Satori XL: 2010

Satori Spring 2010 Staff: Art/Design Staff:

Melissa Kibler (Editor-in-Chief) Meagan Lord Nicholas Mast Erin Rostad Shawn Thompson

Poetry Staff:

Justin Hiniker (Editor-in-Chief)

Scott Hornberg

Courtney Kowalke

Elise Nelson

Michelle Penkava

John Rein

Prose Staff:

Chris Drumm (Editor-in-Chief) Molly Beyer Katie Bronniche Clara Cerling Ashley Horner Alexander Ledo Daniel Parham

Faculty Advisor:

Dr. Gary Eddy

Winona State University

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Statement of Purpose:

Letters from the Editors-in-Chief:

T

his was a special year for Satori for several reasons. First, we maintained the same editorial staff from last year so had the rare opportunity to learn from past errors. We also had the occasion to celebrate the 40th anniversary edition of Satori.

These two lucky events afforded the 2010 staff of Satori XL the chance to make this issue extra special and unique.

In the past, we’ve highlighted exceptional works of art or photography with the honor of cover placement. For the 40th anniversary edition, we chose instead to draw attention to the published literary works within the magazine. By doing this, we also elected to adopt the theme of “Words as Art” and our art/design team applied elements of graphic design and typography in an effort to draw attention to words and sentences of intrigue.

The cover in particular draws attention to the published works within. If you look closely, you will notice the text on the cover can be found in the prose and poetry in Satori XL. The written word is a unique feature of humankind; Sue Grafton once wrote: “My father thought it was a miracle that a writer could conjure up an image in his own head, translate that image into marks on a page, and then, through the catalytic action of reading, have the same image appear in another person’s head.” And it really is miraculous.

-- The 2010 Art/Design Staff

T

his is my second and final year as editor-in-chief of Satori and it is a bittersweet moment. I had the benefit of working with a great friend and fantastic colleague, Justin Hiniker, whose cunning editorial eye for detail and clever wit helped me to make each detail in this issue flawless. I would also like to extend thanks to my brilliant art and design staff, whose ideas and input were creative and intelligent; we tried some experimental designs this year and without my staff’s willingness to explore new techniques of design, we may not have a Satori with the visual impact it has now. I can’t say enough about the hard work the entire staff of Satori XL has dedicated to the selection and layout of the pieces. Everyone helped in the quest to realize and develop the power of words as art in order to deliver this issue to you, our esteemed reader.

T

-- Melissa Kibler, Art/Design Editor-in-Chief

he fortieth edition of Satori also happens to be my fourth year as a member of the magazine’s staff. I have truly enjoyed reading my peers’ manuscripts and finding that poem or piece of prose that stands apart from what we as students read in our classes. It has also been a privilege to work with so many people on the Satori XL staff who, through no small amount of work on their part, have helped me review and recognize success. To the people who have suffered me during this selection, thank you; to the people who have made my many messes pretty, thank you; and to everyone who picks up this issue to enjoy what our staff enjoyed, thank you!

F

-- Justin Hiniker, Poetry Editor-in-Chief

orty years is certainly a long time to be producing and distributing a literary journal. I would like to thank our contributors for caring about our magazine, our editors for making it the best possible edition, and our readers for making the whole exercise worthwhile. To all those who have affected Satori XL, past, present, and future, thank you for caring, and here’s to another 40 years of quality.

-- Chris Drumm, Prose Editor-in-Chief

Satori 40th Anniversary

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Winona State University

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Contents:

Notes on the Way I Love

29

DANIELLE WICK

Flyswatter

29

HEIDI MILLER

Sluiced

30

SYDNEY BAUER

Satori Spring 2010 Staff

3

Statement of Purpose

4

Chicken Pox and the Allure of the Snow

31

DOUGLAS OLMSTEAD

Letters from the Editors-inChief

5

Ink

32

SPENSER SANTOS

Contents

6

Derrida Dying to Write a Love Poem

33

LAKPA SHERPA

Sin of a Writer

10

KARI FISCHER

I Pray for an Afterlife

34

SAMUEL HOVDA

Grandfather’s Face in a Rock Tree

10

MARI SCHLITTER

Rushford, MN 2007

34

DANIELLE WICK

a flamingo in my kitchen

11

SYDNEY BAUER

The Echo of an Image

12

STOSCH SABO

Two-Faced

13

DANIELLE WICK

Fleeing the Scene Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

14

CARRIE OSOWSKI

Another Stupid Love Poem

15

LAURA SCHAUBSCHLAGER

Alkaline

16

DANIELLE WICK

Dragonfly

17

ALYSSA PEDERSON

[Untitled]

17

DANA SERUM

Sokaris

18

DANIEL SKOGLUND

Perspective

19

STOSCH SABO

[Untitled]

19

DANA SERUM

I Masturbate to Write (or Do I Write to Masturbate?)

20

DOUGLAS OLMSTEAD

Midnight Train

21

CARRIE OSOWSKI

Grenadier

22

DOUGLAS OLMSTEAD

Reasons to Play with Matches

23

ALYSSA PEDERSON

Freudian Slip

23

MELISSA KIBLER

Love Struck Nothing

24

SAMUEL HOVDA

Ideals

25

SPENSER SANTOS

Found or Forever Lost

26

HEATHER BRAY

A Dog’s Dream of Winter

27

JAMIE MOELLER

Exposure

28

LAURA SCHAUBSCHLAGER Satori 40th Anniversary

6

The Shriek

35

SPENSER SANTOS

Anxieties of a Young Poet

36

SAMUEL HOVDA

A Love Poem

37

HEATHER BRAY

Autumn

38

JENNA GLEISNER

Hidden

39

MICHELLE PENKAVA

Confession

39

DANIELLE WICK

Dawn

40

STOSCH SABO

What He Knows

44

DANIELLE WICK

Chittagong

45

TAUSEEF HEMAYET

Sacred Heart

46

MICHELLE PENKAVA

Snow White Quilt

54

KARI FISCHER

A Day at the Zoo with Daddy

55

DANA SERUM

Sisterhood

56

JENNA GLEISNER

My Moon

65

DANA SERUM

How a Shadow Works

65

DANIELLE WICK

Nothing is Certain But Caffeine and Homework

66

REBECCA MUELLER

Frictitious

68

SYDNEY BAUER

[Untitled]

69

MOLLY BARRETT

Extinct

70

KARI FISCHER

The Red Silk Fortress

71

MEAGAN LORD

The Tall Grass

73

DANIELLE WICK

Peace

74

HEIDI MILLER

Index

76

Winona State University

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Sin of a Writer

a flamingo in my kitchen KARI FISCHER

W hen one has access to words such as these: pleasure, lust, passionate, soft lips and kisses

SYDNEY BAUER

T

his kitchen’s water gets hot, fast and the fixture is fingerprinted.

My hands awake with pins in the water, but today was sold to the sheets dressed for rolling pins and rain.

I’m nervous so I clean that’s a lie I procrastinate so I clean turn to the toaster and expect toast, ejected and cold.

It feels good to think no things, to stare at the cabinet on its wheels from my lean on one leg on the counter opposite.

One can only be tempted To create the sin of a writer

Again to the faucet to wash this time to remove the bleach to remove the onion that haunted the counter and spread to my banana

Grandfather’s Face in a Rock Tree MARI SCHLITTER Satori 40th Anniversary

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Winona State University

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The Echo of an Image STOSCH SABO

T

he sun drifts inaudibly lower,

Bringing placid stillness to the plain,

Mountain crests send gold cascading asunder,

Morphing wind-blown grass to gold-flowing mane.

And day by day, night by night, The stars act as a cue, That I may look up to the heavens, And be so blessed to forever remember you.

Here tranquil serenity, Captures a moment of grace, Demanding from eternity, An everlasting space.

As darkness’ drought,

Corrodes the waterfall of light,

All is filled with doubt,

Before the dusky emergence of another starry night.

So small, intangible yet unreserved,

Providing light through the darkest of hours,

Where light is most needed, and most deserved.

In this utter blackness,

This most hellish of nights when all hope is gone,

Given untold guardian lights,

For the mere sake of saving one wretched pawn.

Each resplendent mark shines with perpetuity, Glistening within its space, Observed with ponderous lucidity, Each contains an age-old face.

When all memories are lost, When all thoughts are decreed, Forget not to look up, To remember those you most need.

Two-Faced DANIELLE WICK Satori 40th Anniversary

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Winona State University

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Fleeing the Scene Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

Another Stupid Love Poem

LAURA SCHAUBSCHLAGER

CARRIE OSOWSKI

I

The highway is an endless abyss refusing to swallow me whole

tug at my clothes.

I look at the ground.

My heart’s beating faster.

I can’t make a sound.

Your voice gives me shivers But my face feels so hot.

One single word Ties my stomach in knots.

I’m not worth a glance But you smile just the same.

You make me feel special Just saying my name.

The kindness is empty.

The smile’s a disguise.

There’s no affection When you look in my eyes, So why can’t I stop caring And wasting my time Pouring my soul Into a forced rhyme?

Every time I see you You send my head spinning But I’m fighting a battle I have no chance of winning.

on this still, quiet night.

I’m running from the truth, begging for answers, but terrified to ask the right questions.

This is all too much. . .

Pushing against the dashboard, straining against the seat belt: I’m leaving too fast, yet moving so slow.

And you’re screaming to drown out the silence while the music’s pounding in my ears.

I’m making this journey a solo mission with you ghost-riding shotgun.

Satori 40th Anniversary

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Winona State University

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Alkaline

Dragonfly DANIELLE WICK

Y

ALYSSA PEDERSON

S ummer’s aura breathes you in Free from shackles, welded wings

our mouth tastes like a warm battery, reminding me of when my brother double-dog-dared me to lick a 9-volt— That tiny shock, just like the shivers that race up my legs to crown me in stars as I breathe against you in bed— How have I ever looked at you and told myself, “You’re not what I wanted.

You don’t write poetry, play an instrument, carry around emotional baggage like an anchor; you’re not what I thought I would end up with.

Why am I even here?”

Neon bright, speck an oceanic sky Wisping whites overlay the sun Taming the brighter side of her face, A lighter stride of wings on water Grazing warmth, dampen the delicates Cutting broken glass with feathers A jovial flight through an airy scene Only to end when the heavy hits, A slate black drape to hush freedom Or pelting bullets to break focus Or a lethal breeze to toss off course.

