Plainsong 2018 by University of Jamestown

plainsong

plainsong Volume 32

ÂŠ 2018, plainsong, Vol. 32 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, besides occasional interviews from professional writers.

Editorial Board Department of English David Godfrey, Ph.D, Chair Mark Brown, Ph.D. Sean Flory, Ph.D. Barbara Petronelli Larry Woiwode, Writer in Residence, Editor

Student Editor Aurora Bear

Layout & Interior Design Donna Schmitz

Cover Photo Sunflowers at Sunset Jewel Williams Plainsong Prizewinning Photograph

Printing & Binding Two Rivers Press, Jamestown

Table of Contents (GLWRUÂ¶V ,QWURGXFWLRQ & Dos Cantos por Tu, Jim Stone ..................................................... 6 Photograph, Light, Yawen Zhu ............................................................................................ 7 Funhouse Mirrors, and other poems, Jim Stone ............................................................... 8 Photograph, New, Yawen Zhu ........................................................................................... 10 Wonderland, Jim Stone; Photograph, Like Heaven, Makenzie Wertz ............................. 11 Guiding Light, Jim Stone .................................................................................................. 12 Photograph, Astroworld, Logan Newman ........................................................................ 13 Imagine Believing, Jim Stone ........................................................................................... 14 Photograph, Life, Yawen Zhu ............................................................................................ 15 7KH 5XUDO :ULWHUÂ¶V ,QQHU 9RLFH Emma Preble, Louise Erdrich Nonfiction Prize ......... 16 Photograph, 3rd St. SW, Linda Hess .................................................................................. 18 My Opression, My Depression, Alex Huff......................................................................... 19 Too, Sarah Porter .............................................................................................................. 20 Like a Grasshopper, Makenzie Wertz ............................................................................... 21 Sincerity and Spirituality, Jewel Williams ...................................................................... 22 Autumn Fragment, Mark Brown...................................................................................... 24 Photograph, Darkening Day, Ashley Wolfe ......................................................................25 The Roof, Grant Fodness .................................................................................................. 26 A Series of Poems, Meaghan Cronin, Thomas McGrath Poetry Prize ........................... 28 Photograph, Bleeding Heart with Bee, Marlene Wiest .................................................... 30 Self-Editing, Meagan Cronin, & Bleeding Heart Minus Bee, Marlene Wiest ................... 31 The Power of Affection, Emma Preble ............................................................................. 32 7KH 'DPVHOÂ¶V 6RQJ, Addison Olson .................................................................................. 36 Photograph, Hands, Jessica Best ...................................................................................... 37 Justifications, Sarah Porter .............................................................................................. 38 Dynamic, Jewel Williams ................................................................................................. 39 The Places We Leave, Emma Preble, Larry Woiwode Fiction Prize ........................... 40 Fragmented Self, a three poems series, Jewel Williams .................................................. 44 Photograph, Sewing, Jessica Best .....................................................................................45 Dissociation, Emma Preble .............................................................................................. 46 Rob Lowe is Eternal, Aurora Bear.................................................................................... 48 7KH (VFDSLVWÂ¶V 3HQ, Matthew Nies .................................................................................... 49 Your Brown Eyes, Makenzie Wertz.................................................................................. 50 On Dropping My Son Off at Daycare, Matthew Nies ....................................................... 51 Damnation Disguised as Salvation, and other poems, Emma Preble..............................52 Photograph, Shapes, Holly Vigesaa & Hindsight, Dark Eyes, Midnight at the Bar .........53 +LJKZD\Â¶V 'HDG DW 1LJKW Aurora Bear ............................................................................54 Photograph, A Snowy Path, Jewel Williams .................................................................... 58 Road Trip #2, Jim Stone ...................................................................................................59 Photograph, Road, Grant Christiansen ............................................................................ 60

This is the sixth issue of Plainsong ,ÂśYH coaxed ahead as editor and now stand at its start DV ,ÂśYH never done because it seemed thoughtless to publish, without a word, the last poems that Dr. Jim Stone wrote before his death in March. Jim and I were dear friends. He was younger but in the same age range and we could talk straight across in ways I could not with anybody else, not merely because we came of age during the War in Vietnam, both loved rural living, and enjoyed similar skills, as in his remodeling an old hotel in Montana and my remodeling a hundred-year-old farmhouse, besides working on one in town, as he did, so we had plenty to talk about on those topics that interest men of our age. We talked about books, or a new book out, both of us grateful for all ZHÂśG OHDUQHG IURP ERRNV DQG WR ORRN XS DQG VHH -LP LQ WKH PLGVW RI VLOHQW WKRXJKW ZDV

to see a noble gentleman from an era that no longer existed. Both of us knew that. We were at near-opposite poles of the political spectrum but could talk openly about our concerns and hopes and desires. Of course we talked about poetry. He was one of the

