Impressions 2016

impressions literary and art magazine

iii

impressions literary and art magazine

Volume XXVIII, 2016 Dickinson State University

ABOUT IMPRESSIONS Impressions is Dickinson State University’s annual literary and art magazine. Founded in 1989, the magazine has been produced by students of English 213, the Department of Language and Literature’s literary publications course, since 2005. We consider submissions of creative writing, photography, and two-dimensional artwork by DSU students, faculty, staff, and alumni. As of 2016, we also accept submissions by regional high school students. All work should be submitted using our online submssion form, which can be found, along with our submission guidelines, contact informaton, and back issues at dickinsonstate. edu/impressions.

© 2016 by the editors of Impressions. All future rights to material published in Impressions belong to the individual authors and artists. Any reproduction or reprinting of this material requires their permission.

Cover artwork by Samantha Gordon. 2015, Oil Paint on Canvas, 24” x 30”.

The staff and advisors would like to thank Dickinson State University and the Department of Language and Literature for funding the magazine. We would like to thank Short Run Printing LTD. Most of all we would like to thank those who have submitted their work for consideration. Without your willingness to share your work we could not achieve our mission of encouraging the practice and appreciation of literary and visual arts.

2016 IMPRESSIONS STAFF STUDENT EDITORS Jessica Grebner Rachel M. Klein Salena Loveland Cody Sattler STUDENT ADVISOR Cassidy Rhoades FACULTY ADVISOR Dr. Peter Grimes

Top row: Cody Sattler, Rachel M. Klein, Jessica Grebner Bottom row: Peter Grimes, Salena Loveland, Cassidy Rhoades

EDITORS’ WELCOME Dear Readers, First of all, we would like to say how excited we are that this issue of Impressions has found its way into your hands. The journey from the planning stages to this point has been far from easy. This trek involved many late nights and early mornings but also an abundance of joy and learning.

The twenty-eighth volume of Impressions represents many firsts.

This year we have, for the first time, opened submissions to area high schools to broaden the creative spectrum. Our staff was unsure what kind of response this would bring, but we received a large number of submissions in all genres. The passion and dedication shown by these students toward literature and art has us excited to see what kind of students will attend DSU in the near future. This is also the first year the magazine will be perfect bound rather than saddle-stitched. We have also decreased the size of the magazine to 6” x 9” so that each piece has its own pages.

We hope you enjoy our 2016 issue as much as we enjoyed developing it. We also hope you are as moved by the content as we were. Most importantly, we hope this edition encourages our readers not only to enjoy the works of others, but also to get in touch with their own creative sides.

A huge thank you to all of our readers, because you are the reason we all continue to write, draw, photograph, and simply create.

Sincerely,

Impressions Student Editors

2016 PRIZES DICKINSON STATE UNIVERSITY STUDENTS

Fiction Winner Marcus Dietrich—A Surfer’s Worst Nightmare Nonfiction Winner Charles Olambo—Visit to Dogon Nahawa Nonfiction Runner-Up Shekinah Obomighie—Night of Epiphany Photography Winner Ryan Jones—Hard Rocks Photography Runner-Up Stormie Sickler—Star Trails Poetry Winner Karli Rothschiller—The Day the Valley Moved Poetry Runner-Up Trey Howard—Scripts Two-Dimensional Art Winner Samantha Gordon—Eye Two-Dimensional Art Runner-Up Michaela Gorman—Be’iina

2016 PRIZES HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS

Creative Writing Winner Allison Galbreath—New Addictions Creative Writing Runner-Up MaKenna Rott—I’m Sorry, Excuse Me Visual Art Winner Kinsley Bendixson—Niagara Falls Visual Art Runner-Up Madison Penn—Medusa’s Pet

CONTENTS FICTION Allison Galbreath Marcus Dietrich Tehya Mallory Samuel Karie Robert Meador David Brevik

New Addictions A Surfer’s Worst Nightmare Leave a Message Show Me You Care The Brain on PTA Drunk Armor

5 11 30 41 58 82

Visit to Dogon Nahawa Smoke Night of Epiphany The Truth about Senior Year

14 21 64 80

Abandoned Railroad Wake Boarding North Dakota Badlands in Bloom So God Made a Farmer Aspen Eye of the Tiger Pump Jack Winter Magic Star Trails Works of Labor Under His Love Hard Rocks A Winter Day in Dickinson Niagara Falls Bananas Personified—Sitting Queen City Motel Cider

4 10 19 29 39 45 49 52 57 71 75 76 79 81 95 97

NONFICTION Charles Olambo Margaret Barnhart Shekinah Obomighie Hailey Entze PHOTOGRAPHY Marcus Dietrich Hayden Kemp Dale Dolechek Karli Rothschiller Stormie Sickler Karli Rothschiller Tae Paulson Dale Dolechek Stormie Sickler Elaine Smith Ryan Jones Ryan Jones Kinsley Bendixson Briana Dolechek Ryan Jones Cody Sattler

CONTENTS POETRY MaKenna Rott Karli Rothschiller Shelby Kanski MaKenna Rott K. C. Hanson K. C. Hanson Jennifer Larkins Jennifer Larkins Sovi Herring Trey Howard Anita Weiler Margie Silbernagel Alan Church Hunter Gallagher Margie Silbernagel Geneva Nodland K. C. Hanson

I’m Sorry, Excuse Me The Day the Valley Moved First It The Seven Seas On the Spectrum Love An Angel Adored Colors of Change Scripts But I’m Here A Pretty Face Agamemnon and Iphigenia at Aulis The Cash But Maybe I Should’ve Listened I Have Loved Naming the Birds

2 8 20 33 35 36 38 40 46 48 50 53 73 74 77 91 96

TWO-DIMENSIONAL ARTWORK Samantha Gordon Michaela Gorman Josh Reed Josh Reed Derek Huether Sally Herauf Sally Herauf Briana Dolechek Briana Dolechek Madison Penn Briana Dolechek

Eye Be’iina North Dakota Beauty Cosmic Down by the River Still Life Lake Life Abstracted Tool #2 Dock on Flathead Lake Medusa’s Pet On My Way to Jayden’s Game

Cover 1 7 13 34 37 47 63 72 89 90

1 BE’IINA Two-Dimensional Art Michaela Gorman

2016, Sharpie/Ink on Paper, 17 1/2” x 15”

2 I’M SORRY, EXCUSE ME Poetry MaKenna Rott All alone in the lunch line she stood, thinking of things that were no good.

“This line is too long, my body’s too weak. I think I’ll skip lunch, just for the week.”

She slipped out of place, five people before her, bowed down her head, tucked in her shoulders.

“I’m sorry, excuse me. I’m sorry, excuse me.”

Her tears built up, about to crash down. She put on a fake smile, though desperate to frown.

“I need to use the bathroom, then I’ll go back to lunch.”

She lied to the teachers; they knew what was up.

“I don’t like today’s lunch, plus I ate late this morning. It was sorta like brunch.”

She ate it before, before she was like this. She loved it before, it was something she’d miss.

“My stomach hurts, my head is spinning. This is what I get, my body is thinning.”

In the middle of math, she got up to walk, collapsed on the floor, hit her head on the block.

“Hey, are you okay? I think she’s just had a rough day.”

Kids around her ignored it, did not seem to care.

“Wait one second, is that blood in her hair?”

They all rushed around, someone called the police. They were already too late, her heart started to cease.

Rott | 3 “I love you mother, I love you father. Please forgive me, but I was too much a bother.”

Her eyes closed slightly, as the teacher held her tightly.

“Please stay with us, we can get you help, you won’t be a fuss.”

Her head dropped, her body went limp; she could brave the fight no longer.

She was a wimp.

4 ABANDONED RAILROAD Photography Marcus Dietrich

2014

5 NEW ADDICTIONS

Fiction Allison Galbreath

I take a deep breath and maneuver through the crowd on the sidewalk. My sweaty palms fiddle with the cash in my oversized sweatshirt pocket.

Maybe I should pull my hood up. Fighting against my nerves, I decide against it; I need to be inconspicuous. Pushing past rushed business people on their lunch breaks, I shake my head and try to clear my thoughts.

What am I even doing? My parents would be so disappointed if they saw me now. I bite my cheek. I should have known this would happen. Everyone warned me against hanging out with those kids at school. Peer pressure has gotten the best of me. I’ve become so desperate to know what they’re always excited about, to experience it for myself.

Stepping across the street, I pass a quaint cafe. The sweet aroma of coffee fills my nose. Bitterly, I think to myself, it must be wonderful living without this . . . need for knowledge. I come to an alleyway. It is in the middle of 5th Avenue, just as they promised. My breath catches.

If I go in, there will be no turning back. If I don’t, I’ll never understand the world my friends are always speaking of: the world where dreams run wild. I enter the alley.

My foot kicks an old soda can, and I jump back a few inches. The hairs on my neck stick up as I glance back to make sure no one noticed me.

“First time, huh?” a voice from the shadows asks.

Tucked next to a dumpster is a boy around my age. He is lean, tall, and wears a baggy gray sweatshirt with the hood drawn up, but it fails to hide his messy raven hair. A bulging backpack is slung over one of

6 | Galbreath his shoulders.

“That obvious?” I ask with a nervous smile.

The boy steps out from the shadows. “Don’t worry. You get used to it quick.” His face is smooth and ashen with baggy eyes all the sleepless nights spent feeding his addiction. “Do you have the cash?”

“Yeah.” I grip the money in my pocket. I feel oddly tranquil. This is the right choice.

The boy flashes me a Cheshire grin, and swings his backpack down. He kneels, setting the sack on the dirt floor of the alley, and unzips it. “What’s your poison?”

“Poe.” He nods. “Good choice. Some people refer to him as the father to modern-day detective stories.” He shuffles through the backpack.

“Personally, I prefer Shakespeare. Much classier. And it tends to run well with the ladies,” he says with a wink. He pulls out a thick leatherbound book. In one swift motion he zips up the backpack, swings it over his shoulder, and stands. He holds the volume out to me. I grasp it carefully and inspect the rich, ruby-red cover. Black letters dance across the leather in an entrancing pattern. I sniff the musty pages.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t. I am making you pay me,” the boy replies coldly, but I note the remnants of a small grin. Moving the purchase to the crook of my arm, I hand over the cash. I turn to leave the alley.

“Come back when you’re done. I’m getting some Sherlock Holmes in, and if you like Dupin, you’ll surely love that master detective.”

“Sure thing,” I reply over my shoulder as I merge with the sidewalk traffic.

Around me I can hear the clicks and beeps of this digital world.

Hugging the book closer, I stare up at the sky. Smoke from the city’s factories blurs the horizon. Sunlight peeks through the smog. I feel differently from before; a smile lights up my face. Who cares what the world thinks? Sometimes the world is wrong.

7 NORTH DAKOTA BEAUTY Two-Dimensional Art Josh Reed

2015, Oil on Canvas, 24” x 18”

8 THE DAY THE VALLEY MOVED Poetry Karli Rothschiller As we drive before the night I see the valley trying to keep the light.

It picks me up and holds me on my way back to that day that the valley moved— There we sat my father and I waiting, like dogs for their master, to see the valley move— The wait, however so long, was a lullaby, to my father— His snore like a saw, cutting the anticipation of seeing the valley move— When out of the brush, came the prize seemingly camouflaged, yet targeted, by the hunter— I shook my father to sit up and not see

Rothschiller | 9 but witness the valley move— My green gun was a hawk eyeing its prey— It’s almost silence, through the loud thoughts running in my mind, steady— do it— now— one chance— I heard the shot I saw the swift smoke dance in the air— The valley moved no more.

10 WAKE BOARDING Photography Hayden Kemp

2015

11 A SURFER’S WORST NIGHTMARE Fiction Marcus Dietrich Bobbing in the clear, warm waves, Jake sat on his surfboard, awaiting the perfect swell. The beach was surprisingly empty for a hot Friday afternoon; he didn’t have to worry about finding a place in the water to call his own. No one would bother him or get in his way. A few feet in front of him, pelicans flew in a straight line just inches above the water, their wing tips skimming the height of the swells. He looked down and beyond his magnified feet to the sandy bottom; he liked the way the water distorted the appearance of everything, like the funhouse mirrors on the boardwalk.

A splash sounded to his left. He glanced over to see a small flash of black submerge into the waves. “Nothing to worry about,” he reassured himself. He looked down again into the water at his tan feet when he noticed a shadow pass beneath him like a slow-moving dart.

Swallowing hard, he jerked his feet up and sat on his board, curled into a ball. He watched as the dark shape whisked under his board again.

“This cannot be happening.” Frozen, curved as the relentless sun, he waited for the shadow to pass again.