[Untitled] DANA SERUM

All I need to do is touch my tongue to yours, remind myself how a circuit works— The positive and the negative gasping through the alkaline tango of opposites in love.

Satori 40th Anniversary

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Winona State University

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Sokaris

Perspective DANIEL SKOGLUND

I

’ve made a costly demand; they smote the men that were at the door And I’ll pray you die in my hands, a valentine in September Until the decreed ruin is poured out, upon the appaller an imposter Another seeker makes it in and I’ve assumed myself The damsel was very fair with short red hair And the camels were coming Another seeker makes it in and I’ve assumed myself The sun and the moon the eleven stars made obeisance to me

STOSCH SABO

A

s night’s darkness matures, So too, Does star’s light, For without each other, Both Would cease.

Every streetlight winks with plea four kingdoms will rise and one will be A lion, bear, and leopard will cut you at the knees And if only they’d done more Forbid the massacre at the hand of ten horns Russia has paid the price Puppets and words of advice The dove found no rest

[Untitled] DANA SERUM

Ride this train away from the stain Siberia calls your name Clairvoyants and preachers surround the spire Burn them in line because they’re all liars He was a mighty hunter He climbed through darkness to the twilight air She was the nakedness of their father She dove right in, right into prayer The end will come like a flood A tempest that’s raining shards of glass And I’m prepared for anything The agony warping mind is bearable Did the world put its hand on you?

Stealing your innocence Charging you twenty pence…

Satori 40th Anniversary

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Winona State University

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I Masturbate to Write (or Do I Write to Masturbate?)

Midnight Train

CARRIE OSOWSKI

DOUGLAS OLMSTEAD

B

rainwashed, I write in my little stained notebook, turning out what

transpires in my brain, of all things—now spine—now arm—

now hand—fingers—pencil—OUT! Ah, like a fresh ejaculatory specimen my poetic specimen litters the page

in splotchy blotches of quantity.

Because the one thing I’ve learned from masturbating (and there’s plenty

of time to be learning) is that it’s all quantity baby! Nothing

more. No refinement. No quality about this masculine act.

You manage to squeeze one out that’s even good, somewhat. You enjoy

it and the next poet comes and has this toe-clenching-bed-clutch

ing-orgasmic revelation of a poem. And you frown and go on

with your lackluster-quantity-belching elbow of a poem.

So by all means, get it on paper, all over. There you go. It’s all in the wrist.

Satori 40th Anniversary

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M idnight, small town.

Train coming through; stand by the tracks to feel its breeze.

Hands in the air, screaming at the top of our lungs, racing a beast rolling along at a million miles an hour.

But to the owl silently gliding over us, we are simply ants shouting at a snake slowly carving a path through town.

Winona State University

21

Grenadier

Reasons to Play with Matches DOUGLAS OLMSTEAD

O n my breath, a soliloquy: “I hold you dear, so close to me,

1.

Because you’re told otherwise.

2. Because you enjoy the keen crawl of the flame toward your nail.

I dream before I let you go, That you will kill: really big show.

The red violence there does ensue.

You hit, you maim, you kill a few.

Thank your lucky stars and mine too, That we’ll win the war, because of you.”

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

Had it so long, it finally there flew, I almost lost a thumb, or two.

Chucked it so hard, it made me wonder, For it was swallowed by wild blue yonder.

Oh, I do not care, for it is gone, But now I’m saddened, oh-so-long.

That ka-boom was my dearest friend.

Now I will dream to dream again.

--Behind the clear whites of my eyes, I see you again, and courage does rise, To conquer the world, side-by-your-side.

But it’s all in my mind, so fleeting: the tide.

So as I sit here, years gone by We are alone again, just you and I. Oh grenade, I love you so much, If only again we could just touch.

I’d grip you tight, oh so very near, We would be one, my last true dear.

So on this, this very last breath of mine: “We stand still, and so does time.

For wars come fast and they quickly go by, But we’ll live forever, just you and I. So before I can throw, and let you fly, I grip tight, and dream a dream: we’ll never die.

Because of the smell.

For the pull and the pop, or the swipe and the snap, whichever you like, because you’re playing: there is no duty but pleasure, quick-fire, and the sound it makes.

One or the other, or all or more.

Because it burns beautiful shades, but ends in black.

From light to dark.

Objects to ashes, and solids to smoke.

Because they come in a twenty-pack.

You only need one to destroy everything.

Freudian Slip MELISSA KIBLER

Satori 40th Anniversary

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ALYSSA PEDERSON

Winona State University

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Love Struck Nothing

Ideals SAMUEL HOVDA

I

f I was a love struck nothing, I’d kiss your lips to greet you and hold your hands forever in a dream I’d dream each night.

My moon-faced fantasies shadow me from a star-crossed sky, but if I was a love struck nothing, they’d hang from my bangs that already cover my eyes, and I would see you every day for months. If I was a love struck nothing, you would be my umbrella, and I would be your raincoat, and we’d live for years swimming in the puddles that appear on the roads we tread and pretend they were filled for our enjoyment. If I was a love struck nothing, I’d touch your lips with a single finger and smile, whisper everything I’d rather tell the world about you, but they would pretend that I was lying. If I was a love struck nothing, I do not know what I would do. You would see me in the back ground, staring at you in the clubs from the corners where the music would explode into my ears, but, when the music commits suicide, in that first beat after I would have turned and stepped away from you, and in a minute you would forget that I had stood there if I was a love struck nothing.

Satori 40th Anniversary

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SPENSER SANTOS

W hat if the only ideal was no ideal?

No perfect love or ultimate form,

Just the world; imperfections make it real.

Could we live and love in a world like that?

It’s possible, certainly doable.

Would it be good or all but gone to pot?

It would be rare, a bright light in dark rubble.

But would those lights shine and never give back?

I don’t think that sort of thing could happen – Light seeks light and so it must cross the dark.

And so no gulf left in darkness is real, But no darkness can be totally breached Because it’s all just a means to an end – An ideal that lives without an ideal.

Winona State University

25

Found or Forever Lost HEATHER BRAY

And so I said

I have a lot to tell you, so listen Please And I may talk fast – But stay with me.

Pete Yorn is what struck it, and reignited an ember that turned into a flame inside my heart.

My mind turned over and began to Replay and Replay, and Replay.

I debated

Ah, God, I debated.

To speak the Words and tell you -

I want to shake you.

Put a hand on both sides of you,

And shake you up.

Understand this: We found it.

It was lost, but does not everything lost still – exist?

The outcome can be of two ways, Found. Or Forever Lost.

A Dog’s Dream of Winter JAMIE MOELLER

But Words are only Words until they are proven And so they remained, Words.

Until the night in mid-November, when you picked me up and we drove.

You parked the car and we sat in Silence and Watched the cars go by.

Their lights flashed as if we were in trouble.

Hell, we were in trouble.

Or more so, I was in trouble.

Well, it just feels – right.

Like all time was still and no time had passed.

Time did not exist anymore.

All that mattered was happening.

Ah, and it is a good and rare feeling.

Yes, very rare.

So you try and hold on to it Because it is so easily lost.

But we FOUND it.

Satori 40th Anniversary

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Winona State University

27

Exposure

Notes on the Way I Love LAURA SCHAUBSCHLAGER

L ate winter is misleading.

I wake one mid-February morning

DANIELLE WICK

I

To find sunlight shining through the frosted window.

The golden rays melt my barriers, Just as I know they are melting the treacherous layer of ice That has been holding the world captive for so long.

I race outside, anticipating the kiss of warm spring air, The reassuring embrace of a new beginning, And am instead slapped in the face by the cold winter breeze.

The freezing wind whips around the snowLike crushed glass it scrapes against every inch I foolishly left exposed, Wearing me raw and ragged.

The sting bringing tears to my eyes, And through my watery vision I see a clear, bright blue sky and the dazzling sun Gleaming at me like a sarcastic smile.

t may not always be gentle but you know that steel needs a tempering stroke and it may not always show but you know how mirrors love smoke.

Flyswatter HEIDI MILLER Satori 40th Anniversary

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Winona State University

29

Sluiced

Chicken Pox and the Allure of the Snow SYDNEY BAUER

W hitecaps, without wrists to rest on tip and spill in the day’s red.

T

he pane cracks, with cold and frost; one would swear it would shatter

and fly.

The tiny markings of winter speckle the glass—they cover, ever stretch-

ing in crystalline fingers.

I trace the words “Hello” and “there” that break through the whiteness—

the words transparent, with brown branches and white, white

snow poking through.

On two elbows, pointed down supporting the arms which support the

chin on which the head, growing tired with staying inside on

this wintry day, sits—and wonders.

And eyes, where the world wishes it could be free and young, naive and

imaginative, stare out at the places of wonder.

I sigh, a low, long sigh—long inhale, huuuh…hhhhhhh, with the last Hs

out turning to warm breath and then nothingness…

I grow tired with amusing myself with the window’s silent wonders,

looking for other things to do. I sit. I think.

I scratch my back, just a bit, stretching to do so. Stop. Remember they

say not to scratch. It’s bad. I won’t heal as fast.

But it’s so itchy, and I wonder will it hurt to scratch. Who will come for

me if I do? Why is it so bad?

Then I don’t scratch it for a while, thinking instead of the itchy thief and

his sack full of naughty boys who scratched.

I eye my toy Matchbox truck, bright green, with yellow 59s pasted on

the doors and bring it over to stare out with me at the snow, ice,

and frost.

The wheels spin faster, and faster, and he zooms over cliffs and canyons,

careening over the edges, too close for comfort.

The biggest jump is the widest stretch he’s ever seen, but he sits, waiting;

then like the crack of a whip, he revs the engine, and lets loose!

He hits the edge with ever-growing speed, Ka-pow! And the engine is

loud and proud, as it spins with the many, many revolutions, Whiiiiiiirrrrrrr!

Suddenly, he hits the other side, Chuuughhh-eeehhhhhrrrr! And he

swerves and squeals to a stop, Shhh-eeeerweeee!

I drop it, and it falls beneath the bed. I look. I don’t pursue it. I instead

look outside. At the cold. And I begin to itch again.

