullets. All three shots were in the vital area, it's amazing how far an animal can go on adrenaline alone. So I quickly jack another shell into the chamber, and wait. At this point I am shaking, I am both excited and nervous I got him, but will he get up and run. As I stand there my dad climbs from the truck, the deer isn't moving a muscle. We wait for a little bit, just to make sure, then jump into the truck and drive right up to him.

Sure enough he is dead. As we gut the deer we discovered that I shot him right through the heart; it was a perfect shot.

It is my lucky day; not only was it a perfect shot, but we don't even have to drag him since I shot him right next to the road. There is one hunting trip in particular I remember, where we drug two Muley does about two miles through almost knee deep snow before someone gave us a ride the rest of the way to our tmck; this is definitely better. I don't think a hunting trip could be more perfect; it is almost too easy.

Vicky Gullickson, Untitled. Photograph, 8 x 10 in.

Impressions 2004

29

The Blues The old man at the piano is playing the blues. l lc pounds the i\'ories b) the living room window.

His old bones creak, singing of their age, but drowned out by the piano's blues.

He sways to the beat and fills the house \'dth music; that old country house in the fields of green.

The old man at the piano is playing the blues.

No longer alone, he sits with his granddaughter.

She is but five.

He pounds the ivories and she listens with a child's curiosity.

She sways to the beat as her grandfather fills the house with music: that old country house in the fields of green.

The old piano now sits alone.

No blues are being played.

A soft breele fills the room from the living room window.

The house is silent with memories and dust; that now lonely house in the field's of green.

The door slowly opens.

A young woman in black enters.

She is but twenty.

As she sits at the piano the soft breeze dries her tears.

She dusts off the keys and begins to play the blues.

The music awakens her grandfather's spirit.

His soul is gently resting in her heart as she fills the house with the blues: that once lonely house in the fields of green.

-Travis Kuntz

Krista Johnson, Beep, Beep. Photograph, 6.5 x 9.5 in.

30

Impressions 200-1

life now, Ann," my mother said as she interrupted my thoughts.

I nodded my head and wondered if this Sell roeder is what every kid goes through when they reach this point in their life. I looked down the gravel road, that led to that new managed to say to my mother. I turned chapter. A part of me wanted to go and to look at her and noticed that my father never look back, but the other part wanted now stood beside her. My mother was me to stay where 1 was forever. Where short, five-two, blond hair, and blue eyes. I stood, I knew T had security, love and a She smiled at me. with that beautiful smile place where 1 was always welcomed. 1 of hers. I looked at my dad. who was looked down the gravel road again, and s1x-one, black hair. and brown eyes. 1 knew it led to adventure, knowledge, and noticed his hair was starting to get a little a whole different world. I closed my gray and I joked that he was getting old. eyes, as 1 summoned courage to say All my family members and neighbors of good-bye to my parents. '"Just remember to listen to your heart," our family always argued over who I looked like more, my mother or my father. said my mother as she hugged me.

I hugged her in return and let the tears I always voted for both, due to the fact I was short like my mother and I have her flow freely down my checks. T turned blonde hair. but I have my father's brown towards my father and hugged him as he eyes and an eagerness to talk to anybody said, "remember, we're only a phone call or anything. My mother always said, "we away."

1 brushed the tears away as I stepped could carry on a conversation with a away from them. "Well, 1guess il's about fence post, if necessary.''

"You're starting a new chapter in your time l headed off to college."

A New Chapter

By Rachel

"Is that the last of your luggage?" My mother replied as she shut ill)' car door.

T nodded, not being able to speak as I choked down the tears that were forming.

I looked up at the sky and noticed it was going to be a bright. sunny day. I took in my surroundings, trying to memorize every little detail, every scent, and the color of my home. It seemed nature knew it was going to be an eventful day; the trees seemed to be waving good-bye.

The morning dew on the grass made the ground sparkle before me and the blue sky seemed to smile upon me. I looked towards the house and saw the window shutters wink at me. or maybe it was just the wind blowing them. I was leaving this, my white house with brown trim, my home.

"Yeah. that's the last of my luggage."!

Destini Knapp, Egg. Photograph, 5 x 7 in.

Impressions 2004

31

Cindy Makelly, Hands of Progress. Photograph, 4 x 6.5 in.

Untitled She glances his way, she notices he turns away There is something there and they both know it and both know that they want to show it.

But there is something she is hiding, by hiding is she denying the feelings that she holds for him in the hopes that he' II return.

Forbidden love has come too soon and all she can do is yearn.

But what if she would've told him what he really meant to her.

Would that have changed the way that she longs for his cure.

