Impressions 2009

Impressions 2009

Impressions 2009

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FICTION First Place

Water Torture Joy Walter

PHOTOGRAPHY Second Place The Choice

Ryan Schlauderaff First Place

Third Place

Holy Inferno Jenny Marboe

Joy Simulation Mask Mikhail Bodganov

Second Place Jimi Hendrix Third Place

NON-FICTION First Place

Sheldon King

Growing Ripples Sarah Holle

Honorable Mention

The Phenomena of Fire Rebecca Goldsberry

Untitled

Zefei Yang

Spring in Wonderland Second Place The Act of Killing Third Place

Individuals

Huiying Han

Meghan Bartz

Ryan Schlauderaff

TWO-DIMENSIONAL ART First Place POETRY First Place

Shovel

Kyla Strasheim

Second Place Letter to an Ex Third Place

Rebecca Goldsberry

Silence Maria Haag

Loren Johnson

Second Place Untitled

Cassandra Anderson

Third Place

Shane Niederklein

Untitled

Honorable Mention Untitled

Carma Kulish

The Queen Enktamir Otgondenberel

Honorable Mention Fake Hippies

Rebecca Goldsberry

Gather Up Your Breasts Rebecca Goldsberry

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Impressions 2009

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Impressions 2009 Editors Cindy Thronburg

Becca Forthum Joe Robinson Travis Roth

Jonathon Skjoldal

Advisor Dr. Dave Solheim

Front Cover: Photo By Zefei Yang

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.

Copyright 2009 by the editors of Impressions. The individual authors wholly own all future rights to material published in this magazine, and any reproduction or reprinting, in whole or in part, may be done only with their permission. The opinions and representations contained in this magazine do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the editors, university administration, or faculty.

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C o n t e n t s “The Choice” Untitled Untitled Untitled “The Phenomena of Fire” “Shovel” Snow “Holy Inferno” “A ‘History’ Book” Old Wagon and Log Pile She Untitled “Water Torture” Reflection Growing Ripples “Horsie” Brownie and Blackberry “That Girl” Untitled “My Father’s Secret Weakness” “Silence” “Of Books” Red After Rain The Space Needle Spring in Wonderland Untitled Untitled Untitled West River Sunrise Untitled Aspiration and Reality Dreamlike Night of Niagra 4

Impressions 2009

Prose by Ryan Schlauderaff -------------------------------------------6 Photograph by Becca Forthun -------------------------------------- 6 Photograph by Becca Forthun -------------------------------------- 7 Poetry by Rebecca Goldsberry-------------------------------------- 7 Prose by Rebecca Goldsberry --------------------------------------- 8 Poetry by Kyla Strasheim --------------------------------------------- 8 Photograph by Linda Peterson ------------------------------------- 9 Prose by Jenny Marboe ---------------------------------------------- 10 Prose by Sha Lu -------------------------------------------------------- 11 Photograph by Cindy Thronburg --------------------------------- 11 Artwork by Binod Kumar -------------------------------------------- 12 Poetry by Rebecca Goldsberry------------------------------------- 12 Prose by Joy Walter --------------------------------------------------- 13 Photograph by Andrea K. Schock --------------------------------- 13 Photgraph by Sarah Holle ------------------------------------------- 14 Prose by Travis Roth -------------------------------------------------- 15 Photograph by Cindy Thronburg --------------------------------- 15 Poetry by Joe Robinson---------------------------------------------- 16 Photograph by Becca Forthun --------------------------------------16 Prose by Sha Lu ---------------------------------------------------------16 Poetry by Maria Haag -------------------------------------------------17 Prose by Loren Soderberg -------------------------------------------17 Photograph by Sarah Holle ------------------------------------------18 Photograph by Sheldon King ---------------------------------------18 Photograph by Huiying Han ----------------------------------------18 Photograph by Zeifei Yang-------------------------------------------18 Artwork by Carma Kulish ---------------------------------------------18 Photograph by Luke Heinle -----------------------------------------19 Photgraph by Luke Heinle -------------------------------------------19 Photograph by Zeifei Yang-------------------------------------------19 Photograph by Yue Liu ------------------------------------------------19 Photograph by Yue Liu ------------------------------------------------19

Sunset at Danzing Dam The Queen “Letter to an Ex” “Reversal of Power” “Stage Fright” “Two Way Mirror” “Individuals” Untitled “Defeating the Wendigo” “fake hippies” Jimi Hendrix “The Act of Killing” “The Value of a Massage Tool” The River Runs Through “September Dream” “I love those girls” “Making a Left Turn” Tea Garden “My Grandfather” “An Ode to my Left Hand”

Photograph by Sarah Holle ------------------------------------------ 19 Artwork by Enkhtanir Otgondenberel ---------------------------- 20 Poetry by Rebecca Goldsberry-------------------------------------- 20 Prose by Ryan Bogner ------------------------------------------------- 21 Poetry by Ryan Schlauderaff ---------------------------------------- 22 Poetry by Linda Peterson-------------------------------------------- 22 Prose by Ryan Schlauderaff ------------------------------------------ 23 Artwork by Loren Johnson------------------------------------------- 24 Prose by Christine Hetzel --------------------------------------------- 24 Poetry by Rebecca Goldsberry-------------------------------------- 25 Photograph by Sheldon King --------------------------------------- 25 Prose by Meghan Bartz ----------------------------------------------- 25 Prose by Xiaoyu Li ------------------------------------------------------ 26 Photograph by Luke Heinle ----------------------------------------- 26 Prose by Ryan Schlauderaff ------------------------------------------ 27 Poetry by Rebecca Goldsberry-------------------------------------- 28 Prose by Kyla Strasheim ---------------------------------------------- 28 Photograph by Sha Lu ------------------------------------------------ 29 Prose by Sha Lu --------------------------------------------------------- 29 Poetry by Meghan Bartz ---------------------------------------------- 30 “The Life and Death of a Duckling” Prose by Christine Hetzel --------------------------------------------- 30 Untitled Photograph by Linda Peterson ------------------------------------- 31 Joy Simulation Mask Photograph by Mikhail Bodganov --------------------------------- 32 “Reckless Words” Poetry by Rebecca Goldsberry-------------------------------------- 32 Untitled Artwork by Carma Kulish --------------------------------------------- 32 “Experience Life” Prose by Meghan Bartz ----------------------------------------------- 33 Untitled Artwork by Shane Niederklein -------------------------------------- 33 “Point of View in Kate Chopin’s ‘The Story of an Hour’” Prose by Ryan Bogner ------------------------------------------------- 34 Dark Pathway Photograph by Cindy Thronburg ---------------------------------- 35 Untitled Artwork by Cassandra Anderson ----------------------------------- 36

Impressions 2009

5

The Choice.

by Ryan Schlauderaff It was dark, although it was usually dark when he came to see me. He seemed to enjoy darkness more then daylight. In fact, I’m not sure I’d ever seen him in daylight. He was always dressed in dark clothes as well; shades of black or deep reds as well as jewelry of all sorts. Even with the emblems, necklaces and the like, he remained very adult and masculine. I’d missed him. It had been months since I’d seen him last. Looking up at him I could swear he hadn’t changed a bit.

I’ve been in the hospital a lot again lately. It seems I’m always sick or there is something else wrong with me. I hate my life so much sometimes. Friends can only help so much when the rest of your life is going to hell.

Hospitals, god I hate hospitals. I’ve been in and out of them my whole life I swear. Organ transplant, cancer, levels wrong, depression wrong, doctors, nurses, hospitals over and over again.

I’m always in hospitals far from home. I don’t understand how he knew I was here, I don’t think I’ve to spoken him for months now, He drifted away right after high school got out last summer, I didn’t see him when classes started again. Yet, somehow he just turned up at the hospital I happen to be staying in, 300 miles away from home.

I don’t get it, or get him, but I guess I never have. He never has made sense to anyone. He has always been young yet old in a way. Maybe seventeen or eighteen years of age and some nights it showed; drinking too much acting far too daring, running from the cops and always getting away with it. Yet, other nights when I needed it most, he was wisdom and caring beyond his years.

His eyes, his eyes are something else that has never seemed quite right, bluer than any other I can think of. On some nights his eyes were so much more blue; other nights dark to the point of almost black. On the few occasions I saw him near dawn or just

after dusk… the pupils were mere pinpoints behind sunglasses he often wore. “ How do you always do it? Showing up when I need you most? Disappearing whenever you wish…?” ”I’ve always said I was something different , you’ve always known it in your heart. Lets just say I’m a… guardian friend of sorts.”

“I don’t think you can help me much this time, I may be dying, do you understand that!? Dying!...”

The pain of the last few weeks, no… year upon year of it; left me crying against his black jacket. It wasn’t the first time. I’d cried in his arms before. It always seemed to help a little and yet, it always scared me in a way I didn’t understand. Maybe it was the fear that if I became too attached to him, I would lose him. I’d seen it happen. He was a loner in almost every way. The single time a girl had asked him out, he’d said no in a very abrupt fashion and the girl hadn’t seem him again for 2 months.

But this time, I felt no such fear. He sat on the side of my hospital bed, the moonlight just barely catching his features, the red light of the clock blinking two AM. And I cried; I cried until there was truly nothing left to cry. The tears carried all the hate, the pain, the misery, and the frustrations. Everything I’d been feeling and bottling up inside, suddenly it was all poured out in those tears, tears that soaked through his jacket and his shirt to his skin.

By some miracle it was ok, it was ok I didn’t know where he’d been, it was ok I didn’t really know who he was. It was ok that he wasn’t around sometimes. Mostly it was ok because he was around when no one else was there to catch my tears. He was there when no one else would have, or could have been able to help. That’s why he was such a friend. That’s why he held such sway with me.

He sighed quietly and whispered, “I’ve missed you so much. I wish I hadn’t stayed away so long. I’m sorry for the times

Untitled by Becca Forthun 6

Impressions 2009

I’ve missed. I’m so very sorry that you are sick again.”

He held me tighter, I could feel his heartbeat, far more faint than I expected. I didn’t know how to explain what I needed to say… but I still had to say it. There was no other way “ I wasn’t being dramatic, I’m dying… too much is wrong with me and too little can be fixed. I’ve only got a little time left, maybe as little as a few weeks, maybe as much as six months.”

With a slight shudder I thought I heard him choke back a sob but I couldn’t tell. “…yeah... Yes, I know. That’s why I showed up again. I could feel this coming I just don’t know what…to…” he trailed off into his own thoughts.

When he looked back to me his eyes were the bluest I’d ever seen them. They nearly glowed with a dark blue light. I was scared in to silence for just a moment but then he spoke and I shivered for a very different reason.

“I’m not much like you, I’m not as… human… as you.

Maybe you’ve guessed, maybe you’ve known, maybe this is still news. You have been by far the best friend I’ve ever had, which is incredible. Because “ever” has been over 300 years for me. I’m… a vampire you might say.”

“It is never as simple or as obvious as the books make it sound. Whatever it is that I am, I cannot die except by perhaps a full day of sunlight. An hour or two is fine but more causes damage. I’m different. That’s why I’ve always been a little different, never really aged and always seeming to know when to show up and when to leave.

I’ve been listening to you, to your heart, to your thoughts, to who you are for years now. You are the most beautiful human being I have met, inside and out. It wounds me to see your delicate features and your dark hair drained almost to death by this disease!”

He seemed to spit the last words like it was filth from his mouth. “ I have something of an offer. I don’t know whether it is worthy of you, or wise, but here it is. I can share with you what ever it is in me. There would be no more sickness, no more death, no more long nights in the hospital staring at the clock on the wall waiting for the sun to rise. … But don’t take this choice lightly. There would be no more sunny summer days, no more time, no more close friends and family. There would be so much death with the others around you. No more home to stay… moving on every year or two.

The choice is yours… I will come again tomorrow and the night after. I will continue to come and stay with you to the end which ever choice you make.”