They land in the echo and break to dust They writhe to rise and sink in the sand.

The cigar in your hand and haste in your pocket confide in us.

“What does that black flag do?” she asked the lockbox, but his eyes were busy with distance with the slip of each bight.

And then to bend hands to rope, to drop the other hull, to raise our own tension.

I wanted a fact to move me west touch my cheek, tell me different.

Satori 40th Anniversary

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DOUGLAS OLMSTEAD

Winona State University

31

Ink

Derrida Dying to Write a Love Poem SPENSER SANTOS

I

LAKPA SHERPA

P erhaps “your” hand “is” like “my” hand “is” like “his” hand “is” like “her” hand.

f I could smell things underwater I’d try to find an octopus to sniff To see if the smell is like The synthetic stuff I get from my pen

Or, perhaps, “it” “is” the hand of a clock that “is” ticking in “my” heart.

Or, perhaps, “it” “is” Heidegger’s…

Or, perhaps, “it” “is” a bricolage of…

“I” guess “I” can’t tell “you” what “it” “is”, but “I” can tell “you” what “it” “is” “not”: “It” “is” “not” a “word” or a “concept”.

“It” “is” “not” the leg of a hippopotamus, though “it” may look alike.

“It” “is” “not” “your” head or your toes or your nails or your fingertips…

(I can go on with this ad infinitum.)

“I” feel “bad” putting inverted commas around “you,” so let “me” cross everything out and start anew.

A cross, an X, a multiplication sign, a kiss, the unknown…

Sweethand, maybe, you can hand me your hand so that we can hand in hand handle this poem which is getting quite out of hand, For I’m getting a handache trying to make this poem about your hand a bit more handsome.

(Maybe I am wrong. Maybe there is the Truth: Philosophers, ipso facto, can’t be poets.)

When I write or chew on it As I try to think of what to put next But then it breaks and Stains my tongue with an Acrid taste that’s partly blood Because the pen cut me as it broke As if to say “Writing is your lifeblood” And the ink stains my skin For at least a week And eventually my fingers get so inky I can mark things with a touch So I do and it’s funny until I mess up my clothes and get mad At myself for fooling around and spilling and at The pens for having the ink And at the octopus for making the ink But then I think that the octopus Uses ink to hide and it’s like I’ve done that too And it’s funny again

Satori 40th Anniversary

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Winona State University

33

I Pray for an Afterlife

The Shriek SAMUEL HOVDA

T

here are birds in the fluttering void of the night sky.

They chirp, and I listen. Their beaks are crooked, and they chirp, and I still believe in a sunglasses-wearing man with a cell phone that never loses reception, and there are no monthly charges.

He will tell me why my palms are decorated with triangular creases and where I will live when I die.

There are birds chirping on the branches of a dead elm tree.

They know why I sweat when I think of a death where there is nothing and I would be the void in the night sky.

SPENSER SANTOS

A

bald man walks up and down and up and down again on the bridge overlooking Oslofjord, while a couple follows but hangs back in romantic reverie.

The dark water drifts lazily beneath the bridge slowly cutting into the land with a rumbling mumble about erosion while the sky blushes, attempting to romance the earth once more, but the blushing turns to bleeding.

The bald man stops, holding his head, twisting this way and that until he hardly looks human, wailing in despair, as he tries to pry head from shoulders, over the black and bloody century that lies ahead.

Rushford, MN 2007 DANIELLE WICK

Satori 40th Anniversary

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Winona State University

35

Anxieties of a Young Poet

A Love Poem SAMUEL HOVDA

O ur stories are struck by imitators of imitators like rotting fruit rinds lingering too long in the sun.

What would be, if you were to write the next grandiose symphony or dime novel bathed in the legacies of the ancients, your legacy?

My success is the success of my heritage, and there is no justice in the prefaced whispers of plagiarism.

There is no way to mask the sting of déjà-vu, to excite the dullness of the afterwards.

We know the stories. We know the myths, the legacies, the comedies and the tragedies.

There have been too many fair-skinned maidens to know them all by name, but we know the archetype: snowflakes that all fall still on the rooftops and the side streets, and it is like telling your story one thousand times to ears that refuse to listen or they never quite grasp what you’re really trying to say.

We are breathless shadows, and when we’ve exhausted our rewrites of our ancestors, we will watch from dark and distanced corners our contemporaries, who dance and love and live, but we will remain spectators. We will write verses that we pray will bleed consolation.

Our legacies will be built like the snowflakes caught for a minute, if a moment, on the crest of a hilltop before the next crossing of the wind.

Our faces will be frostbit with growing pains, and we will be unable to distinguish our fables from our memories.

Satori 40th Anniversary

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HEATHER BRAY

T

he morning light will shine in lines on your face, and my kiss will wake your sleepy eyes.

Carry me in your written arms and let us leave, say goodbye to what was, never to look back.

The headlights will illuminate Highway 61, and I may fall asleep on your lap to your harmonizing voice.

Sunshine is getting dim as you park the car, and we walk to the edge of an idealistic future.

In every direction our eyes will only see the untouched white snow, that not even the wild animals have tracked upon.

Our hands find each other and we will begin to walk, carefully placing each step we take.

The moonlight tries to make the path ahead visible, but the branching trees hold back the light, and whisper - we must step with faith, and if for some reason one of us falls, only one set of footprints will be seen.

We will carry each other, until we can stand again.

Hand in hand.

Together we will arrive at the banks of a river yet to freeze for the winter.

And like the river we will always run, through and through.

Our current will remain strong, pulling others in.

But it will always end up -- you and I. And we will float on, just to see where we end up and only expecting to land some place beautiful.

Winona State University

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Autumn

Hidden JENNA GLEISNER

T

MICHELLE PENKAVA

T

he change in your hue hints at your arrival.

Your lush, voluptuous greens fade to Shades of the messy orange and yellow ovals Of a child’s plastic watercolor paint set.

urning the moist dirt over and over The shovel’s handle creates blisters Which crack, the framework for calluses.

I need to dig deeper in to the earth To ignore the pain Dig deeper to hide it well To hide my sins To cover my past

You fall to pieces, letting go of life In preparation of the cold to come.

I hear the wind rustle up your deceased In whirlwinds below my open window And I know that winter’s almost here To mark the dreary and blistering Cold of the darkest months ahead And to steal my favorite time of the year.

Still having trouble understanding just Why you stalk my mind in my sleep And haunt my memories – or why these dreams adjust Those memories I always meant to lock and keep Stored away as pleasant things to remember.

These nightmares steal my rest and torment my mind, Making me wish I couldn’t slip under So I could leave you and your memory behind.

But you and your company are gone away And we are no longer a part of each other.

I need to realize each and every day That you’re not real and I have another.

Just for my sanity’s sake, this is how I force myself to recall you now.

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Confession DANIELLE WICK

Winona State University

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Dawn

STOSCH SABO

I

pray that I may embody my dreams, And disseminate my sins, That I may not blindfully accept that which seems, But rather what is.

I pray for a triumphant eve, That as my day inevitably wanes into night, I may yet steadfastly believe, This life be one of irrepressible light.

And though the flame be but small, I ask only that it endure, For with no flame at all, I offer not a single light to the obscure.

I pray that my eyes may discern with veracity, And behold with understanding, That my morals may fight with tenacity, And my vices remain undemanding.

This I pray until death.

I pray for a persona of alacrity, Of thoughts true and clear, Of a mind full to capacity, With wisdom and knowledge abating all fear.

I pray that I may remain strong, That I may emerge the truer from the night, That I may never accede to that which is wrong, That I may never disavow that which is right.

I pray for a foundation of kindness, For a structure of reason, For a roof of tolerance and justice, That may steadfastly remain despite the

traveling season.

I pray that I may have diligence, And never drift astray, That I may not wait for opportunity’s emergence, But rather subsume every day.

I pray for a duty of toil, For a challenge demanding my whole, For a passionate spirit so fervently loyal, For wisdom to direct an ever-maturing soul.

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Winona State University

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What He Knows DANIELLE WICK

I

t doesn’t take an expert to convince him that eight hours of sleep in four days is in no way, shape, or form an adequate amount of said activity. He knows this, but for worry and responsibility’s sake, his body just will not fall asleep for longer than a couple restless hours at a time.

The last two of these four miserable days, he’s had a skull-splitting headache—the kind that makes him feel like he has a dizzying fever. His nose feels like it’s going to start gushing stringy dark blood over the textbooks spread-eagled on his desk and thinking of the red viscous threads makes his stomach churn.

He doesn’t notice over the buzzing behind his eyeballs.

He’s been staring at these anatomy textbooks for hours now, and all the words just line up, marching off to wherever it is eight million words march off to when he couldn’t care less what they’re trying to tell him. He swears he can see a tiny sullen expression on each of their faces—they’re disappointed in him, he knows, but not nearly as much as he is in himself.

The snow obscures the window in the corner of his vision and he wonders how long a human can stay awake without falling apart like a car that’s been run too long and too hard. Sighing with muffled exhaustion, he turns a page in his textbook and stares at the new patterns of letters, not surprised when they bleed together.

All he knows is he doesn’t want to be here, staring at these same books, this same desk, watching the world out this same window. He knows he’s sick of lying awake in bed, long after he’s given up staring blankly at his books, long after he’s shut the light off and started staring at the back of his eyelids instead. He knows he’s sick of crawling out of bed and standing in the shower trying to hear his heartbeat over the water, and just as sick of eating food while only tasting the inside of his mouth.

He knows that people will tell him time, a good long sleep, and a couple good meals will fix this—that it’s as simple as an overworked col-

lege student trying to balance exhaustion and success. He begs to differ.

He feels sick in a way that can’t be subdued with antacids, sleep aids, or even alcohol; he’s sick of people trying to medicate him with their company, their jokes, their reassurances. He’s sick of always having to answer small-talk questions.

He knows the answer is always supposed to be a polite one and he doesn’t feel particularly polite. He also knows that suicide of the successful is not always a forfeit, that the hangman’s noose does not always cry, “Love me and despair at what you’ve driven me to!”

He knows that sometimes it simply sighs, kneads its temple with tired hands and murmurs, “I’m done. I’m done.”

He wonders how long a human can stay awake without falling apart like a car that’s been run too long and too hard.

