Plainsong 2020

plainsong

Plainsong Volume 34

© 2020, plainsong, Vol. 34 Department of English, University of Jamestown, Jamestown, North Dakota; copyright reverts to authors, artists, and photographers on publication, and any reprinting or reproduction may be exercised only with their permission.

Plainsong, a non-profit journal funded by the University of Jamestown, published by the University Department of English, includes the work of students, faculty, staff, and alumni of the University of Jamestown.

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Editorial Board Department of English Mark Brown, Ph.D., Chair Sean Flory, Ph.D. David Godfrey, Ph.D. Larry Woiwode, Editor

Student Editor Carrie Noel

Layout & Cover Design Donna Schmitz

Cover Art Apollo Marlie Desarmes Plainsong Prizewinning Artwork

Printing & Binding Two Rivers Press, Jamestown

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Table of Contents In Memorium:Dr. James Stone, Matthew Nies ................................................................................. 7 Forgiveness, Starla Rollf ......................................................................................................................8 Photograph, Bloom, Hannah Rogers................................................................................................. 10 In Winter, Mountains, Mark Brown ..................................................................................................11 Photograph, Crisscross Skies, Tanner Lunzman ...............................................................................11 Rollercoaster, Mindy Le..................................................................................................................... 12 Photograph, Soft Smile, Kallie Hegerle ............................................................................................. 14 Three Stories by Nick Schaff, Recipient of Larry Woiwode Fiction Prize ......................... 14

Hush, Nick Schaff ............................................................................................................................... 14 Photograph, Rainy Mushroom, Nicholas Johnson .......................................................................... 16 Garden Hoe, Or: “The Most Poetical Topic,” Nick Schaff ............................................................... 17 Photograph, Dark Roads Ahead, Jessica Best.................................................................................. 18 To Infinity and Beyond, Nick Schaff................................................................................................. 19 Photograph, A Soft Landing, Jessica Best ....................................................................................... 20 Borrowed Beauty & The Waltz, Alex Delzer .................................................................................... 21 Two Essays by Bryson Yee, Recipient of the Louise Erdrich Nonfiction Prize .................. 22

The Final First Week, Bryson Yee .....................................................................................................22 Photograph, Light of the Herd, Brita Fagerlund ..............................................................................23 A Reflection on Home, Bryson Yee ....................................................................................................24 Photograph, Hockey, Kallie Hegerle ................................................................................................. 25 Grief and Fire Alarm, Stephanie Jorritsma......................................................................................26 Photograph, Bent-Petal Blossom, Nicholas Johnson....................................................................... 27 Going Home, Stephanie Jorritsma .................................................................................................... 27 Photograph, Sun Dogs, Cherish Bauer-Reich...................................................................................29 a life in love is not meant to be run by fear, Casey LeMier .............................................................29 Photograph, Hot, Mackenzie Wertz .................................................................................................. 31 Action and Inaction in Dostoyevsky’s “Notes From Underground,” Nick Schaff.........................32 The Meadowlark, Alex Delzer ...........................................................................................................36 I Probably Need a Tetanus Shot, Aurora Bear .................................................................................36 Photographs, Rusted Recoil, Jessica Best & Railroad Nail, JoBeth Johnson................................ 37 The River, Carrie Noel ....................................................................................................................... 38 Photograph, Transcribing the Sun, Dustin Wagner & Sorting Priorities, Carrie Noel ................39 Island Farm, Matthew Nies .............................................................................................................. 40 Artwork, Sister Nature, Marlie Desarmes ........................................................................................ 41 Zion, Marlie Desarmes .......................................................................................................................42 Artwork, Wilting Flower, Marlie Desarmes .....................................................................................44 Post-Traumatic, Stephanie Jorritsma .............................................................................................. 45 Barren, Carrie Noel ............................................................................................................................ 45 Photograph, Cloudy Day, Winston LaJesse .....................................................................................46 Vacant Star, Carrie Noel ....................................................................................................................46 Wild Memoir, Sierra Talmadge ......................................................................................................... 47 Photograph, A Glimpse of Color, Allison Lucas ...............................................................................50 Thinking of My Mother, Carrie Noel................................................................................................. 51 Five Poems by Nick Schaff, Recipient of the Thomas McGrath Poetry Prize..................... 52

Photograph, Chilly Wire Car Park Butte, Grant Lanie .................................................................... 57

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In Memoriam: Dr. James Stone Dark evenings, under fluorescents, We gathered, bundled up and wide-eyed, Around a table—students For writing improvements. We tried To exceed ourselves, and each other, too, I suppose, though we all knew The doctor’s gripping masterpieces would outdo All others. His clear, sonorous voice imbued His typhoon words with extra force; The lines’ allusive grandeur Swept over us too quickly to plumb the source But impelled thought and elevated us to higher Planes as we listened—transposing poems!

Alas! But for these and a rousing synopsis Of Moby Dick, I hardly knew Jim Stone— Dr. by Ph.D., Dean, professor, Marine—which Means my life is less the richer, as are All ours now. New bells and bugles bellow As he has crossed the bar To where waits the newfound Captain of his soul.

—Matthew Nies

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FORGIVENESS My father tried to kill the woman who gave birth to me right in front of me when I was eight years old. I am nineteen now, almost twenty, and this was twelve years ago. I hadn't tried to reach out to him, not even once, in all that time. I had thought about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Every time I sat myself down to write to him, I couldn’t think of what to say. I almost couldn’t do it this time, either, but there I was, willing myself to do so, because I knew I had to do it in order to heal properly. Not only did he make that attempt at murder, he also sexually abused me. Even after all the physical and mental abuse he inflicted on me through my childhood, I could always find it in myself to forgive him, because he was my dad. I looked up to him and thought the entire world of him at one point, but as soon as he made the decision to molest me, that’s when it changed.

He stripped me of my innocence and hurt me in a way that cannot be explained. He was supposed to be my father, not my sex offender. I already had two of those, my birth mother and her ex-boyfriend. I still struggle even today when it comes to relationships, because of this. They caused me to have PTSD. I get nightmares and simply cannot sleep. The most unfathomable matters come into my dreams at night. I lie awake praying to God that he will heal me, that he will take away the pain that these people caused. I know that God has a reason for the hardships He has put me through, and it’s only made me stronger. It is making me stronger still. I knew that it was time to learn to forgive, not only to forgive them for what they did, but to forgive myself for letting it control my life.

I wrote a letter to my father. I made sure to be clear that it was a letter of forgiveness, not one to place blame or to spread hate. The world we live in today is already so full of hatred. I never want to be the cause of something so gruesome. I realize that people need each other and that spreading love may be the only way to save our society. I know I cannot change everyone or even parts of my world for that matter, but I can try. I needed to start somewhere, and I believe that this was a foundational reason for me. I needed to release my inner demons and get this off my chest. I could not possibly move on in life and get over the past if I didn’t forgive first. In my heart I know that I have forgiven him. I forgave him a while ago, I knew that, but I believe it was selfish to keep that to myself. I needed him to know. This was the right thing to do, and I knew I could do it; I only needed to wait for the right timing.

I have total control over my life and the power to be anything or anyone I want, no matter what has happened to me. I can say without being ashamed that I have felt my share of pain. I have been sexually abused by three people, including my father. I have been starved. I have been cold and without warm clothes. I have been absolutely filthy and without water or soap. I have been in the dark and unable to obtain a light source. I have felt physical abuse in many ways that weren’t fair. I have been mentally abused to the point of feeling so worthless and 8

ashamed of who I am that I wanted to die. I have been bullied and picked on and teased. I have felt sorrow, and loss. I have felt hot tears burning down my cheeks as I lie awake at night, questioning everything. But that’s not all I have been through. I have felt the sun shining on my skin. I have tasted the salty tears of joy, unspeakable joy. I have felt love and tender care. I have felt comfort, and friendship. I have felt warmth and quenched thirst. I have felt the pain of being so full of food that I can’t move. I have felt gratuity and selflessness. I have felt the touch of a God who loves without end and mercifully.

You see, while I have had my share of hardships, I have also have had many good times and happy memories. I have a mother and father who love me and they took me and my three younger siblings into their home graciously. They sacrificed so much for us and for them I am so thankful. I know that if I dwell on the past, I cannot truly enjoy the precious moments God has given me. I know that my birth parents are not bad people. I hope that they know that, too. They made terrible mistakes, as everyone else does. No, that doesn’t make what they did O.K., but it doesn’t mean they can’t be forgiven. I forgive them both and I know in my heart that God does, too. They simply have to ask for his forgiveness, because he loves them, as I do. I love with all that I am, I love every one of God’s children, and I will spend my life spreading His love and joy to the rest of the world as much as I possibly can. When you love someone, you want nothing more than for them to be O.K. and for them to be happy, even if that means sacrificing along the way. God sent His son to undergo the ultimate sacrifice so that I may have life, so sacrificing my own ego and pride to forgive is nothing in comparison.