Water splattered his back as he heard the creature breach the surface. Ripples from the churned water dissipated in front of him. The animal nudged the back of the surfboard. Jake grabbed the edges of the board with trembling hands as it slapped back onto the surface of the waves. Lifting his head, he vomited at his feet so as not to chum the water. Breathless, he inhaled heavily only to have the salty scent of the ocean meet with the acrid smell of his expelled breakfast. The dark mass passed underneath. Immobilized by fear, he tensed to throw up again; his retching produced nothing but pain in his parched throat.

The beast rammed the board again. Jake knew that sitting and

12 | Dietrich waiting—half-naked, nearly hopeless, and entirely helpless—would lead to nothing. Abandoning caution, he raised himself to his knees, closed his eyes, and thrust his hands into the water. His fingers met sandpaper skin. He screamed, paddling wildly to propel himself toward dry sand.

The thing of his nightmares head-butted the bottom of the board, sending the determined surfer a few inches into the air. He gripped the edges so as to not lose total contact, but his right leg slipped from the board. He felt the roughness of the shark’s coarse skin on the bottom of his sand-smoothed foot. He pulled his foot up and drove it back into the water, hoping to make hard contact with the creature.

He grunted as his foot collided with the same gritty texture, instantly realizing that his foot had hit not the attacker, but the ocean floor. He leaped from his board toward the shore, collapsing headfirst into the water before getting his footing on the ribbed sand. Heavy breathing caused him to inhale and choke on a mouthful of the bitter liquid.

The water was just above his knees as he sprinted for safety. He yelled.

Something swept across his calf. He pressed harder toward the shore.

Like knives into warm butter, a hundred razors effortlessly slid into his right leg.

His head shot up and he smiled, realizing none of the attack had been real. Shaking from his terror-stricken dream, he sat up on his surfboard and winced at the red hot stinging on his shoulders; falling asleep in the sun has painful repercussions. He focused on his bright-red towel lying on the beach like a dying ember. The sunburned surfer got to his knees and started paddling toward shore. He heard a discomforting splash to his left. He looked. His focus shifted from his vivid towel to a sleek black fin breaching the surface just inches away.

13 COSMIC Two-Dimensional Art Josh Reed

2015, Oil on Canvas, 24” x 36”

14 VISIT TO DOGON NAHAWA Nonfiction Charles Olambo Feeling the cool breeze blow along the untarred road, with the fruiting mango trees on each side, I did not have to use my hand fan in the vehicle. The temperature is always an average of 18° C to 22° C in northern Nigeria. The vehicle moved slowly because of the deplorable condition of the road leading to the village of Dogon Nahawa. Birds chirped, reminding me of the exciting stories I’d heard about the serene and peaceful nature of this place I was going.

I kept asking the driver if we were there and he always replied, “Chairman, we are getting close.” Chairman, or Oga, is a polite way to address someone who is well dressed and looks different from the residents of a particular community. We finally came to a halt, and he said we had arrived at Dogon Nahawa, but that I would need a motorcycle to take me to the house.

A bike rider appeared. “Oga, where are you going?”

“The blue house immediately after Cocin Church.”

“I know the place. I will take you there.”

I had come to Dogon Nahawa to attend the traditional wedding of a friend’s sister, slated for 2 P.M. the next day. In this part of the world, a traditional wedding is compulsory. It is an old ceremony that requires paying a bride price to marry a woman. Without it, the society does not consider a couple married even if they were to go to court or church to register and get a certificate. As a way of honoring the bride’s family, this ceremony is usually observed at their home.

My friend and I were very happy to see each other after five years apart. He took me in and introduced me to his family. Then we retired to his room, where we reminisced. Suddenly, he remembered he had to go to church for choir practice. Because I had known him to be ac-

Olambo | 15 tive in church service, I didn’t try to stop him. While he was gone, I explored the village.

Most of the houses were made of mud and had old zinc roofing while a few roofs were thatched. Judging by the number of church buildings, I guessed the people were predominantly Christian. As I walked further, I found two girls carrying a water bucket and followed to see where they would fill it. We walked past some farmland and got to a stream where I saw some men talking. Apparently they’d come to search for a young boy who’d been sent to fetch water that morning. I became nervous and rushed back home to tell my friend of the disappearance.

“I heard about it earlier in the day, but I thought the boy might be somewhere playing,” my friend said.

“Has this happened before?”

“No.” “Okay.” I changed the subject. “How is the arrangement for the marriage? Is there anything you need me to do?” I was not comfortable knowing about the missing child. He said everything was in place.

Then, we talked briefly about life in the village compared to life in the city before we went to bed.

Around 2 A.M., a loud sound like that of a gunshot woke me.

I assumed it must have been an empty deodorant spray can that had been burning along with other trash. Then I heard a woman’s scream.

With a shaky voice, I asked my friend what was going on.

“I don’t know.”

There was no source of electricity, so I picked up a kerosene lamp to light up the room. Suddenly, I heard footsteps from all different directions.

“Put out the light,” my friend’s mother whispered.

I did, and we stayed calm in the room for about a minute. When the sound of the footsteps had faded, we rushed out of the house onto farmland that was some hundred meters away. We hid on the moist

16 | Olambo soil, in the cold and thick darkness, not minding whether snakes or scorpions were nearby. The farm had grains growing, so the leaves provided some cover. By now I knew something serious, something I had hoped never to witness again, had just begun.

Years earlier, one morning in February 2000, I was in school when an emergency bell rang and chaos erupted. The school director was making calls, and we were told to board the school bus. Then the director came with the bus driver and told us to be calm, that he would take us home. On our way, I saw corpses, bashed cars parked haphazardly by the road, and thick dark smoke. I was so scared. The driver kept moving until we met a blockade in a town and a group of men came and asked the driver some questions. I heard the driver say we were all Christians. They released us. We left amidst great fear, not knowing what we would encounter ahead. Eventually, I got home unhurt and learned that some Christians who had gone out on a peaceful rally to express their views on the introduction of Sharia Law in the State had been attacked.

Now, as we hid in the field, I heard shouts. Women and children ran for their lives. The screams and gun shots got closer.

“Please do not kill my baby! You can have me,” a woman cried out.

“Keep quiet, woman,” a man said and told her to run.

Oh, he is going to spare her, I thought, but why would he not give her the baby?

The woman started to run, and then I heard a gunshot. He must have killed her. The man looked at the baby crying, brought out a machete, and killed it like a goat. He flashed his light around and returned in the direction he’d come. We ran across the farm land to a nearby village. There, we discovered that tires were being burnt, and we assumed it to be the village watch guards carrying out their duty.

For a moment, I felt a sigh of relief and thought we should move closer. Then I heard the people yell, “Allahu Akhbar!” and I realized

Olambo | 17 they were the Fulani herdsmen who presumably had caused the havoc in the community. At that point I knew that our escape could only be through an act of the merciful God. We hid in the bush for almost fifteen minutes, unnoticed, until my friend’s younger sister screamed. I believed she’d been stung by a scorpion. The killer group flashed their light around.

“That scream was from the opposite direction,” one said.

“No, it was close by,” said another.

We ran back into the farmland as fast as we could. The terrain had ridges and heaps with plants growing on them, so it was not easy running on it. “Woyo Allah, Woyo Allah!” my friend’s mother screamed.

She must have fallen down and gotten captured. I tried to stop.

“We can’t stop,” my friend said as he held my hand. “Keep moving.” We kept hearing gunshots, screams, as thick smoke covered the whole place. When we discovered that the men had stopped chasing us, we decided to rest because we were exhausted. I wondered what fate had in store for my young life.

Just then I heard a siren, and about six trucks drove by with fully armed men who identified themselves as soldiers of the Nigerian Army.

“We are here on a rescue mission. If you are in hiding, please come out.” They said the situation was under control.

When I tried to walk toward them, I could barely stand on my feet as I felt serious pains around my ankle. But my friend helped me to one of the vehicles.

As we moved around the village in search of other survivors, I saw a lot of corpses and discovered that most of the houses had been burnt down. The sight of a dead pregnant woman with her premature fetus on top of her sliced belly made tears roll down my cheek. I could not imagine the cruelty of her death and the pain she must have gone through. It was horrible. It felt like a dream because what I thought was going to be fun had turned into a nightmare.

18 | Olambo They took all the survivors to a safe place to receive medical care, and I looked around for my friend’s mother and sister. They were nowhere to be found.

There is a long history of violence between the two dominant religions in northern Nigeria. Hundreds of people have been killed in similar uprisings. I cannot state who is responsible. But I know that issues that should not have degenerated into a crisis—for instance, the deaths of Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussein—have triggered some violence in the past. Although some people have argued that it is usually politically motivated, I just don’t understand why people should kill in this manner.

For years, the smell of blood and the pictures of dead bodies always showed up whenever I wanted to sleep, and it kept the memories very fresh in my heart. It was my first visit to Dogon Nahawa, and it is still my worst day on earth. I can sleep now, and even though this happened about six years ago, it seems very much like yesterday. Time played a part and healed my broken emotions.

19 NORTH DAKOTA BADLANDS IN BLOOM Photography Dale Dolechek

2014

20 FIRST Poetry Shelby Kanski First steps Learning to ride a bike First broken arm and heart First move, fewer family members No more tears, they’ve all dried up First embarrassment to the name Pain doesn’t fade away with time First time in denial, it doesn’t get easier Learning how to detach from the hurt of life Don’t know how to thaw frozen hands, frozen heart Trying to cope with the anger, the despair First plea for help, but no one listens Pain keeps tearing the words apart First taste of freedom—revel in it Doesn’t last long, it never does First attempt . . . it doesn’t work Won’t be the last time or try Have to do it until it works First moments with peace Don’t have to feel again No more beginnings There are only Endings.

21 SMOKE Nonfiction Margaret Barnhart Mom-ism: Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

Mothers seem to possess a kind of natural radar. They can detect the slightest sign of something amiss in their children: a hint of a cold, an unspoken fear, even guilt. Ray, Kathy, and I used to think that moms and nuns shared a strange physical disorder—rear-view vision. Of course, we never actually saw those eyes on the backs of their heads, but if they didn’t exist, how could Mom know that we kids were playing with the bucket of dried beans in the basement, or jumping off the shed roof behind the garage, or teasing Mrs. Baer’s chickens in the neighboring backyard? Disturbed by sudden lapses in our giggling, she’d hunt us down—or when we showed up for dinner or supper with angelic eyes, she’d take one look and say, “How many times have I told you NOT to . . .”—whatever our infraction might be.

“How did you know?” Ray asked.

“I can tell when you’re up to mischief,” Mom said. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, you know.”

“But we haven’t been smoking!” we chorused.

“Just mind the rules,” Mom instructed, “and I won’t have to worry about you getting sick or in trouble or hurt.”

Like many of my generation, I sometimes wonder how we Baby Boomers managed to survive childhood. We might have had rules of behavior or a list of “thou-shalt-nots,” but most parents didn’t childproof their homes. We didn’t have safety locks to keep us away from poisonous household cleansers or medicines. We’d never heard of bicycle helmets or protective padding for elbows and knees. Cars didn’t have seat belts and there were no infant or toddler safety seats because mothers’ arms were the most protective infant carriers available. We

22 | Barnhart Boomers grew up with skinned elbows and knees painted pink with stinging mercurochrome. We took our bumps and bruises and sported them proudly. Ray, Kathy, and I didn’t like the foul taste of medicines—even of children’s cough syrups—and so a medicine cabinet was no temptation. Some Boomers did experience the penalty of having mouths washed out with soap, and that experience—or even the threat of it—kept us away from the bottles of bleach, detergent, and cleansers under the kitchen sink.

Still, some warnings did go unheeded. When Mom cautioned us about the potential peril of wet feet or the danger of damp, chilly air, we didn’t take her seriously. In early spring, we couldn’t resist jumping into rain or snow-melt puddles, even when the icy water leaked into our hated overshoes. In summer we loved playing hide-and-seek in the tall grass of the vacant lot next door, hugging the sometimesdamp ground while the wind waved the grass around us. Late summer and early fall gave us longer periods of dusk, the perfect time to scare ourselves playing Moonlight-Starlight in the growing shadows. After counting to fifty or one hundred with eyes closed, the “It” person sang out the refrain, “Moonlight, starlight, hope to see the ghost tonight!”

The idea was to locate our hiding playmates, the ghosts, before any of them could pop out from an unexpected place, bellowing, “Boo!” What a thrilling and healthy chill that game added to chilly twilight air.

We were even less cautionary then about playing with fire. In the days before city ordinances banned trash fires in small towns, a household task was to burn each week’s accumulation of trash in an old fifty-gallon drum. Only after we kids had proven ourselves responsible enough were we allowed to strike the match and feed the flames.

