Impressions 2014

Impressions 2014

Doc and Constable Jonathan Morales

Impressions Volume 26, Issue 1 Cover: Life in Color , Photo by Stormie Sickler Impressions is a literary art magazine created and edited by the students of Dickinson State University since 1989. It is composed of material submitted by DSU students, faculty, staff, and alumni. The goal of Impressions is to showcase the talents of those individuals associated with Dickinson State University.

212 Stickney Hall, Dickinson, North Dakota 58601. Phone 483-2124, fax 483-2059, David.Schreindl@dickinsonstate.edu.

For the full color version and past issues of Impressions please visit our page at http://www.dickinsonstate.edu/publications/the_hawk/index.aspx.

Editors:

Lasting Kiss

Cassandra Johnson

Dara Anderson

Shannon Patterson Cassidy Rhoades

Advisor: Dr. David Schreindl

Copyright 2014 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. Impressions is made possible by the sponsorship of Dickinson State University, and specifically the Language and Literature Department.

Awards for Impressions are judged and determined by the editors of impressions without knowing the authors of the submissions. Awards are handed out in five categories: Poetry, Photography, 2-D Art, Fiction, and Non-Fiction. While anyone can submit items only current students are eligible for prizes. The editors of Impressions reserve the right to both edit submissions or refuse to print submissions.

Editors for Impressions are a part of the Literary Production course and the publication of the magazine is a class project. Submissions for the 2015 Impressions can be submitted to David.Schreindl@dickinsonstate. edu.

table of contents Life in Color,* Photo by Stormie Sickler .............................................................................. Front Cover Doc and Constable, 2-D Art by Jonathan Morales ............................................................. Inside Cover Lasting Kiss,* 2D Art by Dara Anderson ........................................................................................................ 2 Amber Rain, Photo by Camille Ness .................................................................................................................. 4 Contest Winners.................................................................................................................................................. 5 Remembrance, Photo by Rachel Timm .............................................................................................................. 5 Circle of Life, Photo by Dara Anderson ............................................................................................................. 6 A Granddaughter’s Memory, Poem by Cassandra Johnson.............................................................................. 6 A Masked Evening, Poem by Cassandra Johnson ............................................................................................. 6 Hanging, Poem by Cassandra Johnson ............................................................................................................ 7 Guilty Jury, Poem by Cassandra Johnson ....................................................................................................... 7 Mother, Poem by Cassandra Johnson ............................................................................................................... 7 Roam, Photo by Stormie Sickler ........................................................................................................................ 7 Life and Death*, Non-Fiction by Augustine Anukwu ....................................................................................... 8 Generations, Photo by Stormie Sickler ............................................................................................................. 8 Lingering Winter, Photo by Dara Anderson ...................................................................................................... 9 The Black Poodle*, Fiction by Camille Ness ........................................................................................ 10 The Place I Call Home, Photo by Camille Ness .................................................................................... 10 If I could Fly, Photo by Camille Ness ........................................................................................................... 11 Knightowl, 2-D Art by Jacob Walter .................................................................................................... 12 The Desolate Fort*, Non-Fiction by Rachel Timm .......................................................................................... 13 Five in a Row, Photo by Rachel Timm ........................................................................................................... 13 Fort Dilts, Photo by Rachel Timm.................................................................................................................... 14 She’s Born with It, Poem by Shannon Patterson ............................................................................................ 15 The Pier, Photo by Shannon Patterson ............................................................................................................ 15 The Bright Shirt*, Fiction by Elaine Holli ...................................................................................................... 16 Fire in the Sky, Photo by Camille Ness ........................................................................................................... 16 Glow, Photo by Stormie Sickler........................................................................................................................ 17 The Peculiar Merchant*, Fiction by David Brevik .......................................................................................... 18 Flight*, 2-D Art by Dara Anderson .................................................................................................................. 18 Road Chasing Dreams, Photo by Stormie Sickler ........................................................................................... 19 Plush*, Photo by Camille Ness......................................................................................................................... 20 Immensity, Photo by Stormie Sickler .............................................................................................................. 21

Lonely Grave, Photo by Rachel Timm ................................................................................................ 22 To Surf or Not to Surf*, 2D Art by Dara Anderson ........................................................................... 23 At Subzero*, Photo by Stormie Sickler ............................................................................................................ 24 The Cove, Photo by Shannon Patterson ........................................................................................................... 25 Distressed Damsels*, Poem by Robert Meador ............................................................................................... 25 Sunburn, Poem by Cassidy Rhoades .............................................................................................................. 26 Blue Ocean, Photo by Cassidy Rhoades ........................................................................................................... 26 Midnighter, 2D Art by J. Kathryn Gooch .................................................................................................................................27 Color Craze, Photo by Cassidy Rhoades ..................................................................................Back Inside Cover

Amber Rain Camille Ness

contest winners Poetry 1st - Robert Meador - Distressed Damsels - Page 25

Fiction

Photography 1st - Stormie Sickler - At Subzero - Page 24

1st - David Brevik - The Peculiar Merchant - Page 18

2nd - Stormie Sickler - Life in Color - Front Cover

2nd - Camille Ness - The Black Poodle - Page 10

3rd - Camille Ness - Plush - Page 20

3rd - Elaine Holli - Bright Shirt - Page 16

Non-Fiction 1st - Rachel Timm - The Desolate Fort - Page 13 2nd - Augustine Anukwu - Life and Death - Page 8

2D Art 1st - Dara Anderson - Lasting Kiss - Page 2 2nd - Dara Anderson - To Surf or not to Surf - Page 23 3rd - Dara Anderson - Flight - Page 18

Remembrance Rachel Timm

* - Winners have astriks next to them in the Table of Contents

A Granddaughter’s memory Cassandra Johnson

Son— Brother— Father— Uncle— Grandfather— All these you embodied.

So we as family must accept The hidden deeds engraved on white pages— I remember A baseball game, Ferris wheel ride, A Model T drive at a village lost in time -the begging of a young girl for long satin gloves, the lingering taste of corn made bread I watched get trapped in ashen whiskers around your mouth.

These are handwritten pages on fresh parchment— When the crystal inkwell shattered and bleached willowed feathers that penned the tale— The aroma of cigarette smoke lingers in space.

A laugh so distinct, It was like the popping sound the fire made when your son, my father, took me camping.

I still hear it clearly in my mind.

Fond memories of my father’s youthful quests gave me impending ammunition.

Those are now forgotten in decaying wooden cabinets waiting to be dug up like buried canine bones.