The one that makes her happy and will her whole life through.

She glances back and he is there. and saying, " Tlove you."

-Sheri Johnson

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Impressions 2004

War Several onyx strands Caress the crystal dagger Like blood in the sand.

-Stephanie Burkhardt

The Bridge

By Matthew Ramsey

It was late afternoon and stiflingly hot.

School had just gotten out and a little boy was running for his life. Well, maybe not for his life exactly but he was sure that if the group of older boys caught up with him some decidedly unpleasant things would occur. They were chasing him for the usual reasons. Either they wanted money from him, or he had called one of them a name or said something about one of their mothers, or maybe he was simply different from them and that was enough.

Whatever the reasons, they were unimportant. The important thing was: they were gaining. His skinny legs pumped inside his worn blue jeans and the dirty white sneakers on his feet kicked

up plumes of dust from the dirt road.

Somewhere, probably back at Ridcully's Hardware. he had taken a blind turn down an alleyway in hopes of ditching his pursuers and now, after five minuets of stumbling through empty back lots and crashing through heaps of forgotten junk, he was utterly and completely lost.

Almost.

Rounding a corner, he couJd make out the rusted, gray tops of the old Ridcully coal mine (Henry Ridcully was a land baron that owned most of the town until back in 1964 when it was said that he had mysteriously vanished. Small towns thrive on words like '¡mysteriously") peaking out over the lop of a copse of trees. The boy knew that the small thjcket would eventually turn into a forest and would continue about a quarter mile back until stopping suddenly and unnaturally along the coal mine's line of fabricated metal shelters.

He had the option of turning down the black road leading to the mine and possibly escaping the bullies in the forest or --.. instead, running the opposite direction across an open field that would eventually take him back to the center of the town and to safety. He slowed to a trot and could hear the shouts and calls from the boys who used words that they had most likely learned from their fathers or older brothers or possibly even the television. ln that Matthew Ramsey, Bridge Troll. 11 x 8 in.

...

â&#x20AC;˘

moment of indecision he knew that he would never make it across the open field.

As he neared the fork he cautioned a glance backward. A rock went whizzing past his right ear. His mind screamed at him "they threw a rock!" He suddenly realized that this was not shaping up to be a routine bullying. Perhaps it was the heat. Heat can do that to people. Jt makes them irritable and mean and it occurred to the boy that they might be more than a bit upset that he had ran so far this time.

Something more should be said about the Ridcully coal mine. It's probably true that every town has its legends and haunted buildings; in that case, Davensville was no exception. Some said that the coal mine was a place of human sacrifice used by the local Satanist chapter, some said that a gateway to Hell itself could be found in its lowest level, some said that a group of escaped criminally insane cannibals nested there, some said that it was shut down in '63 because thirty men died there and now their souls seek the blood of the living (a boiler explosion did, in fact, kill ten men and the mine was eventually shut down due to massive safety violations) but above all, everyone said that no one who entered the coal mine was ever seen again .

So when the boy turned and ran down the black, forsaken road leailing up to the coal mine, it was because his adrenal glands were now in complete control.

The promise fresh violence weighed more heavily on his mind than ghost stories told to children to prevent them from poking around and getting tetanus or to stop teenagers from turning the spot into a place in which to consummate their relationships.

Impressions 2004

33

A sudden shifting wind brought about him standing on the other side of the a surge of hope within him. In this wind perfectly still bridge. They began to hurl (and the smell that it carried) he learned more insults but the cursing came out in that all the stories about the coal mine's a strangely subdued manner as if they monsters had not, at least not completely, didn' t want to disturb the perfect quiet been wrong. A smell of musk, dried blood that had suddenly descended the forest.

With one impudent finger the boy and dead animals enveloped him. He could also smell a familiar, underlying odor, beckoned the group to come to him. This like that of a long-dead wet dog. The challenge, the boy knew, would not go scent held only one meaning for the boy. unanswered and as a single organism the The trees were now walls on either side group surged forward and stepped unto of the curving, narrow road, their canopy the bridge. The boy tensed as the sound blocking out all but a few stray rays of of cautious footfalls thudded on the light. As he ran he strained his eyes bridge. Gradually the group grew bolder against the dense growth, hoping to see and began walking faster toward the what lay around the next curve. He felt other side. Soon they were in the middle certain of what he would find there-just and began loudly shouting threats at the as certain as the fact that he was bare] y boy waiting for them on the other side. able to draw in any air that wasn' t choked There was a shift under the bridge. the sound of something large uncoiling itself with wet dog and rotting tlesh. and sliding out from cover. The group of Then he saw the blidge.