He trailed off once again; His offer was there, my choice set in front of me. Now I now I lay here, thinking, remembering what

its like to cry in his arms. I feel the safety, the comfort, the eternity. I feel his lips gently touch my forehead and he once again disappears in to the hallway and out into the dark city.

It is now up to me, a new sort of un-life, or a gently slowing end to the one I’ve lived. The losses are similar either way. Until the next night he comes, I want to sit here and think of him, he may be the life, or death, of me. Please come back this next night.

Untitled by Becca Forthun

I decided today who to be what to be how to be i wish i could be you instead Rebecca Goldsberry

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The Phenomena of Fire

shutting in the fire. Soon I would be left alone, standing by the fire.

Before long my sister would encourage me to put on proper clothes so that we could go outside and play in the snow.

Together, my sister and I would emerge from our trailer in our winter gear, so bundled up that we were unrecognizable. We left the porch and moved into the quiet cold of our big backyard. One of our favorite games was our own version of tag, mixed in with animal friends. Outside in the hushed, snow covered yard, Meg and I would play for hours. We could carefully wade through the knee high drifts, making trails and occasionally stamping out a home for one of our animal friends. Our animal friends were imaginary and resembled the characters from the classic book “Wind in the Willows,” but with our own twist. Here, in these flattened spots in the snow, I would find Mr. Toad and Mrs. Bunny Rabbit. Meg and I would chase each other along the trails until one of us, usually me, ran into one of the ‘homes’ and called ‘safe.’ Secure in Mrs. Bunny Rabbit’s house, I would lie across

By Rebecca Goldsberry

As long as I recall our house was heated by a wood-burning stove. Our stove is a carbon black Schrader made in Missoula, Montana. The stove warmed us in the colder months and provided such a distinctive, fragrant aroma; a scent that I will never forget.

The stove measures thirty-two inches across, thirty-two inches tall and twenty-two inches deep. The Schrader stove is built of onequarter inch sheet steel, with doors being of cast iron. The two doors measure twenty-four inches across and on the front of each rests a pine tree embossed with silver heat-proof paint and a silver painted circular knob; which can be turned to allow more airflow into the belly of the stove, or to cut off air. Below these doors there is a shelf to catch any sparks and embers.

The floor underneath the stove is covered by a six foot square piece of steel, to help protect the brown shag carpet.

The wall behind the stove is also covered by a six foot piece of charcoal colored steel. My father had great hopes of covering this steel with a fake brick façade, but never accomplished this. This stove and the help of my dad provided my sister and I with warmth I’m tired. throughout our childhood. Later as our family grew old, I saw this age burned into the cold surface of the The kind of tired that dominates. carbon black stove.

And I sat down here thinking, yes, here I will write My father always emphatically warned my The poem that will change the world sister and I: “Don’t touch the stove!” For seven of Whose heaven-upturned phrases will paint smiles on the twelve months, there would be a roaring fire incrowds of heaven-upturned faces and side the belly of the stove. I recall, as a child, asking my father to build a fire on many an early weekend Banish away forever that look of downward contempt morning. These mornings, I would still be in my That was all too evident on you face this evening. pajamas, with my green patchwork housecoat not Yes, this poem was for you and for the world. quite covering my legs. Dad would dutifully bundle But I’m tired so up in his tan Carhart coat and worn work-gloves and I was being a little idealistic. head out into the cold; to the pile of wood that we had already cut and stacked, in preparation for the I sit and let the sweet throb of your words pour over me winter months. I would wait by the door, ready to Syllables that string together in the form of a warm breeze open it at the sound of Dad’s footsteps on the porch.

Brushing the smell of coconuts and sea salt over me Every time I opened the door for Dad and his stack And that echo prettily, concavely, between the hardest parts of me. of wood, a frigid breeze caught my bare legs and And I’d melt like butter except.... made me shiver. I would slam the door shut again, keeping winter at bay and run over to the stove. My Butter has trans fats and nobody likes those. dad would begin to build our fire and I would stand Besides, who gains anything from that sort of cliché? and watch.

I’d melt like igneous rock in the center of the earth The first step would be for Dad to put the But I’d be comparing passion to fire, and that’s overdone too. logs into the stove. The stove was still hot, and Dad So content yourself with a simple, “Yeah, I dig that,” took care not to burn his fingers as he tossed the logs in. “Do you need the newspaper?” I always asked, and go on about your day knowing that eager to help. “Yeah,” Dad would respond and I I rarely, rarely, rarely, ever pick up a shovel. would grab some newspapers from the stack in the corner. I would crumple up the individual pieces Kyla Strasheim into little spheres. Handing these crinkly pieces to Dad, I watched as he stuffed them into the cracks between the logs. I was never this daring, and would just sort of toss her snow-packed couch and stare up into the sky. the crumpled pieces in, being scared that I would burn my fingers.

From here, I could see a curl of smoke rising from the The newspaper would burst into a brilliant mess of orange, red, chimney. The faint, wispy coil of smoke soon got lost in the vast, and blue. Dad would then close the stove doors, muted grey-blue sky. I closed my eyes, letting the images drift

Shovel

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Impressions 2009

away. The smoke smell would reach my nostrils; an earthy mixture of of sweet wood with a hint of strong, musky cedar. I laid here, breathing in the delicious smell, my nose running; the snot freezing on my skin. Chewing on the edge of my muffler, I felt the soft padding of snow beneath me and opened my eyes; allowing the shifting light of dusk to come in. I felt as content as a 7 year old can and wanted to stay in this place forever. Eventually, I would hear the swishing noise of Meg’s snow pants and the crunch of the soft, clean snow beneath her boots. I looked over to see a pair of white and blue snow boots. Following them up, I could see my sister towering over me. It was time to go inside.

Slowly we trudged up the porch stairs, our boots heavy and sodden. The rubber soles squeaked against the hard-packed snow. Once inside our warm trailer, Meg and I would claim our spots in front of the wood-burning stove. We began to shed our layers one by one until we resembled ourselves again. Meg and I threw our clothing onto the floor; unwanted now that we were played out and freezing. Mom would hang up our winter clothes on the tin behind the stove so that when we were rested and ready to play again, our clothes would be dry. “Mom, bring us some hot chocolate!” I pleaded. “Yeah, we’re cold” my sister chimed in. Meg and I would exchange a devious look and giggle at our cunning ability in coaxing our mother to wait on us. My sister and I would stretch our hands out in front of our bodies, reaching for the heat emanating from the stove. Mom brought us hot chocolate and Meg and I sipped on it, taking care not to burn our tongues. I sipped my warm beverage and slowly turned around, allowing the heat to hit every spot on my frigid body; warming one side while the other grew cold again. The heat came in patchy waves as he logs crackled, snapped and were consumed; changed into glowing embers.

Throughout the winters of my childhood there was a fire to keep me warm. Our family grew older and changed, as did the wood-burning stove and the fires it once held. My sister moved away to college and my mother went back to work. Soon I was the only one left at home, with each of my parents finding their own places to hide from the cold. I remember those nights when I was alone.

There was no fire; the stove did not emanate the warmth of yesteryear’s happy flames.

I would come home from school to a dark and empty house, no curl of smoke rising from the chimney and no mug of hot chocolate to greet me. I could feel the chill of winter inside the trailer; to my own bones. Going to the stove, I open the doors and see nothing but a used up bed of ash. Trying to remember what I saw my father do, I place several small logs inside. I crumple the newspaper and wedge

it underneath the wood. I light the edges of the newspaper with a match and watch as the fire spreads. I watch as the red-orange flame eats the words of authors; its blue-tongue licking and consuming all.

The flame starts and slowly spreads to the logs. I grab the fire poker and jab at the newspaper and logs, eager for the warmth. Though I know this poking accomplishes nothing, I continue for a few moments and lose myself in thoughts. I long for the days when my dad built these fires to keep his family warm and would not let them die out. The bitter, desolate trailer saddens me and it will be hours before my meager fire warms me. Putting the fire poker back, I go to my parents’ liquor cabinet. Deep in my thoughts, I grab the half empty bottle of gin and pour a few measures over the ice in my glass. The smell of pine trees assaults my senses and brings me out of my reverie. I add some lemonade from the fridge and my illicit cocktail is complete. I curl up n my father’s recliner and turn on the television. Finding some mindless program, I stare as the fluorescent people flick across the screen.

I am not really watching this as I sit in my father’s chair missing the simplicity of my childhood. These feelings weigh me down with their intense pressure and I feel as empty and bleak as this old trailer. I am lost in my thoughts: warm fires of the past and the absence of love in this trailer. For many nights this was my existence: coming home to a dark, bare shell of a home and feeling the cold within my bones.

Nowadays, there is a fire going in the belly of that charcoal-colored stove and love is again present in that old trailer.

My dad is still there building fires, not for my sister and me, but for someone new. After the stove grew cold, my mother found a new source of heat in another man’s arms. Throughout the years, that stove changed, as did my family. What used to be an infinite source of warmth has grown cold; distant, and enabled me to break out and find my own source of heat and love beyond that old wood-burning stove.

Snow by Linda Peterson Impressions 2009

9

Holy Inferno

By Jenny Marboe Five hundred people crowed into the cathedral, shoving awkwardly into empty spots in the pews or shifting their weight from foot to foot as they stood in the aisles. Virginia slouched against the wall near the massive double doors at the rear of the throng, just one more black-clad figure among hundreds. This was grieving at its best; five hundred pale, stony faces staring listlessly at the crucifix mounted on the marble wall behind the priest as he spoke in a droning, monotonous voice in a language nobody understood, from a book nobody ever read.

A single candle stood on the altar beneath the crucifix. As the priest droned on, the yellow-white wax melted and dribbled down the sides of the candle, hardening into rivulets and pooling on the stained altar. Occasionally, one of the waxen figures sitting stolidly in the pews, prim in her black lace and dark muslin, would dab discreetly at a tear rolling down her cheek along a barely perceptible wrinkle where once her skin would have creased in laughter. Besides this occasional breach of composure, a few others wrung their hands or perceptibly bit their lips until they turned white and bled. Nobody dozed off during this sermon. No child’s babblings or baby’s cries broke the stillness. The children did not keep silent out of respect or a pervading feeling of the gravity of the situation; they kept silent because they had no choice. They were dead.

It was the same for many of the men. Only the elderly men, dark, flat-brimmed hats removed from wizened heads, had sought the church’s sanctuary. Many of the younger women had not made it to the cathedral either. Had it not been for the push of the throng, Virginia herself would have been swept onto the horse of a marauder and carried off into the night.

Sweat began to trickle along Virginia’s spine and run down the bodice of her heavy black dress. She pushed a greasy lock of fiery orange hair behind her ear and dabbed at the perspiration on her face with the sleeve of her gown, inadvertently brushing her cheek with the cool silver ring given to her by her husband on their wedding day. Tenderly, the priest’s words fading into the background, Virginia ran her finger over the soft metal, memories of yesterday dancing across her vision.

They had gone about their business as usual only yesterday. Robert had made his rounds to the fiefs while Virginia had run the household. Meals were prepared, windows thrown open, carpets aired out, and tiles scrubbed. Passing travelers were entertained and fed, carrots were pulled up from the garden, and there had been time for a brisk ride through the orchard. In all, it had been a good day.

It wasn’t until Robert returned home late in the evening, dust-covered and weary, accompanied by a half-starved messenger, that she knew something had gone terribly wrong. The messenger, whose clothes reeked of thick smoke, was placed at the table with a plate of meat and a glass of wine. Between bites and phlegmatic coughs, he quickly and harshly informed them that the next two towns to the South had been ransacked by invading marauders and left to burn. As he spoke, Virginia had moved to the windows overlooking the southern courtyard from the dining hall.

A faint orange light flickered on the horizon and curls of dark

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smoke blackened the stars, shrouding the moon; a portent of what was to come.

Virginia was jolted back to the present by an evanescent wave of heat. The cramped Cathedral, now the center of an inferno as the city burned around them, began to sweat. The mortar, shoddy at best, was seeping through the cracks between the stones and pieces of straw, sizzling faintly, began to fall from the thatched roof to the unsuspecting crowd below.