You were a Son, Brother— Father, Uncle— Grandfather— The flesh that encased your fragile soul has now been devoured by laughing flames.

You are in every swirl of cigarette smoke I smell on the breeze that reminds us you were Loved.

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Circle of Life Dara Anderson

A Masked Evening Cassandra Johnson Brothers and Sisters have gathered in the clearing, Their laughter violet in the midnight sky.

Each of them carrying tools to execute their Secret rite under the Goddess’ full snow white gaze.

In a perfect round the Mother’s crystallized body Is spread across her emerald hair-like strands.

Dirt and Water females hold hands with Strong Fire and Air males.

Body, Breath, Blood, and Spirit Are summoned to them on golden wings To warm and make them whole With human flesh and bone.

A preserved gem is positioned in their breasts, One that escorts their human path on The Goddess’s pregnant round.

Dirt and Water move in celebration Of being complete once again.

Fire and Air who beat their earth-packed drums To keep the rapid heartbeat of the Earth Mother strong.

They now walk among the living Gathering as one.

Committed to their magick and Waiting for the phase when Their new smooth surfaces Will dance exposed under the Goddess Moon.

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Hanging Cassandra Johnson A rope— A tightening cord A coarse twine Or smooth silk.

A rope— Hanged by rivals declaring to be friends so one must slumber with spiritual barriers fortified.

A rope— A forever freedom.

Guilty Jury Cassandra Johnson Scowling putrid mouths maintained by friendly deceitful faces.

An innocent damned by wailing distorted messengers.

Hollow figurines stare expressionlessly at the guiltless Only to arise buzzing when a guiltridden miss screeches, “Stop it, Witch!”

Silver believed deception Antagonizing untainted bleached skin to verify an undetectable allegation.

Roam Stormie Sickler

Mother Cassandra Johnson Shall I compare thee to the night sky?

Skin as pale as the moon’s rays.

A subtle mouth that holds mystery’s lie, Arms of smooth alabaster that comfort and praise.

Eyes that of cerulean stars twinkle in blackest night, Aged beauty etched by recognizable lines, Caring nature of shooting stars shines bright,

A beseeched case no one Cares to hear, guilty before proven innocent.

Temper rages as slow sunlight shines: But your eternal gentleness will never fade, Neither shall your motherly love, Hands like that of willow wands forbade,

A gavel fallen by an appalling white-topped fowl conceived in prearranged verdicts.

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Sunlit hair intertwined with colored strands like a moonlit dove.

So long as you live and I can see, Your lessons will reside within me.

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Life and Death

unexpectedly, just like a deer runs into the highway from the bushes. Death strikes with no mercy, it takes what it wants, and who it wants. I have Augustine Anukwu had very personal experiences with death, but Non-Fiction the one I find most disheartening is the story of my cousin, Zoe. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon and we Zoe was born on a cold winter morning; it were off to the lake as usual. Zoe and I loved to was Christmas Eve. He was a gorgeous baby go fishing on weekends. My friends always find with bright blue eyes and curly dark hair. it captivating that a 6-year-old boy could be so Zoe kept radiating in his beauty as he grew enthusiastic about fishing. I let Zoe direct me older. He had the charm to get all the ladies: my whenever we are going to the lake; he was alaunts, grandmother and siblings. Zoe got nuways right with his directions. He was such a merous treats of deliciousness: candies, cookhappy and smart boy. ies, cakes, ice-cream, and cupcakes. Zoe was a Life and death are probably the most unstophappy boy who hardly ever cried. He was loved pable forces known to mankind: the biggest of by his nuclear and extended family to the point all certainties…even animals and plants face the of being pampered. same fate. Once you are born, you get trapped, Six weeks to his 7th birthday, Zoe was diagtrapped ‘til death comes to get you. There is abnosed with chronic pneumonia. He was put in the solutely no escape from death. I have no control intensive care unit at one of the private hospitals over it; we have no control over it. Just like the in town. I could see the pain in his eyes whenever beautiful flower blossoms during the day, it dies I stared at him; his pneumonia was accompanied in the cold-dark palms of death. Even animals by migraines, poor boy. As the weeks rolled by, suffer from death’s scornful spite. Death comes his pneumonia kept getting worse. I dreaded going to the hospital, especially when I had to go and see my sick cousin.

Four days before his birthday was probably the most traumatic day of my life. I remember that day vividly; Zoe’s mother was there as usual.

She was dressed like an ancient Egyptian slave.

Poor woman, her eyes were as red as blood and as swollen as an orange. She had been crying so much. It was 12:17 p.m. when it all happened; death paid Zoe a visit.

Oh, what a scornful death! Zoe struggled to take his last breath. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he must have been in so much pain. He took four extremely deep breaths before he stopped breathing. The doctor pronounced him dead a couple of minutes after that. His mom went crazy; rightfully so.

Death pays no respect to beauty, which could have saved him. Death pays no respect to money, which could have saved him. Death pays no respect to age, he was only a kid. Death pays no respect to smiles; Zoe had the brightest smile I had ever seen. Death is like a moving train: unstoppable until it reaches its destination, crushing everything in its path. It roars just like a lion displays its dominance in the jungle; seeking its Stormie Sickler prey. Death instills fear in its victims, deep down

Generations

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April 2014

Lingering Winter

into their marrows. we were all born to Death took Zoe face this fate. I don’t Dara Anderson away from his mothlike to think about er’s loving arms. it, but it is with this Not even her love understanding that I could save him, appreciate life better poor woman. now. I live every day I watched the with happiness, and pandemonium I don’t let a moment that followed Zoe’s pass me by. I wake death in despair: evup in the morning, eryone was crying, thankful to karma for wailing, and shoutthe gift of another. I ing. I just watched. wear a smile on my I sat at the darkest face every time becorner of the room cause Zoe once told and watched. Then, me he loved how just when I thought I look whenever I I was the strongest smiled. I have fallen one in the room, in love with so many just when I thought people. I have exI was the one that pressed love in so would not cry, my many ways. emotions gave me Every Decemaway. Tears started ber 24th, I go to hospouring down from pitals to celebrate my eyes, fast, reZoe’s birthday. I go ally fast, just like to visit sick kids and the first spring rain show them love. I after a long winter. know Zoe would be My grey t-shirt was proud of me for dosoaked in tears. My ing that. I give them heart was aching gifts and put a smile from the heartbreak on their cute faces. I of losing Zoe. laugh, I make jokes, Why do we try and I live every day so hard to act strong like it is the last one. when a loved one Death is the price we dies? Why do we all have to pay at the strive so hard to end. show strength like I hope we all see we have it when we life as an opportudon’t? We seldom nity now that we are remember it is okay still alive. It can be to cry. It’s okay to let taken away from us our emotions loose. before we realize it.