Smoke wafted from backyards on a regular basis, coating the air with a rank poison.

In fall, particularly in the russet-colored month of October, a pleasant smoky smell scented the atmosphere as farmers burned stubble

Barnhart | 23 fields and townspeople burned leaves. I loved that cozy time of year and the last bit of mild weather, especially the play that followed leafraking chores. An irresistible temptation awaited us: a huge, dappled pile of fallen leaves.

“Just once! Please?” we begged Dad, who had spent all morning raking our huge yard, sweeping the leaves into that enormous mound in the middle of the garden. We had helped as best we could and now stood around him, our eyes pleading.

“Gotta burn ‘em today,” he said. “Might be too windy tomorrow.”

“Pleeeze?” we chorused again. That mound didn’t just invite; it commanded us to run, leap, and dive into its crispy softness.

“Well, I don’t think so.” Dad’s voice took on false gruffness and the familiar spark of mischief lit his eyes. We knew he just wanted a little more pleading.

“Please-please-pretty-please?”

“All right,” he finally gave in, “but those leaves better be back in a pile by the time I get out here again, or—” “Else!” We finished his sentence, already racing to the garden’s edge, each of us claiming first turn. Because Ray was the oldest, he gallantly insisted he should jump first “to make sure the pile is soft enough.”

“But you’re the biggest,” Kathy argued. “You’ll squoosh it! I’m the youngest; I should go first.”

“But you’re not the littlest,” I offered my middle-child wisdom.

“You’re taller than I am so I should go first.”

Ray didn’t wait to prolong the argument. With a Tarzan yell, he sprinted toward the leaves. Within a stride of the pile, he hurled himself upward, then belly-flopped in the center, sending up a spray of brown, yellow, orange, and spent green.

“My turn!” I called my place in the birth order. “Pile it up again.”

Ray scooped the wayward leaves back into the pile, preparing it for my assault. When I judged it high enough, I dashed toward it. My

24 | Barnhart heart pounded. What if that heap were not soft enough? What if sticks and twigs mingled with the leaves to tear at my face and hands? What if the pile were full of bugs and worms? I closed my eyes to these possible horrors and dared myself to leap.

“Wheee!”

Half-buried in leaves, I inhaled the earthy scent of dried foliage.

Leaf crumbs clung to my clothes and hair. Rolling over onto my back, I stared up into a deep blue October sky.

“Hurry up! It’s my turn!” Kathy called.

I scooped at the pile, heightening it for my sister. The three of us made several more jumps into the leaves, taking time to re-rake and re-mound after each leap. Only once or twice did we run out of turn.

Too soon, it seemed, Dad returned, and we knew our leaf-jumping Olympics had ended. Dad and Ray each picked up a rake, and before long the mound of leaves stood ready for Dad’s match.

“You kids stand back now.”

Dad struck a match against the sole of his shoe, then cupped the small flame and guided it to the edge of the pile. We watched from a safe distance as the flame teased and flickered. A wisp of smoke rose just as the match burned out. Dad leaned close and blew on the red-orange glow of smoldering leaves. In a moment, a spark came alive again, grew into a tiny flame, and then blazed with a whooshing sound. Smoke billowed white and gray, carrying the aroma of a perfect October day.

What did Mom do while we enjoyed autumn play? About that time of year, she was elbow deep in fruit from our three apple trees.

She would spend hours—sometimes days—peeling apples, quartering and slicing them, and preparing the dough for her specialty: apple strudel. Mom never made just one strudel. With a good-sized apple harvest, she prepared dozens of pies and strudels, then froze them unbaked so that we’d have plenty of desserts during the winters ahead.

The house had to be warm for the strudel dough. If the air temper-

Barnhart | 25 ature were a little too cool, the dough would not have enough elasticity, and instead of smoothly stretching, it would tear. Mom stretched the dough over a cloth on the kitchen table, slowly pulling from every side. She coaxed the dough gently with her fingers until it covered the table like paper-thin linen. Then she mixed the apple slices with sugar and cinnamon and sprinkled them over the dough. While we played outside, watched the fire, and breathed its smoke in a sweet kind of trance, Mom baked the first of many apple strudels. What lovely October days those were! They seemed garbed in the rich colors of sky and pumpkins and fire, and perfumed with the smells of apples and smoke.

One year, a different kind of smoke choked the usual perfection of October. This smoke had no scent, and we couldn’t discern it against the sky or horizon. It was more a feeling, but a feeling so palpable it seemed to thicken the air; we had no choice but to breathe it in. It felt heavy and menacing, and it made people talk in hushed or frightened tones. It signaled a fire even Dad couldn’t control.

Mom and Dad spoke seriously and softly so we wouldn’t hear them, or else they resorted to speaking in German so we wouldn’t understand them. The radio that usually provided only background sound became a focal point in the kitchen. Mom and Dad even began to get up from the supper table to catch blurbs on television’s evening news.

We noticed this change at school too, where we always began the day with a prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance. Now, however, the prayers were longer, and they didn’t occur only first thing in the morning, but also prior to every class and even just before recess. Even the mood of my weekly piano lesson changed. Sister Bernard usually had done all of her praying before I arrived and only occasionally sprinkled a “Good Lord” or “Heaven help us” during my playing. Now she seemed distracted.

26 | Barnhart “Before you start playing,” Sister said, “we should say a very special prayer.”

I looked at her, my stomach knotting. Sister Bernard didn’t wear her usual scowl. The fire in her eyes I’d come to dread wasn’t there.

Instead I saw the same frightened and dazed look that had appeared in the eyes of my parents and other adults. For whatever reason, I found my voice for Sister Bernard, when I had not for my parents.

“What happened?” I finally asked in a small voice.

“The world is in a crisis,” she replied. “We have to pray very hard now for peace.”

“Is there going to be a war?” I knew only a little about war, having heard Dad’s stories about World War II, and his being a prisoner of the Nazis.

“Let’s hope not. That’s why we’re praying very hard right now.

And we must pray for the Russians, too, so that they’ll take down their missiles.”

I didn’t play well during that lesson, but Sister Bernard didn’t scold.

That night our family watched the evening news together. How I hoped the two newsmen would tell us that everything was all right again so we could resume our peaceful, untroubled lives. Instead, I saw an unfamiliar face on the news: a fiery-eyed, bald man gesturing wildly and shouting in a language I couldn’t understand. By the frown on Mom’s face, I knew that here was the source of the gloom hanging over us all, a Russian madman named Khrushchev.

I had a hard time falling asleep that night. I knew that the mysterious place Cuba was far away, yet it seemed to be creeping closer.

Every creak in the house, every whisper of the wind outside, became sinister. I burrowed deep into my blankets and pulled my pillow over my head. The face of that wild man on television haunted me, and I was sure that if I opened my eyes, I’d see Mr. Khrushchev’s head hovering like a Macy’s Parade balloon right outside my window. He was

Barnhart | 27 close, coming closer, and only that thin pane of glass kept him from destroying the sweet security of our home.

I tried to do what Sister Bernard had suggested, to pray very hard, but I wasn’t sure what that meant. What was the difference between hard-praying and easy-praying? Should I kneel? Clench my eyes and clasp my hands tighter? Shout? Cry? Would any of this put out the fiery anger of Mr. Khrushchev’s voice? Could it ever dissolve the pall that lay over us like smoke?

Maybe it was a miracle of prayer; maybe it was shrewd diplomacy. The intense dread seemed to last a long time, but in reality, only about two weeks passed before the fears and frowns eased. We all resumed ordinary life, made much sweeter after the possibility of losing it. Moms baked apple pies and dads burned leaves, while kids caroused near carefully tended flames, fanning the smoke. We knew these fires. They were good fires—home fires—and they kept burning.

APPLE STRUDLE Dough: Filling: 1 ½ cups flour 7 to 8 cups sliced apples ¼ teaspoon salt 1 cup sugar ¾ cup warm water 1 teaspoon cinnamon 1 tablespoon cooking oil ¼ cup melted shortening 1 egg beaten In a large bowl place flour, salt, and egg. Add the warm water and oil.

Mix and knead on floured board until smooth. The more the dough is worked, the better it will be. Roll into a ball and flatten a little, then brush with warm shortening. Cover with a bowl and let the dough rest in a warm place for ½ to 1 hour. While the dough is resting, mix the

28 | Barnhart apple filling ingredients.

Put a table cloth on a table that is approximately 3 x 4 feet. When ready to stretch the dough, hold it and gently pull. Lay the dough on the floured cloth and pull it gradually toward the edges of the table with your hands under it until the dough hangs over the edge of the table and is as thin as paper. Tear off dough that hangs off the edge. Spread filling over spread dough quickly, then fold the dough just around the edges of the table. At the longer side of the table, pick up the cloth in both hands and allow the strudel to roll itself over into a long roll. Spiral it carefully into a greased 9 x 13 or larger pan. Brush the top with melted butter and bake for ½ hour at 400 degrees, then reduce heat to 350 and bake for another ½ hour until strudel is browned.

Note: This strudel is not crunchy and crispy as those one may find in current supermarkets. Rather it is quite moist. The recipe will make one strudel. Mom made many strudels every fall, and was so adept that her strudel dough never tore even when she stretched it across a table even larger than the 3 x 4 indicated. When I tried to make strudel one year, I couldn’t stretch the dough without tearing it even over an eighteeninch cutting board. Mom was truly a strudel artisan.

29 SO GOD MADE A FARMER

Photography Karli Rothschiller

2015

30 LEAVE A MESSAGE Fiction Tehya Mallory Annabelle wakes to a blinding headache. She groans and reaches for her cell on the nightstand. 8:45. Crap. Byron will be here in fifteen minutes. Jumping out of bed, she stumbles to her vanity and looks in the mirror. She’s puzzled by the fact she is already wearing her dress for tonight. Huh, I must’ve put it on before I fell asleep. It is finals week, and she’s exhausted from studying all morning. Shrugging it off, she plugs in her curling iron.

Running the comb through her long blonde hair, she notices a small bruise on her left temple. She touches the blue-purplish mark. It is tender and warm. When did this happen? Using concealer, she covers the area around the bruise, then finishes with a few swipes along her jawline. She meets her own dark-blue eyes in the mirror. They seem . . . lighter than usual. Pushing the thought out of her head, she snatches up her cell and types out a quick message to Byron. “Hey, I’m just about ready you on your way?” The light on her iron turns green, so she proceeds to fixing her hair.

Twenty minutes later, Anna stands in front of her apartment building, phone in hand. He said nine, right? Nine o’clock sharp. She clicks on her phone and checks the messages. The time reads 9:05. I better call him.

“Hey, this is Byron, I’m not able to answer at the moment. Just leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” Anna soaks in his deep, melodic voice; a calming buzz passes through her body.

She leaves a voicemail stating she’s going to the Meat & Greet to hang with her friends, and asks if he’s okay. She tries to hail a cab, but they pass by, not slowing. Go ahead, pass up a paying customer. She decides to walk.

Mallory | 31 At Meat & Greet, her friends are in the usual booth, but something is off. When she opens the glass door, the sound of sobbing and sniffles fills her mind. Oh no, what happened? She walks over to the booth, where a girl with short black hair is comforting the sobbing one with curly brunette hair. “Cassidy, what’s wrong? Why is Liz crying?” she asks the girl with black hair. Noticing Cassidy has puffy red eyes too, she reaches out to her and whispers, “Cassy?”

Liz hiccups and lets out a wail, stopping Anna in her tracks.

“They were so perfect together!” she cries, tears streaming down her cheeks. “They didn’t deserve to . . . to,” she sputters before breaking down again.

Cassidy rubs her back. “Shh, it’s okay. I know they didn’t deserve it. No one does.” Anna reaches out again and touches Cassidy’s arm, then gasps in horror as her hand goes right through her. She shakes and is rendered speechless. Cassidy looks up, directly at Anna, but doesn’t seem to see her.

Anna runs to another booth and waves her hands in front of the couple. “Hello? Can anyone hear me? See me?”

The couple talks in low voices, glancing over at the two mourning teens. “It’s such a shame . . . young lives taken from under their feet. And seniors, so close to adulthood,” the woman whispers in a solemn tone to her partner. Anna listens as her vision blurs. “Look, they found the teen’s phone.” The man nudges the woman and they look to the television mounted on the wall.

Anna’s attention turns to the television behind her.