At the sound of the harsh grating of metal against wood, Virginia edged closer to the door. Voices, faint and hurried, muttered angrily at one another in the alley before disappearing entirely. Virginia reached a hand around to the doorknob and jiggled it tentatively. When the door was met with resistance, she craned her neck to peer through the narrow crack. Chains, wound in complicated looping pattern around the outer door handles, effectively sealed their fate.

Suppressing a lump in her throat that threatened to destroy her self-control, Virginia turned silently back to the eerily emotionless room. Smoke had begun to seep into the cathedral, making the scene look rather similar to a funeral procession on the moor in the early morning, when the fog laid low to the ground.

The women had become spectral; eyes widened to saucers, pupils dilated until it seemed as though you could fall into the gaping black hole of their vision, bony hands clutched damp handkerchiefs until the knuckles turned white. The men turned their faces to the ceiling, now emitting smoke of its own, and closed their eyes, hands shaking almost imperceptibly on top of their dark hats. A casual observer would have remarked on the silence of the crowd. Aside from the crackling of the thatch and the priest’s droning, faltering voice, the church was utterly silent.

Virginia’s hair was clinging to her face. Her neck felt gritty and the increasing level of smoke burned her nostrils and throat, forcing her to cough. Virginia’s throat tightened and her hand began to shake as she drew the sleeve or her gown across her damp forehead.

A piece of thatch, smoking but not burning, tumbled from the ceiling, knocking the candle to the floor and thrusting the room into a murky darkness, highlighted by the perceptible orange glow above them. Simultaneously, a woman screamed into the silence.

The scream started high-pitched and faded into a cat-like moan, reverberating around the high-vaulted ceiling as though begging to be let out.

Virginia hadn’t been aware that it was she who had screamed, she who had broken the stalwart silence, until she felt the tears streaming down her face and the sturdy hand against her back that urged her into a tight embrace. In the end, she hoped, silently, prayerfully, that, though the increasingly poignant odor of charred flesh, through the blinding inferno and choking smoke, there would be as much peace as she momentarily experienced in the hug of a stranger.

A “History” Book

By Sha Lu For our family, there is a special priceless “history” book which records the whole history about our family since the Qing Dynasty which was one hundred and twenty years ago and many important things for our family members. It is a very huge old blue book and the pages are connected by a special white rope. When a baby is born, the oldest person in our family will insert a new page into this book and the baby’s father will write down the baby’s name which means the body’s life has began and this page will record his history about his whole life.

In our family, this book can be shown to those family members who are above twelve years old. But I knew about it when I was only eight years old because of an accident. It was a very hot dry summer and I lived with my grandparents in the countryside. One evening, my grandmother was cooking dinner for us. I was watching TV in the bedroom, while my grandfather was cleaning the yard. Then, suddenly, the kitchen caught fire and our bedroom burned soon as it was near to the kitchen. I was frightened as I heard my grandmother shouting very loudly and I did not know to do deal with it. My grandfather rushed into the bedroom room and took me out very quickly. When I was on the ground where was not affected by the fire, I calmed down and I found my grandmother seemed very nervous and my grandfather had gone to somewhere. The fire was very terrible as there were a lot of hay in the kitchen and our backyard. Although the ground was far from the kitchen, I also could see the fire clearly. A few minutes later, my grandfather appeared from the burning house carrying a secret thing. I wondered what kind of thing could make

Old Wagon and Log Pile

By Cindy Thronburg

my grandfather risk losing his life to rush into the burning house again to get it. It was very dangerous as the house might collapse at any time. When the fire was put out, we found we lost a lot of things, especially our kitchen and bedroom which were damaged badly and could not be used any more. When everything returned to serenity, I asked my grandfather what it was that he took out from the bedroom. My grandfather said: “You are too young to know it, but as you have seen it, I can let you know that.” My grandfather took it and opened the cloth which was covering it. I saw a very old book and its paper had already become yellow. My grandfather said: “This is our family’s history and it records everything that has happened to our family. You can see every family member’s name from it.” When I looked at it, I found my father’s name and what had happened to him when he was young, such as he chose to work in the countryside; he was selected to continue his higher education without tuition. Of course, I also found my name and some sentences wrote by my father: “This is a lovely girl and she is my first child.”

Besides those things, I also knew some important things for our family. In the Qing Dynasty, one of our family members was selected as Zhi Fu which was an officer in ancient China. It affected my family strongly and the social status of my family was improved rapidly. But we lost about 15 years of our family history as there were too many wars in China at that time and we also lost many people’s lives without knowingwhat had happened to them.

When my younger cousin was born, I saw my grandfather who was the oldest person in our family, insert a new page into the book and let my uncle who was my brother’s father write my brother’s name and his feeling about that. My grandfather moved and said: “every time when I insert one new page into the book, I feel excited and I think I am a successful person as I make our family stronger and stronger.”

When I succeeded getting to college, my grandfather took out the book and found my page. Then he wrote: “My fifth granddaughter gets into college when she is eighteen years old. She is the hope of our family.” At that time, I felt proud and I wanted to look at this special history book to know more things about my family. I was asked to wash my hands and looked at the book carefully. It had more than one hundred pages and half of them were very old and I could not read them as they were written in ancient Chinese characters. I have not known there were so many things happened to our family before I read this book.

This book also records many sad things. When my uncle who was the youngest son of my grandfather, died because of a traffic accident, my grandfather took out the book with his hand shaking rapidly. He wrote; “My sixth son died in a

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traffic accident when he was thirtyfive years old. I hope he can have a happy life in heaven. We will remember him forever.” Then he used a red pen to record the time when my uncle died in the hospital. In China, if somebody’s name is written by a red pen, it means this person will be punished by death penalty or this person has died no for natural reason.

Each time when there is some important thing happened to our family member, my grandfather would call us together and write this thing on this book. We also talk about how to deal with this thing no matter how good or bad it is.

When I left for America to study for one year, my grandfather took the book out and wrote: “My fifth granddaughter is the first person who can go abroad to study in our family. I hope she can become a successful person and I am proud for her.” He told me that he could imagine I would meet with many difficulties when I go abroad. He hoped I could overcome them and do not give up my dream. “You are not alone. All of your families support you.” Then all of my relatives signed their names or some beautiful sentences in my page, such as “We are waiting for you to come back and have a better future.” and “Take care of yourself without us accompanying you.” I was moved, and I experienced the love between my relatives and me. This love was true and it could exist forever. This book saw this moment and it would let all family members know we love each other, and we should try our best to unite our family.

Just as my grandfather told me, this special book does not only record some important things and personal experience, it also connects generation with generation. It is like a special object through which the love can be passed on generation to generation.

I feel very proud that our family can have a special “history” book, and I believe I can benefit much from this. I can experience how excited those people were when they wrote down their children’s name and I can know how good relationship all family members have. Through this book, people in our family can know what we have done when we are young. We can see how strong of influence those things have on our life. To some extent, this book let me pay more attention to my behavior as I do not regret those things I have done when I read this book and recall my life. I hope when day I can own this meaningful book.

Gather up your breasts. here, shove them in this. lace stretched tight to forget breathing midriff bearing thong wearing

She

by Binod Kumar

Where are all the feminists?

Just watch girls gone wild you’ll find them there you’ll find yourself there How can clothing compete with none?

I’m going to go feed on pop culture mickey dees and playboy here I come Rebecca Goldsberry

12

Impressions 2009

Water Torture

By Joy Walter The four-year-old stood, drenched from head to toe, a pool growing at his feet on the hardwood floor as the water dripped steadily from the hem of his shorts. The bright yellow Tupperware pitcher his mother had been using to water the plants, half full just a moment ago, now sat empty on the coffee table.

After a few moments of coughing, sputtering, and wiping his eyes, he looked at his mother, not completely comprehending what had just occurred.

“Now that I have your attention, maybe I can get a word in,” she said, wiping away some stray drops of water that had splashed on her shirt. She sat on the sofa, facing him, and took a deep breath before continuing. “First of all, you will never scream at me like that again. That is not okay. Second, like I told you before this whole screamfest began, you cannot have cookies for breakfast. I’m not going to say any more about it, and you are not going to ask me again. Now, because you were so naughty and screamed at me, you have to clean up the water on the floor.”

Anger filled the boy’s body. He clenched his fists, scrunched his eyebrows, and glared at his mother. “You can’t make me clean it up! You spilled it when you threw it at me! That’s not fair!” he said, tears now mixing with the water on his cheeks.

“Well, Eric, if you hadn’t been screaming in my face, I would have been able to hear myself speak, as would you, and the water never would have come into play. And, you’re wrong. I can make you clean it up. Now go to the kitchen, get some paper towels, and clean up the water, or, continue to complain, and I will find something else for you to clean. You decide.”

“You’re the meanest mommy in the world!” Eric blurted, pointing an accusatory finger at his mother, his eyebrows so close together they looked as though they were one.

“That may very well be true,” his mother said. “But you still have to clean up the water. Now, go!”

Eric looked at her, his eyes narrowed to mere slits, his bottom teeth jutted forward, his chest heaving with exaggerated angry breaths.

“Fine!” he yelled. He turned, jumped up and down, once, in the puddle of water he stood in, splashing his mother, and stomped off to the kitchen, making as much noise as hardwood and ceramictiled floors would allow from four-year-old feet.

Stopping in the middle of the kitchen, he wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand and looked around the room in search of paper towels. Spotting them on the counter, well out of his reach, he scanned the area for something to use as a ladder. His eyes rested on the spindly-legged chair tucked neatly under the kitchen table. He grasped one of the slender columns on the back of the chair with one hand and gave it a jerk. Overestimating the weight of the makeshift stepstool, he toppled to the floor, landing squarely on his butt. The chair followed suit and, although he tried to push himself backward, out of the way, his wet feet refused to grip the cold, ceramic tile, and the arm of the chair landed on his big toe. Wailing commenced.

That, combined with the crash of the chair, brought his mother running into the kitchen. Her son sat on the floor, holding his injured toe with both hands, rocking back and forth, the discarded

chair lying beside him. She quickly righted the chair and knelt beside the boy to survey the damage.

“Don’t touch me!” he said to the mean lady as she reached for his foot. He pulled his throbbing toe away from her in a move that, to his dismay, toppled him backward once again. Like an ax blade striking the chopping block, his head connected with the heavy wooden cabinet door behind him.

“Now look what you did!” he bellowed, moving his hands to the back of his head.

“What I did? How did I do that?” she asked, beginning to feel a little fatigued from the endless drama spewing from her son.

The bump forming on the back of his head, combined with the pain in his toe and backside, intensified the child’s animosity toward his mother.

“You made me get the paper towels, but I’m too little to reach them. Then the chair fell on my toe, and you made me bump my head! It’s all your fault! You’re so mean!” He wanted to hit his mother for causing all his current suffering but, instead, struck the cabinet door with the palm of his hand. That act only gave him another throbbing appendage.

“If you needed help, why didn’t you just ask?” His mother stood, tore a few paper towels from the roll on the counter above the boy and held them out toward him.

Eric stared at the towels for a moment, quickly realizing he was still required to carry out the punishment, even after the battering he had just received from the kitchen.

“I can’t clean when I’m hurt!”

“Is that right?” she asked, folding her arms in front of her. “And why not, may I ask?”

“Mommy, people can’t work when they get hurt. That’s not how life is,” he said, quite matter-of-factly, his anger and tears forgotten for the moment.

“That’s not how life is,” said his mother, a laugh nearly escaping her lips. Knowing she was in for a story and wanting a respite from her son’s venom for a moment, she took a seat at the kitchen table. “Well, son, please enlighten me. Tell me how life is, so that I can understand.” She beckoned him to the chair across from her.

Thinking that he might just be able to avoid the punishment after

Reflection

by Andrea K. Schock Impressions 2009

13

all, the boy stood, limped to the chair across from his mother (to emphasize the extent of his pain and injuries), and sat down, the morning sunshine through the window warming his wet body.