I have loved with every fiber of my being because I know that is God’s plan for me.

Jeremiah 29:11 states “‘For I know the plans I have for you’, declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” This verse resonates with me because it gives me hope for a future where I can learn from my past and choose to help people, not hurt them.

Writing the letter took a lot of courage, and then some time for me to finally be able to send it. I wrote it a year ago in the fall and finally mailed it last month. When I dropped it in the mailbox, I felt the weight of my shame and guilt being lifted from my shoulders almost instantly.

I felt at peace for once in my life. I am thankful to have a God that loves and forgives to such a powerful extent. I have yet to receive any response to my letter, but even if my father doesn’t respond, I can have peace of mind knowing that I was able to express to him my forgiveness. I also know that I have God as my Father to help me through every aspect of my life. I am eternally grateful for that.

—Starla Rollf

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Bloom, Hannah Rogers

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IN WINTER, MOUNTAINS Amid pendent ice, ice needles’ stiff curl, rhododendron root and mossy stone check the erring footstep.

In winter, mountains Smell clean—have no scent really; and for sound only the loud hush of the mountain streams.

—Mark Brown

Crisscross Skies, Tanner Lunzman

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Rollercoaster 2019 was a rollercoaster. Every month was different, either high, low, bumpy, fast, or damn-right scary. Certain months made my heart sink and some pushed me off the track. I felt I was in a different location each time I blinked. There were times when I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as I rode from the high down to low. It was like being at an amusement park full of rollercoaster rides. I’d hop from one ride to the next. Each one had unique tracks and told a different story from different times. Now, as the year ends, so do the old tracks. I’m finally screaming to let out all the frustration, anxiety, and pain in order to enter the new rollercoaster that is 2020.

Early 2019 went by fast. I took advantage of the steadiness it provided me. I wasn’t in a happy place nor was I in a sad place. I was conflicted with how I felt. I was okay with the position I was in, but a part of me hoped for more. I was in a safe spot. It was the zone before the ride takes off. I was doing well in school, had a partner, and everything was normal. My partner was a major part of my life and meant the world to me, as people say. We have been through so much together and I felt like he was my rock. As the months progressed, I started to feel the takeoff of the ride. Each day I felt our relationship shrivel up little by little. We were too comfortable with each other to want to end it, but felt a lack of passion and excitement. The matters that made us fall for each other slowly vanished and the reasons to stay started to fade. I already knew how the ride was going to end, but I kept hoping that it wouldn’t, out of my own insecurities. I didn’t want to let go of the handlebar that was my security.

Mid-year came around and it all became bumpy. The takeoff left me without him. I was hurt yet relieved. He was no longer holding my hand during the ride. I was flailing my arms in the air as I rode out that high. For three months I ignored the pain, I ignored the pain of losing someone I invested so much time and energy in. The person who made up my entire day was no longer a part of it, and I masked that with a smile. I didn’t want to grieve, and I hoped that bottling my emotions would make life easier for everyone else. It was hard not being able to talk to anyone about my loss. Instead, I focused my energy on a dream job—a content creator. I was

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successful and made a name for myself. I became happy in my own skin and loved myself more than I ever had. I was riding high and I didn’t want it to stop. It satisfied me in ways that I couldn’t have been satisfied earlier in the year. I was happy even though a piece of me ached. To be honest, it still aches, but I don’t miss it. I wish this track continued longer, because maybe matters could have been different.

For the last four months of 2019, I found someone who wanted to ride the rollercoaster with me. I didn’t expect it to be scary. This person made me happy and provided excitement and passion. He was soft, extremely romantic, and had a whole plan for his life. Our personalities complemented each other well. I liked how driven he was and how much he cared about his career. He was doing great for his age. He pushed me to do things that I couldn’t have done without his support and that’s what made it scary. He made me try new experiences, pushed me out of my comfort zone, and allowed me to view life with a better sense. He made the tracks scary because of a high track suddenly plummeting down. It became toxic. I was scared all the time. I feared upsetting him, offending him, losing him. Because we had so much in common, some things didn’t complement the other. I felt like I had to be on my toes 24-7. It was endless petty fights that eventually became too much. Ultimately, I faced my fears. I was sad again, but unlike my first partner, he’s still supportive of me on the new ride.

2019 was the year of learning. I learned what I wanted, who I wanted to be, and what I wanted to do. I realized I had trouble letting go. I always seemed to forget the relief that comes with letting go. That relief was like letting go of a tug-of-war rope after so long. It was that comfort circle that I was too scared of leaving, because of all the possibilities that could go wrong. I noticed each time I let go, I felt better. I felt relaxed and free. It almost feels like a cycle.

I’m just as productive as I was last summer. But now I’m breaking the cycle, after this. Although I can’t control what life throws at me, I can control how I react to it. Even though life is a rollercoaster, I hope I can handle my emotions while being on one over this new year.

—Mindy Le

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Soft Smile, Kallie Hegerle

Hush All I hear is breathing. The shadowy ceiling stares down at me, and I feel the hot, stiff weight of a summer night on my face. The bedsheet tossed haphazardly across my legs wraps more tightly around Sarah, who shivers even on nights like this. Normally, she presses against me for warmth, but tonight, I feel only the air sliding in, sliding out, resting on me like a pall.

I try to close my eyes, but when I do, I see it: blue, wooden, thrown hastily in the closet because I didn’t want her to see it. But I saw it, and it’s all I can think about as I shift onto my side, away from my wife, because seeing her like this would kill me.

I feel it through the mattress each time her shoulders hitch. The walls watch as I lie beside her, softly swelling and shrinking and sinking into myself each time I hear a sharp, shuddering intake of breath. An image of blue swims in front of me, so close I can touch it, and for a moment, I think I hear something else.

Then, everything is silent.

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I straighten, massaging my eyelids as I stand, the floorboards groaning as I move around the bed. I stop in front of the closet and reach for the doorknob.

“Abe?” Her voice is muffled by her knees, and I know she hasn’t moved or opened her eyes.

She’s still there, still curled up like she’s trying to shrink back into infancy, to a time when nothing could hurt her, the one place she’d been perfectly safe. Right now, I would give anything to be able to give that to her again.

I can’t.

It sits in front of me, alone in the dark, lovingly painted and beautifully crafted and utterly, entirely empty. For a moment, I imagine it rocking from side to side, but there’s no breeze, or anything else, to stir it. I bend to grip the bars, quietly picking it up and turning to leave. Sarah doesn’t say anything else as I slip out of the room and pull the door shut behind me.

I step outside. It’s not at all like that cool, wet April night last year, when the shimmering music of cicadas surrounded us and the rain drummed down on our little tin roof. She dragged me outside, and we laughed and danced like children in the rain until we found a spot where the trees were so thick that the rain couldn’t touch us, and we sang a duet to make the sky and the earth quiver with jealousy.

Later, we smiled to think of it and imagined what we would say one day— “You weren’t like your friends, born on top of creaking mattress springs under a flat ceiling. You were born on a great, flat rock beneath the stars while the heavens cried for joy and the cicadas sang you your first lullaby. Our child of the air.”

I exhale, and the hot, heavy night presses down on my hunched shoulders, and suddenly, I’m trembling with anger, and I turn to the nearest tree to let the anger explode out of me, and it bursts in a cascade of blue-painted splinters.

The tree is unhurt, unmoved, and completely silent.

My vision blurs as I drop to the ground, shaking as a broken curlicue of delicate blue wood slides from my grip, the runners at its bottom the hardest to break. I remember the things I said out here. Not then—a few weeks ago, when I remembered who I was. And what I wasn’t.

“I’m not ready to be a father,” I said. And I wasn’t. And I’m not.

As my limp fingers brush against the earth, the part that confuses me, that turns my anger outward, is the peace I felt after making that confession. I stood under the stars, and it was like a voice was in my head, allaying my fears, promising that it would all be okay.

I believed it, to the point that no matter what they said, I knew the doctors were wrong, because it was all going to be okay, I had promised her that it would all be okay…

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There’s no voice now, nothing but air sliding in and out and hovering, lifeless, around me. Questions die in my throat, guilt curdles in my stomach, and I’m left staring up at the depths of space and feeling only a small, distant ache.