Let it out, don’t get Live every day like it is the last one and follow caught up in yourself. The freedom brought by what you believe in. Fall in love, make friends, tears is absolutely soothing. make no enemies and appreciate the people you Zoe is not the only victim of death; we all are have in your life because you don’t know when and it’s only a matter of time! Predestined to die, the dreaded death will come again.

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The Black Poodle Camille Ness Fiction I always greeted my husband, Trevor, at the door after work with a big smile on my face and a green dog leash in my hand. Trevor and I had just gotten married and did not have any human children in our small family yet, but we did have a gentle black poodle that we loved just the same. His name was Weasel. Each day after Trevor returned home from his security job at our local hospital, we would take Weasel on a long walk through the neighborhood.

It became so routine that our welcoming neighbors eventually knew the three of us by name. One neighbor would even meet us outside around the same time every evening with a bacon flavored dog treat for our thankful dog and two ice cold bottles of water for my husband and me. We were blessed with the life that we had, that is, until the accident.

It was a day just like any other day, or so I thought. As usual, I greeted Trevor after work and we proceeded to go on our normal stroll through the neighborhood with our poodle. It was just over 60 degrees outside and there was a slight breeze, perfect for an evening wander.

Shortly into our walk, from across the street, I saw two stalky teenage neighbor boys wrestling around in the green grass of their front yard.

The boy on bottom had a look of defeat on his face as the other boy was winning. I thought nothing of it, but Weasel had had a different idea. Before I knew it, his green leash was flying out of my husband’s strong hands and swinging in the air behind Weasel as he flew across the street towards the two boys. It all happened so fast. Blood showered the once green grass of the yard. A long ear-piercing scream filled the air. By the time Trevor and I reached the yard, it was too late. The stalky boy who had once been on top, a winner, was dead. Instantly, I knew what we had to do. We grabbed Weasel and ran.

I was out of breath by the time we had reached our beautiful two-story home. I knew that we didn’t have much time. I quickly packed a few changes of clothes, old family pictures, and emergency cash that we had set aside for an 10

The Place I Call Home Camille Ness occasion such as this. My husband did the same.

We raced to our black Sonata that still had the words “Just Married” printed on the back window, loaded it with our belongings, grabbed Weasel, and hit the road.

I had never seen Trevor drive so fast in my life. We had to get out of town. I knew from that moment on, we were on the run. Our once gentle poodle just wanted to save the poor boy that was losing the wrestling match. He never intended to cause any harm or kill someone, but the police would surely not believe that. Weasel was our child and we loved him too much to give him up, so we had no other choice but to run away.

I glanced back as we pulled out of our long paved driveway. I noticed that our mailbox still had the red flag up and that I had forgotten Weasel’s favorite toy rope draped over our white picket-fence. That wasn’t the only thing that we would have to leave behind.

We drove all night. We had only stopped to fill our car up with gas and take bathroom breaks.

The next evening around 8 p.m., we had arrived at our temporary destination, a motel called The Half Price. It was located in the shabby

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town of Mustard. Nobody ever visited this town.

It consisted of obsolete locals and people passing through, people just like us. As we entered the lobby, we were welcomed with warm smiles and friendly greetings. I noticed the sound of the television in the background playing a scene from my favorite movie, The Breakfast Club. It felt nice to see people who still respected us after what we had done for our Weasel.

We smiled back, retrieved our room key, and continued on our way. We had gotten an outside door room so it didn’t take long to unload the small amount of belongings we had brought with us straight into our new temporary home until we decided what was to come next. We left our keys in the car, ready to escape at any time. The room had a musky sent, but at that point we didn’t care. For the first time in over 24 hours, we could all finally relax.

The three of us cuddled up together on our springy bed and surprising fell fast asleep. The next thing I knew, I was wide awake. It was still dark out and Trevor was sleeping next to me. I heard a strange noise that sounded like a shower. Thoughts raced through my head. Who was there? Were we caught? Where was Weasel?

The drips of the water continued to haunt me.

I collected my senses and to my relief, I realized that the shower sound was not a shower at all. It was a downpour of rain right outside our motel room.

Instant joy can upon me. I loved the rain!

The night my husband had proposed to me, it had poured rain on us. We danced all night in the pouring rain. We would have never stopped if we hadn’t been interrupted by a lost black poodle wandering towards us. He looked hungry and ungroomed. It was a miracle that Trevor and I crossed paths with him. With no question at all, we took the puppy in as our own and named him Weasel. From that moment on, we loved him with all of our hearts.

I shook Trevor until he woke up, Weasel now sleeping on the floor beside him. As soon as he heard the sound of rain, he knew exactly what was to come next. We both hopped out of bed and hurried out the door. Dancing in the rain washed away all of the bad that had happened in the last few days. After what seemed like

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hours, the rain stopped and the warm sun began to rise. Our fun was over. Realizing that we would soon have to leave this place, we slowly drug ourselves back to our room, but to our dismay were met with a locked door. Oh no! When we left our room, the door had locked behind us. Nothing could ruin our happy moment, so we just laughed and laughed. Trevor told me to wait there as he went to fetch a spare key from the front desk. When he returned, he returned with nothing but a look of worry on his face.

Trevor explained to me that on his adventure to retrieve the spare key, he hadn’t been greeted with smiling faces. The hotel workers all had their eyes glued to the large television in the lobby, the one that once played my favorite movie. On the screen of that television had been our faces. We truly were wanted people.

What would we do now? We were faced with the choice of leaving out precious Weasel behind, locked in the motel room, or possible jail time.

In that moment, we made the hardest decision of our lives.

Sometimes following your heart can make you realize that it’s important to use your brain too.

As I looked back out the window of our black Sonata, I noticed that our “Just Married” paint had ran off from the rain. I saw a sight that broke my heart forever. I saw our Weasel, our child, pawing at the window of the abandoned motel room.

If I Could Fly Camille Ness

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Knightowl Jacob Walter

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The Desolate Fort Rachel Timm Non-Fiction The land where I call my home was the battleground where many soldiers and Native Americans brutally murdered each other. Today, it looks like nothing more than just a typical pasture in southwest North Dakota.

However, in 1864, the land was the host of a battle between a wagon train full of soldiers and the Hunkpapa Sioux Indians. Historical sites should not be forgotten and ignored just because the land does not look like anything special. This story is a great example of a historical event that is often neglected.