Ever the negotiator, Eric laid his forearms on the table, interlocking his fingers as if in prayer, and raised his eyes to meet his mother’s. She returned his gaze. Knowing the look–his brows slightly furrowed, lips pursed–she wondered what tactic he would pull from his incredible arsenal of reason. She had to admit, he had come up with some pretty brilliant arguments in the past.

“Mommy, do you remember when Grandpa hurt his foot?”

“Vividly,” she answered.

“What’s ‘vividly’?” he asked, temporarily distracted.

“It means I remember it very well.”

“Oh. Well, when Grandpa hurt his foot, the doctor said he had to sit down all the time. He couldn’t do any work because he might hurt his foot worse. Remember? So, I think I need to sit down and rest, or my foot might get worse. You don’t want my foot to get hurt worse, do you?” he finished, his immense brown eyes pleading for her understanding.

“Hmm, you do have a point,” she said slowly. “However, if I remember correctly, and tell me if I’m wrong, Grandpa broke the bone in his foot, right?” The child nodded. “He had a big boot he had to wear and crutches to help him get around.”

Eric continued nodding in agreement, certain he was in the clear.

“Your bruised toe and bump on the head, I’m quite sure, will not require any such accessories. So, difficult as it may be, I’m sure you will be able to clean up the water on the floor. If need be, you can even sit while you clean. That way there won’t be any risk of further injury. How does that sound?” She stood, once again holding the paper towels out to her son.

Eric glared at his mother, with furrowed unibrow. “I’m telling Grandma!” he yelled, furious at her refusal to show any fairness or understanding whatsoever. Getting off the chair, he snatched the towels from her hand. “She didn’t make Grandpa clean when he was hurt! She let him sit, just like the doctor said! I’m never going to be a mean mommy like you!” Tears flowing freely, he stomped through the house yet again, the near fatal injury seemingly forgotten. Reaching the spill, he flopped down on his knees, covered his face with his tiny hands, and began to sob. The chill from his wet clothes, combined with the great heaving sobs, caused his tiny frame to shake.

Why is she making me do this? he wondered. It’s not fair! She threw it. She should clean it up. And my toe really hurts! After a few minutes, realizing that nothing or no one was going to save him from this blatant injustice, he picked up the towels, threw them in the puddle of water, and violently began to wipe, his hands sweeping wildly back and forth in front of him, a few stray flecks of water thrown clear of the boy’s assault.

“I’m never going to clean up water again,” he said to himself.

Finally, the paper towels sopped, he sat back on his feet, folded his arms across his chest, and said, “There, I’m done.”

“Thank you,” said his mother as she entered the room. “Now, throw the towels in the trash and come sit by me.”

Eric trudged to the kitchen and stepped on the pedal to open the bright, red trash can. He tossed the soggy towels inside and removed his foot. The heavy metal lid slammed shut. His mother hated that sound. She never stepped on the pedal. She always lifted the lid with her hand. He pressed and released the pedal one more

14

Impressions 2009

Growing Ripples by Sarah Holle

time before slowly making his way back to the living room. With no desire to sit anywhere near his mother, he took the rocking chair on the opposite side of the room. Scooting as far back as the wooden slats would allow, his feet barely hanging over the front edge of the seat, he folded his arms and began to rock, looking anywhere except at the woman on the sofa.

She looked at her son, his wet hair plastered to his head, and wondered if he felt as mentally depleted as she did after this early morning battle of wills. If the exhausting events of the past hour were any indication, this was going to be a long day. With a great sigh, she walked to the chair and knelt in front of her son.

“You’re pretty mad at me, aren’t you?” she asked as she reached for the blanket that lay folded over the arm of the rocker.

As the warm fleece covered his shivering body, the boy looked back at his mother, not sure if telling the truth would get him into more trouble, or not. He nodded, hesitantly, tears still glistening on his face.

“You think it was unfair of me to make you clean up the water, don’t you?”

“You always say we need to clean up our messes, but you made me clean up your mess. That’s not fair,” he answered, a few final tears clinging to his eyelashes.

“You’re right, I did make the mess, but this situation was a little different. And it’s all right for you to think it’s not fair, but one day you’ll understand why I made you do it.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Fine,” she said, emotionally defeated. “We can agree that I’m the meanest mommy in the world, okay? But for right now, I’m hungry. How about we get you into some dry clothes and have some breakfast?”

Still angry, but feeling the pangs of hunger himself, he asked, “Mommy? After we have breakfast, then can I have a cookie?”

Horsie

By Travis Roth “Horsie!” she cried; her two year old eyes lit up like spotlights as she went bounding up to the brightly painted symbol of mechanical joy. Steps behind her, daddy groans. He knows from vast experience what he’s getting into- and how hard it will be to pry her away from such fun.

“Please daddy?” she begs, having already climbed into the saddle of the grocery store amusement ride. Not bad, he says to himself, considering she still can’t put her own shoes on by herself. She waits with surprising patience as daddy’s hand descends into his pocket, hoping against hope that there will be a quarter in there.

“Only one, OK sweetie?”

“OK daddy” she replies with a smile, eager to begin her galloping adventure. With shaking hands he deposits the quarter into the hungry machine, and as the plastic horse begins rocking back and forth he takes half a step back to watch his little girl smile from a better angle, almost the same way that passers-by tilt their heads just a little at the sight of a grown man with a bright pink security blanket slung over his shoulder and a sippy cup tucked into his back pocket. Moments later the droning sound of the machine is drowned out by excited laughter, clapping, and daddy’s precious little girl yelling “go horsie go!”

Ever present, daddy smiles from the sidelines, watching his daughter giggle over the simple and predictable motion of the mechanical steed. And then, just minutes after it began, the ride stops abruptly and dad braces himself for the fight he knows he’s in for.

“Uh oh daddy, horsie broken” she says with genuine frustration in her expression.

“Yep, it’s broken. Come on honey, time to go buh-bye.”

“OK” she says as daddy breaths a quick sigh of relief right before she nearly falls off. She takes a brief second to brush her long brown hair out from in front of her eyes, and then reaches out for daddy to take her little hand. Together they walk at a toddlers pace out to the parking lot. Daddy’s back strains as he lifts her up into her car seat. She settles in as he drapes her blanky around her, hands her the half empty sippy cup and gently closes the door.

With the turn of a key the truck springs to life and they’re off, daddy and daughter, on through the late might traffic, heading into the moment that daddy has been dreading ever since her little life began.

Up until now, mommy and daddy didn’t have any need to drag their cases into court for a judge to decide. They had managed to keep it between them despite the difficulty they both had in dealing with one another. He had been allowed to see his daughter as often as he chose to, and he did almost daily, even though it often came with a price. Dealing with the demands of her mom was nowhere near as bad as not seeing his little girl. But as he drove, his heart sank under the weight of knowing that all that was about to change. His time with his little one would come with a $450 a month price tag from now on, and his old job just couldn’t pay that. His new job could, but it too demanded a price be paid as well.

As the miles rolled by, he looked back to see his love in her most angelic state- sound asleep. Hopefully she’ll stay asleep, he thinks.

It would make things so much easier…for me. He could lay her in

bed at her mother’s house, kiss her gently and leave without her having to see her daddy’s heart break as he left.

Even though she’s only two, he always tried to explain things to her as best he could. But how to explain to her what ‘over the road’ meant was beyond him. He knew for himself exactly what it meant. It meant long hours behind the wheel of a Freightliner hauling trailer after trailer of god knows what across endless miles of interstate. It meant showering at dirty truck stops in no name towns and sleeping on a tiny rock hard mattress in the sleeper cab while the Cummins diesel engine kept running.

Worst of all, he knew it meant weeks at a time without the little girl who made all of life’s hassles worth enduring. His father had made the same sacrifice, but as he pulled up to her mother’s house his father’s words of advice brought him no comfort. And he couldn’t help but to choke back a few tears and try to force a smile as he turned off the truck and saw by the dome light his daughter’s sleepy eyes open as she smiled at him.

Brownie and Blackberry

by Cindy Thronburg

Impressions 2009

15

That Girl Who’s that girl over there?

Those green eyes so overwhelming She has that dark hair flowing Do you know that girl over there?

Her smile sparkles like diamonds I have to meet her She has that glow I know that girl over there She gave me everything I used to love her She broke my heart

by Joe Robinson

Untitled by Becca Forthun

16

Impressions 2009

My Father’s Secret Weakness

By Sha Lu For me, my father is the greatest person in this world. He can face up every difficulty calmly and bravely. He protects me and my mother from getting hurt and I feel safe with my father accompanying. He is like a light tower to lead me to succeed, and I want to tell two things about my father which let me know more about my father and find his secret weakness that I never know before.

At one midnight before I left for America, I went to the restroom passing by my parents’ room and I overheard their conversation. My father said he was very worried about me as I would face everything on my own when I reached America. I could not get his help immediately and he could not bear I would leave him for a whole year as I never left him for such a long time. Then they recalled many things which happened to me when I was a child. I was interested in the conversation so I stood outside their bedroom to keep listening and was unwilling to leave. The only thing I knew about my childhood was that I was very sick and often sent to hospital. But on that night, I knew more. When I was in the hospital, my parents got ‘Notice of Critical Illness’ three times total.

My father was shocked by the fact that I might die at any time and he did not know how to deal with it. At the same time, he must control his emotion, in order not to let my mother know it. He knew my mother could not bear it. He smelled to my mother and said everything would be fine, but when he was alone, he cried. He was afraid to lose me—his only daughter. I was surprised when I heard that because this was the first time I had found out that my father cried. In my opinion, he was a man who was too brave to cry.

The next day, my parents and I went to my grandmother’s house to say goodbye. I told my grandmother what I heard at that night.

After hearing that, my grandmother moved and told me I would have died without my father. When I was sick, my father’s friends suggested to him to give me up and to have another healthy child as they thought I would be a heavy burden for my parents. My father refused that suggestion and said if there was only one percent of possibility to save me, he would try, but the doctor told him it was hard to make me recover and the hospital would not take on any responsibility if I died. Although my father was scared, he also told the doctor not to tell the fact to my mother and other relatives.

He determined to take on all pressure and fear on his own. My father did not want my mother feel afraid. My grandmother caught my father crying beside my bed when he was alone. My grandmother said my father cried just like a child and was not aware that my grandmother came into my sickroom.

When I went back to our home, I found those three notices.

They were put in a small box carefully. I did not know why my father wanted to keep these notices, but, for me, it showed the deepest love in this world. I also saw my father’s signature. I could understand my father‘s mood when he was forced to accept the fact that he might lose me at any time and I could imagine there must have been much pressure on my father’s shoulder at that time.

Another thing that surprised me was that when I was leaving for America, my parents sent me to the airport. I could not help crying

and was unwilling to leave my parents. My mother tried her best to control her tears to comfort me. When I saw my father, I was shocked as my father’s eyes were full of tears. My father forced him to smell to me, but his eyes told me he was unwilling to let me leave. After I arrived in America, I made a call to my father. I cried and told him I wanted to go home and I missed him very much. I did not believe I could handle all difficulties I faced very well and I needed his help. Then my father stopped talking with me. He breathed heavily and I knew he wanted to control his emotion, but at last, he failed. We cried together and he told me that he regretted to have sent me so far from him alone.

I believe my father’s secret is me because he cried for me. As a Chinese old saying goes, “Man should not cry easily.” Maybe tears make my father not brave enough, but it can explain how deep my father loves me. For me, my father is a hero and a good father. I will love and feel proud of my father forever.

Silence Wherefore, O man, dost thou permit this din With crude concussion to corrupt thine ear?

Canst thou forget, so sunk in sodden sin, Thy erstwhile refuge from existence drear?

O, may your way ward spirit seek to find That one who hides in solitude and calm Sweet Silience, she whose power none can bind, Whose very touch breathes forth a soothing balm.

The wild winds of heaven cannot harm That mortal who her peaceful shelter seeks: And he who once experiences her charm Can nevermore escape her lofty peaks.