Then I come back into myself, and I’m hurt and alone and so goddamned small.

I feel a hand on my shoulder as she kneels beside me, and I press against her, so close that I feel her tears trickle down my cheek, and all I hear is breathing as we hold each other and wait for the dawn to break.

—Nick Schaff

Rainy Mushroom, Nicholas Johnson

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Garden Hoe, Or: “The Most Poetical Topic” Since I can remember, I’ve made friends in the strangest places. I particularly remember one I met in the garden. She was a bit different—long and thin and colorful. She was shy and hid in the bushes, and I followed, because I thought that would be fun. She seemed gentle, too, when I slowly reached below the thorny branches of the rose bush.

A bit later, my father came out of the house and yelled, startling me. I don’t know what crossed her mind in that moment, but before I could so much as blink, my father had yanked me away, proceeding to chop up my new friend with a garden hoe. I remember some of what he said afterwards (words like “bite” and “poisonous”), but I mostly remember her body in the grass— red and black with thin yellow stripes, like the board I used to play checkers on. I don’t play checkers anymore.

“It was pretty,” I remember telling my father in a petulant way, angry that he’d taken away my toy. He responded with more of the same (“dangerous,” “don’t touch,” etc.), and I ignored him. I watched the small, multicolored band and wished it would move.

It’s been a while, but what happened still bothers me occasionally. I’ll see a long, slender shape curve gracefully through the grass and feel a bit guilty on behalf of my younger, more reckless self.

At the time, I was glad that I got off with some perfunctory reprimands, in one ear and out the other. Now, I wish that he’d at least sent me to my roof. If he had, I might have left it in there.

Instead, I remember, and sometimes, I imagine her father, except that it’s never very realistic, because when I picture him, he’s standing up out of the grass, and he has arms, and in his arms, he holds a long, sharp garden hoe.

—Nick Schaff

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Dark Roads Ahead, Jessica Best

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To Infinity and Beyond When I was younger, I wanted to grow up to be a leopard.

It didn’t work out.

I remember peering over the edge of the top bunk at a time when I could still angle myself whichever way I wanted on the mattress, tiny toes wiggling inside the feet of my pajamas.

The pajamas were blue with purple polka dots—the wrong colors, admittedly, but leopardly enough to at least deceive our Pomeranian, who (as I understood it) couldn’t tell one color from another. Dogs are nice. They can’t tell the difference between the person/leopard you want to be and the one that you are.

I suppressed a giggle as my unsuspecting prey entered the bedroom, oblivious to me presence on the top bunk. I gathered my legs beneath me as she bent to say goodnight to the human on the bottom bunk, then lunged with a feral snarl.

I missed. Turns out that in the animal kingdom, there are leopards, and then there are gazelles.

And then there’s me.

My snarl ended in a startled yelp, and I hit the shag carpet like a ton of bricks (or perhaps, a Ziploc bag full of small rocks). More battered in pride than body, I wriggled free of my mother’s concerned embrace and retreated back to my perch to lick my wounds in solitude.

As I scampered up the ladder, she laughed and said I was “quite the little monkey.”

It was quite a few days before I forgave her for that.

The ladder changed as I got older. Not in composition—it always remained the same cool, white metal, but it seemed to shrink as time went on. One day, I was able to ascend with all the recklessness befitting a six-year-old, and the next, I had to hunch a bit to make sure I didn’t bash my head against the ceiling.

The ceiling fan was also cause for concern, whirling with bloodthirsty enthusiasm mere inches from my head as I climbed. On days when I was feeling less bold, I turned it off before making the climb, and whenever I did, I was perplexed by the thick layer of dust lining the blades. How, I wondered, could something that was constantly moving collect so much dust?

Eventually, we got rid of the ladder, and I accustomed myself to jumping directly up in a lanky, distinctly human fashion.

That’s where I am right now, home for the first time in a while. Mom’s out getting groceries. Humphrey the Pomeranian is buried out back. I sit on the edge of the bunk, legs dangling over the side as I look at the motionless fan, imagining both of us accumulating dust. I stop breathing for a bit, wondering what it’s like. The whole room is still.

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I hop down from the bed and make my way outside, where it’s darker and colder. My shoes scuff the pavement, and the wind ruffles my hair. Then, I hear a loud buzzing followed by a soft thud, and, glancing down, I discover a June bug rocking from side to side beneath the porchlight.

If you’ve never seen a June bug, I should probably clarify that among all of God’s creatures, they are a special kind of stupid. Turn on a light, and they’ll head right for it—or, more likely, collide with the nearest wall and fall on their back, their weird, stiff legs twitching uselessly from side to side. The average June bug is kept alive by a sort of adaptational patheticness, such confounding ridiculousness that people are compelled to take pity on them.

Then again, perhaps that says more about us. I bend over and give the beetle a finger to latch onto, and I smile slightly.

Maybe being human isn’t so bad after all.

—Nick Schaff

A Soft Landing, Jessica Best

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Borrowed Beauty I have these illusions alluding to...

The beauty I don't own But I need work done on my follow through Because I tend to fade away too much from what I said I'd do Been given so many blessings that by now I know it's true I can't pretend it's because of me, no it's always you So let me take what you've given me and turn one into two And let my life be more than interlude Not a sashay in limbo but a straight pursuit Let this borrowed beauty constitute as sufficient proof That your love is effervescent And it grows in me The more I let the spirit flow to sea To oceans of my soul, now freed Thank you for the life you've given me Thank you for the life you've given me Thank you for the life you've given me —Alex Delzer The Waltz A waltz echoes throughout the empty hall Step slide step slide repeats about the house While mice and rabbits made of dust keep watch.

There're rumors; tales of old within their dance The manner's ghost heart awakes with life Again, as rhythm gives the blood a beat.

One lamp then two, alight to give some sight To passersby inviting them to step Inside where life again brings magic in.

Resuscitation meets the old abode As festive youth and jolly old draw near And hear the humming tune start soft then grow While people form from shapeless dark and creep Along the light cast out from windows warmed By guests and vagrants equaled by the waltz.

A house alive and welcoming to all.

—Alex Delzer

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The Final First Week My first week back at the University of Jamestown has been filled with mixed emotions.

Even though this is my fourth year here I still get feelings of excitement and joy from seeing my friends, teammates, and checking out my new classes. It is hard to think that it’s already my senior year. I was talking to my teammates and we were saying how during this week we will have our “last firsts” for everything. For example, our last first day of school and our last first hockey practice. It is a bittersweet feeling and makes me put my time here into perspective. It’s sad to think I won’t be here at this time next year. Time has gone by so quickly, it’s hard to imagine my journey here is almost over.

My journey into this first week started with a fourteen-hour drive from my home, Calgary, Canada. It was the Saturday before classes began and I was about to make the long drive to Jamestown. The hardest part of that morning was having to say goodbye to my family.

Even four years later it doesn’t get any easier to part. Once I got out of the city it was only me on the open road, along with all the different thoughts and feelings I had. It was during this drive that I started to think about my journey thus far and my thoughts about heading into my last year at the University of Jamestown. I was excited, nervous, and everything in between. I was sad to leave home, but I also couldn’t wait to see my teammates, friends, and professors.

My excitement was building as I drove back to the University of Jamestown and I also thought about how it was my last time driving to Jamestown as a student. I have made many great memories the past three years and during this drive I was reliving them. I would catch myself chuckling out loud as the memories of hanging out with my teammates at the rink and on road trips popped into my head. I also relived the embarrassing and hilarious presentations I gave as a freshman three years ago. I was glad I had all these memories to keep me occupied on my trip.

After I crossed the border the realization of being back in Jamestown and starting school became clear. I shifted from thoughts about the past and started thinking about the present and what this year at Jamestown would mean for me. I realized that I needed to make the most of this year. I decided I would try my best to meet new students, attend as many athletic games as possible, and try my hardest to be more involved around campus. Most of all I decided that I’m going to appreciate this year to the fullest and live in the moment.

Once I drove past Minot, I was in the home stretch. Because this is my final year at the University of Jamestown, thoughts about the future filled my mind. I started to think about life

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after graduation, not being in Jamestown, and not playing hockey. I was excited and nervous thinking about what the future may bring. But I quickly stopped myself from thinking too deeply about what might lie ahead. I decided that I was going to stay in the moment. I was going to enjoy the little things and make as many memories as possible while I’m here. When I finished the three-hour drive from Minot and drove down the hill into Jamestown I wasn’t thinking about the past or the future. I drove without any intense thoughts. I was simply enjoying my last drive back to the University of Jamestown.