He noted with satisfaction that boys was unaware of this movement but everything was much as he expected. froze when lhe stench of things long dead, The bridge was wood and had at one time suddenly released by the movement under been painted Barn red but was now the bridge, assaulted their nostrils. dramatically pealing and only in a few One of them craned his head around in places could the original color be seen. time to see a large cadaverous thing shoot The boy guessed the bridge to be about a long bony hand out and grab his friend twenty feet across and at least as high about the waist. Foot long claws sank up from the ground. This was not a into the boy's midsection and a surprised problem but he knew he would have to gasp, wet with blood, spurted from his be careful to cross without touching it. lips. The kid was lifted off his feet. There He continued runrung and as he neared was snap as he was raggedly folded in the start of the bridge he put on a burst half and stuffed into the creature's gaping of speed and propelled himself into the mouth. It began chewing eagerly while air just as he was about to touch the first its large, lantern-like eyes stared wildly plank. The boys who were chasing him at the rest of the boys, its hands moving were not there to see their quarry sail to snare more of them. Within a few more than twenty feet over the rickety moments every one of the children on the structure and land perfectly on the other bridge were gone. The body of the side, sending up a small dust cloud in the creature, usually consisting of molted, process. For their part, they had slowed sickly white skin stretched tautly over a down when they began to realize where bony frame, was now wet with blood. It it was they were headed but if they were breathed heavily in and out while its to have seen the aerial routine just mouth, full of long, needle thin teeth, performed over the bridge, they more than sucked in air like a fish out of water.

The boy made a polite coughing sound. likely would have given up the chase altogether.

The head of the creature whipped around The boy turned to face the on coming to face him, its thin black hair sent up a boys and waited. After a few moments splatter of blood and came to a rest on its his pursuers came jogging around the neck with a wet slap. Recognizing more bend, slowing to a stop when they spotted food, its face contorted into a grimace of 34

Impressions 2004

a smile and it began to breath even more heavily as it moved toward its prey.

"Hello, you ugly bridge troll. I suppose you think you're going to eat me too."

The boy said with disdain.

The troll stopped. Under the current circumstances it would have expected to have to chase down this little boy and stifle his screams with its razor sharp incisors.

It was therefore of the utmost perplexity that this was not, indeed, happening. But trolls were never ones to over think things and after a moment's hesitation it began lumbering forward again. The boy moved forward as well.

Living under the bridge, the troll had to eat whatever it could: bugs, rodents. townspeople, and even quick things like snakes. To hunt snakes, it would stay perfectly still for hours: suddenly reaching out with its clawed fingers to grab the reptiles before they had a chance to blink.

It was with this blinding speed that the troll reached for the boy and while no serpent had ever escaped, this time its hands closed around empty air. The creature blinked stupidly.

"You're a quick little boy.'' It bleated while eyeing the child wearily.

The boy broke into a decidedly unfriendly smile and advanced forward again. "No ... I'm not.''

"Nothing has ever escaped my claws."

The troll protested, spewing necks of spittle and blood from its tongue.

"1 wasn't disputing your assessment of my speed." The boy said flatly.

A finely honed sense of danger began screaming in the back of the troll's mind and suddenly it wanted to be very far away from this child. It turned with lightning speed and darted for tbe forest but it simply wasn't fast enough.

Somewhere in the forest a high-pitched squeal, like a goat with a broken Jack-inthe-Box for a voice, rang out. A moment later it stopped and slowly, as the boy walked back into town, the sounds of the night crept into the forest.

Icicles Daggers that drip their Blood in tears when they succumb To the sun's power.

Icicle

-Jaylynn Huiner

Paranoia Don't look at me with thal rancid toothy grin.

l am a tree and your words are the snow Which bounds my boughs in icy chains. Sometimes Silent sleet will sift to soften the blow, But mostly your suffocating slush Entwines my leaves into ivory pines.

Though the cold causes the chiming to hush, The chiming of crystallized dew drops Frozen before they can escape to the ground, I refuse to allow my boughs to rot And to fall from one more tremor, or sound.

Brought by your cruel currents. My limbs Bow to the countenance of tired willows Forced to knell like priests confessing dryer sins As your words make me forever hollow.

-Stephanie Burkhardt I can tell by lhe look in your eyes that you're mocking me.

We'll see who is laughing, when I splaller your head on the sidewalk.

Just wait till next year, 1' 11 carve that smile off your face,

Old Lover

Stupid Pumpkin.

-Malissa Nicholson

A picture perfect smile, a Lwo-Leeth, glowing grin That's how I see your face, amongst this faceless crowd.

Just Jet me carve your face, and dig your eyes out, too.