All ye who have not known her, be ye curst, And hasten out to seek her, if ye durst.

by Maria Haag

Of Books

By Loren Soderberg I love books. Books in any form. Short book, tall books, fat books, skinny books. Books about hobbits, books about presidents. Books about animals, books about aliens. Books set on mystic islands and books set on Manhattan island. Books, books, books. I even love the word. I love how it tastes in your mouth. I love how your tounge can throw the syllable around, like a beach ball on a summer day. I love how as you say it, its almost like you are blowing

a kiss. Books are gifts, books are treasures. Take your diamond jewelry away, give me books!

I have many books. I can’t count them. They fill up bookcases that line the wall of my room. They hide under my bed, they shelter in my drawers. Some sleep in a cardboard box in my closet. They hang out in the bathroom, they wait for me in the dining room.

Several books even share my bed with me. I don’t go anywhere without a book, or two or three. They know that I will never forget them. I even take them shopping with me sometimes. there are two books on the chair next to me as we speak. I flank myself with books; books are my real friends.

Give me money and send me into a book store and I’ll soon come out richer than before, though I won’t have any money to my name.

Some people don’t know this, but books are alive. They breathe, they speak. They even eat. Have you never noticed how they seem to grow in size every time you read them? They eat and drink your memories. You always leave a piece of your soul with them. The next time you open a book, you are filled with the memories you left behind with it. Each crease in the page, each food stain, each tiny tear tells the story of how you loved this story.

Books love readers more than readers love books. Books take care of their readers. If I’m sad, I can pick a book up and all my worries melt away like snow thrust into the sun. When I can’t sleep, books will lure me away with their whispered promises of sweet dreams.

Books let me be someone else for as long as I want to be. I can pick up a grocery store paperback, and I’m a smoldering temptress trying to lure the gardener into my bed. I can take a book of scary stories and I’m facing the police, palms sweaty as I try to ignore the beating heart of the man I just killed. I can pick up the olive colored volume lying to my left, ancient as it is, and I’m on a pirate ship, sailing towards a cursed island, with a one legged man feeding me sweet lies.

I appreciate books. I live my life for books. But some people don’t feel the same way. Some people see sharp corners and rough pages covered with words, just words. They don’t see the magic. They don’t surrender to the inkspell of reading. When they read, they can’t imagine themselves in a Wonderland. They can’t imagine being stranded on an island and giving yourself away to savage urges in a primitive dance around a raging fire. They can’t be caught in love’s embrace so strong you’d drink poison or drive a dagger into your heart for it. They don’t get it. They never will. They’re built differently. They aren’t better than us, nor are they worse than us. They’re just different. They find their love in movies and in videogames; in buying ridiculously expensive clothing and in throwing a oblong piece of leather around. That’s fine. They can leave the books to those who will appreciate them properly.

Impressions 2009

17

Red After Rain by Sarah Holle

The Space Needle by Sheldon King Spring in Wonderland by Huiying Han

Untitled by Zefei Yang

18

Impressions 2009

Untitled by Carma Kulish

Untitled by Luke Heinle

Untitled by Zefei Yang

Dreamlike Night of Niagara by Yue Liu

West River Sunrise by Luke Heinle

Aspiration and Reality by Yue Liu

Sunset at Danzing Dam by Sarah Holle

Impressions 2009

19

Letter to an Ex “Once upon a time” you were my everything. Best Friend, lover, brother, father, caretaker. And now you are just there.

We shared a great love and an even greater hate. We shared the best experiences and the most horrid crises.

We shared freely of ourselves and took much of one another.

You almost bleed my dry and I crushed you with my boot heel.

Even in the happiest times, it was only ever contentment. Maybe the key? Maybe the destruction?

We took all we had, giving and more taking. Till there was nothing left. Me; an empty shell. You; an emotional shipwreck.

We tried to kill each other but we both survived.

I let you go. I let the idea go. I was gone long before you knew.

I snuck out. Extricated myself the only way I knew to.

Quietly, without a sound, out the backdoor while you were playing your games (or sleeping).

I’ve felt just about every emotion I’m capable of towards you.

And now all I feel is love. Love. Because no matter the bad, there was still good. And I see in you the man I fell in love with. And will never be in love with again.

Sad maybe, but peaceful. Good.

We have a peace between us that never before existed in our “coupledom.”

Rebecca Goldsberry

The Queen by Enkhtamir Otgondenberel 20

Impressions 2009

Reversal of Power

By Ryan Bogner Paul Rogat Loeb’s The Impossible Will Ttake A Little While is a diverse collection of essays that involve people with an extraordinary desire to either change an injustice that has been forced upon them or to focus on the positive aspects of even the most discouraging circumstances. The people in these stories share a common belief that faith and hope are the key tools needed to initiate change and achieve their goals. They all have a vision and utilize a variety of leadership skills to inspire others to overcome the challenges they are faced with. Without leaders like these, who refuse to compromise their beliefs in the face of adversity, evil and injustice would surely be a more common occurrence in the world today.

As I read this book, I was amazed at what small groups of people could accomplish against more powerful and intimidating forces, such as governments and militaries. An even greater surprise was the effect small groups of unarmed women could have. In Rosalie Bertell’s In What Do I Place My Trust, two Japanese grandmothers succeed in ending military exercises on the mountain Fuji. They felt so strongly about protecting the sacred land that they threw themselves in front of armed American soldiers to protect the exercises. Their passion to protect the mountain left such an impression on the soldiers that they could no longer desecrate it.

The bravery and dedication of women also appears in Peter Ackerman and Jack DuVall’s Resisting Terror. In Berlin just before the start of World War II, Jewish husbands were taken from their non-Jewish wives to be shipped to concentration camps. The wives immediately organized and began protesting in front of the building where their loved ones were being kept, and, despite warning shots sent over their heads, refused to stop until their husbands were released. They essentially took advantage of the Nazis’ arrogance and assumptions that women were “intellectually incapable of political action”(309). A similar event occurred in Buenos Aires over 30 years later, except the women in this situation were fairly certain that their loved ones were already dead. Instead of being intimidated, however, the women, with the help of the international media, succeeded in initiating the overthrow of the corrupt Argentinean government. A government that had secretly killed 30,000 of its citizens was brought down by a group of fearless and devoted mothers and wives.

These stories should serve as a source of inspiration for any person or group of people who want to pursue a change but fear that their collective voice isn’t loud enough to be heard. All of these women had a passion for their cause and gave the impression to their enemies that they were willing to die for it. The women, especially those in Buenos Aires, also developed leadership roles that that helped them in their fight. A few women initially organized the protests, helped recruit new members, and thought of ways to identify each other in large crowds. The government soon discovered who the leaders were and took them hostage. Unfortunately, as Aida Suarez, one of the mothers, said, “They didn’t realize this would only strengthen our determination”(315). The government could not kill the women because that would have fueled the rebellion and drawn even more attention to the issue. In a sense the women had gone from being powerless to having more power than the government itself.

This idea of power switching hands is even more prevalent

in Berlin, where the wives were able to challenge and defeat one of the most brutal regimes in recent world history. As Ackerman states, “The regime that terrorized Europe found itself unable to use violence against a challenge on its very doorstep” (309). The wives were able to take advantage of the Nazis’ weaknesses and succeeded in having their husbands released.

Howard Zinn, in his essay “The Optimism of Uncertainty,” discusses how those without power should never falter or fear that they cannot succeed in face of adversity. After reading the entire book and then looking back through the essays, I found that Zinn’s message was one that could be applied to, and appeared in, nearly every essay. Zinn states, “[I]t’s clear that the struggle for justice should never be abandoned because of the apparent overwhelming power of those who have the guns and the money” (67). He goes on to say that human traits such as ingenuity, unity, courage, and sacrifice have time and again triumphed over the vulnerability of power. I found no better example of this than the aforementioned Japanese, German, and Argentinean women who possessed all of these characteristics and triumphed in their battles against power.

Zinn makes another great point when he says, “their power depends on the obedience of others, and when those others begin withholding that obedience, begin defying authority, that power at the top turns out to be very fragile”(64). It seems that people often underestimate the amount of power they could have if they united and voiced their opinion. Fear of government is usually a major deterrent for them, but as Zinn points out, the government’s power is as great as people choose to make it. When an injustice occurs, people can organize and shift the power of government into their own hands to make the appropriate changes.

While all of the previous examples of challenging authority occurred in nations without a democratic government, the same measures must sometimes also be taken by citizens of a democracy.

Jim Hightower makes a convincing argument related to this idea in his essay, “Rebellion Is What Built America.” Hightower mentions four examples of when people united to challenge the American government and bring freedom and rights to those who were being denied them. Shay’s Rebellion, the stand aimed at obtaining voting rights for the lower classes, the fight for women’s suffrage, the formation of unions to battle unfair labor practices, and the civil rights movements are all examples of people rebelling against the American government. In each instance, a group of people realized they were being denied a basic right. The actions of the government contradicted the principles of democracy, and so the only way to expose and ultimately correct the hypocrisy was to rebel. Hightower says, “History- and certainly the history of our country- is the story of people struggling, always going uphill against the powerful to seek a little more democracy, a tad more justice” (199). The point is that even a democracy can have faults, and challenging authority to shift power to the people can be a successful tactic when dealing with a democratic government as well. It is also a way of perfecting the system to ensure that equality can be shared by everyone.

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Valuable leadership qualities can be seen in these women, and understanding what made them successful should make it easier for others, including myself, to initiate our own movements toward change. The fear of failure and not being in the majority has always hindered such movements. DuVall gives hope to the minority when he says that “resistance begins with a few. But it can end with liberations”(318). For those being oppressed and seeking justice, understanding these stories the leadership skills possessed by the people in them is an important step in beginning their fight against power.

Work Cited Loeb, Paul Rogat. The Impossible Will Take a Little While. New York: Basic, 2004.

Stage Fright All the worlds a stage And tonight I act alone, On a hill top both dark and cold, The lights of the city still shine below Sprinkle orange and whites all aglow The silence of the night…

Silence beckons and silence deafens A simple man such as I The world is my stage The play in which I act began long ago and I’ve yet to find my part.

What are the lines I shall speak?

What secrets do I keep?

What is my purpose on this stage?

I have begun the play I get no second chance All the worlds a stage And here I sit in the dark and cold All the worlds a stage It’s a drab and dreary night All the worlds a stage I stand here in stage fright.

Ryan Schlauderaff

Two Way Mirror Life is like a two-way mirror.

When I am depressed and out of sorts, I look out at others. I try to reach out and touch and help their hurts, but never do I let them see who I really am.

There is the mirror I let them see, which is only a reflection of themselves, but the real me hides in the dark recesses of my mind.

Linda Peterson

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Individuals

By Ryan Schlauderaff It seems as if each new coming age is more tremendous, more intense, more idealistic, more amazing than the last. In both the positive and the negative this seems to be true; the miracle of the computer and the rise of technology has become more amazing each and every year since its beginning; the intensification and the speed at which we develop new technology in this day and age is incredible.

At the same token, the horror beset this world seem to grow and expand and shift with each generation; first the Jews in Germany, then Stalin and his massive killings in Russia, then Korea, Cambodia, Vietnam, Natives of foreign countries and Americans alike left in tattered piles of blood, bullets, and flesh. Now in this day and age it’s Iraq, Iran, The Taliban, it’s Darfar, Africa, and more death through starvation and extermination.

The human mind, creativity and visions, the most amazing feat of all since the two tiny amebas in a primordial soup did a new sort of tango. Humanity is at its finest, and its worst, in each subsequent generation. What is my generation capable of? Can we cure cancer, stop AIDS, end world hunger or bring to fruition any number of causes we at times, so vehemently support? Or will my generation commit the worst atrocities yet? Will we continue to kill the unborn and sell the genetics for the sake of a new drug or a new cause? Will our companies’ destroy more and more resources; will the leaders of my generation commit the worst crimes against humanity yet? Each generation pushes the limits even further…to what end?