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Chittagong TAUSEEF HEMAYET Winona State University

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Sacred Heart

*****

MICHELLE PENKAVA

K

atherine O’Brien pushed the red button next to her bed. No sound came from it, nor any lights. She wondered what the button did. While she was pondering, a large lady with mahogany hair curling around her face walked into the room. Mrs. O’Brien liked the pleasant colors of blue, purple, and white on her scrubs, but wondered why the lady hadn’t knocked.

“Hello there Mrs. O’Brien, was there something you needed?” The young lady’s voice filled the room.

“I’m sorry, dear, do I know you?” Mrs. O’Brien inquired.

“No, ma’am. I’m a new nurse here.”

“Nurse?”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re in Sacred Heart Assisted Living, remember?”

Mrs. O’Brien thought about it for a couple of seconds, then floundered upon the memory of when she had moved in. It had been a big deal, as she recalled. Two young ladies hugged her, and two young men -- the young ladies’ spouses -- carried boxes into the room. “Yes dear, I do remember. Actually, I’m feeling rather hungry. Do you suppose-”

“Yes, ma’am, your breakfast is on its way. I’ll go get it for you,” the nurse interrupted and bustled out of the room.

Mrs. O’Brien didn’t think it was proper to eat in bed. Crumbs got everywhere and it was just plain unladylike. She swung her legs over to the left side of her bed where there was a reclining chair a couple of feet away. She pushed up and steadied herself against the nightstand on which the red button sat. She maneuvered over to the green faux-leather recliner with an afghan draped over the seat and back. Plopping into it, she looked up in time to see the rotund nurse come back in with a tray.

The nurse pulled a small table on wheels over to the chair in front of Mrs. O’Brien and sat the tray down on it.

“Make sure to take your pills with the water and if you need anything else just push the red button again,” she said before hurrying out.

Mrs. O’Brien examined the contents of the tray. A covered plate was centered while a glass of water and a glass of orange juice sat in either top corner. A small cup of four multicolored pills sat in the bottom right corner. She decided to get the unpleasant bit over with and took up the pill cup. She’d never liked swallowing pills -- it made her gag if she thought about it too much. While she forced the large pills down her throat, she thought of an earlier time -- how much earlier she wasn’t quite sure.

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She remembered being in the hospital, standing next to the bed in a pristine, white room. Tom, sitting on the bed, was holding her hand, using his thumb to rub circles into the back of it. The door opened and a doctor wearing a long white coat walked in, closing the door behind him.

Mrs. O’Brien remembered thinking that he blended into the walls quite well.

“Mr., Mrs. O’Brien.” The doctor nodded his head at each in turn.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news, but I don’t want you to get too upset.

There are plenty of options for treatment.”

Mrs. O’Brien hated the way doctors skirted around the truth. Why didn’t they just jump right in and get straight to the point?

“The tests came back positive. I’m sorry to say you have chronic lymphoid leukemia.”

“What does that mean?” Tom asked.

“It means that the B cells in your bone marrow are damaged and growing out of control. They’re crowding out the healthy cells. Most people who contract it are over fifty years old like yourself, Mr. O’Brien.”

Mr. O’Brien looked at his wife who had tears in her eyes, then asked the important question: “So how long do I have?”

The doctor looked at Mr. O’Brien then dropped his eyes to his clipboard. “It appears that the gene mutation is more advanced than normal. I’d say you have another five to eight years depending on how well you take to therapy.” *****

Mrs. O’Brien didn’t remember much after that and was frustrated when she couldn’t remember more of her husband Tom.

“Mrs. O’Brien? You have some visitors. Is it alright if they come in?” the stout nurse from earlier asked, leaning in the doorway.

“Yes, of course.”

In walked two young women. They must have been in their early thirties. One had shoulder length straight blond hair and the other short, spiked black hair. Mrs. O’Brien didn’t think it was her natural color. They both had the same hazel eyes and the same round face. “Hello girls. What can I do for you?”

The dark-haired girl leaned over and whispered something in the blond’s ear. Mrs. O’Brien couldn’t hear it but she heard the blond respond, “I know, just follow my lead.”

She then looked at the older lady and answered her question, Winona State University

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“We’re here visiting people who don’t regularly get visitors.”

Mrs. O’Brien opened her mouth to contradict her, to say she did get visitors, but her mind couldn’t recall any visitors other than the nurse.

Instead she said, “Well, that’s sweet of you girls. Tell me, what are your names?”

“I’m Bridget and this is my sister, Moira,” the blond said.

“Nice to meet you Bridget, Moira. Please, won’t you have a seat?”

Mrs. O’Brien asked gesturing to the recently made bed. She didn’t remember making it; perhaps the nurse had made it when she had been in to serve breakfast?

Moira spotted the leftover tray and dishes on the table, “What was for breakfast?”

“Oh, some porridge with brown sugar and a side of turkey bacon. Let me tell you girls, getting older isn’t always fun. Long gone are the days you can eat whatever you want without consideration to special diets.”

Moira and Bridget smiled a little, sitting next to each other on the bed.

“Do you girls have any children?”

Moira frowned at Bridget, but Bridget answered without hesitancy.

“Yes, I have a little boy and a girl, Thomas and Claire. Claire is seven and Thomas will be turning five in November.”

“And you, Moira?”

Moira smiled weakly, “I have a son, Jack. He’s six now.”

“That’s nice.” Mrs. O’Brien racked her memory to remember some stories of her children, but couldn’t. She frowned and started to breathe faster. She could remember that she had children, but she couldn’t remember anything about them. Were they boys? Girls? How old were they now?

“Are you okay Mrs. O’Brien?” Bridget asked halfway getting up from the bed.

“I – I can’t remember… I can’t remember my children! What happened to them? Where are they?” Mrs. O’Brien’s eyes grew wide and frantic as she started to hyperventilate.

Moira jumped up from the bed and rushed to the door to get help.

Bridget was holding Mrs. O’Brien’s hand, kneeling beside her trying to calm her. “It’s okay, Mrs. O’Brien, it’ll be all right.”

“I-I can’t remember . . . I can’t remember my children!

What happened to them? Where are they?”

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The nurse came in with a rather muscular man in scrubs. He gently pushed down on Mrs. O’Brien’s shoulders when she tried to get up.

“WHERE ARE MY CHILDREN? ARE THEY OKAY?!” she cried, struggling.

She was trying to get out of the recliner, pushing at the nurse and the assistant, her strength heightened in the moment of blind panic. The nurse stepped up beside Mrs. O’Brien with a syringe in hand. Bridget helped by holding Mrs. O’Brien’s arm still enough for the nurse to inject her. Almost as soon as the needle was pulled out, Mrs. O’Brien’s struggles grew weaker until she was mumbling in her sleep.

“I’m sorry you girls had to see that. It’s always difficult when they go into a fit like that,” the nurse said, disposing of the needle.

Moira wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Bridget went to stand beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay . . . we’ve seen it before.”

“She’ll be out until later this afternoon. I’d recommend not coming back until tomorrow at least. Let us watch her, make sure she’s okay,” the nurse said, helping the assistant put Mrs. O’Brien back into bed.

Bridget nodded, “Thanks so much, Tracey, for looking after her. I can’t imagine how hard your job is.”

“It’s no problem, Bridget. It’s what I do. Sometimes it isn’t pretty, but I’ve grown fond of my patients, especially your mother over the past two years.”

Bridget mumbled thanks and steered Moira out into the hallway.

“Why didn’t you tell me Mom was getting so bad?” Moira asked, sniffling.

“I didn’t want to worry you. I’ve been coming almost everyday, and she remembers me half the time, but I guess today since you were with…”

“So now you’re blaming this on me?”

“No! No, Moira… I just meant that I’m here more. She barely recognizes me half the time. She didn’t recognize you, that’s all.”

Moira glared at her older sister. “If you want me to help out more, I can. All you have to do is ask!”

“Moira, I’m not asking for your help.”

Moira wasn’t listening; she scoffed and walked out the door into the parking lot. *****

“Kath . . . are you ready?” a deep voice asked.

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She’d been ready for this day since she was seven years old, playing pretend, putting white pillow cases on her head and walking slow, measured steps down the hallway, off to meet Mr. Huggles who sat on a chair in the kitchen waiting for her; just like Tom would be in only minutes. She smiled at her father and nodded since she wasn’t sure of her voice at the moment. He held his arm out to her and she took it. They waited for the organ to play their cue. Her father led, her small pale hand tucked away in his big tan one. The aisle seemed to stretch on forever, but it was only a minute before she was standing before Tom’s bewildered face. She stared into his coffee-brown eyes until she heard the priest ask her the most important question of her life. “Do you, Katherine Brennan, take this man, Thomas O’Brien, to be your husband until death do you part?”

“I do . . .” The words came out small, but full of conviction.

The priest talked for another minute, before Tom swooped down; his lips pressed against hers and his large arms pulled her close. Applause surrounded them and they broke apart smiling at each other, each believing they were the luckiest person in the world. *****

“Mrs. O’Brien? Time for your meds.”

Mrs. O’Brien opened her eyes. She’d just had the most wonderful dream, but couldn’t quite remember it. She looked up at the nurse. Today’s scrub was different. Brighter yellows and greens leapt around in the form of frogs. She didn’t like it: too bright. Mrs. O’Brien tried to push herself up, but her arms didn’t seem to be strong enough. “Don’t bother yourself, ma’am,” the nurse said and reached around behind Mrs. O’Brien’s shoulders to pull her up.

“Thank you,” she replied, confused. “Were my daughters in here yesterday, Tracey? I don’t recall getting to talk to them very much. Did they say when they’re coming back?”

The nurse’s eyes grew wide, but she smiled, “Yes ma’am, um . . . they should be here shortly. I’ll just go out and tell them you’re up.”

“Thank you, Tracey.”

Tracey hurried out of the room to the front desk where she placed an excited phone call. Not fifteen minutes later, Bridget and Moira were strolling through the sliding doors of Sacred Heart with broad grins on their faces. Moira was first in her mother’s room. “Mom! How are you?”

Mrs. O’Brien looked startled. “Excuse me, dear? I think you have the wrong room.”

Moira paused in mid-stride and Bridget bumped into her.

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“What?”