There is a live broadcast of an accident on the news. The reporter is standing on the road next to a wrecked semi-truck. “A teenage couple was found dead on site after a devastating head-on crash on Highway 48 a few hours ago. Victims identified as Annabelle Stevens and Byron West, seniors at Senneville High, were found lying in the ditch a few meters from the totaled vehicle. Police say the driver of the semi, forty-seven-year-old Reginald Friar, fell asleep at the wheel,

32 | Mallory causing him to swerve into the oncoming lane. Byron West was speeding and didn’t see the oncoming semi, resulting in a head-on collision that ejected both teens from the vehicle.”

Annabelle’s mind reels as a memory pops into her head.

Bright lights Byron’s arm A horn Flying Sickening crack Darkness On the television, a younger woman approaches the reporter, and whispers in his ear.

“This just in, folks,” he says into the camera, “some shocking evidence. The cell phone of Byron West, found yards from the bodies, has a message from Annabelle Stevens, the other deceased teen.”

The woman holds the phone shakily and says something inaudible.

Going pale, the reporter clears his throat. “There is a voicemail, along with a text message, that was sent thirty minutes ago from Annabelle’s phone, almost two hours after her death.” He gestures at the cameraman to zoom in on the phone. The woman presses a button, and Anna’s voice, faint and disembodied, crackles through the television.

“Byron, since you aren’t answering me, I’m going to the Meat & Greet to see friends. Are you ok? Call me back! Love you!”

The camera pans back to the reporter’s blood-drained face.

“W-well there you have it, folks, a voicemail from beyond the grave . . . ” He trails off. Swaying, he looks around. “Did you feel that cool breeze? Because I swear I just felt a cool breeze.”

The reporter runs his hand through his hair. “This is Senneville’s ten o’clock news, and I’m . . . I’m done.” He stumbles as he walks off.

The cameraman follows in protest and leaves the lens pointed toward the accident. Two shadows appear to cross the ground, then dissipate together into the totaled vehicle.

33 IT

I feel your breath on the back of my neck, it sends shivers down my spine.

I feel your nail dig into my flesh, it causes a pebble of blood.

I hear your whisper in my head, it makes me fear you.

I sense your force holding me down, it paralyzes me.

I smell the cologne you’ve worn for years, it makes my stomach flip.

I see your smile in the halls, it makes me ache with fear.

The night you cursed my soul, it has ruined me for the rest of my life.

Each day that follows, it gets worse by the hour.

You ruined my life forever, it leaves you unaffected.

You barely got a punishment, it breaks me every time.

Poetry MaKenna Rott

34 DOWN BY THE RIVER Two-Dimensional Art Derek Huether

2015, Oil on Canvas, 24” x 18”

35 THE SEVEN SEAS Poetry K. C. Hanson for Ross Standing beside my Grandpa’s boat, his third and final vessel, my brother and I study the bench seats. The painted aluminum peels back forty years—I’m twelve, he’s six—our Father at the tiller. The world is without limits.

We fish Devils Lake: Busch Point, Cactus, Bird Island, Budweiser, the Towers—big-boat country— but our Father tells of even bigger. “Cross Lake,” he says, many times, “in waves bigger than she is long.” “Almost lost it,” he admits.

A little boat, tossed on mighty seas where all the fish are giants, the everywhere and the everything, the dream to which all fishers heir, it’s all here; it’s all inside these Seven Seas.

36 ON THE SPECTRUM Poetry K. C. Hanson for Ella It sounds so special, like my niece has become a part of the rainbow, on a trip, I suppose, over it to where the Bluebirds sing. She would fit.

She would turn even that world into art.

That’s what she does, makes art. She tapes one part onto another, cuts and folds and then tapes it back on itself. “Here,” she says, “Keep it.”

It’s a flower. Its yellow blossom hangs like my heart, three-dimensional, and now she is making a lawn mower.

I’m being literal, but the metaphor fits. When we meet, she destroys me—such creative power, mechanical, struggling to connect. But then, that’s what we do, don’t we?—place flowers in front of mowers, manage them through their hours.

37 STILL LIFE Two-Dimensional Art Sally Herauf

2015, Oil on Canvas, 18” x 24”

38 LOVE Poetry Jennifer Larkins Two young girls unlike any others.

Laughed at and frowned at, made fun of.

The boys point, the girls glare.

And their parents refuse to admit that they raised them.

‘They’re too young to know true love.”

Then tell me: If they are too young, how do they feel it?

In their hearts, in their souls?

Two young girls, judged for their once-hidden relationship too harshly.

Now one is here and one is gone simply because of the teasing the world threw their way.

39 ASPEN

Photography Stormie Sickler

2014

40 AN ANGEL ADORED Poetry Jennifer Larkins When I see you, high above the clouds I wonder: Do you take a second from your life to gaze with your beautiful face, down at me, in the burning cold of Hell?

You are everything I am not.

You, a member of God’s court.

I am but a servant, a servant to Sammael and Lilith, to Lucifer.

And if you come to smite me, will you lower your sword as I would?

Or would you choose duty over heart, and destroy my soul forever?

41 SHOW ME YOU CARE

Fiction Samuel Karie

Show me you care. Make a good impression. Come over to me at your party and linger. Narrow your spotlight on me. Check in on how things are going. Ask all the same questions. Clear a space in your mind for me. Keep up on things within this tiny window reserved for conversation, and stow it away in the vast library where you house me at the back of your mind. Pretend to be interested in each life update.

It’s exciting isn’t it? Now dig around the crust of the topic, call a friend over and regurgitate it all back to him. You dropped the “I” from that three-worded sentence I needed to hear, and suddenly it felt like a pat on the shoulder. You tell me you miss me, and leave it at that. You need a refresher; otherwise you fear you might forget me. This life you’ve gone on with: wouldn’t it feel empty without me?

Show me you care. Tell me goodbye. See me off. Walk me to the door. I know you’re busy, but you’ll bother to stay and listen to me babble. Nod along with my words that carry no urgency, no solution, and no matter. Put a penny in my cup. Give me a meaningful look.

Give me the time of day. Come watch me succeed, and fill a seat in a stadium. Say it like you mean it. Convince me. Nudge me to see if I’m still breathing. Make me a part of your life even when I can’t be.

Make me more than just a memory, across miles of separation, of earth and water. I need to know I’m still toward the top of your bookshelf.

History binds us, keeps our fire blazing. It’s not enough to feel the warmth of the flames every once in a while. You don’t care enough to add kindling. I need it, because being in your background feels like a fall from grace. Now hold my hand tighter. Tighter. Tighter. Tighter till your knuckles turn white. Let go of it, but linger at the fingertips.

You’re free to drift away now. Keep me at bay. Long enough for you to

42 | Karie comfort another. Just keep the lights on when you leave.

Show me you care. Make a grand gesture. Claw your way from the ground up. Put your back into it. Words and feelings don’t amount to much. Show me you’ve suffered. Show me how bloody the bandage is.

Give me an estimate of the money spent, the time wasted, and the effort made. Get on your knees and beg. Plead. Admit you were wrong.

Try to undo the past by arranging it in a collage of guilty apologies.

Write me a message in the sky. Serenade me with my favorite song. Get me the biggest Valentine. Give me something memorable. Something to keep me warm. I’ll watch it collect dust and wait for something new.

Buy me a bouquet of roses, and I’ll watch them wilt. Replace them with posies, and I’ll watch them wilt. Replace them with daisies, and I’ll watch them wilt. Keep me occupied. Distract me from the reason you felt the need to give me something to begin with. Give it to me wrapped in gold, and I’ll keep it in the space between us. I won’t ask for the biggest diamond, but I’m sure you’ll give it to me. Do you fear I’d say “no” if all there was on the silver band was a dull stone?

Wouldn’t you prefer to make the gestures grand? Set off a firecracker, and watch it dazzle long enough for you to relax.

Show me you care. Be the first one to tell me good morning, and fight to say the last word at night. Pick up the phone even when you’re busy. Give me your coat when it’s cold because I didn’t bother to bring one. Sign my birthday card. Say something funny. Say something meaningful. Sit me down every night for dinner; it’s a thankless job you’re perfect for. Look at me like you’re the lucky one. Make the long distance feel short. Drive to me in the dead of night. Sweep me off my feet. Make the birds sing. Turn coals into diamonds. Give it all to me in a heart-shaped box. Keep my room clean while I’m gone. Never throw my things away or put them in cardboard boxes. Now tell me you’re sorry. Not with words, not with a text, and not with the feeling of remorse that’s eating you alive. Tell me you’re sorry with something I can touch, something photogenic, something I can rip the price tag

Karie | 43 off of. I want to see how much you care by seeing how much you’re willing to sacrifice. It’s not enough to say you love me. It’s not enough to hold me tighter. I can’t believe in it anymore. I need convincing. I need to see you suffer.

Show me you care. It’s not enough for me to feel it. Validate it in the eyes of others. Let’s make a spectacle of our love. Let’s be the ones who laugh the loudest. Let’s spend forever saying goodbye. Their envy makes this deeper. We feed on their eyes. We inspire their question: “Why aren’t we that close?” Let’s take a picture. Frame it on the wall.

Share it with everyone you know. Say I’m your best friend in front of the people you’d rather be around. Make sure you tell them how much you love me. Take a look in the mirror and show yourself how much you can care about me. Show me off in a crowd. In front of a thousand people. Raise our joined hands like we’re invincible. Reach out your hand. I promise to take it and put it in a display case. I can feel it radiating through your skin. It stays with me in the lonely night. And I’m drinking it all in, just to spit it out.

Show me you care. Listen even though you’re uninterested. Nod along till your head aches. Fake a laugh till your throat turns raw. Play the role well enough to sustain this hollow bond. You have to do it right. We’re standing on thin ice. A period where an exclamation’s supposed to go could rupture everything. Watch my tears fall. Listen to me as I cry. Hold me a certain way. For one second after it’s uncomfortable. Make promises you know you can’t keep. See them to the end.

Make it all worth my while. Commit. Fill up these empty spaces with something interesting to say. We’ll survive these deafening silences.

Turn off your screens. Look at me like I give you the same satisfaction.

Give me your best listening face. Put on a show. Breathe excitement.

Agree with me when you don’t know what to say. Always be listening, even as I walk away. Open up about everything till I’ve had enough.

I want just enough honesty till I get what I want. Selfish decisions on your end are like a poison that spreads and kills the singular thread

44 | Karie connecting us. It’s only when I’m at the tips of my fingernails, clawing at the cliff’s edge for dear life that I question our foundation. When the corners of my mouth ache from tension, but there’s nothing to smile about, I ask myself, “Who am I doing this for?”

Show me you care. Prove it to me. Do you know my hopes and fears? If you had to describe me, how long would it take? What is my defining characteristic? No, I don’t like that one, pick another. You should know I’m sensitive. You won’t tell me if I’m being too much.

You won’t give me my space. You won’t know what I need until I tell you. Know the words to all my favorite songs. Take an interest in my interests. Enjoy them like I do. Love all my favorite parts. Give me the wheel. Let me know that you trust me. Memorize the street I grew up on, the layout of my home, and all the little details. You can’t forget them. My cousin’s name is Joel, not Joe. When there’s nothing left to pick apart, we have history to fall back on. Countless stories and laughs that cloud the fact there’s nothing left to talk about. Nothing alive to care about.

So show me you care. For as long as there’s proof that you care about me, I can rest easy believing in something I can’t see. Give me something tangible. Give me something memorable. Just give me something I can keep, because I can’t grasp how you feel about me.

And if I can’t feel it with my hands, then I can’t feel it when it slips away.

45 THE EYE OF THE TIGER Photography Karli Rothschiller

2015

46 COLORS OF CHANGE Poetry Sovi Herring Colors brighten and sometimes fade.

All have seen some better days.

Though very sad, they all will fade, But what color will they fall into?

Pink once asked what it was before Fade.

When I said Red, Pink was angry.

Apparently, Pink doesn’t remember its brighter days.

Once, Gray asked me what it was before Fade.

When I said Pink, Gray began to feel fuzzy.

Though not remembered, Gray was thankful for those days.

White asked me what it was before Fade.

After a long silence, I replied White was once Gray.

Hearing those words, White began to feel gloomy.

White doesn’t love what it cannot remember.

Everyone can be as bright a color as they wish.

White can become Red, Gray can become Pink, And every color in between.

Because people are ever-changing, Of different shades, hues, and brightness.

Every color is unique, and so are you and I.

47 LAKE LIFE

Two-Dimensional Art Sally Herauf

2015, Oil on Canvas, 24” x 18”

48 SCRIPTS Poetry Trey Howard Groggy head and no memory, but somehow refreshed.

Crushed-up lines on the table next to rolled-up dollar bills, No prescription in sight, but those look like pills.

How did it come to this?

This isn’t who I am. Why did I succumb to this?

Bad friends lead to bad choices, Because sometimes we need to hear “no” from more than our own voices.