Then tonight you'll be my jack o'lantern picked with perfection from the pumpkin patch.

-Jaylynn Huiner

Impressions 2004

35

Hi Mommy While I am in your tummy, I'm safely tucked away.

From anything that can harm me, With all day and night to play.

1 kick and squirm and move around, Within my tiny space.

I can't wait until the magic day, When you get to see my face!

The time is coming soon enough, When I will make my way.

Into your loving arms, To be comforted each day.

,.

For months 1 have been waiting, To join my family, And share in all the love and joy, That is waiting just for me.

-Margaret DeMoss

Nicole Keller, Untitled. Pencil on paper, 11 x 9 in,

36

Impressions 2004

Girl in White

By Joshua Hlibichuk

Chilly December mornings in the schoolyard oflen found giddy students bundled up in their various winter articles.

The girls each had earmuffs or headbands of some kind, along with cute multicolored mittens, some with designs and some without. Boys took a different approach; they were too tough for earmuffs, so they all had hats (which covered more of the head anyway) or nothing at all (which left a number of young men huddled up against the building, attempting to remain tough) and gloves. If you were a boy. each finger had to have a hole, because you couldn't start snowball fights effectively in mittens.

Snowballs, of course, were against the rules. Everyone knew it, but nobody cared. Even the teacher on duty would turn a blind eye to good-natured fun, but if it turned sour he or she would always promptly walk over to the children and either give them a stern warning or take away a recess. depending on which supervisor had chastised them.

Regardless, student and teacher alike lived for those snowy, chilly days when you could sense yourselfliving. A person wasn't just alive on those days. When you were acutely aware of your nose being bitten by Jack Frost's whisper and of the flaky white stars falling from the gray sky, you knew that there was more to existence than just existing. When it was so cold you could see your own breath and hear yourself breathing in the midst of the heavy air, it was a sign that life was in full swing.

While snow angels and ice forts littered the playground, Joey sat off to the side, on a swing, watching everyone. Joey liked to watch people. He never talked much to anyone, inside or outside of class, but he always knew what was going on; he was a perceptive little boy.

Joey's sky-gray woolen hat matted

down his cornsilk hair in a frizzle of strands. The hat only stayed on his head if it came down past his eyes, but as Joey couldn't stand not being able to see, lhe hat intermittently was pushed down tightly and then pushed loose again, dictated by the wind's frozen pleasure.

His black jacket was heavy enough to keep him and his hands both warm, as Joey didn't have any covering for those digits. Snow boots, however, adorned his feet, just below his jeans. Two older boys ran past him, each dodging icy spheres of cold white snow. Why run? Joey thought to himself. Why not fight back?

He mused about this tactic a little more while spying the rest of the panoramic playground. Everything was perfect- a wintry wonderland.

Until, however, something caught his eye, something that hadn't been there before. Yes. Joey was quite certain that there had been no one near the slide just moments before, but now there was most definitely something there.

A few feet from the bottom of the slide

lay a girl sprawled supine in the snow.

Joey couldn't think much of it at first: there were girls making snow angels all around the playground. After a while, though, he began to worry.

She wasn't moving.

Joey carefully slipped off his warm rubber seat as the chain links clanked behind him. Disregarding this crisp sound. he left prints up to the slide, for a better look.

Except for her coal colored hair, she was dressed from head to toe in white.

Even Mother Nature had seen it fit to clad the girl in the palest of skjn. White muffs, white mittens, white snowsuit, white boots. She almost would've blended in with the powder if not for her bulkiness -and her hair. Her beautiful, almost velvety hair. Somethjng in Joey just wanted to sit down beside her and strut stroking it like a puppy, or a soft blanket, but another part of him looked around nervously.

She still wasn't moving.

Joey moved even closer and knelt down beside her. Was she okay? Was she breathing? Was she even alive? Her eyes were closed; that was bad. wasn't it? He was so confused, so scared. Here the two were, in the middle of such gaiety, and no one else so much as noticed.

October Dead leaves at my feet.

A chill in the air. Pumpkin Brains on newspaper.

-Jaylynn Ruiner

Impressions 2004

37

Brian and Matt walked right in front of them, one straight after the other, making a path through the <>now for others to follow. They were adventurers, blazing trails and searching for adventure and peril. The) didn't set! \\hat danger was right in front of them though; they couldn't see the girl. Joey stared in disbelief at their inability to notice.

He looked at the girl again and this time put his hand close to her mouth and nose.

After a fev. short seconds, a small puff of \\'arm air exhaled onto his naked skin.

Breath. Breath meant ... life!

She was alive, but she wasn't moving.