Why do we push further and further into new territory? Why do we push forward when we don’t even know what to do with the territory already lying in waste behind us?

In a way…my generation doesn’t even know how to interact with each other, and much less the rest of the world. Each generation has more and more knowledge at their finger tips and dare I say by some unlikely paradox the majority continues to lose its overall intelligence? How does each generation illustrate less intelligence, as more and more information is readily available?

The paradox of the modern age, more of everything available, more information, more movies, more music, more channels, more food, more drugs, more beer, more money made, more money spent… more, more, more…and in the end we still have less.

What have we gained? What have we saved? What have we improved? Will there someday be one generation that actually gets it right? Instead of making wholesale “more” than the last generation, they gain knowledge and use it, they save more of the world and abuse less of it. They accomplish more for the people, by the people, of the people, and destroy less? Will one generation finally take pause and look back at how far we’ve come, and instead of urging ever further…stop to rectify the mistakes already made, and even more importantly, take what is already available to its full potential? There hasn’t been a real advancement since the first cave man beat another one to death with a stick. Ever more complicated is the world we live in, but when was the last time we truly made an improvement? Will one generation change the world as each previous one dreamed they would?

Or in the end is it always going to be more? Take more; build more, do more… always more. Always another “New Advancement”

with new real gain? For every miracle worker, there is a madman…

Perhaps society will never gain, as much like the Red Queen in “Alice in Wonderland” pointed out, we must run as fast as we can just to stay in place. We may never advance, as each generation’s miracle workers will always be combating our madmen as well.

So what do we do to endanger change in this day and age? “The whole world is watching!!” they screamed during a demonstration at the Democratic convention during the Vietnam War… “The whole world is watching!!” was their battle cry as cops descended on them with tear gas, and nightsticks, and violence…and the world…The world watched in silence… the world did little…the war didn’t end for another 4 years. How do we instigate change in the corrupt society? Even as the whole world looks on, and it still does nothing? Can we get a bandwagon big enough to initiate change?

The whole world may be watching, but the whole world did not change as students were shot to death at Kent State, the world has not changed as bombs fell, the world has not changed as people died… the world was shocked as the Twin Towers fell, the world was horrified at the discoveries in Nazi Germany, and Stalinist Russia, the world is dismayed at the crisis in Darfur but…the world at large, as we know it, does not change.

The individual changed. People watched at Kent State and were changed, the use of napalm tainted someone, the Twin Towers fell and each individual who watched was changed forever…

Nazi Germany, Stalinist Russia, Darfur…death, extermination and destruction, the world as a whole does not change but the individuals who watch it happen, who hear it, see it, or remember the past…have been forever altered.

Each generation pushes further, pushes farther and stronger, each subsequent generation does more than the last, and what do we gain? As a whole we have gained nothing…As a person, as an entity separate from the Wal-Mart worshipping, MTV obsessed, dish network enrapt culture…as a single person waking up each day… what have you gained? What can you learn? What has affected you in this day and age? It’s a dark picture I’ve painted, cynicism and horrors galore, but in all of the mistakes, in all of the gains, there is so much to be learned. You can listen, you can learn, you the individual can change, and in turn instigate change.

“Do not underestimate your power as an individual. Change your thoughts and you change your world.”

Norman Vincent Peale

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Untitled by Loren Johnson

Defeating the Wendigo

by Christine Hetzel Old Man Coyote was walking by the Yellowstone River when he heard a terrible racket. Looking around, he saw a bear. “Bear,” he said, “Go and find out what that din is.” The bear went, but did not return. Instead, the noises increased, then stopped suddenly.

Old Man Coyote then sent an eagle to fly over the area. Soon the eagle flew back. “A horrible beast is feasting upon a village of Absaroke. As it eats, it grows bigger, but never fatter. My senses reel at this monstrosity; it is just wrong.” With this, the eagle flew swiftly away.

Old Man Coyote thought about the eagle’s words, and then called out, “Is there anyone nearby who knows what happened to the nearby Absaroke?” After a few seconds of silence, a small mouse called out. “I saw!”

“The Absaroke called a meeting, and Chief Like an Owl discussed the village finding several remains of tribe members, almost mutilated past the point of recognition. He then accused Never Sleeps of cannibalism. Never Sleeps roared like a rabid bear, and jumped onto Chief Like an Owl. Never Sleeps ripped his throat out, and laughed about the sweet and coppery taste of blood

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as the others creamed and ran to the door. Suddenly, his body erupted, and a new, ghastly being stood in his place. It killed them all, from the elders to the babies to the medicine man, laughing and feasting on them as he went. It killed the bear, but didn’t eat them. I fled.” At these last words, the mouse fled again.

Old Man Coyote was shocked at these words. The eagle and the mouse had perfectly described a Wendigo, a creature of the cold north wind that torments people and feasts on their flesh. A Wendigo hadn’t been made for many years, because to eat human flesh is strictly forbidden, even in famine. To get rid of one was extremely difficult and risky to do, but Old Man Coyote had to help the Absaroke.

Old Man Coyote quickly ran to the neighboring Absaroke village where he had been the day before. He roused She Who Tends the Fire, a lovely orphaned Absaroke girl, and asked her if she would help defeat the Wendigo. He put within her throat a red ember from the fire she tended, and told her not to breathe until she stood face to face with the Wendigo. They then set out to the Wendigo.

Old Man Coyote and She Who Tends the Fire watched the Wendigo eat and eat, and grow taller and taller, but it still bellowed with the pain of insatiable hunger. The Wendigo had hauled all the dead braves and women around him, and the ground was soaked in their blood. Old Man Coyote told She Who Tends the Fire to be brave, and sent her to the Wendigo. After stepping around lone limbs, intricately decorated tunics, and plain women’s clothes, she had gotten within reaching distance of the Wendigo. She stopped and called out to it. “Wendiiigo! Wendiiigo!”

It looked down at her and laughed. His breath was frigid, and She Who Tends the Fire could almost smell northern pine and hear the wolves howl in the sickly sweet stench of his breath. “My, my, what a brave little girl! What do you want of me before I eat your soft flesh?”

She Who Tends the Fire looked up into its red glowing eyes and saw the death in them. Reaching out to stroke its stiff, frostcovered fur, she said, “I wish to kiss your cheek.”

The Wendigo was confused and thought he had misheard her. It leaned down into her face and asked her to speak again.

She Who Tends the Fire breathed into its face as a person breathes their last breath. The Wendigo roared, and the ember jumped from She Who Tends the Fire’s throat into the Wendigo’s. Its icy heart melted, and for a split second grief covered his increasingly human face. Then he exploded into a million ice crystals.

fake hippies my tummy hurts hurts cause these hippies are making me ill new age hippies and coffee choosing stereotypes to attract “I like this one. so free.”

“I like this one, it’s now me.”

I am so misunderstood.

I am a fucking victim a tortured soul a tortured artist so fucking depressed get over yourself image

Jimi Hendrix by Sheldon King

Rebecca Goldsberry

The Act of Killing

by Meghan Bartz Honestly, it was never the gun I was afraid of. It was the act of killing something that would keep me away from learning how to shoot. About a decade ago my dad made my brother and I take the hunter’s safety course. I was never real sure why, I never planned on hunting anything.

One summer we were cleaning up the back yard for my dog (who was a puppy then) so he could have a place for his dog house. He was using a weed whacker to clear out tall weed/grass, when he accidentally found a rabbit’s den.

One of the baby rabbits was dead. So he handed me the rabbit to throw in the trash. On my way there, it gasped. I told my dad and he told me that since his eyes were glazed over that he was almost dead anyway.

He handed me a shovel and told me to kill it.

I didn’t want to kill it, even though it was almost dead. I asked how, he told me to hit it in the head.

I cried a little at the thought of killing something. I hit it in the head once, busted its head open, but didn’t kill it. So I had to hit in the head a second time.

After that, I went into the house and cried. Something died inside of me, and a couple weeks later my dad apologized for making me kill the bunny.

The fact is that killing something for food these days no longer bothers me.

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The Value of Massage Tool

by Xiaoyu Li “Honey, four hours are left, are you ready?” Mom said to me while putting on her coat in front of the door. “Well, Mom would you please wait a while and spend a little time with me?” “Dear, you will be late, because the plane will take off in four hours.”

Mom walked towards me, speaking impatiently. I said nothing, but let her sit down on my bed. “Close your eyes, Mom, and just relax yourself.” I took out a massage tool and began to massage her back softly. She suddenly turned and hugged me tightly with tears in her eyes.

Mom held that massage tool tightly, touched it softly and watched it full of love. It is a hand-made, old-style massage tool which is made of painted brown birch wood. It has faded with time turning from its original to gray. The body of it is a straight stick, about 15 inches long and about 2 inches thick. At one end of this stick is a round-shaped carmine cork used to hammer on a person’s back in order to relax him or her. At the other end of this stick is another carmine tool, like a person’s hand used for scratching itches on his or her back. It has a special feint scent that I can not really describe, but it makes me feel warm and comfortable. This massage tool is such an usual item with nothing else special on it, but it is a really priceless item in my family.

This massage tool belonged to my mother who made it for my grandfather. I still remember the story told by my mother about how and why she made it. When my mother was young, my grandfather was a writer who gained a reputation in our province. She used to see my grandfather sitting beside the table piled with mountains of all kinds of books, and he would be writing and writing. It seemed he would only stop thinking and writing when it was time to have dinner or go to sleep. In my mother’s words, my grandfather lived in the world of fiction.

Although my mother was the youngest child in her family, she was the most sensible one.

She found my grandfather often hammered his back awkwardly because of pain in his back.

He gradually became hunched. When he was free, my mother decided to massage him using her little fists. She can still

remember exactly the happy and joyful facial expression of my grandfather when she massaged him for the first time. My grandfather appreciated my mother’s attention very much, but my mother did not seem satisfied with her work. She thought her fists were not strong enough when she hammered my grandfather’s back.

She said, “It was so difficult and hard for me to see my own father like that. When he got a pain in his back, I got a pain in my heart. As his child, I felt I needed to do something.” She had an idea to make a special tool to help massage my grandfather.

Primarily this massage tool only had that round cork end.

From then on, everyday my mother would use her hand-made tool to massage my grandfather. She found she was never so close to her father before, physically and psychologically. She felt her love and understanding of him increased day by day. They really spent time together happily, because my grandfather would always take the massage time as an opportunity to relax himself and talk to my mother about his thoughts and new ideas in his books. My mother said that the massage tool was not only a useful tool, but also a bridge connecting her and my grandfather’s hearts.

Children are like leaves that will finally leave the big trees to find their own lives. When my mother got married, my grandfather was nearly sixty years old. She knew she would not do as many massages as before, but she really did not like to stop her “jobs” and see that massage tool become useless. So she made an invention that she added to the tool for easing itches on his back at the other end of the stick. By using this tool, my grandfather could ease itches in his back by himself easily. My grandfather said he was the luckiest man in the world, because he had such a good

The River Runs Through by Luke Heinle 26

Impressions 2009

and sensational child. He even wrote a book called “My Loveliest Daughter” especially for my mother to express his love for her.

My mother was compared to “his sunshine” in the book.

The first time I saw this tool in my grandfather’s bedroom was when I was four years old. It was a holiday when my parents and I visited my grandparents. I saw my mother massage him. They both really and truly enjoyed the process. I could see my mother’s happiness. I stood in front of them, but they did not notice me at all. “Mom, when I grow up, I will also do this for you,” I said childishly. Actually at that time, as a child, I did not know what massage was. But I knew by doing it, I could make the other comfortable and could, at the same time, make myself happy.

Every time we went to my grandparents` house, Mom would give massages, and she regarded massage as the most important and the most joyful part of visiting her family. Once, my mom was busy cooking food, and I saw my grandfather was sitting on a chair scratching his itches by using the massage tool. I came to him and said, “Grandpa, grandpa, let me help you. I can do it better than mom.” He accepted with a smile. I just took massage as a game and found it to be funny to hammer his back. I was singing as if I were hammering on a drum. It was the first time I began to use this special massage tool.