The prodding and assurance from a friend Guarantees a good time but doesn’t mention an end.

What would ten-year-old me say if he saw me in the mirror?

The thought makes me shudder. I’ve become my biggest fear.

I can change, I can change—that’s what we always tell ourselves, But if it were that easy drugs wouldn’t sell themselves.

49 PUMP JACK

Photography Tae Paulson

2014

50 BUT I’M HERE Poetry Anita Weiler What is that smell?

Some sort of antiseptic, maybe bleach.

It should make me believe this place is clean, But it brings to mind pus and vomit, Piss and blood.

My back aches From sitting in a formed-plastic chair.

Still, it’s better than when I was standing, One hand on one hip Then the other, Then cross-armed, Then fidgeting as I tried to find A comfortable way to lean.

Oh God, how long do I have to pretend That I don’t mind being here?

I ran out of small talk Less than three minutes in.

There was nothing beyond, “How are you feeling?”

Could I honestly expect You’d mumble more than “fine”?

You look like hell, And if it was yesterday, I’d have told you so.

But today, I bite my tongue, Literally.

And I click it,

Weiler | 51 And I run it across my teeth.

I look at the floor, at my shoes, At the wall, at that little tray By your bed, The one you are supposed to puke in.

I hope against hope You don’t need it.

I look out the window.

I look out the door.

I look everywhere, anywhere, To avoid looking at that black smudge On your chin.

I want to ask, But I am terrified you’ll start to cry.

In a way, I hope you do, If only for a relief in the monotony, An end to this particular awkwardness And a beginning to a new kind of discomfort.

52 WINTER MAGIC Photography Dale Dolechek

2012

53 A PRETTY FACE

Poetry Margie Silbernagel

He looks over at her as she stands up from the lunch table.

Her cheeks are red, her green eyes blazing.

Her hair is a mess around her shoulders as she goes to dump her tray.

When she sits back down, her face is blocked by the back of her friends’ heads.

He can’t help but think how beautiful she is.

But he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know that she just had an argument with her friend and that’s why her cheeks are red.

That she’s doing one of the hardest things, standing up for something she believes in against someone whose opinion she values.

He doesn’t know her eyes blaze because she’s trying to keep from crying out of anger and embarrassment.

He doesn’t know that right now she is trying to act like nothing happened and continue the conversation, her heart pounding in her chest.

That she aches to say more but doesn’t know what to say.

That she didn’t know that changing schools was going to require defending her beliefs because here not everybody’s are the same.

He doesn’t know her smile is fake.

He thinks it’s cute.

That she is thinking right now how the world tends to knock a few times before crashing in,

54 | Silbernagel that this knock hit her hard.

That she can’t wait for the bell to ring so that she can get to class and away from this table.

That the smell of burgers is making her sick to her already turning stomach and when she blinks she’s blinking back tears.

He doesn’t know that she goes home and studies how to defend her opinion even though she has a ton of homework and it’s already late but she needs to know.

He doesn’t know that the next time the subject comes up she’ll have an answer but that she won’t want to seem like a prude, so she will keep it to herself and silently look away.

Agreeing to disagree even though she just disagrees.

He doesn’t know how scared she is to be an outcast because her opinion isn’t the right one.

Because she’s old fashioned and doesn’t just believe in God but in what He says, too.

Or that she wants to follow Him but it’s so hard because a lot of people don’t.

He just knows that she goes to church, but so do a lot of people.

He doesn’t know that she struggles with confidence and feels more and more like a minority all the time.

He doesn’t know that she is struggling to stick to her beliefs not because they are hard to follow but because it’s hard to follow everyone else, too.

Silbernagel | 55 He doesn’t know she can’t sleep at night because she is trying to decide right from wrong, which used to be easy, but she just doesn’t know anymore because her mother says one thing and her friends say another and everyone keeps saying to accept others but no one is accepting her.

She just gets labeled as cruel and hateful not because she puts down others but because she doesn’t agree with them yet they are labeled as brave for standing out and she is having a hard time finding the strength to even stand up.

He doesn’t see how hard she is trying to stick to what she knows is right even if it means others will hate her because they don’t understand yet she is supposed to understand them and be compassionate, and she doesn’t understand.

In fact she’s more confused than she’s ever been, and she is like an ice cube in the burning sun.

Melting Melting Melting Freeze.

He doesn’t know how brave she is when she decides to trust herself and that even though she is shunned she is strong and that she is willing to be the candle in the darkness around her.

Even though everyone keeps trying to blow her out, she will keep on

56 | Silbernagel blazing because she knows what is right, and she is going to stick to it.

She knows now that just because an opinion is popular doesn’t mean that it’s right.

And that no matter the obstacles she is going to get through them and yes she’s going to cry sometimes and yes she’ll want to give up some times but no she’s not going to stop.

She’s going to stay positive.

Stay strong.

Stay true to herself and what she believes.

He thinks that she’s beautiful.

He has no idea.

57 STAR TRAILS

Photography Stormie Sickler

2016

58 THE BRAIN ON PTA Fiction Robert Meador Neuroscience improved, and the Parent-Teacher Association of Andrew Jackson High School was not pleased.

“Look,” Mr. Charleston called out in a meeting between the PTA and the School Board, “these kids need to compete on their own Godgiven talent.” Others murmured their assent.

The debate revolved around a new neuro-enhancing steroid, Neuron Erection. Initially, Neuron Erection had been revered as a gateway to untapped realms of human intelligence and potential prosperity for governmental officials and professional thinkers. Over time, however, public opinion grew divided regarding its use. It’s just progress for the sake of progress, they said. Elitism forced down our throats, they said.

Soon, news coverage showed protesters standing outside government buildings with signs reading “Natural Brains for Natural Decisions!”

“Regular Politicians for Regular Citizens.” “Keep Politics Pure.”

The debate grew into a nationwide fervor, waves of staunch opposition to Neuron Erection. Illegal distribution networks multiplied, and the drug found its way into the hands of high school students looking to amplify their brain power for history exams or high-stakes interscholastic Brain Bowls.

“How can we trust Andrew Jackson’s academics if kids can just take a pill and be smart?” Mr. Williamson asked. “What are you spending our tax money on?”

The administration sat up on the stage of the auditorium. Principal Malone was seated three chairs down from Superintendent Barker and was glad to have most of the attention directed away from him.

Principal Malone himself had sampled Neuron Erection and found it to be quite pleasant. He was able to more carefully ascertain the duration

Meador | 59 and frequency of ear-scratching that his cat, Chester, preferred. This was not the first of these meetings he’d been forced to sit through.

The scientific community had also debated the potential side-effects of the drug. Although no official side-effects had been proven, experts often speculated that if a drug was intended to enhance neuron productivity, then the side effects could be severe, and among teens, whose brains are still developing, the nation could very well see a rise in all sorts of foolish behavior, such as teens getting pregnant, driving while inebriated, and participating in mind-deadening consumerism.

The PTA, likewise, had speculated about potential side-effects, and Principal Malone thought it typical that parents had time to search the internet for nonexistent problems and to attend these snack-less meetings, but that they didn’t have time to monitor what pills went into their kids’ stomachs. These parents just think this is some big daycare, he thought.

“Look,” Mrs. Greyson said, “we need to stop this ridiculous erection fascination.”

Mr. Paulson giggled.

“I don’t mean any offense,” Greyson continued, “but this school is simply not doing enough to encourage students to be who they are without the drug. We can’t control the illegal sale in our neighborhoods, but we can help our children not want it. And if no one is buying it, it will go away.”

Superintendent Barker leaned into the microphone. “Mrs. Greyson, I assure you that I have made it a point during all faculty meetings to emphasize the importance of telling our students that they are smart enough just the way they are. I believe our faculty are doing a great job of helping the students feel normal in their own skins, so to speak.”

“Sure,” Mrs. Peterson said, then waved her hands dismissively as if she did not mean sure at all. “But how can our children be expected to, as you put it, feel normal in their own skins, if even one percent

60 | Meador is taking this drug and is capable of things children aren’t normally capable of?”

“She’s right,” Mr. Peterson said, and Principal Malone thought that these were the two words Mr. Peterson uttered the most.

The discussion continued for the better part of an hour. Mrs. Whitley stood and said that her son, Mikey, should receive some kind of monetary reward for not having once taken the drug. She was so proud of him. Other parents rolled their eyes and whispered about Mikey’s ineptitude on the golf team. Superintendent Barker thought Mrs. Whitley and her son were irredeemable buffoons, but superintendents are not allowed to say such things.

Mr. Valent mentioned that he’d done drugs in high school and was just fine. Mrs. Jude stated that nowhere in the Bible did it mention we should be smart. Mr. Wallace thought the drug was introduced by the left wing to promote their haughty agenda. Principal Malone envisioned a large agenda with the word haughty written at the top. Mrs. Stevens countered that the right wing could have just as easily cooked up the drug, but then she added, “Oh, wait. What would the right wing want with a drug that makes people smart?” Mr. Tooley played the role of wise man mediator—“regardless of the divisionism in the government, we cannot afford to have the same thing happen here at Jackson.

We need to stand together and advocate for our children.”

This was met with nods of approval and even a “here, here,” but Principal Malone would need to see Mr. Tooley’s internet browsing history before he believed any high-minded words coming out from under that well-trimmed mustache.

Mrs. Melon rambled at length about something, and everyone was momentarily united in daydreaming.

As Superintendent Barker began his final words, the double doors at the back of the auditorium banged open. Mrs. Caulson came rushing in, dragging her son, Timothy, by the ear. There was surprised silence, then a whispering buzz as the Caulsons made their way toward

Meador | 61 the stage. Mrs. Caulson, known for her dramatics, pulled a very redfaced Timothy all the way up onto the stage.

“Look, everyone. Look!” she exclaimed.

Everyone saw the usual Timothy they had seen before at band and theater events. Had he leaned against wet paint? He hadn’t gotten taller. Had he been stung by a bee? Nothing looked different.

“I caught Timothy using the Neuron Erec—the smart drug,” Mrs. Caulson said to the crowd. There was collective despair—oh Timothy, not you too!

“Go ahead and show them, Timmy. It’s okay, show them,” Mrs. Caulson told her son.

Timmy cleared his throat several times. He looked about as embarrassed as Principal Malone felt when his cat watched him use the restroom.

“Um, I was walking home from the library,” Timmy said, looking at the floor. “And I was reading and stuff.”

“Reading what?” Mrs. Haplin asked, expecting depravity.

“Moby Dick,” Timmy said sheepishly.

“That’s fucking weird,” Mr. Weidman said, not necessarily known for his tact.

“No, no,” Mrs. Caulson said, shooting Mr. Weidman a dirty look.

“That’s not the strange part. Tell them what happened after that.”

“I, uh, felt kind of weird, and I was like, I wonder what it would be like to die.”

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Peterson said. She cupped her hand over her mouth.

“So, I decided,” Timmy continued, “to step out in front of a, you know, vehicle.”

“No, Timmy, no!” Mrs. Stevens called out.

Everyone scanned Timmy’s body for visible marks of suffering.

But he appeared injury free.

“So go ahead and show them,” Mrs. Caulson prompted.

62 | Meador Timmy reached for the bottom of his blue T-shirt. The audience braced itself for the heinous injury hidden underneath. Mrs. Wallaby bit her nails. Timmy pulled his shirt up. There were numbers written all over his chest in black marker.

“See! See!” Mrs. Caulson shrieked, pointing at the numbers and bouncing on her toes. “Look at what this drug can do to the minds of adolescents!”

“What are we looking at?” Superintendent Barker asked.

“Well,” Timmy explained, “after the bicycle missed me, and my adrenaline went down from the near-death experience, I felt that I was eternal. Or I wanted to be or something. So I went home and started writing pi on my chest. You know, like the number that goes on forever? I looked it up online. I wanted to be pi.”

Principal Malone had been around stupid kids for a long time, and he felt that no matter how smart they got, they would always be dumb. Superintendent Barker reassured Mrs. Caulson that indeed her son had become very strange from the drug, and, yes, writing pi across one’s chest as a form of self-expression certainly did meet cause for concern in his book. He mentally added another two names to the list of irredeemable buffoons. He fleetingly entertained the notion that if Neuron Erection was marketed as a suppository, at least he would know none of these sphincter-clenched blowhards were taking it.

The parents, now abuzz with the Caulson situation, had no other talking points to discuss, and the meeting adjourned. On the way out, they discussed how Superintendent Barker was all lip service, that he just cared about numbers, that he didn’t want to make waves and get bad publicity. They talked about how overly-dramatic Mrs. Caulson and her very weird son were.

“That dumb kid needs some Neuron Erection,” Mr. Wallace told Mr. Williamson.