Joey looked around again for help, but

it wasn't forthcoming. Ignoring the happy shouts and squeals floating around him, he shook the girl a bit. llis first attempt was more of a feeble poke, rather. Seeing no response, Joey shook her gently. and then abruptly, vigorously. fhe girl's head moved ever so slightly to the side, and her hps moved juc;t a bit. as if she was about to speak. Pulling the gray hat off his head in one motion. Joey leaned over. putting his ear over her mouth to hear what she had to say.

"So cold." Joey sat straight up and then realized that wouldn't be enough. Ue shot to his feet, flailing hands and arms in an attempt to capture someone's attention.

Destini Knapp, Untilled. Photograph, 5 x 7 in.

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Impressions 2004

There was no way he could save this girl by himself.

"Somebody come here! llelp! Get a teacher!" Joey didn't dare leave her; it was abandonment! The last thing this poor girl needed was to be abandoned, but nobody else seemed to agree. His cries went unnoticed. mostly. Some of the children glanced up at him and laughed amongst themselves at the silly boy shouting about nonsense. What odd game was he playing? And why was he so worked up over nothing?

Joey was dumbstruck. Couldn't they see what was going on here? The girl in white was dying, and she was dying faster by the minute. She probably wouldn't be able to speak if she shook her again.

Frustrated he took matters into his own hands. and he regretfully left his vigil at her side to find a higher power, silently apologizing as he ran. One of the female teachers was standing across the yard, by the school building. Joey approached her almost breathless)).

"There's a girl lying in the snow over there," he breathed, pointing. "She's in trouble, Mrs. Smith!" The kindly woman looked to where Joey was gesturing, and then turned her gaze back upon the boy.

"Joe)'. nO\\, don't play games like that.

It's not nice:¡ A pained hO\\l erupted, and Mrs. Smith alertly found its source; she started in the direction of the girl!

Joey breathed a sigh of relief and followed her back. Things would be okay.

The closer the two got to the girl in white. though, another wave of horror flooded into Joey's already chilled body.

Mrs. Smith continued on past the girl. instead breaking up a snowball fight that had become a bit more than the exchange of loosely packed snow and a few competitive fifth graders.

Joey didn't follow any further. He instead collapsed by the girl, openly weeping. His tears fell onto her bare neck, rolling down the side and meeting the snow. where they almost instantly crystallized into little pebbles of ice.

Crying.

lt didn't solve anything, Joey slowly realized. Was there something else he could do? There had to be. Joey lifted his leaden body off the girl, and instead tried to pick her up in desperation. He hefted her torso, but realized she was too heavy for him She was still motionless. except for dragging would work.

Joey bent over near the girl's feet to pull, but found himself not budging much.

When he did gain ground, it was only a moment before his cold hands could no longer hold their grip on the snow boots, and he fell backwards over into the cold grains of frozen water. Time and again, he attempted this. Time and again, Joey failed.

Crying was the only thing he could do now, and Joey didn't care about the stares he was getting from the other children.

Mr. Johnson walked up and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. ''Are you okay. Joey?" The boy was less than a foot from the girl in white, and Joey cried all the more, tears running down his face faster than the snow feJI from the sky. He poured his soul onto the fro.ÂŁen ground, poured his heart out to the girl. Mr. Johnson squeezed his hand on Joey's shoulder, and walked away.

Then the bell rang. It was time to go back inside the building. Two girls patted Joey on the back as they returned to the school, as a way of telling him it would be okay, but for now they had to get back to their studies. Joey glared icicles at them: it wouldn't be okay. Nothing would be okay about this.

The playground was bare when Joey stood up. The girl in white was still motionless. All hi s resources exhausted. It \\US so cold that Joey couldn't even stand to cry anymore: it had left his moUlh dry and his face icecovered. The wind was blowing snow across her now. and free7ing the tears on Joey's cheeks.

Pulling the gray hat down over his blonde hair as far as it could go, Joey used all the willpower in his body to tear himself away from the sight of the girl.

He sprinted back to the schoolhouse,

somehow finding once again the ability to weep as he did it.

He was well away from her when she spoke once more. straining to move her chest. straining to breath. straining to force the air past her vocal cords and beyond her lips. The girl in \\ hite used all the effort she had left to speak again.

It wasn't even so much m; a whisper, but the wind carried it off her lips and into the frozen expanse the very moment her speech was given life by her tongue.

"You ... tried.''

The girl in \\hite said no more; silence finall) covered the playground, and the snow continued to cover her.

Keila Kuykendall, Untitled. Pencil on paper, 11 x 8 in.

Impressions 2004

39

United and Free Sister Liberty standing for all to see, Hand held high with no smile on your face.