When I was fifteen years old, my grandfather died. When my parents cleaned up his bedroom, they found this massage tool lying in his drawer with a clean white cloth on it. On this cloth was written, “My loveliest little daughter” My mother took this massage tool home and cleaned it every week. Sometimes she uses this tool to ease her itches in her back. She told me by doing that she could feel her father coming to her, saying softly “How are you? My loveliest little daughter.” I even saw her holding it late the evening before my grandfather’s fete day with tears in her eyes. She touched it over and over again as if she was touching my grandfather’s skin.

My mother has always liked sharing these stories with me. At first, I took them for granted with a thought that it was common for my mother to miss her dad. But as I grew older and older, I realized what my mother did really influenced me and established my value of family. It is a way of teaching me to respect my elders. The tool for massage is not only an item for her to remember her happy time with her father, but also a teaching tool to teach her children the importance of family. She thinks respecting and caring about the elders in a family is the responsibility of the young.

I finally understand the meaning and importance of this priceless massage tool. Although I seldom use this tool now, because my mother never has any discomfort in her back, and it is too old to work well, I inherited my mother’s good family value, and know how to care for my parents. It is my parents that gave me life, so it is my responsibility as a child to care for them when they are old. Now I often look at the massage tool stored in my drawer. I look at the massage tool as a symbol directing my actions as a child in my family and as a kind person caring for others in society.

September Dream

by Ryan Schlauderaff Straw stacks standing tall in a September sunset… two silhouettes… wonder the empty road on into the field and in that moment…

With dreams so big they can’t be contained they feel the wonder of dreams that are almost the same. They stroll along; hand in hand in quiet talk of all the things have hoped for… and how through the last years they’ve both wanted much more Wheat stubble reaches up to strike the shins and somberly tug at the shoelaces as a gentle reminder that fall has fully come…

The combine has passed and the wheat heads are now long gone, no longer rippling golden in a setting sun. All that remains of acres of field is the stoic stacks of straw…

Mere dots from the highway… now bunkers of bedding stacked to the sky as they approach through the whispering stubble.

Their moment has finally come, years of distance; seasons spent with shy glances and softly whispered hopes and dreams. A lull has come in their rushed life. The lull they dreamed of for the last two years, a chance to finally join and see if the future is theirs…

A quiet walk… on a September night… a lull after harvest and a lull in their life. The dreams not so hidden, now carefully and gently revealed… they talk and remember ironic it happens again in September…

They climb up the stack… to the top of the world.

They know all, they see all, and they are King and Queen of this world. And in this moment its perfect, the saving respite, the lean in together and ask, “who’s got a light?” For the moments it perfect; straw, sunlit, September… a Marlboro Red, straight to the head…

Breathe in and breath out, hold tight to the feeling, the hopes and the dreams, the wonder and awe, the ultimate high, to release and forget…hold tight and fly on forever. For the moment its perfect, straw sunlit September. Burn a light, stay the night, let all hopes rekindle… … For a moment they are everything they hoped to be…

It was over in weeks. October soon came; dank and dark, full of depth and dread and metaphorical death. But hearts don’t forget.

Scents and cigarettes… straw stack and sunset… they’ll always remember September. … in another life, far far away… a silent silhouette… stands still... a far away look, a look through years and through tears… in those bright but hidden old eyes… …. September sunset, stacks in the field, he slips away for just a moment, he remembers how it felt to be free… for heart to be revealed… “stay the night… burn a light”… as the match strikes and smoke begins to rise

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I love those girls

Making a Left Turn

by Kyla Strasheim

the crack skinny punky hippies I want to own them to bend and break them is it lust or jealousy? it’s a fine line I hope they are all stupid cause they shouldn’t get it all Rebecca Goldsberry

I knew this would be the perfect night to write when the headlights buzzing past me melted into an unlikely metaphor. In times like these the real world cracks and inside the glimmering crevices, if you're lucky, you can glimpse little fragments of startling truth. It's the kind of realization that smacks you in the forehead when you're waiting at a dark intersection. It always strikes when you're unprepared, and it's always a little humorous in its ghastly sobriety. Society despises both those who make unpopular decisions and those who make left turns in heavy traffic.

The light rain clustered on my windshield as I sat alone in uncomfortable silence. The thought briefly occurred to me to put music on--but it seemed somehow blasphemous. I knew there was something stirring in my head and the awkwardness was just a precursor to something much more important.

I flicked my wipers on and watched as the world smeared and then instantly righted itself. The moisture made everything much brighter and the whisper of a carnival, of bated laughter, wound its way through my thoughts.

I wanted, desperately, to share this moment with someone. I wanted to know whether their impression would have differed.

Of course, when I had passed by all the lights were off and the driveway empty.

So at least then I knew it wasn't a lie, just a change of plans. Maybe everyone was just tired.

The green arrow appeared and I was released into the main stream of cars--big machines full of little people, all on their way somewhere magnificent and stimulating. I was on my way to bed. Friends come in abundance--soul mates are out of stock.

The first are indispensable--the second optional. Some would say impossible.

You--and I address all of them loosely by this name--you were not worth my time.

But God I wish you had been. I wish you all had been.

Friends provide the buoyancy to keep afloat. They are replaceable, transitional. It's moving to the next stage where the harsher waves roll in. And I left my raincoat back home.

I only hope the next left turn of my life will be less nerve-wracking. And that the next time I feel metaphorical, I won't be driving.

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Impressions 2009

Tea Garden by Huiying Han

My Grandfather

by Sha Lu My hometown—Taiyuan is a typical northern city in China, which was very beautiful in summer when the bright sunshine provides my hometown with a sparkling river and blossoming flowers. Facing my grandfather’s grave, all sunshine was gone and my heart was cold. The funeral of my grandfather was held in a park which was located on a mountain. While in the summer, there were many tress and singing birds, but the sadness of losing my grandfather made me ignore the beautiful natural scenes around me and threw my heart from summer into winter.

As I was part of the second generation of my grandfather, I could not stand very close to his grave, the only tribute I could do is to wear a black suit and look at his grave from a distance. My grandfather was a healthy man and he even looked forward to attending my wedding in the future, but everything was stopped when he left us in July. Everything happened so quickly, which did not allow me to tell him I could go to America to achieve my higher education. Seeing him laying down unconscious in the coffin, many details about my grandfather occurred to my mind.

My grandfather was a strict man, who seldom smiled and did not express his feelings in front of people. Sometimes, I even doubted whether my grandfather liked me or not, as he never smiled or hugged me, but one incident changed my mind. When I was nine years old, I got pneumonia. It was fatal for me at such a young age. Many people thought I could not live any longer, including the doctor. It was surprising that I survived from that terrible disease. When I recovered, my grandfather told me not to leave him, with tears filling in his eyes. Although after that my grandfather still seldom smiled, I could receive his love from his eyes. When we traveled to Inner Mongolia, which was a city in Northern China, I rode a horse in front of my grandfather to show him my riding skills, but when I looked at him, I found he seemed nervous instead of happy. He shouted loudly to me, “Be careful.

Don’t fall down from the horse”. Seeing his worried eyes, I could experience his love. Now, I could not see his worried but touching eyes anymore.

My grandfather always told me that I was like a flower and he was the tree, which could protect the flower from being caught in the rain and burnt by the sunshine. Every time my grandfather walked with me, he walked on my left side. At the beginning, I thought it was his habit, but when I asked him why he liked to walk on the left side, my grandfather told me walking on my left side could protect me from getting hurt by the traffic on the busy road. He was the barrier between me and danger. That was my grandfather, who showed his love through his movement, instead of words.

Looking at the photograph of my grandfather and me where my grandfather smiled gently, I recalled those days my grandfather lived with me. As I was a child, my parents were very busy with their work and had no time to take care of me. My grandfather took on the responsibility of raising me and lived with me for five years, while my grandmother took care of my younger cousin.

When I was in elementary school, I was afraid to go home at night alone. I pleaded with my grandfather to take me home, but he refused, so every night, I walked home by myself. One night, I left school later than usual as I was detained by my homework. I was scared and was afraid to walk home on my own. I cried helplessly, while standing in front of the gate of my school. Then suddenly, I heard someone say, “I am here. Do not cry, let’s go home”. I turned around and saw my grandfather walking towards me. Held by his hands, my hands became warm and my body stopped shaking. After that, I was informed that my grandfather followed me secretly every night in order to make sure I would arrive home safely. I asked him why he did not take me home directly. He said going home alone was the best way to make me become a brave girl. He knew that one day I would have to face the whole world on my own.

Looking at my grandfather who was in the quiet coffin surrounded by his crying daughters, my tears ran down my cheek without control. My grandfather taught me how to face the world bravely, but he never told me how to face his death. I heard my heart shouting, “Grandpa, I cannot face the world bravely enough.

Do not leave me alone.” No one answers me just the breeze blowing on my face. When the funeral was finished, I followed the crowd to walk with blank mind. Then I felt somebody hugging me over my shoulders and told me, “You will be ok”. I got shocked and when I turned around I saw my cousin glaring at me attentively, which let me feel that my grandfather was brought to life again and so he could smile at me. As the night occurred, I stared at those blurring stars in the sky and said to myself, “Grandfather!

Are you looking at me? Are you living well in Heaven? Do you know how much I miss you? Grandfather I hate you as you left me so quickly.” At night, while I went to bed and in my dream, I saw his eyes again which were full of love.

Seven months has passed, I still cannot control my tears when I see my grandfather’s picture, which I took with me when I left for America. Taking out his picture and seeing his gentle smile, tears cover my eyes again. Grandfather, I have become a brave girl and gotten more accustomed to American life. Although you have left me, your spirit and love are still in my heart, which are my motivation to achieve more success. Walking out of the door, the sun reveals itself from the cloud and surrounds me. The tree has gone, but the flower has been able to smile to the rain and not be afraid of the shining sun.

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An Ode to my Left Hand

By Meghan Bartz For a long time I thought my left hand was quite capable, of well anything, being right handed.

Then the day came, at a job I didn’t wish I had, where I injured my right shoulder.

Riiiiiiiiip…CRUNCH…POP “Oh god, that can’t be good,” I said to myself as I put my arm back down. Yep, it was definitely wrecked.

I put my arm down next to my body and wrapped my right forearm around my stomach. Just holding it there felt wonderful.

My work had me cleaning windows, in a square formation. And that is when I realized, my left arm wasn’t able to do anything at all. I could not make my arm do a square formation. I lifted my right forearm and grabbed my left hand. I started moving it in a square to teach it the routine. I probably looked quite ridiculous.

After a couple days my left arm could do the movement that was required of it. And since then my left arm has never not been at use. I carry heavy things with it and all the things that my right arm used to, but now I won’t try because I never did get it looked at.

Every once in a while when I strain my right arm, it aches, someday I tell myself, someday I’ll get you fixed. I do use my right my right arm for almost everything; I just can’t put as much weight on it, or play as hard with my dog with it.

I watch professors and other people, who don’t even give their left arm a chance. It just sits there next to them, doing nothing, knowing nothing, learning nothing. And I won’t allow myself to be that way anymore.

Untitled by Andrea Schock

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The Life and Death of a Duckling

By Christine Hetzel I blinked. The harsh smells of the pond blurred my other senses. After a few moments in this state, the different odors faded.

I walked forward and stumbled. Why couldn’t I walk? I looked down at my feet. They each had three toes and were webbed with claws. They were covered with a strange rubber skin that extended up my leg to be greeted by yellow fuzz. Whoa, I thought. I glanced at my arms. They were short and rounded. I didn’t have hands!

As I looked in the pond, I noticed I was completely covered by the bright fluff. I also had beady, liquid black eyes, and a black bill. I’m a duck, I thought. But when I tried to say this, all that came out was a high pitched, “PEEP!” I jumped and fell over, scaring myself. I heard other peeps answering mine, and two loud quacks. I ignored them, trying to stand up. Once I was upright, I glimpsed a movement out of the corner of my eye. A bug! Closer inspection revealed a grasshopper that jumped a short distance away. I followed it and tried to capture it with my nonexistent hands. I remembered I was a duckling. I grabbed at it with my bill, and it crunched between it. As I gulped down the bug, my mind realized what my body and instincts were doing. I ate a bug! Ew! I had enjoyed it too, to my further embarrassment.