There is a cattle ranch eight miles northwest of Rhame, North Dakota. A beautiful, wooded draw can be seen running through our property. The deep, green trees hold an abundance of wildlife including: deer, coyotes, pheasants, owls, and many other wild animals. During the night the coyotes can be heard howling and yipping in the moonlight. Peaceful breezes flow through the trees while the sun shines down on the delicate leaves. The sound of birds chirping and leaves rustling surround the ranch. Cows can be heard bellowing for their calves in the distance.

Occasionally, after a hard rain, arrowheads would poke up through the surface of the ground to be found.

Some can be found in perfect condition while others are broken in half. Scrapers, used long ago for scraping fat off of animal hides, also have appeared.

To tell whether or not a rock is a scraper, a person must look at the markings. Scrapers are extremely smooth on one side and will have small little chip marks along the opposite side.

Four miles down the road from the Timm Ranch, there is a pasture surrounded by a barbed wire fence. Brome grass covers the entire ground with many shades of green.

Inside the pasture stands an old flag pole where the American colors fly in the breeze during the holidays. Five white tombstones poke out of the same hard ground that holds the flag pole up.

I do not know which graves still have bodies buried underneath them. Some of the bodies have been moved to new resting places. A small, stone mural stands a few yards away from the headstones. Besides the sound of the grass moving with the wind, a steady silence flows through the air. The horrific story behind this desolate land is inscribed within the stone.

On July 15, 1864, Captain James L. Fisk led ninetyseven wagons out of Fort Ridgley, Minnesota, for the lands in Montana and Idaho, where they hoped to find gold. Fisk took a shorter route across unmapped territory from Fort Rice, Dakota Territory, to the Bighorn River. Fisk left Fort Rice with a small escort of fifty soldiers. The land that the soldiers traveled across was the home to a tribe of Native Americans who felt threatened by the white men moving into their territory.

Five in A Row

On September 2, the wagon train was attacked by the Hunkpapa Sioux Indians. Nine white people were killed and three were covered with bloody wounds. The violence was not over yet. The next two days they kept moving and were constantly harassed by the Hunkpapa. They finally found an area with slopes where they could defend themselves until the reinforcements from Fort Rice arrived. They cut sod and stacked it six and a half feet high and 300 feet in diameter around themselves.

Rachel Timm

The edges are very sharp, like a knife, and there is usually a perfect spot to rest a thumb on one of the sides. My family and I have filled containers to the brim with these treasures throughout the past years. These artifacts have proved to us that the Native Americans had once lived on

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the same soil that our ranch lies on. The beauty of the land will be in my mind forever. It is an oasis of serenity and the place that I call my home.

They named the fort, Fort Dilts, after a man named Jefferson Dilts, who died from wounds and was buried within the sod walls. Two more people passed away from

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Fort Dilts Rachel Timm infection and were buried within the cold sod. Lieutenant Smith and fifteen more men rode fast across the rugged grasslands back to Fort Rice to find help. Their horses were dripping with sweat and their manes whipped violently in the air. Colonel Dill showed up at Fort Dilts on September 20, with 400 cavalry soldiers, 400 infantry men, and a section of artillery from Fort Rice. The large armies of people stood boldly along the ridge, north of the camp.

The Native Americans saw the soldiers’ silhouettes standing in front of the early morning sunrise. The tribe warriors knew that they could not defend their land against that many men. The Hunkpapa retreated and the sixteenday siege was over. The terrified gold seekers returned to Fort Rice where they ended their expedition. No matter how much time goes by, this story will remain with this land forever.

Across the road from Fort Dilts lies another pasture surrounded by barbed wire. This land is owned by my father.

Every year we run about two hundred head of cattle on this piece of land. Inside the pasture is a large, round hill. On top of the hill lies a huge, flat rock where moss grows all up and around the surface of the rock. This shows off many different shades of blue and green.

The former owner of the land told us a story. He said that the Native Americans performed dances on this rock to torment the soldiers at Fort Dilts. More evidence of the history of this land still remains. Wagon tracks can still

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be seen running through this pasture as well. Most people might mistake them for pickup tracks; however, there is a big difference.

Wagon wheel trails are a lot narrower than pickup trails. We have many wagon trails that are fairly visible on our property today. Very few people know about these sites. Some people still do go and visit Fort Dilts to read the history behind it. Yet, the land and its history usually gets ignored and forgotten.

Tourists stop by during the hot summer days to visit this historical site. There stands a rusty, old mailbox by the entrance of Fort Dilts. The visitor signs his or her name and writes down where they came from on the dirty, torn notebook that can be found within the mailbox. The foreigners read the story on the mural and take a few seconds to look around the desolate grasslands.

They may hesitate for a brief moment to read the names engraved on the worn out headstones on their way out. Many visitors may feel like there was nothing important to see out there, besides a barbed wire fence enclosing an old flagpole and a couple headstones. However, the horrific events that took place on this land were way more than just that. It is a horrible pity when a land’s history is ignored and forgotten. Hopefully, the story of Fort Dilts will never fade away and will be passed on throughout future generations.

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She’s Born with it Shannon Patterson Maybe it’s Maybelline? Maybe she’s born with it.

She wipes her face off every night with harsh strokes of a delicate hand.

Why should she not cower at the glance of her unclad image When her brothers and sisters insist she remained cloaked to blend in?

In the dawn of vacillation, her grasp of herself becomes irrevocably tenuous “Honey, you are beautiful,” He says.

But she insists that he does not understand.

Between the brushes and the swatches, the shades and endless pigment

This is a war that cannot be waged by one.

So she continues to search, starve and paint She is defined by the eyes of Stila, the lips of Nars, By the crests of her hips and her lids like Smashbox stars She will continue this scarring art until the wrinkles can no longer be subdued I will continue this scarring art until my wrinkles break through, too.

For now we are young, plagued by our reflection and presentation to the world But deep down I know where the true beauty in the flesh and heart lies She’s born with it.

So why cover up?

To what woman does this provide solace?

Paint on the red, tighten that seam, I want you to glitter, glitter, gleam But ‘twas an enduring, lingering night The magic begins to fade, the true image becomes palpable And then she says, “Do not contour me. I have already been chiseled in God’s portrait.”

She needs not blurring nor priming, neither mineralizing nor highlighting Her eyes do not need to be smoky or lined But to walk out the door or with a spring in her step It is necessity much like food or water Society defines her by the line on her lashes, the highness of her cheeks The narrowness of her waist, and the bounty of her bosom Why should she not cower at the glance of her unclad image?