No Fire to be seen You stand for Freedom and Liberty Once you Invited the Huddled Masses to the Shores you Looked Over and made your Home.

Does the Fire still Burn Brightly in your Heart?

As it did when the Fore Fathers came to the Golden shores.

Do you feel the Adoration the nation has for you?

Do you feel the Pain of those who yearn to be Free'?

Do you hear them Ask why the Shores arc No longer Inviting?

Are not the Down Trodden and Persecuted Invited to your Shores any more?

Lady Freedom, Lady Liberty, 1 know why you no longer smile.

You have been Forced to Close Your Golden Shores, The Arms are not open anymore.

Where do the Persecuted and those Yearning to be Free go now'?

-Dawn Anton

bleed American stimulation of senses shooting stars blasphemous beams banned behind bars a pierce through the skin what do you do bleed Amencan of red, white. and blue stripped of sense seeing stars and stripes potent perseverance pushes through the ptpes a pierce through the skm now, what to do bleed Amencan like you were told to do

-Tony Kessel 40

lmpre.niom 2004

And Thus, a Measure of Good Was Done

By Matthew Ram set; Mr. Cadwalleder and Mr. Elvis sat brooding in a dark car parked inconspicuously in an even darker alley.

It was raining. It was the sort of night one might describe with the line: " it was a dark and stormy night" and the type of things one would expect to occur on such a night were, in fact, already happening at an alarming rate.

There had already been a blackmail, a bribery, a robbery (to finance the afore mentioned bribery) and one murder. Mr. Elvis was not pleased. But not because he was developing scruples, he didn't even know the meaning of the word (in fact, given 26 tries he would have been hard pressed to even guess what letter the word started with). No, he was upset because there was not supposed to be

a murder. There were supposed to be

two murders. The two men were currently waiting in the dark car parked in the even darker alley because the "murderee" had had the bad grace to be late.

Mr. Elvis was not a man known for his patience. In fact, he was not a man known for very many qualities that didn't involve killing or hurting things. He called himself Mr. Elvis and for reasons previously stated, everyone around him felt obliged to go along with it. While he did not look anything like Elvis Presley, he did bear a striking resemblance to a big, blankfaced thug who watched slasher flicks in order to sleep peacefully at night.

His companion, Mr. Cadwalleder looked like that quiet, polite neighbor

who seemed to always want to show you something "interesting" in his strange-smelling basement. The net effect of their appearance was such that they didn't need a business card to advertise what line of work they were in.

The two were different from each other in many ways: the one with the brooding, ox-like demeanor, hardly ever bothering to say a word; the other with quick, ferret-like movements, incessantly making comments. In every other way that mattered, though, they were one in the same. Both of them were the best at what they did and everyone knew it. The ones who knew it the best-didn' t. Anymore that is. They were dead.

Mr. Cad walleder drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

Destini Knapp, Untitled. Photograph, 7 x 5 in.

Impressions 2004

41

This was particularly annoying since he was sitting in the passenger seat and had to reach over Mr. Elvis to do it.

Mr. Elvis was not used to having his personal space invaded, though he often did so to other people. Besides the dnunming of his fmgers, Mr. Cadwalleder was also darting his eyes about as if following some unseen flying insect all while chattering about something under his breath.

For his part, Mr. Elvis was staring at a darkened window on the second floor of a dilapidated brownstone bui I ding and growing increasingly upset that the light was not coming on. A light, he reasoned, would signal that the occupant (their victim to be) had finally made it home. To take his mind off the wait Mr. Elvis decided to try and count the number of windows on the buildings suuounding him.

After a little less than oneand-a-half seconds his interest waned and he went back to brooding about the still darkened window. He found himself thinking about how he would take out his frustration on the window and decided on doing it the usual way (i.e. , taking something that was once intact and changing it into increasingly smaller bits).

His grip tightened on the steering wheel.

"Now, now, now Mr. Elvis," Mr. Cadwalleder's pale face glowed a corpse-like yellow in the weak rays of a sodium light that was placed above a doorway on one of the buildings, "you know what they say: ¡a watched light never boils."' His voice was a perfect fit for his thin. nervous appearance.

Behind the soft and high tones of the words he spoke however, there was a certain resonance that suggested that 42

Impressions 2004

this was a dangerous person capable of doing strange and terrible things with common household appliances.

Mr. Elvis turned his thick head slowly to Look at him.

"What," he said, pausing slightly "arc you talking about?"

Mr. Cadwalleder appeared not to notice the question and continued

Lindsey Amuto)" Souls Aflame.