“I said I believe you have the wrong room, dears. You see, I don’t have any children, something I’ve always regretted. Do you young ladies have any children?”

Moira couldn’t hide the horrified look on her face. She turned and walked quickly out the door, tears in the corners of her eyes. Mrs. O’Brien watched her go. “Is she alright?” she asked Bridget, whose face was only slightly less shocked.

“Umm . . . ah, yeah. She’s just had a tough day. Would you excuse me?”

“What nice girls . . .” Mrs. O’Brien said quietly as Bridget hurried out the door after her sister. *****

Fifteen minutes later, loud, racking sobs came from the left side of the couch where Moira had plopped down as soon as they had reached Bridget’s house. “I–I don’t even know why you try! You know she w–wouldn’t even remember if you never visited her.”

“That’s not the point, Moira. It doesn’t matter if mom can’t remember. What matters is that we care enough about her to visit.” Bridget wrapped an arm around her sister, pulling her close.

She reflected that it had been a good idea to send Chad and Greg on a mini vacation with the kids while Moira was staying. Chad, Moira’s husband, complained about leaving right away after just arriving, but decided it might not be a bad idea after a look from Moira.

They had driven through two states to arrive at Bridget’s house in Wisconsin. Moira, at age twenty, had decided to move far enough away from home that she wouldn’t be relied upon to do help with the mundane everyday things. Her job as an interior design consultant also required her to live in or near a larger city.

“It doesn’t matter if Mom can’t remember.

What matters is that we care enough about her to visit.”

*****

One bottle of wine, two boxes of Thin Mints and eight hours later, Moira woke to the smell of bacon and eggs. She pushed the blanket off Winona State University

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herself and stretched, yawning wide. Bridget’s head popped into the living room and smiled at her. “Want some breakfast?”

Moira nodded, “Just give me a minute.”

She stumbled up the stairs to brush her teeth and hair. Looking in the mirror, an older woman than she remembered peered back out. Dark circles under her eyes and a weary expression made her appear ten years older than her thirty-eight years. Walking back down the stairs and into the kitchen, she asked, “Bridg… what are we gonna do?”

Bridget was scooping sizzling bacon onto a paper towel-covered plate, “What do you mean?”

“About Mom…”

Bridget turned and put the plate on the round table and her hands, once free, found her hips. “I don’t know. She’s getting worse; she used to be able to remember months at a time. Now it’s narrowed down to hours, sometimes even minutes. Her doctor says there’s not much we can do for her. The dementia is progressing fast for her age.”

“She’s only sixty-two!”

“I know . . . there’s been a lot of times when I felt like giving up.

It’s like you said: she’d never even notice if we just never came to visit.”

The sound of forks scraping on plates and glasses clinking against the table filled the silence. Bridget was nearly done eating when Moira said, “You know we can’t give up on her.”

“I know. Sometimes it just takes time to get my perspective back though.”

Moira smiled at Bridget, “Let’s go back later today. Maybe we’ll have better luck?” *****

“Katie! Come quick!” Tom rushed back out the sliding door.

Katherine dropped the dishrag she’d been using to dry plates and hurried to the door. She spun around the corner into the backyard to see little Jack, Moira’s boy, wobbling his first steps into Chad’s open arms.

“Come on Jackie! You can do it,” Chad encouraged.

Jack shuffled his left foot forward, then his right, and then lifted his left leg again, only to fall into Chad’s hands. Chad swept him up in a hug and Moira ran over to join. Katherine leaned against Tom and put her arm through his. Suddenly, the grey sky started pelting them with rain. “Moira, get Jack inside before he catches cold!” Katherine chided her daughter.

Moira laughed. “I know, Mom!”

Chad, Moira, and Jack rushed into the house, dripping water on Satori 40th Anniversary

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the linoleum floor. *****

Mrs. O’Brien opened her eyes. She stared at the ceiling for a long time, watching how it turned from gray to a pleasant cream color. The sun was rising and she knew the nurse would be in shortly to give her her meds and breakfast. Shortly wasn’t going to be soon enough though. She could remember. She could remember it all. Bridget, Moira, Jack, Claire, Tom… Tom; a month ago was the fifth anniversary of his death, the end of his battle with leukemia. She picked up the wireless phone sitting on her bedside and dialed a number that she could recall dialing many times before. It rang, once, twice, three times. “Hello?” a tired voice inquired.

“Bridget, honey, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Who is this? Mom?”

“I’m sorry, Bridget! I’m sorry for everything, for not remembering, for making you take care of me!”

“Mom, you remember?” There was Perhaps if she kept a pause on the line “What are you talking about?” Bridget recovered. “I do it because remembering, I want to! Because I love you . . .” forcing herself to

“But Bridget . . .”

“Hang on mom, do you think you’ll recall these things, be . . . okay, for a while longer?” she could remember “I think so. I’m feeling good.”

“All right, just keep thinking of us. her own children We’ll be there in a bit.” when they

Mrs. O’Brien hung up the phone somewhat reluctantly. She didn’t know arrived. how long she would remember. Deciding it would be better if she were moving about and remembering things, she got out of bed and changed into a pair of tan slacks and a peach blouse. She grabbed her cane and ambled out the door.

The hallway was quiet except for the chirping from the small aviary down the hall in the main entrance. Mrs. O’Brien walked down the hall, reciting to herself the names and birthdays of her children and grandchildren. Perhaps if she kept remembering, forcing herself to recall these things, she could remember her own children when they arrived.

She found herself in the lounge after the fourth time around on her grandchildrens’ names. By the large window that filled the room with soft light, there was a baby grand piano. She sat on the bench and Winona State University

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felt the cool ivory keys under her fingers. Ever so softly, a note sounded, then another. Soon, a waterfall of gentle notes chased each other around the lounge. The notes fluttered up to their quiet finale and ended with a smooth chord rounding it off.

“That was beautiful, Mom,” Bridget complimented, standing next to Moira in the entryway.

Mrs. O’Brien nodded her thanks. Bridget and Moira gave their mother a simultaneous hug, tears in all of their eyes. Bridget asked how she was and if she liked it at Sacred Heart. Mrs. O’Brien asked about her grandchildren and pictures were brought out. Moira just kept smiling, happy that everyone else was happy.

Tracey, the nurse, stood outside the lounge doors with a small cup of multicolored pills in hand, smiling, letting the family reunite.

Snow White Quilt KARI FISCHER

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A Day at the Zoo with Daddy DANA SERUM

F

irst, my daddy and I go through the tall black gates. There is a man in a blue hat waiting to take Daddy’s money. After that, Daddy takes my hand and we walk past thefood stands and souvenir booths (but he says we’ll come back to them later). First we walk up to the cages with the deer in them. Some of them have antlers and some don’t. Little baby deer have spots all over their backs, just like Bambi. We keep walking and we see monkeys! Daddy says they are called chimps and when we look back further we can see big, BIG monkeys called gorillas. One growled at me and I got scared and hid my face in daddy’s coat. We keep walking and there are big lions! Their manes are full of long, golden hair. They sit licking themselves. We can see that they just ate and are getting sleepy.

Now we go into the water part of the zoo and we see penguins!

They are definitely my favorite! They swim in the water, darting up and down, side to side. They are excited because they are getting fish each time they come up to the surface. Next we go to see the polar bear. I don’t like that he is here. Daddy squeezes my hand and tells me that they are going extinct in the wild. The polar bear just lies there all alone. I am glad that I am not alone and I tell Daddy I love him.

Now we go back to eat some food. Daddy buys me an ice cream cone. I wonder if ducks like ice cream. Daddy eats a hot dog and I still think about the sad polar bear. After eating, we go to this little souvenir shop that is right by the tall silver gates. There are shirts hanging up and stuffed animals all over. Daddy tells me I can pick something out for myself. I look at shirts and toys but nothing seems to catch my eye until I see in the corner of the store a little stuffed polar bear. I rush to him and hug him so tight. Daddy buys him for me and then we leave for home. The polar bear sits on my lap and Daddy pats us both on the head.

It is dark now and Daddy tells me I need to brush my teeth and get into bed. When I get into bed, Daddy comes and tucks me in. I tell him I love him. He says he hoped I had a good day. He shuts off the light and I squeeze my polar bear. This polar bear will not have to be alone anymore.

We both fall fast asleep, keeping each other safe.

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Sisterhood

JENNA GLEISNER

“H ow about this one?” she asked as she twirled around in her own little world of mirrors, tracing the lace that hugged her torso. Stacey had a

slender build and blonde hair that hung just below her chin. Her skin was smooth and still sun-kissed from the summer sun, accentuating the pearly hue of the dress.

“It doesn’t really matter what my opinion is, does it? You’re going to choose the one you want anyways.” Janie looked down at the stains on the much-traveled carpet and shifted her weight in the cushioned, yet uncomfortable chair set in the corner of the dressing room. Long rows of fluorescent bulbs lined the tall ceiling, giving the bridal shop a warehouse feeling.

She was shorter and softer than her sister, and while Stacey had hair like her mother’s, Janie inherited her father’s brown frizz, which she often drew back into a loose ponytail. Out of boredom, she examined and picked at her nibbled-down fingernails. They were never painted, unless you counted the oil paint stains underneath their edges.

“Can’t you just be a helpful sister for at least a little bit? Besides, it’s not really what I think looks good. We’re going for something he’ll want to tear off of me the second he sees me.” She smiled to herself and reached for the next dress from the heaping pile.

“Help, please?”

Janie unzipped her sister, stopping just where the turquoise eyes of Stacey’s tattooed tiger peeked out from the small of her back and asked, “So, have you told Mom and Dad yet?”

“No! And you better keep your mouth shut. You haven’t ratted on me, have you?”

“No, I haven’t ratted on you . . . I just think it’s time you tell them, Stace. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”

“Get real, Janie. Now what do you think about this one?”

“Too frilly. You look like Cinderella – only her mice were on crack when they made this one.”

Giggling, Stacey teased, “You’re ridiculous . . . but you’re right. It probably wouldn’t even fit through the plane gates.”

As they walked out of the boutique and into the crisp October sunshine, Janie suggested Mexican for a late lunch before heading home.

Stacey stopped dead in her tracks, keys dangling at her side.

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can eat wherever, drama queen,” Janie replied to her sister’s disgusted facial expression.