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The Pier Shannon Patterson

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The Bright Shirt Elaine Holli Fiction I used to think I was a victim of cruel circumstance. I used to mechanically scrub the synthetic rocks on the exhibit floor of the little Mapleton Zoo. I always hated cleaning the ocelot exhibit; the pungent odor and rainforest like humidity created an atmosphere only I could appreciate.

Or so I was told.

Every day at nine I was assigned to clean Bruno’s cage.

I would wring out my rag and try to keep myself from gagging. Groups of people shuffled through the zoo, and every day, excited children pressed against the rail echoing “Bruno?!” The eagerness drained from their faces when they saw me. They quickly moved on, rejuvenated by the bold sign that read “MONKEYS!” with an arrow guiding them away from the cage. “He wouldn’t be so cute if you had to clean up after him,” I mumbled.

One day my skin crawled as I felt someone’s eyes boring into me. An old man in a soccer jersey watched me with a curious expression. He hadn’t left with the rest of the crowd. To the man it probably seemed normal, a zookeeper cleaning an exhibit, but for me it was a reminder of my shame.

When I started here I had been an eager idealist, excited that my childhood dream of zoo keeping was about to come true. I worked zealously, even researched during my time off. I was constantly trying to improve my knowledge and our facilities. One day when I clocked in after my regular lunch break, I headed over to my managers’ office to

explain my ideas of changing the position of the synthetic foliage in the Flying Dragon Lizard’s habitat to showcase the lizard’s flying ability. I paused right before I knocked because I heard hushed voices inside.

“He wouldn’t! Would he?”

“It certainly appears that way. Don’t look so horrified, Martha. He’s so naïve he probably didn’t even realize what he was doing,” “We can’t fire him. We’re so understaffed as is.”

“No, I agree. We have to keep him; we’ll just change his assignments. Keep him away from the animals.”

Somehow they must have known I was outside because the door abruptly opened. Pierre, the zoo director, greeted me with a tense smile. “Hello, Joseph! Can I help you?”

My palms began to sweat.

“Uh, I was j-just going to tell you about some ideas I had to improve the habitats,” I stuttered.

He gave me a look of pity that I didn’t understand at the time. “Sure thing, Joseph. Just leave your notes on my desk. Oh, and Joseph? We’re going to be reassigning you.

We need your expertise in some different areas.”

Since then I’ve been cleaning cages. After a few years of listening to the zoo’s local rumor mills, I was able to put together that one of the animals in the zoo had died as a result of poisoning. Somehow they had decided that I had been involved in this, but how they came to that conclusion I’ve never known.

After my reassignment I felt that these were my exhibits, my cages, a physical manifestation of how trapped and powerless I felt in my life. I finished cleaning and dropped my soiled rag into my dilapidated bucket. I looked up again to see the man still watching me like I was the animal that belonged in the cage. Our eyes met and he nodded his head

Fire in the sky Camille Ness

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April 2014

in acknowledgment, one corner of his mouth creasing into a smirk. I felt a twinge of embarrassment that he had noticed me looking, but it settled into surprised delight. At least he was glad to see me.

The next day I followed the same routine, but as I approached the ocelot cage I remembered the things that had happened the day before. Once the other zoo keepers took Bruno out for his morning feeding, I slipped into his cage. My eyes scanned beyond the cage for the old man subconsciously, I knew he wouldn’t be there, but a part of me hoped I was wrong. I crouched down to clean the same rock as I had the day before. I saw a bright color out of the corner of my eye and turned to see the man from the day before watching me again.

My breath caught in my throat; I had almost started to believe that I imagined him. He smiled at me; I smiled back tentatively. “Having fun cleaning?” He asked. Fun? I thought. That’s the last word I would use to describe it. I managed “it’s not too bad,” with a shrug. He didn’t say anything else so I continued working, trying to imagine how this appeared to be fun. I packed up again and left with a friendly nod.

As time passed the man became part of my schedule; he was always there a little past nine. At first our conversations were short, sometimes all that was exchanged was a hello, but through the progressing months I got to know him. His name was Paolo, but he changed it to Paul when he moved to the states. He was born in a small town in Brazil. He lost his family at a very young age, forcing him to live in the streets. He begged for everything he had, but resolved never to steal. One man in his town noticed how he was different from the other orphans. The man admired his strong will and gave Paolo a job on his plantation with food for payment. As Paolo grew up he married and started a family. They immigrated to the US, and Paolo searched for a job. His family struggled for years before he was able to find steady employment. He told me that those years were filled with hardship and sacrifice; nevertheless, they were the best years of his life.

Soon our conversations extended past my shifts; once I got off we’d stop by the concession booth and continue to talk until our food was gone. When we finished, Paolo would pat me on the shoulder as he shifted to his feet, and say, “See you tomorrow!”

Shortly before I met him, his wife had passed away after fifty five years of happiness. That’s why he came here.

His wife had loved the ocelots because they reminded her of home. Coming to the zoo and seeing the ocelot made him feel like he was with her again. Even if just for a moment.

Every time I saw Paolo, it got me thinking. This man had suffered many hardships in his life, enough to make anyone bitter. Instead of focusing on his losses, he accepted them and moved forward. I thought of all the time I’d wasted fixating on what I didn’t have and overlooking the good things in my life.

I looked up and saw Paolo signal that he would be waiting for me at the concession stand. I dropped my rag into my trusty old bucket and moved on to my last assignment.

April 2014

Glow Stormie Sickler 17

The Peculiar Merchant David Brevik Fiction Low, gray clouds blanketed the sky. The smell of rain intermixed with the aroma of the conifer forest.

Wet, sloppy steps of hooves and the singing of a man were the only sounds of life. A strong breeze rustled the tree tops, but it never touched the ground. An orange- reddish dirt road, turned to mud, cut through the forest. Traveling down that road was a wagon pulled by a large, bay Clydesdale with a brown mane.

From afar, no one would think anything was wrong with the wagon. Constructed from a toasted wood it had seen many years of service but was still sturdy and strong. On closer examination, however, one could easily see an oddity. There was no opening. It looked as if someone built a large, rectangular box and decided to put wheels on it. If this strangeness didn’t puzzle a person then the driver of the wagon would.

Of a lean build but average size the man looked to be in his early thirties. His skin was pasty white.

Bright silver eyes, filled with mirth, stared off into the distance. Over the right eye rested a silver rimmed monocle. Half of his dusty white hair hid under a red top hat. A dull red, tailed tux and a white undershirt stuck to his skin while red trousers covered his legs and the tops of black shoes. A black cane, colored white at one end, was strapped to his back. His long fingers wrapped around the horse’s reins.