Acryllic on Paper, 11.75 x 15.5 in. following the imaginary flying nuisance with renewed vigor.

"Just making conversation." He added casually.

Mr. Elvis continued his level gaze and said. '¡You talk too much.''

Being that this was the first thing Mr. Cadwalleder had said to him since

they had entered the car and driven to this alley, he assumed Mr. Elvis was speaking of earlier in the evening with the late Mr. Thomas Rhodes, murder victim number one. It was, Mr. Cadwalleder felt, part of his style, part of his flair for the dramatic to explain in excruciating detail all the things that were about to happen to those unfortunate enough to find themselves on the receiving end of his services. Sometimes the perfect and exact knowledge of the pain to come was worse than the pain itself.

Actually, Mr. Cadwalleder conected himself, the pain was in fact, much, much worse.

"Ah," be paused as he reflected thoughtfully " I suppose 1 do have a certain penchant for circumlocution." He then went right back to muttering and darting with his eyes.

Mr. Elvis considered this statement. lt held many enigmas for him, not that he knew what "enigma" meant (and even if he did he wouldn't have used the word). The only "cution" word he knew began with "electri" and he was fairly certain that they hadn ¡ t used thaT on anyone tonight. As for "pen chant," why would anyone say "pen" over and over again?

H e was beginning to think Mr. Cadwalleder was losing his mind (and this thought had nothing to do with the frightening and messy incident with Mr. Thomas Rhodes's spatula).

Mr. Elvis looked back up at the window.

"As soon as he gets home l'm going to try that thing you did with the spatula on him." Mr. Elvis said slowly, gripping the steering wheel even harder.

"\lty dear, sweet Mr. Elvis: don't enumerate your domesticated fowls prior to ... " ··-If you say one more thing that I don't understand ... I ""iII end you." \1r. Elvis interrupted. His votce comamed no emotion. h1s eyes were flat.

Somehow, this served to make the threat more ... threatening.

Mr. Cadwalleder considered this.

He supposed he could have simply said:

"don't count your chickens before they've hatched'' but that just felt so ... so ... quotidian.

He turned to Mr. Elvis and said exactly that.

There was the muffled double piing of two silenced \\leapons going off almost simultaneously. Eventually. the second story light went on. It stayed on for about two hours and then wem off again. The dark car still sat idling quietly

in the alleyway; no one got out. Its windshield wipers softly swished back and forth dispelling the drops of water that rained down on the glass. While the wipers were well suited for this tac;k, they were meffectual at clearing away the fine spray of organic matter that clung to the inside.

Aged Laughter and Enigmatic Happiness When I am old, 1 want to giggle, when I notice that my loved one snores louder now than when he was young.

I want to smile as random memories, drift into my thoughts. of playing on the swings with my friends in college.

I want to dance in my living room, to the music 1 create in my mind.

I want to baffle everyone and make them ask how I could have lived so long and still be so happy.

Our Hermetic Hourglass Yes. I hear you yelling. always I've heard The silent sounds so painful to my ears.

Bitter for your lips pucker at such words.

So sour. my eyes water from the dry tears I have learned to swallow. l wish the sands From our hermetic hourglass would spill Engulfing us both in a gritty hand.

In my ears, in your throat, the grains shall fill And suffocate our senses so that I Become the deaf and you mute. Such a wish would End the constant pounding behind my eyes And make your words more clearly understood.

For you will be my ears and Tyour voice Then l shall tell you that this wasn· t my choice.

-Stephanie Burkhardt

-Malissa Nicholson

Impressions 2004

43

Oh, The Horror!!

By Joshua Hlibic1ntk

I'm one of the scariest things I can think of, and I don't mean a boogie monster.

Not Bigfoot, not a zombie, not a bodysnatcher. And definitely not an IRS auditor. No, what J am is even more frightening than that. It follows me around me during the day, it keeps me up at night. What is this horrible affliction?

What monstrosity am I? 1, my friend, am an undecided sophomore. That's a frightening thing to be.

And I don't mean that 1' m undeclared, not by a long shot. Currently, I am a computer science major with a writing minor and machinations to expand into psychology as well. r mean what 1 said: I'm undecided. l don't know what 1 want to be, I just know what I like to study.

Those are two very markedly different things. Even worse yet, I like to study nearly everything- history, psychology, math, science, the arts. Provided I could

pay for it, I would stay in college until I turned thirty. If that was the case. I might even attempt Dr. Johansen's differential equations class.

Naturally, however, this simply isn't an option. l have to graduate. I have to move on to my life and get out in the real world. Wait. Wasn't that supposed to come after high school? Wasn't the "real world" out there waiting for us? I guess it was, for some. For the rest of us, there was college. But I don't buy il. John Mayer and I, we get along real well; he agrees with me. There's no real world.