“I thought we were going to that boutique on Third. Can’t you just come with me to one more?” she whined.

Stacey had whipped out her puppy face for this one, so Janie complied like usual, “Yes, I’ll go with you, silly.”

Immediately brightening, Stacey climbed into her rusty, white Grand Am and reached across the passenger seat to unlock Janie’s door.

“I promise this is the last one for today!”

Heading towards Third Street, Stacey and Janie passed by their small town’s only high school, Ridgemont High. Stacey took note of the three-story burnt-red brick building and said, “Can’t you just wait to get out of that hell hole? I swear it’s gotta be the lamest and smallest high school in Colorado.”

Janie was now a senior at Ridgemont High and fairly content with the school and her array of girlfriends she associated with inside its walls on a daily basis. Stacey, on the other hand, had just barely graduated two years before, no thanks to her late night booze cruises.

“I don’t mind being there. Maybe if you would have had some actual friends there instead of just your stoner boyfriend, you wouldn’t have hated it so much,” Janie retorted, rolling down her window to catch some of the autumn breeze. “Don’t you just love the smell of dead leaves?”

“I had friends! Until junior-year prom anyways. Those jealous bitches,” mumbled Stacey. “By the way, Dustin’s not a stoner anymore.”

Janie remembered only too clearly the only other time Stacey seemed to care for dresses. For her junior year prom, Stacey had decided to go all out. She vowed to herself, after she consented to Dustin’s prom proposition, that she would be the hottest attraction that night. And she was. Her low-cut, tangerine-sequinned dress, which showed just a little too much back and way too much thigh –- according to the other girls and their mothers –- caught the attention of every attendee in the gymnasium that night. There was a strict dress code for the prom, but Stacey didn’t care. She loved bending the rules and she loved the attention she got from it.

Janie reclined her seat, closed her eyes, and took in the smell of the fallen leaves as they drove on. For as long as Janie could remember, Stacey

“Don’t you just love the smell of dead leaves?”

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had always paved her own way. When she was eight years old, she decided to quit piano in the middle of her recital piece; on her 16th birthday, she got her belly button pierced by Jimmy from the blue house on Washington Street after their parents forbid her from going to the tattoo and piercing parlor; at her high school graduation party, hosted at their grandparents’ ranch, she lit up a cigarette to revel in her new-found “adulthood.” So, last Thursday night, when Stacey told her sister about Dustin, Janie was not all that surprised. *****

Janie had been nestled in her twin bed, hoping to catch Robin Williams on The Late Show before she dozed off when Stacey, who still inhabited the bedroom at the end of the hall, rapped lightly on her door.

Poking in her blond bob, Stacey whispered, “I know you have school in the morning, but I need to talk to you!”

Janie turned off the TV, signaling the OK, and Stacey skipped across the room and hopped into her bed. Through the window, the moonlight seemed to dance across Stacey’s beaming face.

“You’re never gonna believe what Dustin just asked me!” Stacey squealed.

“To go live in his crappy trailer with him?”

“Better! He asked me to marry him, Janie!”

Stacey waited for a response. “Janie,” she said, prodding her leg, “You didn’t fall asleep, did you?!”

Janie felt a wave of shock and irritation flood over her. “You didn’t say yes, did you?” she asked, trying to hold in her frustration.

Still on her newly engaged high, Stacey laughed. “Of course I said yes, Janie! I love him!”

“But he’s a loser! And he treats you like crap! You know Mom and Dad are never gonna go for that! They hate him!”

“When have Dustin and I ever cared about that? Plus, Mom and Dad don’t have to support us. Hell, I’m sure they probably wouldn’t even come to the wedding! That’s why we’re going to Vegas to do it.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind, Stacey?!” Janie almost yelled.

“Shh!” Stacey slapped her hand over Janie’s mouth to keep her reaction from reaching the master bedroom, just two doors up the hall.

Their parents had been hinting at Stacey to move out since the summer after her graduation, but they had medical school in mind to get her out of the house – not marriage, and definitely not marriage to Dustin. ***** Satori 40th Anniversary

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Stacey had met Dustin her junior year of high school at a party across town. He was two years older than Stacey and that was reason enough for her parents to disapprove of the relationship. He always kept his hair buzzed so all six of his ear piercings were always visible. He wore then, and still did, his baggy jeans below his ass (if you could even call it that, as he was so tall and lean) and the same hemp necklace. Dad claimed from the beginning that he was no good –- “probably a stoner” -- and his assumptions were approved only two months into the relationship when the cops caught him with marijuana. Stacey and Janie’s parents were thrilled when they found out Dustin was on probation and confined to his own quarters. But little did they know, Stacey snuck out almost every night of those three months. *****

A few seconds later Stacey removed her hand from Janie’s chubby face and pleaded calmly, “You know how Mom and Dad would freak.

Promise me you won’t tell them.”

“And when are you going to? After it’s over and all you have to show for it is a cheesy picture of you two in an Elvis Presley wedding chapel?!”

“Don’t make it sound so horrible! Dustin and I have been talking about this for a while now . . . and since his dad thinks he doesn’t have enough money and Mom and Dad don’t really approve of us altogether, it just makes sense.”

“Doesn’t their lack of support make sense?” Janie fumed.

“Well, not everybody’s going to support us. I at least thought you would.”

Stacey let her comment linger between them. She fondled the fleece knots of Janie’s tie blanket, a gift from herself, as she waited. When Janie was in seventh grade, tie blankets were all the craze. Their mother had promised Janie they would make one together, but when Janie had her cloud-printed fleece eyed out and ready to purchase, their mother revealed that her and their father had plans to go out of town that weekend.

They would do it next weekend she had said. Determined to raise her sister’s spirits, Stacey went out herself that weekend and purchased the solid baby blue and cloud-printed fleece. While their parents enjoyed the Miami sunshine, Stacey and Janie spent that Saturday evening watching Dirty Dancing, their favorite movie, and tying fleece knots.

Suddenly out of ammunition, Janie softened. Yeah, Stacey was being completely irrational, but Janie was always there for Stacey, just like Winona State University

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Stacey was always there for her. She was Stacey’s accomplice when she got herself into trouble, and she was her only friend when Stacey pushed everyone else away.

“Ugh…you know I’ll always be here for you, Stace. It’s just kind of hard to do with this situation.”

“So you’ll be my maid of honor?” Stacey eagerly asked, ignoring Janie’s last sentence.

“Of course I’ll be your maid of honor, stupid. Who else would you ask?”

“Well good, because you’re the only one I’m inviting with us to Vegas.”

“What?! You can’t actually do this, Stacey. You realize this, right?”

Satisfied with Janie’s consent, Stacey hugged her sister. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she said as she hopped off of the bed.

Before closing the door behind her, she whispered, “I hope you have next weekend open – we’re going dress shopping!” *****

It was now the next Saturday, and Janie still had not been able to talk Stacey out of her wedding plans. Carrie’s Bridal Boutique, located downtown on Third between Ralph’s Shoes and an old candy shop, didn’t have much to offer Stacey other than over-priced gowns and questionable looks from Carrie, the gray-haired shop owner. *****

“Shit,” Stacey hissed as they rushed out of the cramped shop.

“I knew we shouldn’t have gone shopping for my dress in town! Word’s gonna get out to Mom and Dad somehow.”

As they settled back into the car, Janie attempted to calm her sister down. “Chill out,” she said nonchalantly, “I told Mom I was dragging you out for some early prom dress shopping.”

Leaning back into the faded navy blue seat, Stacey sighed a breath of relief. “You’re always one step ahead. Thanks, Janie…” *****

Upon seeing the sisters’ home one would never guess that their parents had money. Both were doctors at the clinic in town, but the family of four resided in a simple beige-colored split level at the foot of the mountains. Their money usually went towards weekend getaways, and Satori 40th Anniversary

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this weekend they were visiting friends in Arizona.

Once inside, Janie plopped her purse down on the kitchen island and opened the refrigerator, which was smothered in pictures of the girls at varying ages throughout their childhood. Smelling nothing but weekold lasagna and finding only Stacey’s attempted spinach dip, Janie closed the refrigerator. “We should have stopped for food.”

From the living room, Stacey replied, “Dustin’s coming over in a bit. Want me to tell him to pick us up something?”

Upset at the thought of having to spend the night in Dustin’s company, Janie said, “Ew. Why’d you invite him over? I thought we were going to drink Mom’s wine and have girls’ night.”

“I don’t get what you have against him, Janie. I know he’s messed up a couple of times, but you really need to start warming up to him.”

Janie knew this, but no part of her was looking forward to it. In fact, she was still waiting, after three years, for Stacey to kick him to the curb.

When Dustin first started showing up at the house, he was polite to their parents, even helping to set the table his first time over for dinner, and he actually talked to Janie – something Stacey’s other boyfriends never took the time to do or found necessary. It wasn’t until Dustin started treating Stacey differently that Janie’s opinion of him changed.

After he ran into trouble with the law, Dustin started appearing at the house less and less. This was a pleasant change of pace for their parents of course, but Stacey knew there was something else motivating Dustin’s less frequent visits other than her parents’ disapproval.

Janie remembered vividly the night she heard her sister’s muffled sobs escaping through her bedroom door. Instead of taking a left into the bathroom, sisterhood detoured Janie down the hall. Hunched over and hugging her knees, Stacey’s ratted blond hair was buried in her arms. So distracted by her distress, Stacey was unaware of Janie’s presence in the room until she wrapped her arms around the little mountain. For a few minutes, Janie just held her older sister, wondering what could have possibly produced this sort of reaction. Stacey never cried. Not when her only friend, Nikki, moved away in fifth grade; not when Martin, the family’s golden

Stacey knew there was something else motivating Dustin’s less frequent visits other than her parents’ disapproval.

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retriever, died; and not even at their grandfather’s funeral last spring. So whatever this was had to be earth-shattering in Stacey’s world.

Lifting her head, she swiped her hand across her nose to stop the river flowing from it, which now absorbed itself into the cuff of her oversized sweatshirt.

“He chose . . . weed over . . . me.” The words came out highpitched and hesitant as she tried to control her emotions. “He promised me he would take me out tonight for our one-year anniversary, but he went to go pick up another batch of weed to sell instead!”