“A bottle of whiskey and a fair lady,” he bellowed out in a voice tainted with multiple accents, “is all the company I will need! With these two great gifts from above! For one night I will be stupidly gay!” As he started the second verse he spotted a boulder, roughly shaped like a bird’s head, off the side of the road. “There’s the rock,” the man proclaimed to the Clydesdale. “We’re nearly to Willow.” The Clydesdale kept on walking in silence. With a shrug, the man continued on with his song.

A mile later he spotted the palisade, a wooden wall that encircled his detestation. Several crowns of pointed roofs peeked over it. The gate was wide open so the man let himself in. Willow was a small town.

The man could walk from one end of it to the other in several minutes. Once inside the wall, the road he traveled went a dozen more yards before coming to an end at the center of town. Side roads broke off from the main one, going up to buildings constructed from thick logs and mud. Small gardens closed off by fencing laid beside several buildings. Except for a mutt roaming about, the streets were deserted. A

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little while earlier the place may have been silent, but the driver’s powerful voice shattered the peace.

“Dance with me, my fair lady!” he sang. “And show this fool how it is done. Woo me with your lovely body and I’ll be in debt to you!”

The man drove his wagon into center of town which was nothing more than a large, square patch of dirt. A few lonely stands were scattered about, but otherwise it was empty. He pulled on the reins, bringing the horse and wagon to a stop. Throwing the reins down, the man scooted to the side of the wagon and jumped off. His singing turned into a loud hum as he scanned the area. No one was out and about, but he was certain that a few people were looking out their windows. Singing strangers drew attention in a place like this.

Taking the cane off his back, the man turned around and jumped onto the wagon. Then he raised the cane and smacked its end against the wagon’s side. Once to wake everyone up, twice to gather the attention of all, and a third time to get things up and running.

A bluish glow encased the wagon. Groaning, the wood grew outward and upward. The wheels shrunk a bit to allow an opening to form in the wall to be

FlighT Dara Anderson

April 2014

right below eye level. A door appeared on the west facing wall with the image of two overlapping coins engraved into it. Calmly standing in place, the Clydesdale glanced backward to watch the wagon’s transformation. Within a minute a store stood in the wagon’s place.

A wide smile broke out as the merchant yelled, “Good afternoon Willow. I’m Silver Dollar the Third and today, I have brought my fine wares to your town.”

Leaping off the roof, he spun around and pointed his cane at the inside of the wagon. “And I must say I have plenty of exotic items to sell.”

Silver spoke the truth. Items that no one -- at least in this area -- had seen were placed on wooden shelves in no logical manner. On one shelf sat a shiny, black statue of a cyclops with a ruby eye. Two shelves down was a large fan sea shell with the image of a beautiful, nude woman drawn with black ink. Folded neatly on another shelf was a blue silk shirt. Statues, jewelry, rugs, books, furs, clothing--from elegant dresses to simple straw hats, pottery, and much more was on display. And all of them had a price tag prominently displayed.

“Anyone who would like to make a deal is more than welcome to come,” he said as he turned his head to look upon his audience. An audience of ghosts, that is. Silver stared at the empty space in front of him for a moment. Slamming the cane’s end into the ground, the merchant said, “Rubric. Keep an eye on the store.” The horse snorted in reply.

Leaving the store in good hooves, the merchant

April 2014

Road Chasing Dreams Stormie Sickler marched over to the nearest building and banged a fist onto the door. “Pardon me,” he shouted, “but if you don’t want me around at least have the decency to throw me out!” No one replied. Silver went to the next door and repeated his actions and words. Again, nothing. Six doors later and the silence was maintained.

Just before Silver knocked on the next door, a deep, low voice said, “You’ll have better luck shaving a dwarf then getting those folks to come outside.” Silver glanced over his shoulder. No visible person stood behind him. “Down here, merchant.”

Looking down, Silver found the speaker. Three feet tall and big-boned, the elderly dwarf stared at him behind a white mass of fizzled hair. His beard was done up in multiple braided strands and he wore a white cotton shirt with blue torso. Sandals separated his feet from the earth.

Turning around, Silver put on a disarming smile.

“Who do I have the honor to meet?” he asked as he offered a hand to the dwarf.

The dwarf gripped the hand and shook it once.

“I’m an elder of the village,” he said as the hands separated. “Based on your presentation you’re Silver Dollar. Strange name for a human and a stranger performance you gave, but it sure did lift my spirits.”

Silver’s smile grew larger. “Now do yourself a favor

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and leave town.”

The smile faded into bewilderment. “Have I somehow offended?” asked the merchant.

“Not in the least, but stay any longer and Hemlock is going to give you a bruising.”

“A poisonous plant is going to beat me?”

The dwarf gave the merchant a puzzled look. “I wish a plant was the problem. Hemlock is a demon that set up house in the tavern a couple months back.

He has a nasty temper and it can boil over quicker than a witch’s brew without warning.”

Placing a hand under his chin, Silver looked up at the sky with a thoughtful expression. “The town is scared of Hemlock?” he asked.

“Most of us try to avoid him when possible.”

“How much would the town pay if I were to remove him?”

The dwarf broke out into laughter, laughing so hard that he bent over. “Merchant,” he said between wheezes, “if you can do that I’ll personally see to it that half the town’s assets are yours.”

As the merchant placed the cane back in its place, he asked, “Where’s the tavern?”

Suddenly, the laughter fell away to stunned disbelief. The dwarf looked for any signs of a jest, but the merchant just kept on smiling. Shacking his head, the

Plush Camille Ness

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dwarf pointed a finger. “Follow this path east until you reach the square. Then take a left and keep going till you reach the gate. It’s the first large building to the right.”

The merchant twirled around on one foot and marched forward. “Please feed and water my horse while I’m gone,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll pay you when I get back.”

A little more than a half dozen yards from the gate was the tavern. Standing two stories tall, the building looked similar to its neighbors in style. White shutters lined the second floor. Carved into the door were five large claw marks.

Silver causally opened the door and pulled it shut behind him. As he wiped his muddy foot off on a clean mat the merchant looked the room over. On the far west wall stood a brick hearth, its inside blackened but empty of ashes. A dozen or so round, empty tables were scattered around the room. A round wooden candle chandelier hung from the ceiling, its lit candles provided light to the windowless room. A counter with stools positioned in front of it sat in front of the east wall. A pudgy man stood behind the counter, staring blankly into space. Beside the counter was a set of stairs shaped into a L. Silver’s eyes rested upon a table with the only occupant, excluding the pudgy man, in the room.