I heard a saying during the summer while watching a movie, “Part of the journey is the end,” and I know I’m going to make the end of my journey at the University of Jamestown a memorable one.

—Bryson Yee

Light of the Herd, Brita Fagerlund

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A Reflection on Home Emma Preble’s essay and short story The Rural Writer’s Inner Voice and The Places We Leave have compelling insights about the idea of home. Although I was not born or raised in a small town, these stories resonated with me and I had a clear understanding of the value of home that Preble was conveying.

In The Rural Writer’s Inner Voice, the author describes the shame she felt about her upbringing (Preble 16). She mentions many stereotypes that come with living in a rural area.

She said, “rural areas are synonymous with ignorance, stupidity, and a lack of diversity” (16).

She goes on to explain her desire to live in a big city like New York or Chicago (16). She described this dream as, “High rises, lights that never go out, and what [she] wanted most of all, the beat” (16). Later, the author reads a book by Willa Cather about rural life that inspires her to start writing stories about her own upbringing in a small town. She gradually changes her mind and begins believing that these stories need to be told. As a result, she no longer feels embarrassed or ashamed of her experiences at home. She finds that there is a special type of feeling when writing about something real, her home (17).

I was born in a city with a population greater than one million. When I left home to play hockey in a town with fewer than five thousand residents, I had stereotypical thoughts similar to the author. I thought life away from the big city and all the action would be uneventful; I have never been more wrong. People can have great stories to tell whether they experience a fast-pace life in the city or, as Preble says, the stillness and calmness of a small rural town (17). I have learned that it is not the amount of people, the size of buildings, or the amount of activities that make an exciting experience, but the connections and quality of the relationships one can create.

No matter where it is, be proud of where you come from and be excited and honored to share that story.

Preble’s short story, In The Places We Leave, builds on the idea of the love for home. The narrator begins describing his dread about returning home and says he has been looking forward to this day like someone would look forward to a funeral (40). He says that he feels, “a thick wave of sadness that suffocates [him] whenever [he’s] here” (40). At this point, the reader might think that the narrator has a hatred for his home. However, the narrator isn’t dreading home because of the location, the long drive, or its emptiness, but rather because he doesn’t want to be reminded of what he left behind. In the last sentence of the story the narrator says, “Here is where I last knew myself, and as long as I’m not here, there’s a chance that I remain” (43). This solidifies Preble’s message that the memories we create at home are cherished. The narrator misses his father, his relationship with his sister, and his closeness to his mother. When

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he is away, these memories are real and when he returns home, there is a realization that things have changed. The memories that are left at home can be real only if he is not there.

This story made me think about my love for home. I can relate to the narrator because when I go home for the holidays it’s tough emotionally. Home brings back many great feelings and having only a week to visit is difficult. Every time I leave, I’m homesick for the first couple of weeks because the memories of home are still fresh. Preble’s story has made me think about my great memories at Jamestown, my second home. I will miss Jamestown after I graduate and fear the flood of emotions that will overwhelm me when I return and realize that the ability of doing it all over again no longer exists.

Both the essay, The Rural Writers Inner Voice, and the story of The Places We Leave made me think about the importance of home and being proud of where I come from. No matter where I go or how much life will change, I will always cherish my memories and be proud of where I’ve been.

—Bryson Yee Works Cited Preble, Emma. “The Places We Leave.” Plainsong, vol. 32, 2018, pp.40-43.

——. “The Rural Writers Inner Voice.” Plainsong, vol. 32, 2018, pp.16-17.

Hockey, Kallie Hegerle

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Grief I could pretend that I’m fine— Grab the dishes off the counter, stack them just so Pale green cups on top of peach plates with silver china flowers along the edge Gingerly I move, another step, another step— But the dishes don’t stack and they fall and hit the floor as they CRASH and CLATTER, SHATTER and CRACK and crumple, shudder, shiver, whimper.

And I’m screaming, screaming at the broken pieces as they fall, because something inside me knows this isn’t right.

And I feel like I’m dying, but I don’t know why.

You can’t say goodbye. Not now.

Not like this.

And now I’m SCREAMING, SCREAMING at the shards on the floor.

“You should have outlived me!”

Silence.

Sniffle, sob.

And all that’s left is shattered china and broken ceramic and my shaking, shaking hands and I don’t understand.

O God, I don’t understand.

—Stephanie Jorritsma

Fire Alarm There is something inside of me that wants to pull the fire alarm I know I shouldn’t, they tell me it’s wrong.

But every day I pass the stairs, and there It is, waiting— I imagine pulling the handle down with one motion, The mass confusion, the wide-eyed lies, How it would feel to hold the secret close And take it to my grave— I clench my jaw as I walk by Daring myself not to do it.

To leave it slumbering one more day, before I break— And the wild cries sound up and down the halls Of a wakened, caged thing Suddenly breaking free— —Stephanie Jorritsma

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Bent-Petal Blossom, Nicholas Johnson

Going Home The sun glows orange along the horizon and cuts across the dark Interstate. I squint and wish I had remembered my sunglasses. I see mile marker 100 pass and do the math—another hour to go. I glance at my car’s digital clock. I won’t get home before 8:30. I sigh, and wish I had left earlier. I could have left this afternoon if I had planned ahead.

The sun is losing some of its brightness, the orange turning blood-red. I wonder why I’m here, why I dropped all of my weekend plans, sent my mom a last-minute text, and got on the Interstate. I could as easily have a quiet weekend in my dorm room. The dorm is probably quieter, and I don’t have to answer prying questions like, “How are you?” or “How is college going?” But somehow, the thought of another weekend spent watching the rain, eating ramen,

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and doing my laundry makes me want to scream. I realize I forgot my laundry, and sigh. But I keep driving in the same direction.

I hold the wheel steady and check my phone. No response from my mom. I wonder if she knows I’m coming. I picture her curled up on the couch, eating Cheetos and watching a soap opera when I ring the doorbell. She doesn’t like unexpected visitors. I hear the rumble strips and realize my car is drifting. I glance around to make sure no one saw me, but I’m alone on the dark Interstate.

I surf through the radio channels, but soon turn the radio off. After a week of noise, I like the silence. I wonder how I’ll explain my change of plans to my mom. I could tell her I needed a break, or that I’m tired after a long week. Maybe she’ll believe that. After all, how could I tell her the truth? “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Mom. I feel like a failure no matter what I do. I wanted to come home, and I don’t even know why.” That sounds so sad, almost desperate. And I’m surviving, I’m getting by, so that can’t be the truth. I turn the radio back on, hoping to drown those words out of my head.

I pass mile marker 150. Ten minutes to go. I switch off the radio. The sun is gone, and the sky is almost as dark as the road. I wonder how I’ll feel when I reach home. Will I figure out why I went home? Will my mom be happy to see me or will we fight over something stupid and barely speak for the whole weekend? I picture her brushing Cheeto dust off her fingers, getting up to answer the door, and trying to hide her annoyance that I didn’t call first. I shiver and turn the AC off.

I drive over the last hill, and all the city lights appear, yellow and white dots across the valley. The city seems so still, so content. I don’t know why, but my pulse speeds up as I take the exit and turn toward my house. I pull up in front of a gray townhouse, but I don’t get out of the car. This was dumb, I tell myself. I don’t need to go home. I’m strong, I can get by on my own. I consider turning around, but I remember the hour and a half I drove to get here and realize I don’t feel like making the trip twice in one night. Maybe I’ll stop in for the night and drive back in the morning.

I check my phone and I see a message, a text from my mom. I swipe the screen and read her reply: “Can’t wait to have you home. I miss you, sweetie.”

My eyes fill with hot tears, and I don’t try to dry them as I stumble out of the car. I push open the front door, and through my blurry vision I see my mom coming to greet me. I drop my bag and choke back a sob. “Mom, I’m home.”

—Stephanie Jorritsma

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Sun Dogs, Cherish Bauer-Reich

a life in love is not meant to be run by fear i long for the days where i can step into your embrace and be welcomed as your child and not your daughter i long for the days where you can say "I love you" and i can smile as i say it back and know we mean it

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i long for the days where we can spend time together in silence and i won't be afraid of your thoughts i long for the days where i can think of you and not be struck with panic and instead be filled with joy i long for the days where a six-letter word is left behind and you call me by my name and i will smile for the first time i long for the days where waking up is not a chore that i will look into the sun and be glad and thankful for another day on earth i long for the days where i can be in the dark when i am on my own and i am not scared of myself i long for the days where i am not afraid of sleep because the nightmares are gone and i can rest peacefully knowing that i will be filled with joy because i am not afraid because i am not scared because i am not your daughter knowing that you mean it when you say you love me knowing that i will wake up tomorrow smiling into the sun for the first time —Casey LeMier

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Hot, Makenzie Wertz

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Action and Inaction in Dostoyevsky’s Notes from Underground “What were you thinking?”