Dustin’s drug addiction was only the first bump in the road for Stacey and Dustin. He repeatedly ditched Stacey for “business” matters, and last New Year’s Eve he cheated on Stacey with one of her coworkers from Johnny’s Pizza Joint. But she still clung to him like a child to its safety blanket, and Janie could never understand why.

Just as the sisters were polishing off the medium-sized pepperoni and green olive pizza they finally decided to order from Johnny’s with the twenty dollars their parents left for them on the island, Dustin pulled up.

His lipstick-red Eclipse could be seen and heard for miles. He let himself in the house without knocking and, when he appeared in the doorway of their spacious contemporary-styled family room, Janie shrank into the leather recliner. Swiping the blanket that hung over its back, she covered herself. Why had she changed into her pajamas knowing that Dustin was coming over?

Dustin didn’t seem to notice, and like usual when he dropped by the house, he made small talk with Janie, asking about any recent pieces she’d painted lately.

“Yeah, there’s a couple. I actually painted one of Stacey the other day,” Janie replied. As much as she disliked Dustin, or the way he treated her sister, she did like his interest in and appreciation for her artwork.

“Sweet,” he said, smiling almost a little too long. “I’ll have to check that out.”

“So, I was thinking we could all watch a movie tonight,” Stacey said. “Want to go pick one out with me, Dusty?” she asked as she attached herself to his arm, which was rested casually inside his pocket, and kissed his left cheek.

He glanced over at Janie and replied, “I was actually hoping to check out Janie’s new pieces. Why don’t you go and pick one out. We’ll have the popcorn ready by the time you get back.”

“Actually, that sounds like a great idea. You two do need to get to know each other better,” Stacey said.

Grabbing her keys and the leftover $7.63 from the pizza, she smiled and said, “Ok, have fun! I’ll be right back!”

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The door shut behind her and Dustin eyed Janie in her baby blue pajama pants and off-white spaghetti-strapped tank top. Feeling underdressed and uncomfortable in Dustin’s presence without Stacey, Janie finally spoke.

“Well, do you wanna go check out Stacey’s portrait?”

“Yeah, definitely! You lead the way.”

Once inside her bedroom, Janie began to notice how childish her room appeared. I should’ve packed up those stupid stuffed animals, she thought to herself as Dustin led himself to the corner of Janie’s room where her easel and work table were set up.

“Wow, Janie,” Dustin praised, “This looks really good. Did you do that glazing thing to this one?”

He turned to look at her. She sat on the edge of her now stuffed animal-ridden twin and played with her ponytail in an attempt to hide her flushed cheeks.

“Yeah, I tried it anyways. Not sure if it really worked out.”

Dustin slowly advanced across the room and sat himself a mere few inches from Janie.

“You don’t think so?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” She laughed. “I guess I’m getting better at glazing, or at least I hope so…maybe you just like the colors in this one because it’s of Stacey.”

Dustin looked down innocently at his hands, clasped together between his knees like a dog’s tail between its legs after it’s been scolded.

“You’re a beautiful girl too, Janie. You know that, right?”

Unprepared for this kind of flattery, Janie’s breath caught and she sat in silence, unaware of how to respond.

Continuing, Dustin said, “Don’t tell Stacey I said this, but I’ve always thought you were better looking than she is.”

“Really?” Janie blurted out. Immediately afterwards, she hid her face with her hand in embarrassment. He couldn’t really think so. She was nothing compared to Stacey.

As though he was determined to show Janie his sincerity, he turned to face her and began running the back of his index finger up and down her bare and now goose-bumped arm, tickling every nerve in her body.

“Yeah. I mean it, Janie.”

Even more confused, Janie stood up, feeling a little lightheaded.

“Stacey’s going to be home pretty soon. I think I’ll go start the popcorn.”

Dustin grabbed her arm and lured her body back to the bed. A flutter Janie had never felt before seemed to overtake not only her heart, Winona State University

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but her whole body, and before she knew what was really happening, Dustin’s hand was on her thigh and his tongue breathed fire down her throat. She had kissed a boy, Karl, in eighth grade, but it definitely didn’t feel like this. In that moment, the sensation burned down any wall she had ever built up against him and just as he started to lean into her, pushing her body into the pillows, the front door creaked open.

“I don’t smell any popcorn!” Stacey teased. Her keys crashed upon the counter top and her footsteps began to close in on Dustin and Janie.

Dustin leapt onto his feet and was now facing Stacey’s stare from the canvas.

She appeared in the doorway, with the translucent plastic DVD in hand, finding her fiancé just as she had left him, with his hands leisurely rested in his pockets.

Janie faked a smile and said overenthusiastically, “I was just about to start it.”

She almost ran out of the room away from the two, but once in the hallway, she slowed her pace. What had just happened? Should she tell Stacey? And how?

Unwrapping a package of extra-butter popcorn, Janie placed the three-fold bag into the microwave, shut the door and pressed “3-0-0-Start.” Watching the bag rotate and expand in the golden haze of the microwave, Janie decided that she would leave the telling up to Dustin, for now.

What had just happened?

Should she tell Stacey?

And how?

My Moon DANA SERUM

I

look out the window, there she is, the moon. She’s all mine.

Shadows above her head, look like a looming halo, gleaming down at me.

There are no stars in the sky.

She looks happy all alone up there. Her cheeks beam with a deep yellow. She is proud of her splendid shine, illuminating the sky that is just for me.

I feel content as well, here in my room alone (but she already knows that).

The bond between us seems so close, though she is far above me.

Her rays beam at me, like long arms wrapped around my body. She comforts me, like a mother that rocks her child.

She makes me so happy; she is there to watch me when I sleep.

I am safe here in this dark room, so far from home. My fan ticks on, the darkness is around me but I do not feel afraid. My protector stays near, right above me.

She is always with me, so I am never alone.

We are each other’s only company, on a night like this.

Everyone may have their own moon, but this one is purely mine.

How a Shadow Works DANIELLE WICK Satori 40th Anniversary

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Nothing is Certain But Caffeine and Homework

REBECCA MUELLER

I

n the beginning was the University, which was headed by the President.

And the President saw that her students were not at ease. Many came to class with bloodshot eyes from endless nights of studying, even on the weekends. Some had such deranged appearances that it seemed like they were sleeping on the streets instead of in beds if they were sleeping at all.

The President, knowing that she could not change the students’ course schedules or their homework loads, searched for a way to help the students. The President made a proclamation to the University, saying “Let there be a brief pause between the late-night studying and the early-morning classes, which will be called ‘sleep.’ ” The students adjusted their routines according to the proclamation, and the President saw that it was good.

Later on, the President noticed that in many classes, students disrupted the academic atmosphere with loud complaining stomachs, the President made another proclamation: “Let the students obtain nourishment before their first classes of each day, in the form of ‘breakfast.’” As the students once again adjusted their routines, the President saw that it was good.

And the President saw that many students were forced to curl up on tables in the library overnight, and so she made another proclamation.

She said “Let there be apartments for the students to seek shelter in at the end of a long day of schoolwork, to be called ‘dorms,’ ” which, although they be small, will provide comfortable homes for them while they are in attendance at the University.” The students moved into the new dorms and were grateful to have a comfortable place to rest, and the President saw that it was good.

Many students still found it difficult to do well in their classes, despite the improvements implemented by the President’s proclamations.

Still unable to change their course schedules and homework loads, the President thought long and hard about ways to help her students. She chose to make yet another proclamation to the University. “Let the profes-

The President saw that it was good.

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sors offer times to assist the students in confusing matters in the coursework, to be called ‘office hours’ and let there also be people known as ‘tutors’ to assist the students when the professors are unavailable. And let there also be study spaces outside of the Library for the students to go, which shall be called ‘lounges.’” These changes were quickly implemented, and the President saw that it was good.

Now, chaos began to break out in the dorms. Students were unable to sleep because other students were still quite noisy and ignorant of the designated brief pause. Wars ensued between floors and even between different sides of each floor. Wishing the students to be ever able to pursue academic excellence, the President made still another proclamation. She assigned a handful of her most successful, organized, peaceful, and responsible students to watch over the other students in the dorms, saying: “Let these students watch over the other students in the dorms, fulfilling duties as ‘resident assistants.’ And let them enforce a new regulation each night during the designated brief pause of sleep, called ‘quiet hours,’ during which the students may continue studying quietly or sleep.” The students learned to adjust to these new proclamations, and the President saw that it was good.

Despite the wonders that the President had done with her proclamations, many students still struggled in their studies. Still, life overall was better for the college students thanks to the President, and they marched onward towards their daily pursuit of academic excellence.

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Frictitious

SYDNEY BAUER

S he asks me about my bite tectonics the destructive convergent movements of my molars.

She leans forward, pen clicked at the ready, hovering over three multicolored pages of pain-related questions “What is it you said you’ve been doing? We want to be thorough.”

“Grinding. Through. The. Bite. Guard.”

She raises her mocha-colored eyebrow and her pen is light against the paper.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“Could you describe your general level of tension?”

How can I explain that all sounds are close spitting vibrations in my ear canal as if it is pressed hard onto life’s speaker which beats my inner-eardrum raw and to see the world is no better because my eyes never adjust to its brightness, which wrings my orbital muscles tight. Interactions are abrasive, each moment a convergent collision scraping along, sand paper sliding over my skin.

How do I tell her that? Is the pink form the one that asks about the friction of my existence, and asks me to rate it on a scale from one to ten that comes complete with facially expressive cartoons for me to point to when at a loss for a numerical representation for my constant inner vibration?

I want to be civil perhaps this woman wants to hear me.

I show her the shakes that tremor through my hands.

“I live a frictitious existence.” I lean in, and watch her write.

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[Untitled]

MOLLY BARRETT

I

believe in love. The sanctity of trust. In books and novels and metaphors and words that matter to me. In words that matter to other people.

In ways that I wish I could see the world, but only can according to someone else.

I believe that there are no bad days. That every moment teaches us something.

That our lives are filled with seemingly random moments that eventually add up to what we call childhood, our teenage years, a life together.

It’s flirting and smiling and laughing till you can’t breathe. It’s awkward silences in a car and the way someone’s eyes look when they’re really, truly, inexplicably happy. It’s music, it’s nature, it’s the trees and the way the leaves crunch under your shoes when you walk. It’s inhaling. It’s exhaling. It’s matching both of those to whoever is laying next to you. It’s realizing that this might happen more than once, with different people.