This is it. Trying to pass World Civ is as real as it gets. It's just that after coJJege, we are presented with another choice: more school, or really get a job this time?

I guess it depends on what we want.

And really, what do any of us want?

These days, I wonder. What happened to the American dream? You know the one: a spouse, two-and-a-half kids, a

house in the suburbs with a white picket fence, a minivan, a golden retriever.

(Because let's face it, who really wants a cat? Kidding, cat-lovers! Kidding!) 1 don't know about any of my compatriots, but this idea sends shivers up and down my spine. I don't want that. Not yet, anyway. I want to see things, experience the world, get out and stretch my legs a while.

That might just mean leaving this state, at least for a while. They say you might leave, but you always come back. Maybe it'll be true in my case. Maybe not.

Regardless, this place- this city, this state -is all ! know. lt's all I've ever known.

I've seen so little of the "outside world" that the thought of staying here my entire life scares me as much as leaving docs.

I do k.'now that I've had a taste of Chicago, a taste of Denver, and they've whetted this country boy's appetite. But 1 also know there's no place like home.

1 digress.

My point is that at this point in my life, I'm as confused as a freshman on the first day of class.

Nicole Keller, Untitled. Charcoal on paper, 12 x 18 in.

44

Impressions 2004

I don't know anything about the lessons rm going to learn, and 1 have no clue what the food will be like, let alone how I' II get along with my roommate. At least I have my major down, for as much good as it does me. The rest, though, is beyond me.

Do I have time to figure it out? Will I ever figure it out?

Twelve years ago. life was so much easier. I wanted to be everything. I wanted to be a doctor, I wanted to be a weatherman, I wanted to be a writer, 1 wanted to be an astronaut. No door was closed to me, and no dream too big. The world lay as a vast

expanse, ready for me to pick a road and run down it as fast as 1 wanted. Since that wistful, faraway time, things have changed quite a bit. Now ['min college.

I still have a whole world in front of me, but the view from here is a little different.

Instead of seeing a lot of everything, my choices are more limited, more finely tuned.

The closer I come to making a solid decision, the closer I am to making a mistake.

That's what really scares me more than anything else right now. Nobody likes to make mistakes, especially not the kind that

snare up life-changing decisions. Thinking about it really is enough to keep me awake and wondering some nights.

But don't expect to see a horror flick about the undecided sophomore anytime soon; after all, it's only a fairy tale that guidance counselors tell to scare their graduating seniors. ...Right?

Too Late For a Miracle You just can't lose faith Ts what they've always said Told me it would all work out Now I sit beside your bed I hold your hand and cry And it's all that I can do To sit and pray the angels Will always watch over you Your hands are feeling cold And your breathing's just a sigh It's too late for a miracle Too soon to say Good-bye You've fought for so long You're tired and worn out God's calling you to Heaven I trust that without a doubt It isn't giving up If you choose to leave us now It's only stepping forward To take on your tomorrow It's time for you to go To leave this world behind It's LOO late for a miracle Too soon to say Good-bye

Written for Marla Ann Mosher with great love, respect, and appreciation.

-Amy Jo Hoherz

Impressions 2004

45

Julia Topholm, Outreach From the Flame. Pen and ink, 7.5 x 12 in.

Untitled The earth outside my window brown.

The wind a milky white.

The sound of softness creeping about.

Whispering its silent plight.

The silver moon flirting with the sun.

The cool sets in around.

The sweeping calm brings lightness.

As I la} my head to the ground How peaceful the soft serenity Of mother far and from.

To clear the heart and free the soul.

I extraordinarily the best of one.

-Miclznela Sclzmidt

46

Jmpressio11s 2004

Editorial Haikus A throbbing headache From a pair of bloodshot eyes So many small lines So much work finished Suddenly everything's dark ... Remember to save?

Too many pages Killing trees, losing time fast I think I've gone nuts Wipe the exhaustion away. As one salty drop leaves an Impression

-Impressions Editors

Lose Yourself You tell me to write a happy poem.

One that sings of lovely things with whispers Wooing every ear, praising each amen, And creating fools that are none the wiser.

You wish me to write poems that tell of times So splendid, memories forbid they pass.

Hear the music and lose yourself in my rhyme As I create tones soft and lulling as Instruments played at a maiden's bedside, Chiming like notes strung from Apollo's lyre.

My words will tease, taunt, and tempt the divine And deem me the focus of their desire.

I'll make angels jealous of my grace And you'lljust smile as I lie to your face.

-Stephanie Burkhardt