When confronted with some fresh example of humanity’s seemingly endless capacity for idiotic behavior, people have an instinctive tendency to wonder what, exactly, went through the head of the idiot in question, no matter how inexplicable the behavior. Typically, though, the question is rhetorical. When one asks someone else what they were thinking, the implicit assumption is usually that they weren’t. Most of us know (or are) people who act without thinking. Some people, though, have the opposite problem and prove more difficult to spot.

After all, who can know whether blankly staring eyes signal a frightening vacuum of mental activity or an insightful contemplation of profound mysteries?

Perhaps only one person is ever equipped to say for certain. Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s unnamed narrator in Notes from Underground has a great deal to say and not enough to do. His near-incessant brooding twists his otherwise keen perceptions into a malignant scrutiny that inspires egocentricity and misanthropy, becoming a fatal flaw that dashes any chance he might otherwise have of future happiness.

The narrator is, in his own words, “overly conscious” (Dostoyevsky 711) consumed by thoughts that leave him perpetually trapped by “inertia” (715). Trivial obsessions plague his every waking moment, his mind buckling beneath its own weight. The central metaphor of the novella, the titular “underground,” relates to the narrator’s perception of himself as an offended mouse that lurks within its “disgusting, stinking” hole, having intentionally buried itself “alive… because of its pain” (712-713). This hole is not his physical dwelling place, although it too is “nasty, squalid” (709). When the narrator asks, “what difference does it really make whether I leave Petersburg or not?” (709), he makes it clear that the source of his misery—the underground hole where he wallows—is an interior, mental space that would follow him wherever he went, equal parts welcome retreat and inescapable trap. The narrator may claim to be buried “alive” (713), but his self-imposed exile from society hardly seems to be an authentic form of living. His bitter feelings have a festering quality, as if a rot is worming through his consciousness—if he is not yet dead, he is certainly infected. Of course, no one knows this better than the narrator himself, whose introductory declaration is that “I am a sick man…” (707).

This unusual self-awareness is a distinguishing trait of the narrator. His habit of reacting to his own thoughts and imagining the response of his readers, whom he addresses as “gentlemen” (709), forces the attentive reader to grapple with his paradoxes and reversals; his Notes are as much a dialogue with the reader as they are a confessional memoir. He makes this

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dialogue possible by constantly dissecting his own writing: “…gentlemen,” he asks, “who could possibly be proud of his illnesses and want to show them off?” Then, as quickly as the reader can accuse him of hypocrisy because of his own opening statement, he himself returns: “But what am I saying? Everyone does that; people do take pride in their illnesses, and I, perhaps, more than anyone else” (710).

Self-awareness adds a dynamic quality to the narrator’s account, but it also proves to be a deadly flaw. The narrator is in the regrettable position of being a sentient paradox: a humble narcissist. Both qualities—humility and narcissism—stem from his excessive consciousness, which proves to be his hamartia. The Greek philosopher Aristotle used the term hamartia to describe “the flaw, be it great or small, moral or intellectual, without which the hero [protagonist] would not have fallen nor his character have been a tragic one” (Kitto 116-117).

Dostoyevsky’s narrator is such a character, and his writing implies that he exists in a constant state of thought and (confined to the isolation of his burrow) finds the majority of his thoughts turning in a particular direction, asking “what can a decent man talk about with the greatest pleasure? Answer: about himself” (709). Although he refers to speech rather than thought, the stream-of-consciousness flow of the narration makes the two terms practically interchangeable, suggesting that he thinks and talks of little besides himself.

His descriptions also suggest an egocentricity that is manifest in his suspicion and extraordinary vanity. A brusque encounter with an officer who “went past as if he hadn’t even noticed” him leads him to develop a nearly comical obsession as he tracks the offender to his residence, attempts to publish a fictitious exposé slandering him, and eventually spends days plotting an encounter in the park where he will deliberately collide with the oblivious gentleman (733-737). He also displays hints of paranoia, regularly assuming that others privately despise him—perhaps with obsessiveness akin to his own—when they more likely see him as a slightly embarrassing oddity. When he arrives, unannounced, at a former classmate’s residence where other classmates are gathered, he thinks “they’d all hated me,” “they must despise me now,” and “I hadn’t expected such a degree of contempt” (740), but his description of their actions suggests awkward confusion or mildly contemptuous indifference rather than the animus that he imagines.

When the narrator invites himself to a gathering the three are planning, one asks if he would “really” like to join them (742), but no one actually tells him he is unwelcome, as true enemies presumably would. The conscious hatred that he imagines exposes his ego (constantly contemplating himself, he assumes that others must similarly focus on him) and demonstrates a tendency to project his own hatred for himself onto others. This self-loathing stems from his

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characteristic self-awareness; he recognizes all of his faults and cannot excuse them—“Can a man possessing consciousness ever really respect himself?” (715). The narrator certainly doesn’t, placing him in a rather painful situation, since a narcissist cognizant of his own flaws can never feel anything except misery, forced by nature to constantly contemplate a creature that he detests. The force chaining him to his reflection isn’t love, but morbid fascination.

The tragic irony of the narrator’s predicament is, of course, that so little separates his “underground” from the comparatively pleasant lives of less obsessed individuals. He is his own jailer. To free himself, he would simply have to engage with the people around him, but each time he attempts to do so, he just as quickly retreats to the shelter of his burrow. He is hostile and defensive when he joins his classmates for dinner, shouting at one and mocking another who attempts to engage him in small talk (747). Quickly disengaging himself from the conversation, he feels “abandoned,” “crushed,” and “humiliated” and—swept up in a whirlwind of his own thoughts—simmers with resentment while the four friends chatter blithely until he drunkenly announces his hatred for them in a rambling, sarcastic toast (748-750).

The narrator receives another chance to find companionship when he follows his classmates to a brothel, resolving to either win their affection or slap their de facto leader Zverkov in the face (752). He arrives at the brothel, but Zverkov and the others are no longer in the drawing-room, to the relief of the narrator, who feels as if he has been “delivered from death” (755). His relief reflects his indecisiveness and crippling tendency to obsess and ramble instead of taking action. His schoolmates’ absence has spared him further humiliation, although he pretends otherwise. Assuring himself that he would have “given [Zverkov] the slap,” he accompanies a prostitute to a back room (755). Here, too, he shows signs of egotism, failing to say “one word” to her in the first two hours of their coupling (756). Nevertheless, the two eventually begin to talk—she says her name is “Liza,” and he begins to think aloud, musing at length about familial bliss before (true to form) becoming angry again and launching into a vicious diatribe after a perceived slight (756-765). After Liza breaks down, sobbing, he apologizes for this outburst, calling her his “friend,” offering his address, and asking her to “Come to see me” (765). This apology is motivated by a rare flash of empathy on his part, and his offer is an equally rare demonstration of decisive, impulsive action.

Unfortunately, though, the narrator ultimately fails to escape his tragic flaw. The next day, he regrets his attack of “sentimentality,” returning to his normal obsessive state and dreading the possibility of Liza’s visit (766-768). When she does appear at his house, she walks in as he is screaming at a servant in an embarrassing, undignified manner, leaving him once again “crushed” and “humiliated” (773). This leads, eventually, to another outburst as he vents

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all the feelings that have been festering within, admitting that he is “ashamed,” and confessing himself “a scoundrel, a bastard, an egotist, and a sluggard… a vicious dog… the nastiest, most ridiculous, pettiest, stupidest, most envious worm of all living on earth” before the two embrace, sobbing (776-777). “I can’t be… good”1 he chokes out, exposing the toxic, obsessive perfectionism that inspires his self-loathing. This moment of emotional honesty is short-lived, though, and once again, he can’t look past his ego to accept even an instant of vulnerability. He believes himself “incapable of loving her” and longs to “remain alone in my underground,” leading him to press a “five-ruble note” into her grasp—a final insult that prompts Liza to walk out of his life forever (777-779). He starts to chase after her, but: “I ran about two hundred paces to the crossroads and stopped… stood in the snow” (779). Thinking.