How had I ended up a duck anyway? It didn’t make sense. What had I been before? I vaguely remembered hands and light colored fur…maybe I had been an orangutan. I let the thought slip from my mind as four yellow things about my size waddled up to me, peeping at the two large, feather things behind them. My family?

The four other ducklings crowded around, peeping at me. I didn’t understand what they said. One of them lunged at me, pecking me with its bill when I didn’t respond. The plain brown duck quacked at them, and they left. Was I to follow? I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t want to be alone, so I did. They headed to the pond and waded out, soon swimming. I tried to swim away with them, but I floundered. I eventually stepped out of the water and watched them float away. Loneliness set in quickly as I gazed at their backs in the failing light.

Suddenly a hand grabbed me. I peeped and kicked to no avail. Loud voices I couldn’t understand babbled at each other. I was dropped, and I hit the ground on one wind. It hurt! I hopped away from the giant feet next to me. Soon I didn’t hear the huge creatures anymore. The sun disappeared. I walked a little further and found a huge black mass at the edge of my toes.

A road, a voice in my head said. Watch for…I didn’t remember what exactly I was to watch for. I stepped out onto it.

It was still warm from the sun. I looked all around. There was nothing to be seen but the black mat on three sides of me and tall grass behind me. I decided it was safe and walked forward. Something caught my eye before me. I could smell it before I saw it. It smelled terrible. I reached it. It was furry and covered in thick red stuff. It didn’t move, but something in my head told me it should.

What could it be?

My mind snapped into focus. It was a dead rabbit, and I was on a road. I needed to watch for vehicles, or I would die like the rabbit! My body panicked, peeping loudly and thrashing. I had

completely lost control. I heard a sound…a truck was racing towards me!

I couldn’t figure out how to move properly. My wings flapped furiously as I made high-pitched noises that sounded like human shrieks. Why was my body behaving so badly? The truck’s engine was getting louder and louder.

When the truck’s tire rolled over my leg and part of my lower body, I emitted a duckish scream that accompanied the crunch of my slender, hollow bones. I gasped again and again as pain coursed through me. A part of my mind that wasn’t numb or shattering cursed the person who told me that animals don’t feel pain.

As my vision went dark around the edges and I heard another approaching vehicle, my memory brought back all the forgotten pieces of my past life. I remembered the sensation of flying on a swing, childish laughter surrounding me. I remembered hugs and birthday parties, despair and hurt feelings. I remembered the tumor growing in my head and the worried whispers of my parents and doctors.

Then all the lights went out.

Untitled by Linda Peterson

Impressions 2009

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Reckless Words

Joy Simulation Mask by Mikhail Bodganov

Little comments you say, Casually.

Don’t see consequencesWords flung recklessly It means mothing to you, Frail self-concept; hangs Perilously between sharp words.

Flung without care You are what makes this world Seem so callous.

Rebecca Goldsberry

Untitled by Carma Kulish

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Experience Life

by Meghan Bartz Riding a motorcycle is an experience of a lifetime! It is the pinnacle of freedom, adventure, and challenge.

There is nothing like the freedom experienced while riding on a bike. You can be with many other people; and yet be alone.

You can lose yourself in your thoughts. You can bond with nature around you: the wind in your hair, the sun on your face, the smells of broken earth or cut grass. You become one with the bike. You are like an orchestra breaking forth through the wind. You lean and flow with the bike creating a symphony of movement riding down the highway. Just as real music in a real symphony touches the innermost soul of man, so too is a ride on a motorcycle.

Motorcycle riding is a joy and an adventure. One never knows what is waiting out there. The weather can be unpredictable; one moment nice, the next moment stormy. One day in particular, I remember quite well. This day started out like any other day. The morning was cool, the afternoon was hot, and towards evening, storm clouds began to build. As I rode toward the clouds, it started to rain. The rain seemed to sting a little, then the rain began to sting a lot! The raid had turned into hail! It was an adventure trying to ride my motorcycle through the hail that was collecting on the highway. It was a long ride home! I was never so glad to be home in my whole life.

The summer storms are awesome and I usually am not afraid of them. I have a friend who is a little paranoid and she tells me that I could get hit by lightening when I ride in the storms.

One day I thought I might have to agree with her. I was riding home and the farther north I rode, the nastier the weather became.

The wind began to blow and the cloud-to-ground lightening was intense. The thunder was so loud I could hear it over the sound of my motorcycle motor. I began to get a little nervous. I could see God in heaven pointing His finger at me on the bike, throwing a lightening bolt, and saying “Gotcha!” Fortunately He decided to let me live to see another day.

Riding a motorcycle is definitely a challenge physically and mentally. As you ride in the wind and the cold or the heat, it takes a toll on your body. Wind tries to throw you all over the rode. You don’t notice the intensity of the struggle until you get off the bike and your body heaves a sigh of relief. Riding in the heat can dehydrate you. Riding in cold can tire you because you have to maintain your body temperature. Riding also is mentally challenging because you have to be on the alert all the time. Motorcycle safety classes emphasize the fact that you need to be a defensive rider to survive. People just don’t see you on the bike. That is sad, because if a car hits a bike the biker loses!

Motorcycle riding is very near and dear to me. That is one time when I am truly me. For me there is no such thing as a bad ride.

Even a ride that is challenging and a bit uncomfortable is far better than no ride at all.

Untitled by Shane Niederklein Impressions 2009

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Point of View in Kate Chopin’s ‘The Story of an Hour’”

by Ryan Bogner Kate Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour” is a complex story about a woman named Louise Mallard who learns that her husband, Brently Mallard, has just died in a train crash. Her sister, Josephine, and her husband’s friend, Richards, are the ones who tell Louise of Brently’s death based on a report that Richards overhears. They are very cautious in how they break the news to Louise because she has a heart condition that makes her heart very weak. Therefore, shocking news could have adverse effects on her health. Louise sobs frantically when she hears the bad news and is immediately overcome with grief. She then decides to head upstairs so she can mourn in private. However, while sitting there by herself, she begins to realize that it is not sadness she feels. Rather, it is a feeling of rejuvenation. She realizes that with Brently gone she will be able to live freely without having to adhere to his will. Cunningham states that Louise realizes “her life is now utterly changes, and [understands] that this change is quite possibly for the better” (51). When she finally agrees to come back downstairs, all she can think of is her newfound freedom.

She begins to descend the stairs with her sister, and as they reach the bottom, in through the front door walks Brently unharmed. He had been nowhere near the crash. Josephine and Richards attempt to shield Louise from the view of her husband because they know the shock of seeing Brently could be dangerous for her weak heart.

Unfortunately they are too late; Louise has a heart attack and dies.

The point of view is vital to fully understanding the meaning of this story. The point of view is third person, limited omniscient, and editorial, with the narrator being an outside observer. The limited omniscience applies only to Louise, since her thoughts are the only ones to which the reader has access. Knowing Louise’s thoughts enables the reader to gain insight into her state of mind when she learns her husband is dead. According to Chopin, “[Louise] saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome” (524).

Without knowing Louise’s thoughts, the reader would have to rely solely on the physical descriptions of her actions and what she says. If that were true, then her actions and words would seem extremely confusing. It’s because of this omniscience that the reader is able to see that Louise felt confined and controlled by her husband. Understanding her thought process makes her actions, as well as the real cause of her death, much clearer. A deeper meaning of the story is also created.

The point of this paper is to show how a change in the point of view would affect the story, specifically the tone and irony. The overall tone of the story is one of sorrow and regret. It’s not just the fact that Louise dies that makes the tone appear this way; it’s the fact that she dies from the disappointment of seeing her husband alive and realizing that her freedom has been taken away from her again. The reader is able to sympathize with Louise because of this. The irony of the story occurs at the end when Louise is overjoyed with her newly acquired freedom, only to die

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of the shock of seeing her husband alive again. The irony lies in the fact that her heart stops because she is actually upset that her husband is still alive when everyone assumes she is overjoyed.

Seeing him alive means she has no longer obtained that freedom she so desperately desired during her marriage.

If, for example, the story was told from and only her thoughts were known, then both the tone and irony of the original story would be altered. Josephine, not being with Louise in the upstairs room, would receive no indication form Louise that she is in any way relieved by Brently’s death. Josephine’s thoughts, like most any normal person, would assume that Louise is grieving terribly after receiving the news of her husband’s death. The story would progress with Josephine describing the situation as on e of much pain and suffering on the part of Louise. Louise’s new outlook on life would be unbeknownst to Josephine, so when Louise dies of the heart attack, Josephine would convey to the readers the Louise had died “of the joy that kills” (Chopin 525). Based on her interpretation of the situation, Josephine would logically conclude that Louise had been overcome with happiness at the sight of her husband and that the shock of that happiness is what killed her.

Now, if such a point of view was adopted, the irony of the ending would be eliminated. None of the other characters would know Louise’s true feelings, so they would assume that she had died from joyous shock. No on e would be aware of the real reason for her heart failure, so the irony would not be produced in this situation. Also, the tone would change if Josephine’s interpretation of the story was told. Again, since non indication of Louise’s state of mind would be given, the tone would no longer be one of sorrow and regret. Instead, it would be one of adoration. The reader would assume Louise had actually died of a joyous shock, so the tone would reflect this change in the story. While Louise’s death would still convey sadness, the fact that she died because she was so happy to see her husband alive and well would suggest a loving adoration she had for him.

It is not until Louise secludes herself in the upstairs room that the difference between the two points of view would become prevalent. When she goes upstairs in the actual story, Rosenblum states that Louise realizes “[h]er life is her own again; no longer will she have to yield to her husband’s wishes. Only yesterday she had regarded life as tedious and feared longevity. Now she yearns for long life.” It is this knowledge of Louise’s thoughts that contributes to the tone of the story. However, changing the point of view eliminates any knowledge of these thoughts, thus changing the tone. Such analysis by a critic would not be possible it the story was told by Josephine and the omniscience was limited to her thoughts.

Irony is the other key literary concept present in this story that must be reexamined when considering a different point of view. According to Evans, “When Josephine begs Louise to open the door, afraid that her sister will make herself sick, the irony is palpable; Josephine has no idea how well Louise is really feeling” (1). Once again, knowing Louise’s thought is the key factor. The irony at the end of the story exists only because of the fact that the reader is aware of her true feelings. Josephine’s point of view would eliminate this irony, and the impact of the story would not be nearly as powerful.

Kate Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour” is an insightful story that explores the mind of a woman who feels controlled and

possessed by her husband. It is an excellent example of the importance point of view plays in a story. The tone and irony of the story are based on Louise’s feelings toward her husband’s death and the relief she feels because of it. The limited omniscience allows the reader to explore Louise’s mind and understand the actual cause of her death more clearly, and this creates a stronger message in the story. However, shifting the omniscience to her sister completely changes the story. Both the tone and irony change, and the impact the story has on the reader decreases dramatically. These literary concepts are vital to the message conveyed by a story, and, as shown in “The Story of an Hour,” the point of view is especially significant.

Works Cited Chopin, Kate. “The Story of an Hour.” Literature: An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama, and Writing. Eds. X.J. Kenndey and Dana Gioia. New York: Person Longman, 2007. 523-25.

Cunningham, Mark. “The Autonomous Female Self and the Death of Louise Mallard in Kate Choin’s ‘Story of an Hour.’” English Language Notes 42.1 (2004): 48-55.

Evans, Robert C. “Literary Contexts in Short Stories: Kate Chopin’s ‘The Story of an Hour.’” (2006): 1.

Rosenblum, Joseph. “The Story of an Hour.” Masterplots II: Short Story Series (2004).

Dark Pathway by Cindy Thronburg

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Untitled by Cassandra Anderson

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