Then Rambling Mrs. Melon started to say something, and they uniformly hustled out of the building.

63 ABSTRACTED TOOL #2

Two-Dimensional Art Briana Dolechek

2015, Charcoal on Paper, 18” x 24”

64 NIGHT OF EPIPHANY Nonfiction Shekinah Obomighie It was in the middle of July, at the peak of the rainy season. Late one night, winds howled, making the trees dance to their tune. The rains poured from the sky; the thunder clapped and shook the earth with all its might.

Frankly speaking, this was the best time to sleep. Nigeria is a hot place, so we always look forward to the rains and the cold winds from the ocean. The cold, wild breeze was blowing against me through the open windows, pushing me farther and farther down the rabbit hole, where I knew I wouldn’t be worried about nightmares or anything else.

You can imagine my surprise when I woke up for something as small as a whimper.

My eyes shot open. The bright fluorescent bulb blinded me.

“Sheki...” I heard my younger brother call from the bed across from mine. He is light skinned like my mom; short, a side effect of his damaged kidneys; and plump, due to his medication. He has short, dark hair; rosy cheeks; an enormous stomach, due to his transplant; and ears with the pointiest tips I’ve ever seen.

“Sheki . . . Sheki call mummy.” I saw Oze clutching his head, rolling on his bed and groaning in agony. He had just come back from having a kidney transplant in India.

I rushed to his side, taking him in my arms. “Oze! What’s wrong?”

His eyes were shut tight, his fingertips white from clutching his head. He bared teeth that looked yellowish due to the discoloration from his medication.

I ran to my parents’ room only to discover that the door was locked. I pounded on it and heard a thunderclap just above me. It

Obomighie | 65 reminded me of those horror movies where a serial killer is chasing some kids and, at the climax, there is a downpour with lots of thunder and lightning and one of the survivors is banging on a locked door.

My mom swung the big creaky door open. “What’s wrong?” she asked, gripping her robe. She was wearing her favorite; it was red with yellow flowery designs, a present from my dad for her birthday. Her glasses were bent, perhaps from her rush in opening the door. Her gray-streaked hair was all over the place. I took her hand, leading her through the hallway to the room my brother and I shared.

“Shekinah, what’s wrong?” she kept asking, her voice getting more and more terrified.

Before we got to the room, she heard crying and moaning. Suddenly, I was not the one dragging her along. She picked up the pace, practically running to meet my brother.

We burst into the room.

“Shhh,” she said. “It is okay, Oze.” She turned off the light and moved to his side.

I chuckled to myself, seeing how she was able to find him in the darkness. She carried him to the bathroom, even though he was now quite heavy, and poured water on his head while caressing him.

Soon, my parents were rushing him to the hospital, which was thirty minutes away, under the heavy rain. I sat down on my bed after they had gone, thinking of everything that had happened and all my brother had been through.

I remembered the first time my mom told me the story of how my brother was born and what had caused his kidneys to fail.

“You have to terminate the pregnancy,” the doctor said.

My mom had gone for her routine checkup at her obstetrician.

Her description of the hospital is still etched in my brain. The buildings smelled musty and damp, which was probably the smell of the disinfectant. There were many unattended patients, and nurses gossiped

66 | Obomighie in the corner, laughing while the patients lay there, waiting in pain.

The words the doctor uttered that day were the worst anyone had ever said to my parents. According to my dad, a very religious man, the words shook his faith in God. “There is something blocking the urethra of your baby,” the short, plump doctor explained. “The blockage is preventing urine from being excreted. This has caused the urine to flow back to his kidneys and damage them.”

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” my dad asked, my mom too shaken to utter a word.

“Frankly speaking,” the doctor started, pushing up his thick glasses and rubbing his whiskers, “this operation cannot be done for children in Nigeria, not even for a baby. It can only be done for adults and teenagers. If you have this baby here in Nigeria, there is no chance he will survive.”

My dad looked at the cracked walls and chipped paint. The smell of the gutter still lingered in the thick, stuffy air. “Let’s go,” he said gruffly to my mom, helping her off the bed.

The car was dead silent on the way back from the hospital except for my mom’s soft sobs. My dad’s grip tightened on the wheel. They knew of one more hospital in the middle of nowhere that a friend had described to them.

The name of the hospital was Vicas. The whole building was pure white, with a caduceus in front. Because Nigeria is close to the dusty desert, it was hard to believe a building that white stood there in Kaduna. The nurses were extremely friendly, asking my parents to wait for the doctor on call. The doctor was a slender young woman. She appeared to have just graduated from school, but she’d come with a high recommendation from various people.

“Hmmm . . . I can see what the doctor in the last hospital was saying,” the good doctor said, adjusting her glasses as she studied the UltraScan. “During a baby’s growth in the womb, when the kidneys

Obomighie | 67 and bladder are formed, there is a flap of skin that’s meant to give way as soon as the baby starts excreting.”

My parents looked at each other, shocked that such a young doctor could know so much.

“What should we do?” my mom asked, a gleam of hope in her eye.

“Well, I will not tell you to terminate the pregnancy,” the doctor said with a calm smile, “but sadly, we don’t have the facilities to carry out the operation here, even though I can perform the operation.”

“Ohh…” my mom exhaled, the hope dead from her eyes.

My dad held her closer to him, seeing tears forming again.

“What I would advise you to do is travel abroad,” the doctor said grimly. “I was schooled in England and know that you’d be able to deliver safely there.”

“What happened next?” I had asked my mom “What happened? Well, we did as the good doctor said,” she replied. “We went to give birth to Oze in England, where they did the operation ten minutes after his birth.”

Although this was a miraculous event for my parents and, well, the whole family, there were still bumps on the path ahead. Oze consistently fell ill, requiring him to spend days in the hospital. Luckily, we were able to find a good pediatrician whose hospital was located thirty minutes from our house. However, finding medication was no easy task. Drugs had to be sent from England and the U.S. because they couldn’t be found in Nigeria. The ones available were stored in conditions that rendered them unsuitable for consumption.

Comments from people did not help either: “Why is your brother shorter than people his age?”

My mind flew to the matter at hand, the matter that we all saw as another miracle—“God’s answer after years of praying,” as my parents put it.

I remember the day as though it were yesterday. I had just come home from an annoying day at school. I stood, exhausted, at the front

68 | Obomighie door. I stared at the door, trying to urge any muscles in my legs to move. It was made of glass, four panes divided by metal bars. The metal bars were painted cream with gray mud-like things holding the glass to it. Age seeped out of the door, the chipped paint from the metal bars, and a crack at the top left corner. A smile crept on my face as I remembered how the crack had gotten there.

“Sheki!!!!!” my younger brother screamed, ripping the doors open, as well as my thoughts. His face was unforgettable. He was grinning from ear to ear; his eyes could almost glow in the dark, bright with unparalleled excitement. His elfin ears stuck out from the side of his head and twitched, which meant he was happy.

He slammed into me hard, almost knocking me to the ground.

“Guess what?” he said, grinning up at me. “The doctor said it’s time I got my new kidney.”

“Wow! Really?” I exclaimed, twirling him around as though he were still a child, even though he was almost a teenager.

The next few hours flew by; I could hardly keep up. The dates to go to India for the transplant were set. The note from the doctor was on its way, and my brother had already started selecting clothes to go with; the only question was, who would donate?

We all sat at the dining table, staring at one another. It was a wooden table with six chairs the local carpenter near my house had made. All sorts of drugs were at the center of the table, with all kinds of names I had become familiar with. The fan above us creaked, making the silence eerie.

“Well,” my mom started, “this conversation is between you and your father, Shekinah.”

My mouth hung open, eyes wide with mixed emotions. To this day, I do not know whether it was fear, shock, excitement, or something entirely different. “W…Why…” was all I was able to stutter as my siblings laughed around me at what they called “a priceless expression,” something they have not allowed me to forget.

Obomighie | 69 “Don’t worry, Shekinah,” my dad chipped in, “I am the one going to donate. Even though only the two of us have the same blood group as Oze, I am his father, so I have to give mine. I won’t allow my son to give his when I can give mine. You’ll understand when you’re older,” he said, smiling as if he was trying to explain something complicated to a baby.

Within the next three weeks, they had gone to India, and church members swarmed in almost every day to pray for the transplant to be successful. After three long months, the transplant took place, and Oze and my dad were discharged. Relief swept through the family; the huge upset had finally gone. Prayers had been answered, and joy filled our hearts.

Alas, trouble had come knocking again.

I sat on my bed, wrapped up in my blanket, the cold wind blowing against my back. “I am going to be a doctor,” I said to myself with determination. I gripped my blanket closer, a thousand questions rushing through my mind. I wanted to be like the doctor who had helped my mom and to have the touch of my mom, which had calmed my brother almost immediately. Frankly speaking, I want to be the greatest.

“Rrrrrrr . . . rrrrrr . . . rrrrrr” my phone rang, jolting me back to reality.

“Hello,” I answered, “Hello, is he ok?”

The next few seconds were dead silent. I could hear myself breathing, the rustle of papers on the other end of the phone with indistinct voices chattering in whispers. I was scared. Why were they taking so long to answer?

“Hello?” I said again, wishing someone would say something. My breaths quickened. I was hyperventilating. I could hear my heartbeat echo around the room as I pressed the phone closer to my ear, trying to pick out any words or even a clue to tell me how he was doing. I gripped the phone tightly and my fingertips went white. “Please,” I

70 | Obomighie mumbled to myself, “anything . . . anything.” I waited, and waited for the longest time of my life and, in the next few minutes, I heard a sound, one that almost made my heart give out, the click of the phone, the tone that signifies that the call was over.

I looked at the phone in shock. I couldn’t believe it. I’d just received the most important call ever, and all I got was fifteen minutes of nothing.

“Why?” I screamed, sitting on the bed with my hands gripping my head. I thought I had waited for infinity after my parents and brother left for the hospital, but this was worse. I was sitting, powerless, in my room with no way to reach them, no matter how much I tried. Beads of sweat rolled down my face, mixing with the tears that wouldn’t stop coming. I still held the phone.

After what seemed like double infinity, the phone rang. Was I going to be tortured with silence again? I pressed it to my ear.

“Hello?”

Ten seconds passed, or maybe twenty.

Then finally, I heard “Hello?” in a soft voice.

It was Oze.

71 WORKS OF LABOR UNDER HIS LOVE

Photography Elaine Smith

2015

72 TAKING A STROLL ON THE DOCK AT FLATHEAD LAKE Two-Dimensional Art Briana Dolechek

2015, Oil on Canvas, 30” x 24”

73 AGAMEMNON AND IPHIGENIA AT AULIS

Poetry Alan Church

Written for my daughter for her twenty-first birthday, after I’d re-read The Iliad and Agamemnon, and was remembering a time when she was six, just before the great war between the Greeks and Trojans.

Here I stand at Aulis surveying such a scene As this: an altar, a girl, and a thousand ships.

The ships were not my own, nor was the face That would launch us toward our Trojan fate And seal the doom of better men than me, Men like Hector, who broke horses but not hearts, Who before the Scaean Gates stood firm against Impending Doom, knowing once he fell the loss.

How did this become my cause and this my fate?

Or this my cost: a white-armed girl and a fading face, And a thousand regrets and the incalculable pain Bringing the evils of Aulis home to Argos.

Still this darling girl lies still upon the altar In the quiet air of Aulis, endlessly launching Every day a thousand ships in her father’s heart.

74 THE CASH Poetry Hunter Gallagher Once they open their mouths I know it’s going south.

All that comes are lies Masked by the disguise Of fixing the nation And immigration, Never to be fulfilled As the people willed.

They’re just trying to win the vote So they can gloat, Digging up the dirt To make their rivals hurt, Only for the cash Before they dash Leaving the country with trash Turning it to ash.

75 HARD ROCKS

Photography Ryan Jones

2016

76 A WINTER DAY IN DICKINSON Photography Ryan Jones

2016

77 BUT MAYBE I SHOULD’VE LISTENED Poetry Margie Silbernagel The snow covers me like a blanket Covering me just softly And I swear the wind whispers For me to turn around But I don’t listen to the wind Never have, never will The wind likes to mess with fate I like to stick to the path But maybe I should’ve listened A boy stands near the path A tree keeps him from the snow The smell hits me before the sight My feet stop in their tracks But maybe I should’ve listened Death is held between his fingers Smoke billows from his mouth He’s barely a boy But far from a man But maybe I should’ve listened He throws the cigarette

78 | Silbernagel Onto the frozen ground Stomps it with beaten shoes Stomps something within me But maybe I should’ve listened I see it in his eyes That show me bare soul The hopelessness The helplessness But maybe I should’ve listened I walk by Something greater breaks Why am I bothered?