In Notes from Underground, Dostoyevsky’s narrator is locked in a vicious cycle by selfconsciousness—his hamartia, “the defect which makes his [a protagonist’s] character tragically imperfect and is directly responsible for his fall” (Kitto 117). Lost in a world of his own thoughts, the narrator withdraws from society and ruminates harshly on his weaknesses. Incapable of loving himself, he craves validation from an external source but also subjects other people to the same harsh scrutiny that he inflicts on himself. Finding them similarly flawed, he hates himself even more for desperately desiring the approval of other petty, foolish beings, and the cycle continues. The novella ends, but Dostoyevsky declares that “the ‘notes’ of this paradoxalist don’t end here. He couldn’t resist and kept on writing” (780). The narrator, Dostoyevsky suggests, remains forever hidden in his “underground,” dwelling on his mistakes and loathsomeness, inflicting his “corrective punishment” (779). Some people have said that Heaven is the eternal contemplation of purest perfection. If it is, then Dostoyevsky’s narrator is trapped underground in a Hell of his own making.

—Nick Schaff Works Cited Dostoyevsky, Fyodor. Notes from Underground. The Norton Anthology of World Literature, Shorter Third Edition, Vol. 2. Edited by Martin Puchner, et al. Translated by Michael Katz. Norton, 2013, pp. 707-780.

Kitto, H.D.F. Greek Tragedy: A Literary Study. Anchor Books, 1954, pp. 116-117.

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Ellipses belong to Dostoyevsky 35

The Meadowlark The meadowlark he found old Noah's Ark And felt the wind blow As he circumnavigated the world and saw the whole globe When the dirt soaked up the water, he straightened out his collar To discover that there were zero trees, But grass was taller Then he thought, "Where Is my home?"

But he felt cozy as he moseyed around over the soggy ground And laughed as he saw all of the bees, but only one was crowned He shrugged and gathered some of the shrubs and got all nestled in, A nest that he build all on his own before the snow begins Then he thought, "This is my home."

Some time had passed and he saw all of the grass was dressed in Lily white The sky was painted rosemary red from the morning light And captivated by all he saw he saw, he broke out into song And tweeted loud his twee-diddly out strong the whole year long I'm glad he thought, because he found my home.

—Alex Delzer

I Probably Need a Tetanus Shot I love that old and weird stuff—dirty, grimeCovered. If there’s a rusted-up part, I Am there. My car, the stuff we’d find in that Old pile of burned up junk in the trees we Called woods. A chandelier with shards sticking Out, furnace that fell apart when touched.

The rust flaking on fingerprints. We’d sit With mice beneath cushions on couches, cats Were no good there. Bordered by nothing; wind Rattled the chandelier. Coulda died, hey— We had some fun out there, though—real kid stuff.

—Aurora Bear

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Rusted Recoil, Jessica Best

Railroad Nail, JoBeth Johnson

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The River I step forward and feel the sand. Water laps and gushes; the sand is soft and wet between my toes. Trees behind me allow the wind through their leaves, emitting a gentle sound. Ahead, there is nothing—an open space, neither the river before me nor the trees behind. It’s a soft color like Heaven.

I am not where I am now, where I will go, or where I’ve been—though, certainly, the dream holds pieces of memories. The sand is not the rough dirt of a riverbank; it’s the soft sand of the beach by the ocean. The trees blowing behind me I’ve heard many times in peaceful and hectic days alike. The river’s been present in any place I’ve lived; it draws me to stability and comfort. It resembles a home.

I find a smooth rock by chance and skip it. When I was little, a little boy taught me to skip a rock. Search for the smooth, flat one, he said, but I could never get it. Boys were always better at that. Now I could skip it, though.

The river was not always big enough to skip rocks. I sat on concrete beside a river beside an old boyfriend of mine in high school. He took pictures of me, deep into photography, and I felt loved and admired as I never had before.

I wandered along a river in Okinawa. Habu—vicious snakes who wait in the grass to snap and kill you—were a constant fear, but I would bolt through the medium, semi-safe grass beside the tall, forbidden grass in order to reach the river. I couldn’t live without it.

I “creeked”—as we called it—through a river in Ohio with friends. This one was large, and we had fun wading and swimming over river rocks, until Riley got a leech that her mother bravely pulled off her leg.

In sixth grade, I swam a river in the wintertime in Alabama, but when I came home, shivering and fearing hypothermia, I hid in a hot bath hoping my parents would never know.

In Colorado, we lived beside a huge ravine river, where on the rocks I once observed a neighbor kissing a boy—which of course was hot gossip for me and my eight-year-old friends.

Also in Colorado, my dad jumped into a river at a hot springs place where the current propelled him down and I watched his head bob down to a rock, where he latched on and barely made it out alive—or so I felt. Many other bold, adventurous men also took part, but I, at seven or eight, was “too young” to join and might get lost to the current.

In adventure, peace, and love, the river has been a constant.

And now I am here, and I escape in my mind to a place closest to Heaven. An ocean’s sand takes me back to a place called home. The breeze through the leaves reminds me of serenity. The river, ever with me, is a constant promise of stability —Carrie Noel

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Transcribing the Sun, Dustin Wagner

Sorting Out Priorities I fear enjoyment above all else.

I’m not ascetic or even sadistic.

My heart simply runs too fast, Chasing myself.

—Carrie Noel

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Island Farm This is a night— Rocking in a stiff front porch chair, Wind rushing, though not as furious as it was, Green silver-backed leaves jazz-handing— If I could bring you here, You’d see too a blue white-trimmed barn Standing defiant to ever-rolling air Carrying clouds like torn cotton, Ends trailing as they float over Wet, dark, green prairie grass.

All structures here— Aged a century or half, all of them— Stand as monoliths defying Rooted wind-churned waves of grass Hairing graceful hills.

I feel good with the cool air in my nose now, As you would too, Endless churning— Ocean prairie, open sky— And as if I were an island-bound sailor.

—Matthew Nies

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Sister Nature, Marlie Desarmes

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Zion Before Miami beach and La Michoacana, There was Lake Michigan and sidewalks stained with mulberries.

Zion Illinois, I adopted the name Chicago, Because in Haiti Geography was told through movies, news, or TV shows.

My cousins couldn't comprehend the less successful brother that lived in Chicago's shadow.

The fraternal twin, Who had all the powdered white lines like crosswalks And wrists made purple with handcuffs, But lacked the suits and taxi cabs.

The fraternal twin, That smiled with stone front houses and chain linked fencing, But in the moonlight Broken beer bottles shined like glass slippers on our doorsteps.

Where a siren's serenade captivated more crowds than the local ice cream truck.

Where shells fell from barrels echoing clinks Like clings of a music box Wound up too fast When hitting the pavement.

Where streets were littered with rocks, For spoons or hopscotch.

Where dads only existed when we played house.

Where corner stores laid witness to piggy bank genocide.

My living room window made of one-way glass, I could see the police station, But they couldn't see My Wii being ungifted after Christmas.

They couldn't see When the local hero decided to liberate my brother’s stereo from his car,

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But they could see Crystal’s Jay's walking And throw her in a backseat.

Hiding behind rose colored lenses, I saw gang clap ups like patty cake.

I took colored chalk to outline my friends Forgetting that this may not be their only outline.

I fell asleep wearing my brother’s shirt Despite it being drenched in his cannabis infused cologne.

I found joy with unlit streetlights and wet spit, When I and the neighborhood kids held barefoot races down the alleyway, Only to argue on who was first to cross our imaginary finish line.

Where my lips first lingered on the taste of her cherry Chapstick And I liked it.

Where barbeque smoke mingled its fragrance through the breeze, And swing sets were another form of therapy.

Guilboa Avenue isn't my bruise, It’s life’s bite and hickeys trailing down the flesh of my memories.

It is the washed-out Michael Jackson nightshirt That clings loosely to my body.

It is the scrapes and scabs left behind when my training wheels were removed.

Zion It taught me...

Snowball and pillow fights with Kersy can be deadly.

Not to kick when getting a flu shot in my rear.

That a sister and brother can fill the absence of a mother.

It taught me to stifle my cries when visiting the penitentiary.

That jumping into leaves makes you a daredevil.

Prince charming kisses like Rasputia, And that home Is an umbrella term.

—Marlie Desarmes

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Wilting Flower, Marlie Desarmes

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Post-traumatic Another stranger passes the window, and I shiver. “Are you cold?” he asks. I tell him I’m fine. I move my chair to face away from the window. I don’t know if he can see my distraction, but he is talking about work, so I think I’m safe. I stare down at my hands. The coffee shop music turns to something upbeat, and my pulse speeds up. It’s like the rap music, blaring on that cold street corner, all those months ago….