Hunched over, the smooth, blue skinned humanoid had his back to the merchant. It wore a sleeveless, leather vest and a pair of short trousers. A long tail,

April 2014

Immensity

resting on the floor, stuck out of its hind end. Two muscular Stormie arms lay upon the table.

Walking over to the table, Silver took a seat opposite of the humanoid. It hardly took notice as he sat down. With the new frontal view the merchant looked over the humanoid. A clawed hand, the black claws were three inches long and ended in a hooked pointwrapped around a wooden mug. Parts of pointed ears were covered by long, brown hair. Green, beady eyes stared down the mug, as if something of great interest rested at the bottom.

The examination took all of a few seconds. “Excuse me, sir,” said Silver, “but are you Hemlock?”

“Who would care to know?” replied the demon in a raspy voice.

“Silver, that’s who.”

Beady eyes glanced up for a second before returning to the mug. “Get lost.”

Raising a hand over his head, Silver shouted, “Bartender.” It took a couple more shouts to draw the hesitant man over. Silver dug out several golden coins from his pocket. “Give my friend and I the finest mug of ale you’ve got,” he said as he handed the cash to the man. The bartender scurried away and quickly came back, dropping two full mugs of ale onto the middle of the table. He then hurried back to the safety of the counter.

Lifting his head, Hemlock looked at the drink. Silver grabbed the mug nearest to him and took a swig from it. “What do you want?” asked the demon.

“It’s rude not to accept a gift,” Silver commented offhandedly as he set his mug down.

A flicker of anger appeared in the demon’s eyes,

April 2014

but he took the mug and drunk deeply from it. He slammed the mug Sickler onto the table; some of the liquor spilled out.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“The conditions for you to depart this town.”

Hemlock stared at Silver for a moment.

“You’re a bold man,” he stated slowly. “I can respect that. It’s the only reason why I’ll listen and not snap you in two.”

Silver nodded his head in acknowledgment. Reaching for his hat, he took it off and placed it on the table; its opening facing up.

“We’ll play a game of chance.” Silver’s hand dived into the hat. Half of his arm disappeared before he grabbed something. Pulling his hand out, he presented a deck of cards to the demon. “The game is simple. These cards will be shuffled. After being shuffled we will take a card off the top of the deck. Whoever has the highest ranking card, two out of three times, wins. The loser will leave town and never think of it again. To keep it fair, the bartender can shuffle the deck.”

Staring at the deck of cards, the demon contemplated. A pointed-tooth grin crept onto his face. As he sat up the demon placed a hand under the table.

“Alright, human. I’ll play your little game.”

Hemlock barked, “Bartender, get over here.” The bartender sprinted to the table and stood ready for orders. “Shuffle the cards.”

The merchant handed the deck over. Grabbing his hat, the merchant put it back on as the bartender shuffled. He and the demon watched the cards as skillful hands rearranged the entire deck.

When the shuffling was done the bartender placed the deck onto the table. Before he could dash away Hemlock raised a hand in a gesture to stay. The bar-

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tender complied.

As Silver picked a card up the demon mentally smirked. While the bartender shuffled the demon cast magic with his hidden hand. It was nothing major, just a spell to increase his luck. Picking up a card, he smiled at the queen of hearts. Silver mimicked him with a smile of his own.

Hemlock and Silver flipped the cards around at the same time. “King of clubs beats queen of hearts,” stated the merchant.

The demon nodded solemnly. Both cards were placed on the bottom of the deck. The deck was reshuffled and the two opponents trusted their luck once more. This time, Hemlock drew the ace of diamonds. Knowing that he couldn’t lose, he showed it to the merchant with confidence, only to have the joker destroy it.

“Tough luck,” said Silver as he put the card down.

“Maybe next time your magic will work.”

Shooting up from his seat, the demon knocked his chair over as he slammed his palms onto the table. If the demon wasn’t bent over he would easily top eight feet. The frightened bartender dashed away as the demon roared, “Are you implying that I cheated?”

Silver picked up his mug and swirled the drink.

Looking down on the whirlpool, the merchant said, “Can’t cheat when I never barred the use of magic.

Smart move on your part, but you forgot to take into considering that naturally lucky people don’t lose to party tricks.”

With each causal word spoken the demon’s rage

Lonely Grave Rachel Timm

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strengthened. Leaning forward, he bellowed, “To hell with your game.” Silver glanced up at Hemlock and the demon spotted an odd gleam in his eye.

Before Hemlock could withdraw Silver tossed his mug forward. Alcohol splattered onto the demon’s face, burning his eyes. Roaring in fury and pain, the demon raised two fists and brought them down onto the table, smashing through it. Cards, liquor and splinters scattered everywhere.

Silver shielded his face with his arms as he leapt onto his feet, toppling his chair. He maneuvered to the side, grabbing another chair by its back. Effortlessly, he lifted it and swung at the demon’s head.

It hit dead on, disintegrating on impact. The demon stumbled a little, shook his head, and turned a watery-eyed glare on the merchant.

Spreading his fingers out, Hemlock swiped at Silver, cutting empty air. Silver went into a roll, going to the right. Rising onto his feet, the merchant snatched the cane off his back. With his body perpendicular to the demon, he placed his feet shoulder length apart and bent his knees. Silver pointed the colored end into the air at a sharp angle. Loose and relaxed, the merchant steadied himself with his other arm.

“Come and get me,” exclaimed Silver.

Willing to comply, Hemlock charged, a hand thrust forward, claws grasping for cloth as Silver spun out of the way. Raising the cane as he dodged, the merchant snapped it against the back of the demon’s neck.

The demon howled. Twirling around, his massive tail knocked over furniture as he came to face the merchant. A nasty snarl greeted a calm smile. With an angry roar Hemlock’s claws went for the throat.

In one smooth motion, the cane battered the

April 2014

To Surf or not to Surf

hand away, sending Silver rushed it toward the floor. over to the dressHemlock drew his ers and yanked all Dara Anderson hand back and made of the drawers out. another attempt.

They were empty.