Even the wind knows the answer But maybe I should’ve listened The world is cruel It teaches you lessons You don’t want to learn But who listens to the wind?

79 NIAGARA FALLS Photography Kinsley Bendixson

2015

80 THE TRUTH ABOUT SENIOR YEAR Nonfiction Hailey Entze Nobody told me senior year would be one big anxiety attack. Instead I heard a lot of “Have as much fun as possible because it goes by so fast.” Well I am trying to have fun and cherish my last moments with friends, but that’s hard to do when I’m drowning in responsibilities.

I feel as though I’m in the middle of a tornado, and all of the responsibilities are flying around. “Oh look, there’s that scholarship I have to fill out, and hey, those are the graduation invites I haven’t sent off.

There goes my college application, and wait, is that my sanity?”

Besides college prep, I still have high school to worry about. It seems all my teachers think they are the only ones who ever assign homework. Half the time I’m suffocating under piles of research papers, precalculus assignments, and chemistry vocabulary. On these days I wonder if I even need an education. Walmart is always looking for help.

At home, all I want to do is sit on the couch, watch Netflix, and eat my weight in potato chips, but my parents want to actually talk.

After spending the day with teenagers who scream and yell, acting like utter imbeciles, after answering a billion and one questions in class, the last thing I want is to talk more. I need a good hour before I can even be asked, “How was school?” without blowing a gasket.

This all goes to show that senior year is not what it is perceived to be. I thought I’d be living large, going on shopping trips, and dragging Main (I don’t know why I thought this; dragging Main in a small town is quite possibly the most boring thing ever). Instead I’ve been depressed over leaving my friends in a few months and attending my last high school sporting events. I’ve gotten hives that I self-diagnosed as stress induced. Even if I slept for a week I would still be tired.

81 BANANAS PERSONIFIED—SITTING

Photography Briana Dolechek

2014

82 DRUNK ARMOR Fiction David Brevik Sitting on top of a fence, the harpy sunned himself. His dark-green feathery wings stretched out. Clawed feet grabbed into the wood. He wore little more than a white shirt. Feathers dressed his legs and hips.

A sigh of contentment escaped him. Today was starting out all right. His wife had cooked his favorite meal. He’d gotten the day off from work and the kids were off playing with friends. With his elbow he pushed back a bit of his orange hair behind an ear. Now, if only he could figure out how to deal with a certain problem.

“Purple bananas, yellow apples, and pink sausages all taste so great.” The deep voice drew the harpy’s attention. “Their outsides are firm, their insides so squishy. Just plop them in the mouth and…”

“Esyae, please don’t say such crude things. It is unbecoming.”

The harpy stared at the odd couple. Mounted upon horses, a knight and an elf marched down the paved road. He glanced over his shoulder to stare at the tractor working the fields. Jumping off the fence, the harpy glanced to the dwarfed mountains. Old age had worn their teeth, and trees softened their faces. Streaks of white floated through the skies.

Everything appeared as it should be. Yet a knight dressed in full body armor marched down the road. Metal dragons flew across the cylindrical helmet with their heads forming ears. Plate armor gleamed in the sunlight. Coiled on the chest plate, a dragon roared at all who approached. A sword hopped on the knight’s hip.

Yet the elf took the edge off of the menacing scene. Sitting backward in her saddle, she blew bubbles from a pipe. A dull blue coat, sleeves empty, hung off her thin frame. Tattered pants were tucked into a pair of boots. It looked as if the knight had picked up a homeless

Brevik | 83 woman off the side of the road.

As the duo passed by, the harpy had a thought. Maybe the knight would help him if he asked. It seemed like kind of dumb idea, but this pair was peculiar to start off with. Stepping onto the road, the harpy held up his wings.

“Excuse me, but can I talk to you for a moment?” The harpy quivered when the stallion stopped in front of him. Face covered, the knight reminded the harpy of old tales, when such unholy beings slaughtered thousands by the sword. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

Turning around, the elf pulled back her long brown hair. “Are you a sword?”

Blinking, the harpy took note of the deep blush under the bright green eyes. “Last I checked I’m a harpy.”

Esyae blew on her pipe. “If you can’t at least show us your pike then you’re worthless to us.”

“Esyae! That isn’t how you address people.” The knight bowed.

“I’m sorry. My company here can be…”

That was all the harpy heard before the helmet plowed into his head. Stumbling back, he watched the world whirl by. Laughter erupted from Esyae. Cursing, the knight leapt down from the horse and dashed forward.

“Sorry! I forgot to strap my helmet on.” Scooping up the helmet, a tanned woman stood. Short green hair framed her face, blue eyes in an oval. The knight tucked her helmet under her arm. “Madam Greya, fifth knight of the Banido order, at your service.”

“The name is Mako.” Rubbing his head, the harpy grinned. What the hell is a fifth knight? “Mind telling me what a pair of ladies is doing out here?”

“We’re searching for the sword that bosses people around.” Hopping off her horse, the elf marched over to Greya. “Though I’m pretty sure you can use this for the same purpose.”

84 | Brevik Slapping Esyae’s hand away, the knight huffed. “I told you already. We’re in search of the Excalibur.”

“Excalibur…” Mako stood on one foot so a claw could scratch his head. “You’re talking about that old sword from some pretend king.”

“The sword is real.” Strapping the helmet to her neck, the knight placed it behind her head. “And I must find it at once.”

“To save a kingdom?”

“No.” Reaching into a pouch attached to her hip, Greya pulled out a piece of paper. “It’s one of the first things I must collect.” She showed Mako a list. Reading through the items, he noticed that they all referred to famous weapons. “It’s improper for a real knight not have a good weapon.” She patted her sword. “This is good and all, but …”

So I got a wannabe and an oddball, Mako thought. He stared at Esyae as she did a handstand on the fence. Her jacket fell down to show that she wore little more than a black bra. Still, even a wannabe might be useful. “Hey, lady. How skilled are you with that sword?”

“One of the best in my homeland.”

“Think you’re good enough to take on a large animal?”

“If forced to.” Putting the list away, the knight started for her mount. “I had best get going.”

Damn it! Doesn’t this woman understand a quest when presented?

Coughing into his wing, the harpy grinned. “Well, I was just thinking that I had heard of old Excalibur being in an odd place.”

Grabbing the harpy by the shoulder, Greya knelt down to his eye level. “Where?”

“There’s a cave here. I’ve heard rumors that an incredible sword may be inside.”

“Is it a big sword?” Popping up from behind, the elf grabbed the harpy by the wings. “How long?” She spread the limbs out. “This big?”

Mako extended his wings. “As long as the bastard can be.”

Brevik | 85 Humming, the knight cupped her chin. “There’s an animal in the way?”

“A great big vani. It’s a nasty creature.”

“Only a vani?” Huffing, the knight walked over to her steed.

“Let’s go, Esyae. I can deal with it easily.”

“Can I go into town for a drink?” asked the elf.

“No.” “Meanie.”

Shaking his head, the harpy started flapping his wings. “Follow me. It’s isn’t too far from here.”

“We’re going to gallop, Esyae.” Grabbing hold of both reins, the knight kicked her horse’s side. The elf leaned forward and grabbed her stallion’s neck. She cheered as they galloped into the woods. The harpy flew, leading them through a conifer forest.

Riding up a steep slope, Greya navigated both her steed and her partner’s through the trees. Songs flew from the elf’s mouth. Her voice was steady as they jumped over stone walls and plowed through thick brush.

The harpy landed on top of a pine tree. “This is it.” His wing thrust toward the clearing. Saplings grew among the packed dirt. Yet the ground in front of the cave appeared to be black glass. The cave dared anyone to enter it. “Go right in there and you’ll find the vani. If the rumors are right there may also be the sword.”

Dismounting, the knight tied the reins to some branches. “I’ll go face the vani. Esyae, you stay here and behave yourself.” The elf flipped off the horse and landed on her back. “Please stay still.”

“Okay!” Esyae pulled a small, square canteen out of her pocket.

“I’ll just enjoy myself out here.”

Shaking her head, the knight drew her blade. The harpy stared at the black sword. It was half the size of his wingspan—about eight feet.

Greya grabbed the hilt with both hands and marched into the cave.

“By the blood of my forbearers anyone who stands in my way will be

86 | Brevik struck down with this blade,” she chanted as darkness engulfed her.

“Idiot.” Flipping onto her stomach, the elf sipped from her canteen. “Is she still trying to impress little old me?” She leapt to her feet and tore off her jacket. “Well, I better show her who’s boss.”

Why am I getting a bad feeling? wondered the harpy.

The elf pulled a rope and a knife from the bags. Walking over to a tree, she cut off a pair of bushy branches and trimmed the pine needles from one end of each. She fastened one on each side of her head with the rope.

All the while growls, roars, and shouts echoed from the cave.

Mako glanced over his shoulder. If he left now, only the trees would know of these women’s fate. Yet he paused to watch Esyae douse the branches with the liquid from the canteen. Flying down, the harpy sniffed the air. Alcohol assaulted his nose.

“Stand back!” Spreading her arms out, the drunk giggled. “It is time to burn.” A pair of flames leapt out of her hands, rising past the branches. One swirled through the air until it slammed into a tree. The other went in a wide arc and singed the harpy’s tail feathers.

With a shout, the harpy dropped to the ground and rolled. He halted when a dark form charged out of the cave. Its front limbs were a pair of fleshy trunks. Its clawed back legs carved the earth. Snapping a fleshy beck, it fired off a dark beam that hit a tree and turned it to glass. All the while Greya was saddled on the creature’s thick neck, her blade cutting into the flesh. Blood leaked out, but the sword would go only so deep.

Any sane person would have paused to think about their options.

Esyae shrieked as she charged with her head bowed. The vani stumbled to a stop. It tripped over Mako and rammed head first into the elf.

With a yelp, the elf stumbled back and exploded into an inferno.

The vani reared back. Just as the harpy sat up the knight tumbled off the creature and crashed into him. He wished he could join the vani in flight. These crazy people would kill him if he stayed much longer.

Brevik | 87 Groaning, Greya sat up. “Idiot.” As she stood she sheathed her blade. “How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t use fire magic when you’re drunk!”

Esyae plopped onto her butt. She wiped the ash off her forehead.

Her clothing and hair were blackened, but she appeared all right for the most part. The elf stuck out her tongue. She then turned around, pulled out her pipe, and blew bubbles.

“Don’t give me that.” Yanking the harpy off the ground, the knight gestured to him. “Look at him! He’s crushed and burnt because of you.”

“You’re not helping the matter,” squeaked the harpy.

Chuckling, Greya placed Mako onto his feet. “Sorry. You okay?”

“Bruised and battered, but nothing broken. I think.” Walking over to a tree, the harpy sat down. “I’m going to rest here for a moment.”

“Sounds good to me. Esyae, we’re going into the cave.”

“Why?” asked the elf.

“Because it’s dark in there, and I need your light.”

Grinning, Esyae shook her head. “But I can’t use fire magic when I’m drunk. Its tooooo dangerous.” She swirled around on her butt and giggled.

“I’ll give you ice cream if you help.”

“Ice cream here I come.” Lighting her hand, the elf charged into the cave. With a shake of her head, the knight followed.

The harpy enjoyed watching a portion of the tree burn up. Thanks to the wet weather only a quarter of it would be consumed. Sighing, he wondered if that elf would share a drink with him. The knight marched out of the cave with a sour expression.

“Have any luck?” called the harpy.

“There’s nothing in there but the remains of animals and some crap.”

“Worthless!” Wrapping her arms around the knight, the elf

88 | Brevik hugged her. “Now you owe me ice cream. Give me ice cream!”

“Yes, yes.”

“But can I burn the harpy first?”

“What?”

“Because he lied to us.” Marching over to Mako, the elf turned her finger into a blow torch. “We must warn everyone by writing liar on his forehead.” Yet before the elf could do anything the knight caught her by the ankle and dragged her to the ground.

“Sir, did you lie to us?” asked Greya.

“I had a problem to solve, and it blew up in my face.” The harpy spread his wings. “I’ve taken enough abuse for the day.”

Kneeling down, the knight lightly chopped him on the head. “Be more careful with strangers.” With that said, the knight and elf mounted their steeds. The latter sat backward while blowing on her pipe. The former made sure the latter stayed in her saddle.

89 MEDUSA’S PET

Two-Dimensional Art Madison Penn

2015, Watercolor on Paper, 18” x 24”

90 ON MY WAY TO JAYDEN’S GAME Two-Dimensional Art Briana Dolechek

2016, Four-Color Reduction Lino Print Using Intaglio Inks, 9” x 11”

91 I HAVE LOVED, I HAVE HURT, BUT I HAVE LIVED

Poetry Geneva Nodland

I am walking.