“Don’t you think?” he says. I snap back to reality and nod. I try to look at him, but I can’t meet his gaze. He moves on to another story, expecting me to laugh, but I can only give him a tired smile in return. Two men with booming voices enter the coffee shop, and the burst of cold air through the doors tenses every muscle in my body. Suddenly I’m back on that street corner in the biting wind, and a different man is there, staring me down, screaming in my face. I don’t move, I don’t look up, I don’t even speak, because whatever I do, he will get angrier. I shut my eyes and focus on not shaking or puking. I tell myself he will stop if I only stay still. I can hear strangers pass on the sidewalk, but no one stops, no one stops to help me.

A hand touches my knee and I jump. I almost scream but then I see it’s only him, my new love, looking in my eyes, asking if I’m okay. I press my lips together—hard. “I’m fine,” I say, “Just tired.” He suggests we go, and I agree. I pull on my coat, trying to forget the chill of the cold sidewalk and the sickening combination of fear and love.

—Stephanie Jorritsma

Barren She wore them because he liked them—the silk robe and metallic shoes. To her they were ugly, but he liked them, so she wore them.

They’d been talking about simple things, snuggled on pillows and blankets scattered.

Before, she danced for him, showing off her robe and shoes. He smiled, eyes glazed, body covered by blankets. They laughed in an abandoned room, just the two of them, his hair a mess and hers too. He loved her the way she was.

And then there was fighting. Screaming, yelling, anger. They fought in the kitchen over something that neither of them knew the answer to. They fought after they laughed, after they danced, after she wore the robe just for him.

And when it was over, there was nothing. The house was quiet. He sat alone at home, regretful. She walked the streets, angry at God, ashamed of herself, afraid that what she was missing was too much for him to lose.

—Carrie Noel

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Cloudy Day, Winston LaJesse

Vacant Star He purchased a minute of time in lies— ties to the one whom he loves Burned to preserve life above.

Secrets are left in the dark for the beasts’ feasts as they hunger for stark Silhouettes of past remarks.

They never starve. Vacant are those whose pride guides them first, before life. Barred From love, he waits for north stars —they never come. And as he waits, the stars are dimmed, till he’s guaranteed A dark life. Anguished, he pleas.

—Carrie Noel

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Wild Memoir It was November second, 2007. I remember walking into St. Alexius hospital in Bismarck with my family. My dad, my sister--1st grade—my brother--8th grade--and I--2nd grade--all held hands as we walked in together. My dad knew what we were about to be told, and my sister, brother, and I could feel his protective energy over us. We knew that something wasn’t right. We had seen our father angry, happy, and sad many times, but we had never seen him anxious. We went into the hospital and to a quiet room where my mother lay on a hospital bed.

She drew us into her loving embrace, as she had done so many times before. She told us that she loved us very much and explained to us that she was very sick. She reassured us that everything would be okay, but just in case it wasn’t she needed to explain to us what was wrong. She told us that she had cancer.

It was her thirty-seventh birthday when my mother was told that she had a type of cancer called acute lymphoblastic leukemia. The months leading up to this day were filled with tremendous physical agony for her. I remember having to rub her back and comfort her many times because she was in so much pain. She could not figure out what was wrong with her and decided to finally go to the hospital and make them do different tests until they could find the source of the problem. Although the news she got was troubling, my mother never gave up hope.

The next year-and-a-half was filled with many hospital visits and stays, blood transfusions, and bone-marrow transplants. I remember driving to Rochester, Minnesota, where Mayo Clinic is located, to visit her when she was an inpatient. She went to Mayo multiple times for different treatment sessions, and stayed in a couple of different group homes while she was there. I remember reading books in the hospital rooms or hallways, playing with clay or other toys we kept in our mom’s room for the times we came to visit, and talking to the nurses and doctors about what was going on--as much as an eight-year-old girl could understand what was going on. After a while, going to the hospital all the time was starting to feel normal. It was a part of my life that I was now used to and expected.

Everything seemed to be going okay for a long time. Even though my mom was sometimes so sick she could barely even eat some days, she never lost hope of what would happen to her or us in the future. She told us all the time, “I will be there to see you guys graduate” or “I will be there on your wedding day.” She never lost hope, even on her most pitiful days, she never lost hope and never stopped fighting. She had a strong will to live and tried to be positive around us kids, even if the future looked bleak.

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She also never lost her sense of humor or her zest for life. I remember visiting her at Mayo Clinic and running through the halls with her, and my family and having wheelchair races.

I remember some of the friends she made in the hospital while she was sick. Whether it was the nursing staff caring for her or other patients in her unit, everyone seemed to know who she was and enjoyed her smile and friendship. I thought that her love for life and that her fighting spirit would be enough to help her survive, but sadly I was wrong.

On May eleventh, 2009, I was in fourth grade, quietly working on math problems when my teacher came up to me and said: “Sierra, you need to pack up your stuff for the day and go to the office, your dad will be here soon to come get you and your sister.” When I got to the office my sister was already there. We were both confused. At this point, my mom was getting treatment at St. Alexius in Bismarck, and the last time we had seen her she had been doing fairly well. We had some hope in our hearts until we saw our dad walk up to the window of the office to get us. His eyes were sunken from lack of sleep and it looked like he had been crying.

Something was wrong.

All my dad said on the car ride from the school to the hospital was that the doctor needed to talk to us. I was still in denial of anything being wrong until we got to the hospital. As soon as we were there one of my aunts walked out of the door and gave my brother a big hug. She started crying, hiding her face in his chest. At this point I could not deny it any longer, something was definitely not right.

As soon as the elevator door opened, my worst fears were confirmed. There was an encampment of family and friends of my mother’s, all crying and hugging. Without saying anything else to me, some of them came up to me and hugged me. They whispered things to me, like “I’m so sorry,” “This isn’t fair,” and “I am here for you.” I did not cry until my family and I went into a small conference room where the doctor explained that my mother had come in with an infection before her last round of chemotherapy and the infection had spread through her body. She had gone through a series of strokes and was now clinging to life.

We were led into her room in the ICU where she had cords and tubes attached to her.

She was not conscious. She was not able to look at us or respond. What little energy and fight she had left was being used to sustain life. I grabbed her hand and I did not want to let go. I did not want to leave. My aunt told us that she could still hear us. My sister and I were scared, but our older brother and my dad were present to support us. The four of us stood at her bedside, taking turns hugging her and telling her we loved her. Then we turned to each other to hug and cry together.

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Others came in and out of the room, doing what we did--all holding onto one another for support. On that day and the next few that followed, I realized how many lives my mother had touched. Many people cared for her because she cared for many. Seeing all these people not only showed me how amazing my mother was, it also helped me feel supported further in the process of her death, and that I was not alone. Life would go on without my mom. I would do my best and strive to be happy and healthy because that is what she would want for me.

On May fourteenth 2009, my mom passed away in the early morning. My dad woke me up that morning and told me the news and encouraged me to still go to school. He told me that “Mom would want you to go to school and learn something and hang out with your friends.” So I did just that.

The next week was filled with a visitation, funeral, friends, family, laughter, and a lot of crying. One moment that I vividly remember is of my aunts, my mom’s sisters, standing together wailing at her funeral. I also saw my dad and brother cry again, either of whom I had seen cry before this. I don’t think I have ever seen anything sadder. As they played the song “On Eagle’s Wings” during the service I tried to sing along. My dad could hear my voice crack as I tried to fight my tears, but I could not hold them back. He hugged me and I cried into his chest.

My family and I have discussed our situation and what happened many times together.

We came to the conclusion very quickly that we would not be sad and we would not self-destruct because of what happened to us. We decided that we would continue to find happiness in life, and support one another along the way. This was a defining moment for my family and me, but we never used it as an excuse for anything destructive. We do this because we know who my mother was and we know that she would want us to be happy and to live life to the fullest.

Although this experience was terrible and I would not wish it on anyone else, it made my family and me stronger. We all figured out how much we can take and what it takes to stick together through tough times. Going through this also made me grow up quickly and gave me a unique perspective on life. I try to never take anything for granted. I celebrate and rejoice when life is beautiful and try to mourn quickly and move on when life is sad.

I long for my mother to be here, but I know that everything happens for a reason. It was her time to go and I had no control over what happened; I could only control how I dealt with it.

So far, with the help of my family and friends, I have dealt with it fairly well. I miss her every day, but I find comfort in knowing that I have a guardian angel who is watching over me.