It’s about being okay.

It’s about letting go.

It’s kids on trampolines and ice cream in the summer and the way you start screaming when you cry so hard. It’s the moments when you feel so alive you wish you had a camera to capture it perfectly, or a video to watch back when you’re old and want to know that you once stood for something.

It’s rising and falling and graceful and sweet. It’s fast and it’s slow and it’s being curious and being too lazy to get out of bed and the days that last forever and the ones that go by too soon.

It’s about love. And finding the friends you would give up anything for. And realizing the ones that you wouldn’t. And knowing this will happen. And believing that everything will work out exactly as it is supposed to.

I believe in running down the middle of the street when it’s raining just because you can. And calling up that friend of yours at 4:00 AM and crying until you can’t see straight and feeling maybe an ounce better.

And eating that pint of ice cream because you did have a really bad day.

And stopping at the end of it and taking a deep breath and stretching your arms over your head and looking in the mirror and telling yourself that you’re worth it, you’re beautiful, and you are so lucky to be here.

I believe in beauty. And love. And marriage. And that you can Winona State University

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have a forever with someone. And that you will get your heart broken.

And sometimes you won’t end up with what you want. But it will always be what you deserve. And what is best.

And maybe that makes me too optimistic. Maybe it’s crazy.

But maybe it’s life and love and the pursuit of happiness.

And maybe I believe in all of it.

Because what’s the alternative?

To love and lose, to get upset, to be beaten down and stay that way?

I’d rather believe in the moments that take my breath away.

The Red Silk Fortress

MEAGAN LORD

T

he red silky blanket shimmered in the overhead light of the dining room. It was the last blanket to complete the fort Cathy had been working on. Her chubby, six-year-old hands had fumbled several times until the dining table was at last covered. Finally, in triumph, she put a tiny purple flag on top of the table, carefully climbed down from the table and chair, and then admired her work. It was her castle, her fortress. Delighted with herself, she scurried to her room, collected as many toys as her young arms could carry and scurried back to deposit them inside. Then she entered.

Suddenly it was a magic world she was in. Her imagination took over in a fashion that can only happen with small children, and she truly was inside a castle. Placing a small, plastic crown with sparkly but ultimately plastic jewels on her head, she pronounced herself the princess of this fort. She beamed with a pride no one could see, for of course this was her private castle. Her only company was the stuffed toy subjects she had carried from her room. Cathy began to play in her world of make-believe, doing princess activities and enacting brave scenes of gallantry and daring. In the middle of her epic slaying of the Dragon Naziar, she heard a sound coming from the living room. Exiting her fairy tale, Cathy peered out from under her blanketed fort. There she saw her mother and father fighting, screaming at each other louder and louder. Not knowing what to do, Cathy went back into the safety of her fort, but no longer could she ignore the outside world. The outside started to creep into her safe fantasy. She could hear the boisterous roar of the ceiling fan now, the blaring noise from the TV, but most of all the yelling coming from her parents. The tones were becoming more angry and hysteric.

Cut off from the sight of the fight, however, Cathy was still able to imagine. She let the sounds filter into the safe world she had made for herself under this table. The king had been put under a spell and taken over

No longer could she ignore the outside world.

The outside started to creep into her safe fantasy.

Extinct KARI FISCHER

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by a dark demon. This demon had turned him into a terrible monster bent on destroying the land the good king once protected. The queen was on the front lines, ready to defend her country, even if it meant fighting her beloved husband. Of course she had told Princess Cathy to hide within the castle so that she wouldn’t be exposed to the brutality of the situation.

This was going to be a battle between two loved ones, after all. This was a fight. People would be hurt, people Cathy loved.

Both armies rose to life, and roared their defiance at the other side.

The battle was ready to start. Trumpets blared and cannon balls hurtled through the air with a buzzing sound. The armies met and swirled as the battle commenced. Slash with slash, each soldier met the opposition, but were equally matched. Princess Cathy knew that this battle would be devastating and prayed for both her mother to remain safe and for her father to return to the man he was. She tried to occupy herself with the toys that had been provided for her, but the fear still rose, as the battle grew louder and louder. She could hear her father shoving, insulting, and threatening.

This wasn’t the father she knew. Cathy began to cry.

Then suddenly, it was as if the world stopped. The sounds faded as one deafening slap reverberated around the living room, around the house, and under that table of protection for Cathy. The illusion was shattered. There was no avoiding what was really happening outside her fort.

Her make-believe fairy tale was gone. She admitted to not being a princess.

Cathy peered out again from under the table to see her father storming away, out of the room and house. She then ventured farther out and looked into her living room, saw her mom, crumpled on the floor. She was crying, her cheek a scarlet red where he had slapped her. Cathy exited her protected fort and went toward her mother. She hugged her sobbing mother as hard as she could, just as scared, frightened, and hurt by what had happened. Her mother whispered in her ear that she loved her so much and was glad she hadn’t seen anything. Cathy started sobbing all the more. She may not have seen, but she had heard and imagined.

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The Tall Grass

DANIELLE WICK

T

he sky was an overturned bowl of pale-blue sugar, scattered haphazardly over the tall amber; the plains sprawled, stretching lazily out into the distance as far as any eye cared to see.

In a sotto voice, the heartbeat-thin stalks told us secrets we couldn’t quite catch with our lapsing grasp. We listened intently anyway, lying close to one another. We were hand-in-hand without touching, both of us full of promises to each other without the veil of insecurity to obscure our vision.

The early afternoon paused while he lifted himself up to one elbow, turning his haloed head toward me. His voice was a gathering storm, tentative and quietly darkening the air. “Do you remember that quote . . . a long time ago, when you asked me if I ‘believed in the nobility of suicide?’”

One breath pulled in, let go. I pulled another clear mouthful of air beneath my ribs and looked directly into his eyes; the hues and erratic layers there held me, familiar but mildly alarming in the slanted light and cicada noise.

I kept my voice meticulously casual.

“Yeah. Why?” Replying with preoccupied silence, he tucked his curls behind an ear. His fingertips were paper-thin as his gaze followed the restless bickering of the flaxen horizon.

The beast called unease began to rise and swagger through the back of my mind, a wicked grin curling across its face. Bolstering my nonchalance against the motion, I asked him once more, “Why? What’s this about?”

Shrouded in himself, he stood. Watching him gave me the sensation of seeing a skyscraper growing into the atmosphere through time-lapse photography—starting with blank sky and then impossibly, the concrete shooting up into a formidable, glass-laden bloom.

When he was done unfolding his rigid petals, he brushed the insignificant organic debris from his hands. His voice was at once both inti-

I pulled one more breath from the world and clutched it close to my chest as I watched him begin to walk away.

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mate and remote. “Things change, is all. I wanted to remember for a bit.”

I pulled one more breath from the world and clutched it close to my chest as I watched him begin to walk away. His hair looked dark against the sky, darker than it must have been even in his mother’s womb.

Tenderly, he dragged his palms over the top of the nervous field; I didn’t rise to follow him and in a matter of seconds he was obscured by the tall grass.

Peace HEIDI MILLER

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Index BARRETT, MOLLY Prose:

[Untitled] -- 69

KIBLER, MELISSA Art:

Freudian Slip -- 23

BAUER, SYDNEY Poetry:

a flamingo in my kitchen -- 11

Sluiced -- 30 Prose:

Frictitious -- 68

LORD, MEAGAN Prose:

The Red Silk Fortress -- 71 MILLER, HEIDI Photography:

Flyswatter -- 29

Peace -- 74

BRAY, HEATHER Poetry:

Found or Forever Lost -- 26

A Love Poem -- 37

MOELLER, JAMIE Photography:

A Dog’s Dream of Winter -- 27

FISCHER, KARI Poetry:

Sin of a Writer -- 10 Photography:

Snow White Quilt -- 54

Extinct -- 70

MUELLER, REBECCA Prose:

Nothing is Certain But Caffeine and Homework -- 66 OLMSTEAD, DOUGLAS Poetry:

I Masturbate to Write (or Do I Write to Masturbate?) -- 20

Grenadier -- 22

Chicken Pox and the Allure of the Snow -- 31

GLEISNER, JENNA Poetry:

Autumn -- 38 Prose:

Sisterhood -- 56

OSOWSKI, CARRIE Poetry:

Fleeing the Scene Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time -- 14

Midnight Train -- 21

HEMAYET, TAUSEEF Photography:

Chittagong -- 45

PEDERSON, ALYSSA Poetry:

Dragonfly -- 17

Reasons to Play with Matches -- 23

HOVDA, SAMUEL Poetry:

Love Struck Nothing -- 24

I Pray for an Afterlife -- 34

Anxieties of a Young Poet -- 36

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Winona State University

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PENKAVA, MICHELLE Poetry:

Hidden -- 39 Prose:

Sacred Heart -- 46SABO, STOSCH

SABO, STOSCH Poetry:

The Echo of an Image -- 12

Perspective -- 19

Dawn -- 40

SKOGLUND, DANIEL Poetry:

Sokaris -- 18 WICK, DANIELLE Poetry:

Alkaline -- 16

Notes on the Way I Love -- 29 Prose:

What He Knows -- 44

The Tall Grass -- 73 Photography:

Two-Faced -- 13

Rushford, MN 2007 -- 34

Confession -- 39

How a Shadow Works -- 65

SANTOS, SPENSER Poetry:

Ideals -- 25

Ink -- 32

The Shriek -- 35 SCHAUBSCHLAGER, LAURA Poetry:

Another Stupid Love Poem -- 15

Exposure -- 28 SCHLITTER, MARI Photography:

Grandfather’s Face in a Rock Tree -- 10 SERUM, DANA Prose:

A Day at the Zoo with Daddy -- 55

My Moon -- 65 Photography:

[Untitled] -- 17

[Untitled] -- 19 SHERPA, LAKPA Poetry:

Derrida Dying to Write a Love Poem -- 33

Satori 40th Anniversary

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Winona State University

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Satori XL was prepared in InDesign CS4. The font used is Book Antiqua.

The cover design was inspired by work by Fabian Ohikaru and, along with splash art on pages 9 and 43, was created in PhotoShop CS4 by Melissa Kibler.