I walk down the street with no care in the world.

The only difference between the sun and me are the miles that separate us.

Sometimes I feel there is no difference at all.

I am up and up and up, so far away.

Then I remember I am only human and cannot hide away in space,

so I walk down the street.

I am running.

No, I want to run.

I am wishing and hoping that I could find enough in myself to get away.

I talk myself in and out of doing things.

“You can get away,” I say, but I only deceive myself, Deceive myself about reality and all the dreams I crush with it.

I can’t run.

I look up—and notice two things.

The clouds make shapes, and all I see is your face.

At this point all I want is to jump and land in the clouds, to be with you and all the birds.

Then I remember nine months ago, nine months before I hurt you, and you hurt me.

I decamp from the clouds and fall to the ground.

I crash into the earth, far away from my feelings.

I forget about my heartbreak for a couple of hours,

And keep walking.

92 | Nodland I come across a flower.

It is a mix of beautiful; I see life, color, and honesty.

But there is also naivety, and I see myself in the flower.

Delicate and doe-like, innocence beaming from all directions.

The pureness of the alluring plant astonishes me, and I keep comparing it to myself.

The sun shines and the petals glisten with dew.

I only stare.

Then a thought comes to mind.

I lean down and pull the flower out of the soil with all the power and anger I can produce.

I see myself in the flower as it dwindles and loses life.

It is no longer beautiful and untouched, no longer dreams of life or sings with optimism.

The flower has aged and changed in just a moment.

I picked the flower not only because of jealously,

but because I could not be alone.

I shove the stem and petals into my pocket.

Humming and skipping down the pavement, I ignore my growing conscience.

I ignore the shattering in my chest, the ringing in my ears, the constant blinking to avoid streams down my face.

It is my duty, my obligation to not break down every possible second of every possible day.

I hum a tune to distract myself from the burning hole in my pocket.

Where there once was beauty, now there’s only lost innocence.

The innocence I destroyed,

but I just keep skipping.

Nodland | 93 There is a breeze.

It throws my hair back, as if reaching for something.

I close my eyes and try to picture myself in this exact moment.

I take in scents, textures, and tastes.

I want to remember this moment before I snap back to reality, A reality where no one really cares and donations are given for media attention.

I open my eyes and see that nothing has changed.

Even the breeze has abandoned me.

I come across a clothesline with pictures hanging from it.

I cautiously approach and gaze at the pictures—they are moments in my life.

My first thought is interest, but then horror.

My stomach flips and tears prick at my eyes.

I wanted to go back and admire the flower. I would do anything to go back.

I have succumbed to the power of a plant whose life I stole.

In a fraction of a second I turn and run away from the line.

I run until my past is blurred.

I am sick of running.

Running away, running toward, running.

I say this aloud to the crumpled flower I’ve yanked from my pocket.

Suddenly, my chest lightens and I stand a little taller.

I feel as though I’ve just ended a drought, A drought of feeling remorse and grief.

I see how the petals are still colorful, the stem still a hint of green.

And I still see myself in the flower.

And now I am walking.

I walk down the street with no care in the world.

94 | Nodland There is a difference between me and the sun now.

It sits up above and observes; it can hope and dream, but never experience.

I have loved, I have hurt, but I have lived.

I am like a dust mop, collecting things along my way.

I eventually carry and push too much to handle, but I can always be cleaned.

Somethings I will never leave behind, but I will only learn.

I remember I am only human, and I will make mistakes,

so I will just walk down the street.

95 QUEEN CITY MOTEL Photography Ryan Jones

2016

96 NAMING THE BIRDS Poetry K. C. Hanson for Holly She carried a manual and black binoculars, her hair in a scrunchy, walking us single file through Itasca State Park on the amateur tour for songbirds, clamoring down the asphalt trail.

It must have been a weekend, busy. “Earlier than F,” one noted, and someone returned the proverbial early bird. She wore knee-high rubber boots against the dew, a knowing smile, and when she raised a finger, stop, we did— blooming field glasses and asking “where?” and “where?” and “can you see?” and “where?” until she said “Listen. Just listen.” So we did. And up there in the singing, she named them, every one, by their tweets and whistles, by the songs they sung.

97 CIDER

Photography Cody Sattler

2015

98 CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES MARGARET BARNHART has taught at Dickinson State University since the early 90’s. Within that period, she has also spent several seasons as a Writer-in-Residence for the North Dakota Council on the Arts, and five summers as writing curriculum designer and teacher at the International Music Camp. Her first novel, Under the Twisted Cross (2010), offers a fictionalized account of her father’s history as a prisoner of war in Germany during World War II. In addition to this novel, an excerpt from one of Margaret’s personal essays appeared in the anthology Leaning into the Wind (1997). Another work is due for publication later in 2016. Home for Supper is a creative nonfiction reflection on Margaret’s childhood. “Smoke” is an essay from that collection.

KINSLEY BENDIXSON was born and raised in Williston, North Dakota. Fourteen years old, she is a freshman at Williston High School.

She thoroughly enjoys taking pictures in her spare time.

DAVID BREVIK is pursuing a degree in anthropology at the University of North Dakota, where he transferred after studying at Dickinson State University.

ALAN CHURCH is Professor of English at Dickinson State University with over twenty years of experience teaching college courses in composition and rhetoric, literature, and language studies.

MARCUS DIETRICH, of Bismarck, is a junior at Dickinson State University. He is working toward an English degree with a minor in psychology. He plans on pursuing a career in fiction writing.

BRIANA DOLECHEK is a sophomore art education major from Dickinson. She has been creating art ever since she was a young girl.

Her plan is to graduate from Dickinson State University in 2018, and she hopes to teach art at Trinity High School in Dickinson.

99 CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES DALE DOLECHEK graduated from Dickinson State University in 1981 with a Bachelor of Arts in Business Administration. After thirtythree years in retail grocery management, Dale has been employed the last two years at DSU as a custodian in Scott and Weinbergen Gyms.

He was recently promoted to Custodian Team Leader.

HAILEY ENTZE is a senior at Beulah High School, in Beulah, North Dakota. She has always loved reading and started writing her own stories at the age of thirteen. In the fall she plans to attend Dickinson State University and major in English (creative writing focus).

ALLISON GALBREATH loves to read and write. The whole world is filled with smaller stories that interconnect. She enjoys exploring those connections and how they affect people through writing. Living in rural Kidder County, North Dakota, she attends Kidder County High School in Steele, where she participates in a variety of clubs such as drama, youth group, and 4-H. She hopes to one day pursue a career in clinical psychology.

HUNTER GALLAGHER is a student at Ashley Public School in Ashley, North Dakota. She enjoys reading, writing, and knitting. She also plays volleyball and golf.

SAMANTHA GORDON is a junior art education major at Dickinson State University.

MICHAELA GORMAN is a sophomore at Dickinson State University majoring in psychology and minoring in art. She is from Tolani Lake, Arizona, which is located on the Navajo Reservation. She likes to bring her Navajo culture with her wherever she goes. The culture also deeply influences her art.

K. C. HANSON graduated from the master of fine arts program in

100 CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES creative writing at Minnesota State University–Moorhead in 2005, and received the Rachel Baker Award for Creative Writing while studying at Dickinson State University. His work has been featured in The Blue Bear Review, Ginosko, Red Weather, and other magazines, and has been anthologized in Blink Again: Sudden Fiction from the Upper Midwest, from Spout Press. The Lazarus Project, his first book, is available from North Star Press of St. Cloud. He now lives in Moorhead, Minnesota, and teaches English composition at Minnesota State Community and Technical College. Visit his website at hansonkc.com.

SALLY HERAUF is a junior working toward an art entrepreneurship degree at Dickinson State University. She enjoys making art, which could be anything from drawing to graphic design. Art is a passion in her life, and she always looks forward to creating something new.

SOVI HERRING is an accounting and business administration major at Dickinson State University. She also has a leadership minor and loves poetry.

TREY HOWARD was born and raised in Montana before signing on to play football with Dickinson State University.

DEREK HUETHER is a junior at Dickinson State University majoring in art entrepreneurship, with a graphic design minor. He was born and raised in Dickinson.

RYAN JONES is originally from San Bernardino, California. He moved to Dickinson to go to school and run track. He has always been interested in photography but only recently purchased a camera. Since then he has tried to capture whatever catches his eye.

SHELBY KANSKI is a sophomore at South Heart High School in South Heart, North Dakota. Having written ever since elementary school, she has taken advanced junior/senior writing classes in high

101 CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES school and attended the International Music Camp Creative Writing Program. She plans to major or minor in creative writing when she goes to college in the near future.

SAMUEL KARIE graduated from Dickinson State University in May 2015 with an Associate of Arts degree. He took creative writing courses with Dr. Peter Grimes during his time at DSU and continues to write every day. He is currently studying animation at Minnesota State University–Moorhead and hopes to pursue a career as a screenwriter.

HAYDEN KEMP is fifteen years old and was born and raised in Williston, North Dakota.

JENNIFER LARKINS is a freshman at Laurel High School in Laurel, Montana. After graduating from college, she plans on being a psychologist and settling down with her significant other. She has been writing poems and short stories for a year and a half now.

TEHYA MALLORY, of Driscoll, North Dakota, is a sophomore at Kidder County High School in Steele. She has been drawing and writing stories since the age of nine. She plans to graduate the spring of 2018, and attend college at the Art Institute in Minnesota.

ROBERT MEADOR graduated from Dickinson State University with a Bachelor of Science in Secondary English Education. He is in his first year in the master of fine arts program in fiction writing at Texas State University, in San Marcos, Texas.

GENEVA NODLAND is sixteen years old and attends Dickinson High School. She has been writing for five years and thoroughly enjoys it.

SHEKINAH OBOMIGHIE, of Kaduna State, Nigeria, is a freshman biology major at Dickinson State University. He plans to graduate in

102 CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES the spring 2018 and begin medical school in Europe with the goal of becoming a surgeon.

CHARLES OLAMBO, of Kaduna State, Nigeria, is a freshman computer science major at Dickinson State University. He plans, after graduating, to contribute to the growth of the information and communications technology sector in his home country.

TAE PAULSON, a sophomore at Grenora Public School in Grenora, North Dakota, has been taking photographs since she could run a camera. She plans to enroll in photography classes when she gets older.

MADISON PENN is a freshman at Williston High School in Williston, North Dakota. She plans to graduate in 2020 and wants to attend college for culinary arts. She has been drawing since she was four years old, entering her first art competition at age six.

JOSH REED is a junior art entrepreneurship major from Glendive, Montana. He enjoys painting landscapes as well as abstracts. He hopes to start his own business as a graphic designer once he graduates in the spring of 2017.

KARLI ROTHSCHILLER is a junior nursing major from Dickinson, North Dakota. The poem “The Day the Valley Moved” was inspired by her first deer hunting experience in the badlands. Photography is another hobby of hers that has been enriched by recently moving to a farm north of Dickinson. She plans to graduate in the spring of 2017 and pursue her nursing career in Dickinson.

MAKENNA ROTT is a sophomore at Kindred High School in Kindred, North Dakota. She has been writing poetry, monologues, and short stories for over ten years. She plans to graduate on the B honor roll and become a pediatric psychologist.

103 CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES CODY SATTLER is a part-time novelist, part-time game enthusiast, and part-time student at Dickinson State University. He is in search of a full-time position that will allow the soul to do its searching and pay the bills at the same time.

STORMIE SICKLER is a Dickinson native who will graduate this May with a bachelor’s degree in exercise science, minor in coaching, and associate degree in agricultural business management. She plans to continue her education at Northern State University in Aberdeen, South Dakota, enrolling in the master’s program in sports performance and leadership while assisting with the track team. She will continue her passion in photography, focusing on landscape and astrophotography while also working with sports photography at Northern State University.

MARGIE SILBERNAGEL is a junior at South Heart High School in South Heart, North Dakota. She has been writing since she was six years old. Along with writing, she enjoys theater, speech, and music.

ELAINE SMITH, of Kentucky, is a freshman at Dickinson State University, where she is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in elementary education. She has had an interest in photography as a hobby, going strong for two or three years.

ANITA WEILER, Dickinson State University graduate, is owner and operator of the Reaper’s Keep Haunted Barn and part owner of Dave’s Quality Carpet Care, both in Dickinson. She is aggressively awkward, an especially gifted napper and adept at falling down stairs. She is currently starring in her own reality show (in her own mind) which features her narrating her own tedious life and singing into her hairbrush in front of the bathroom mirror. Anita is doomed to become a crazy cat lady if marrying various celebrity crushes proves impossible.