—Sierra Talmadge

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A Glimpse of Color, Allison Lucas

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Thinking of My Mother I feel you there without a touch— Blind, soft, radiant blush-This feeling washes over me Of days you held me in your arms.

Avoid the thought for I don’t know How resolve is moving slow When all I feel is aching— Breaking for you far from me.

Though I know now where to go With you I always found my home I wish that I could board a plane And go to where you are.

And items gifted speak so loud Their echoes breaking through the sound Of chaos dark surrounding me— While broken pieces in me bleed.

The hardest pain is always new— Different from previous wounds— For nothing like a mother’s touch, Now lost, could ever hurt this much.

And where I’ll go, I say I know But, truthfully, I couldn’t tell.

I wish to throw my hands up high— Wish upon a star and fly— Forget the practicalities— Jump to where life’s new and free.

And yet, the story must go on.

I cannot change the plot partway Forgetting all I hold today What’s precious held—not then, but now.

And though I cannot fly, I’m learning, as baby steps Take me places I’ve never met.

I miss you, but all I know Is where I now am called to go.

I won’t be gone for long— With love’s composed unbroken song Between our hearts to hold us strong.

–Carrie Noel

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Christmas Break I’d like to preface with a claim I can’t particularly support: That kids and grown-ups are the same, But kids play games, and grown-ups, sports.

The rules don’t change, and nor do we, But somewhere in there, life adds stakes, Great stakes, as tall as any tree, Bequeathed with grace and well-placed whacks.

Thus hammered, we meander, trip, And jump at distant thunder while Ignoring hairs that start to crisp From looming lightning overhead— The camera flashes as we smile.

Our life’s a life-long exercise In missing forests for their trees.

We fill our chests, rely on eyes, And trust the little each eye sees.

A man stands in his kitchen and Beholds the backyard, while above, His daughter spies a far-off land (What wise old Noah missed could not Elude the vantage of a dove).

Her small feet patter in the wake Of those tough soles that came before, Unsure if they’d made a grave mistake, Leaving home to walk a distant shore.

I think of them beneath outcropped Jungle, unsure if I’ve been tricked, For I feel I’m home, and I drop My knee. I know when I’ve been licked.

I mean, really, how grown are we, To boast of such a massive change As five or six feet up from three?

Can depth stand substitute for range?

In time, so many have grown up, So few gone out—including me— A wolf that came to dread its inner pup And human stakes and restless trees.

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They say the sky’s the limit, but Guess what? A circle has no end.

Look left, look right, look up and cut The sky with strangers who may turn Out to be your long-forgotten friends.

Although we wonder at a plant’s Great height, is branching from its stalk Not braver effort, slimmer chance, Reaching out, not up? (Pardon the Anthropomorphization, Doc).

Don’t know developmental stages, All of that oral, phallic stuff; I’ll take tundras over entendres, Because I find them beautiful, Which is, for me, enough.

—Nick Schaff

Process Breathe in, pick up your pen and try again.

Survey an open plain in dappled day.

Breathe out, but know your work is never done.

A whistling remembrance haunts this plain.

Ideas burn, demand to have their say.

Breathe in, pick up your pen, and try again.

The wind dies down; it chokes the flame too soon.

A bolt falls loose; your favorite track won’t play.

Breathe out, but know your work is never done.

This plain is just a plane, a field of grain, But every echo must be sent its way.

Breathe in, pick up your pen, and try again.

Ignore your headache, hammer your taut brain, See standing there what wasn’t yesterday.

Breathe out, but know your work is never done.

Enjoy a break from mental marathon, Before another echo whispers, “Hey— “Breathe in, pick up your pen, and try again.

“Breathe out, but know your work is never done…”

—Nick Schaff

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Prodigal Misspent. A face like mine reflects nearby, Condemning from a gutter, spitting on grace, Before a pleasant voice hums in my ear; “That’s not your face.

“Don’t worry.” Like a smoothly flowing wine, His velvet voice brings peace. So soft it seems, Seductive confidence and promises— The warmth of dreams.

“That’s not your face,” he says again. “Your face Is better—fresh and strong and beautiful, No blotch or cavern eye. That’s not your face.

It’s just your soul.”

Awake. My clearer head brings sharper pain.

I wince and wonder how it came to this.

A cab drives past and throws my soul into my face.

It tastes like piss.

“Okay,” I whisper, pick myself up, breath deep.

The water’s muddy, but I see a light And glance at flashing signs above, exhale A wild night.

These days, I’m only peaceful when I sleep.

Unconsciousness delivers me from my Worst enemy. Bad dreams give me a space Where I can cry.

I cannot dream awake, though I still try.

A child dreams awake; I left my child At home—a home I called a “cage” and left For dreams more wild.

Not sure of where to go, I go, because It’s what I wanted. Now, it’s what I have.

I live for dreams. Without my dreams, I’d be Too old to live.

—Nick Schaff

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Homecoming A limo grinds and rattles to a halt.

A door creaks open. Boots clip rhythmically On rocks, approaching cold, black, iron bars.

Wind rustles the gate, and he rustles, too, As he dismisses an offer of help, Declares “I need no shadow,” with a laugh, A step, a pause in headlights. Laughing again, He checks the ground and needs no shadow. He has one.

The gate is higher than his memory, The shadows longer, creeping up the bars To realization that perhaps it’s him That’s changed, that’s shrunken under endless years.

This cheerful thought now shepherds him along His way, a winding path to shelter from The droplets of mist on his lips, the air’s Cold kiss on his bald, spotted head, the mud Beneath his shoes like mother’s nagging, tight Embrace, as if the earth would pull him to her lap.

He draws the door and slips inside to see His shadow waiting there, as if to mock His pace. The fluid grace of it annoys Him, calls to painful recollection his Own angularity, old bones that seem To be preparing for some great escape From wrinkled skin and faded strength, To savor one, brief moment in the sun.

A shadow has no sullen bones to ache, No more to do than playful flirting with the light.

In youth, he had marveled at shadows, sought Their friendship, smiled as they scampered up The stairs beside him, wondered what blank faces Concealed, what shadow thoughts they entertained.

The elasticity of boyhood gone, He feels the stairs bruise feet that once had laughed At thistles, leapt from trees and challenged all The big, bright world to “Catch me if you can!”

Sometimes, he’d forgotten the shadow. Now, it watches.

It watches, guides him down the wooden hall, Escorts him to nestle in a chair (His favorite) after it bends beside him To light a gently dancing, yellow fire.

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Eyes glazing, he remembers games he played In that chair, kicking restlessly as he Pretended that chair was a throne he stole If Father was naïve enough to stand.

His fingers drum—a spider, dancing on the wall.

A shallow breath escapes parched lips, and for A moment, he is afraid, before he Lets go the need to breathe and realizes That he, he who so proudly swore “I won’t Go gently to that good night,” is not—No, Had never been, the source of that great light, That fiery, mysteriously winking light.

Instead, he finds himself a simple hand that cast Its shadow on the wall: uncertain, fretting hours On the stage. “It was good, though,” he thinks distantly.

The spider finishes its dance and takes its rest, While on the wall, the shadow keeps its patient watch.

—Nick Schaff

Birth of a Universe Beyond. In lightless, soundless space, The night is infinite and void, Except for possibility.

Beginning has eluded us, And left us staring up at stars, Debating questions—“How,” then “Why?” Such musings perpendicular To better lines of questioning— The greatest mystery, “What?”

We ask ourselves, “What is? What isn’t?”

Within the shadow womb, a flare, Explosion piercing nothingness, Emergent substance, color. Light.

Cascades of energy expand, Traversing space in lightning waves To bathe our stars and drown wide eyes.

Our eyes reflect a swirling glow, The gleam of distant nebulas, A radiance celestial, Bright clouds of stardust on a canvas.

Unkind to thus bestow on us This infant universe, when we So little comprehend the first.

—Nick Schaff

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Chilly Wire Car Park Butte, Grant Lanie

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Contributors, 2020 Cherish Bauer-Reich Aurora Bear Jessica Best Mark Brown Alex Delzer Marlie Desarmes Brita Fagerlund Kallie Hegerle JoBeth Johnson Nicholas Johnson Stephanie Jorritsma Winston LaJesse Grant Lanie Mindy Le Casey LeMier Allison Lucas Tanner Lunzman Matthew Nies Carrie Noel Hannah Rogers Starla Rollf Nick Schaff Sierra Talmadge Dustin Wagner Makenzie Wertz Bryson Yee

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