The deflected claws Going over to the sliced through a bed, he dropped to chair. Growling, the his knees and looked demon reattempted underneath it. Nothhis assault over and ing but dust bunnies over only to have occupied the narrow his attempts beaten space. On his belly, away. he crawled under the Without meanbed. It was a tight ing to, Hemlock squeeze and it took grabbed the cane. several seconds for A readied fist pulled Silver to squirm his back for leverage as body in. he yanked the cane Just as Silver’s toward him. “Want legs disappeared, the it,” said Silver as he door ripped open. let go of his weapon, “Silver,” bellowed “take it.” Caught off the demon. Keepguard for a split secing completely still, ond, the demon lost Silver smirked as he his footing. watched Hemlock’s Silver rushed forclawed feet. The deward, slamming his mon went over to one shoulder into the of the drawers, lifted demon’s chest. The it up, and dropped it. floor vibrated as Coming over to the Hemlock fell onto his bed, two bangs told behind.

Silver that the shutDashing past ters were open.

Hemlock, Silver run toward the staircase. He took off Without warning, two hands barely missed Silver’s his hat and tossed it onto the counter as he passed it. head and butt as they grabbed the underside of the “Hold on to that for me,” Silver called over his shoul- bed. As the bed rose the merchant got his hands beder. The bartender, who was hiding behind the coun- low him and pushed his upper torso up. “There you ter, stood up and looked at the hat. He quickly got are,” said the demon, who had the bed over his head. back down as the cane smashed into the wall nearby, Hemlock kicked for Silver’s stomach, but the mersticking in place. chant pressed himself into the air just high enough “Get back here, coward,” roared the demon, ig- that he landed gently on the crook of the demon’s noring everything in his path as he sprinted toward foot. His arms then wrapped tightly around the leg the staircase. and held on.

Once at the top of the stairs Silver scanned the Frowning, the demon exclaimed, “Let go!” He short hallway. Six cherry wood doors led into separate shook his leg violently from side to side, but Silver rooms- three on the right side and three on the left. kept a firm grip. Twisting his wrist, the demon lashed Dashing toward the second door to the right, Silver around. The merchant let go at the end of the kick threw it open and hastily slammed it shut. and soared into a wall.

The small room he entered had a Spartan appearAs Silver pushed himself up the demon turned to ance. A small barren dresser pressed up on the right throw the bed. Instead, the bed’s corner connected wall while a bed with a naked mattress, resting on a with the wall. Growling, Hemlock moved a hand to thin frame, with a pillow sat beneath a closed win- the center of the bed so he could be free to spin himdow. self around. He never got the chance.

April 2014

23

At Subzero Stormie Sickler

On his feet, Silver sprinted forward. He slowed for a fraction of a second, scooping up a drawer. Nearing the demon, he swung the drawer up, smashing it into Hemlock’s skull. Half of the drawer scattered and the demon grunted. Silver slammed the remains onto the back of Hemlock’s leg, forcing the demon’s knees to buckle.

Jumping back, Silver spun around and threw the shattered drawer. It smashed into the demon’s wrist that supported the bed. The bed dropped onto Hemlock’s head, bounced off, and landed upside down.

The demon was standing, but stunned.

Taking several steps back, the merchant bent down, scooped up two drawers in each hand, and flung them into the demon’s back. Each blow forced the demon forward. Silver picked up one last drawer before sprinting forward. Drawing his arm back, he chucked it at the demon’s head, hitting it right in the middle.

Up against the window frame, Hemlock stared blankly into space. When Silver collided into him, the

24

demon’s torso shot out into the rainy weather.

The sight of the distance earth woke him up.

Hemlock tried to pull inward, but something around his wrist stopped him.

Arms wrapped around the demon’s frame, Silver heaved upward. “Come on now” he said in a strained voice, “out you go.” The end of the demon’s tail wagged about, but the trunk was pinned down by the merchant’s torso.

Slowly but surely, the demon’s lower half left went out the window. Hemlock waved his arms in the air in the vain hope of flying. With one last good heave Silver tossed the demon’s feet out.

Hemlock landed face first in the mud. Steel hard bones cracked. The earth shook. Startled people flooded out of their houses to find the cause of the shaking. Silver leapt out the window, landing on the demon’s back. “Uff,” said the demon.

Hemlock lifted his head to see the town folks gawking at him. Then it was abruptly put into the mud by Silver’s foot. Lifting his head again, Hemlock saw the merchant looking down on him with a disarming smile. “That was a good fray,” Silver proclaimed nonchalantly.

From the tavern, the bartender walked over to Silver with his cane and hat in hand. “Thank you,” said the merchant as he took the hat and placed it on his head. Taking the cane, he leaned on it as he spoke. “Now, where were we with your leaving town proposal? If I remember correctly, you agreed to leave right after our brawl.”

For a moment, the demon just laid there.

Staggering to his feet, Hemlock said, “I’m leaving.”

Once on his feet, he limped to the gate, whispering curses under his breath.

“Ta-ta,” said the merchant, waving a hand, “and have a good day.”

Turning his attention to the crowd, he scanned the faces until he found the elderly dwarf. Standing a little ways from his people, the dwarf stared dumbly at the retreating demon. Silver walked up to the dwarf while saying, “As you can see, Hemlock has taken his leave. I would like to take my payment in cash, but property will work as well.

The dwarf turned his attention on the merchant.

His mouth opened, but quickly clamped shut. Wrapping an arm around the dwarf’s shoulder, Silver said, “Now let’s head to the bank or Treasury and take a look at the town’s finances.” Nodding in agreement, the dwarf started off with the merchant at his side, singing as they went.

April 2014

Distressed Damsels Robert Meador Inside your hollow chest cavity is a Carebear massacre.

It’s neon blood sprayed across your rib cage.

Barbies are strangling each other with their ponytails, while some cat-piss version of Ken LOL’s.

But your eyes are still as a tree at dusk.

And it makes my brain itchy.

What is traveling up your larynx?

It’s a sweet gaseous (turned metaphorically solid) regurgitation of a word-filled twinkie, cramming in my ear canal.

There is no scale to weigh it.

I look to the judge, but there’s just a magic eight ball that says “you queer?”

The Cove Shannon Patterson

April 2014

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Sunburn Cassidy Rhoades Cool, wet sand squishes between her pink toes.

Seagulls cry and dive to the saltwater, searching for sustenance.

White waves break against the rocks, crumbling them with time.

She sits down in her sand, her water and waves.

Wind-whipped grit grinds her teeth and stings her skin.

The salt on her lips makes her tongue cringe.

The Bahamian sun reddens her nose, her shoulders and back.

She doesn’t care. The warmth chases out the chill.

The sun and water give life to the palms.

They will give new life to her, too.

Her damaged skin will peel away, leaving soft pink to protect her.

Blue Ocean Cassidy Rhoades

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April 2014

Midnighter April 2014

J. Kathryn Gooch

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Color Craze Cassidy Rhoades