TXLFNHVW OHDUQHUV DQG PRVW DFFRPSOLVKHG SRHWV ,ÂśYH ZRUNHG ZLWK LQ GHFDGHV DQG KLV presence in many late-KRXU ZRUNVKRSV DIWHU D GD\ RI FODVVHV KHÂśG WDXJKW ZLWK a queue of students he was helping out, along with multiple poems in PlainsongÂ˛this Dr. Stone inspired young writers and criminal justice students to rise to new heights. His effect was indelible. He was one of the wisest men IÂśYH spent time with and, considering his traverse across life, AWOL Marine to Dean in dress-up-and-tie to grizzled professor in sandals working his way to faith after his wife Lonnie died, the most humble. A RockyMountain Hamlet, always with stories to tell: we shall not look upon his like again. DOS CANTOS POR TU Morning rejoices When the sun and horizon Reluctantly part. The darkness of dreams dissolves In the clarity of light. Evening rejoices When the sun and horizon Gently reunite. The clarity of daylight Fades to the darkness of dreams. 6

Yawen Zhu

FUNHOUSE MIRRORS An orphan boy whose parents disappear, adopted by an agent of the state, thereafter to be neither seen nor heard to foster hate. A dilettante with easy verses meant to indicate a lonely noble heart, until pretension and the pomp begin to fall apart. A poetess imagines in her hand a dagger, her heart the willing clay, and thereupon to carve her truest work. Today! Today! A hermit too afraid to venture out beyond the self-made confines of a cave (an open grave apart from love and life)-too much to brave. An aging neophyte uncertain with the prospect of eternity at stake; half-dreading he is destined for a sleep too deep to wake. A would-be suicide confronts an odd coincidence of cowardice and care; despair and sentimental myths conspire to reach repair. A conscientious citizen objects: The price the unknown soldier died to pay! Generic inhumanity creates too dark a day. A neo-Luddite counting on his toes, without his retrofitted two-tone shoes, LV DEOH E\ WKH IXQKRXVH PLUURUÂśV OLJKW

to cipher clues.

and other poems, Jim Stone

EPIGENESIS for Erik Erikson

Mistrusted child bereft of innocent purpose imagines fidelity alone in decent intimacy, as initiative and industry assume an identity careful to love the next generation, hoping to seem good. When he no longer covets praise disengaged in stagnant isolation the shameful integrity of genuine despair is prelude to the tragedy of wisdom.

CONFESSION Allow me to admit these memories of unrequited lust that is revealed as shallow--callow appetites to please-with lonely longing sadly unconcealed until a time that led to love to yield forgiveness for the loneliness of youth. Confession seems an unrequited truth. WATERCYCLE Falling water springs from winter mountains melting filling summer lakes. RIVER WIND the highway sounds like river wind from here a distant train provokes a persistent legacy of loss running roughshod over reminiscence.

Yawen Zhu

WONDERLAND W , ZRQGHUHG LI ,ÂśG VHH KHU IDFH-to-face, if heaven if heaven were were a place a place thatthat I could I could find, find, if God if God might might grant grant thethe giftgift of holy of holy grace grace thethe dayday mymy fatefate is finally is finally sealed sealed andand signed. signed. I wondered I wondered if she if she misses misses meme as much as much as Ias miss I miss herher each each dayday from from daybreak daybreak on,on, herher smile, smile, herher faith, faith, herher reassuring reassuring touch; touch; if I ifcould I could know know which which starstar to wish to wish upon. upon. I wondered I wondered if the if the lovelove thatthat I had I had known known hadhad gone gone forever forever on the on the night night sheshe died, died, if I ifwould I would spend spend eternity eternity alone alone or we or we would would spend spend forever forever side-by-side. side-by-side. , ZRQGHUHG LI ,ÂśG VHH KHU IDFH-to-face, ZKHQ VRPHRQH WROG PH Âł+HDYHQÂśV QRW D place Â´

Makenzie Wertz

GUIDING LIGHT When angels come to comfort in the night-eternal constellations on display-the darkest time beholds a guiding light that those who grieve in solitude might imagine white wings wafting tears away. When angels come to comfort in the night redemptLRQ RYHUFRPHV D SDXSHU¶V SOLJKt and redemption is an easy price to pay. The darkest time beholds a guiding light for falling angels fallen in full flight in search of that redemptive place to lay. When angels come to comfort in the night the faithful are enchanted with delight; in gratitude rejoice aloud to say, ³7KH GDUNHVW WLPH EHKROGV D JXLGLQJ OLJKW ´ Once unenlightened, chastened by the sight, a solitary seeker falls to pray. When angels come to comfort in the night the darkest time beholds a guiding light.

Logan Newman

IMAGINE BELIEVING I can imagine believing that I Will see you again in all of your ways, Will know the grace of God in which you died, Will feel angelic arms in which you lie; But cannot believe it, as doubt betrays² So I imagine. Believing that, I Trace my disbelief to lack of proof and try To recollect, again recount the ways To know the grace of God. The night you died And saw to heaven right before my eyes² An invitation worth the end of days! I can imagine believing that I Have seen in your ascendance to the sky The consequence that only faithful praise Can know. The grace of God in which you died² A revelation in the face of pride. With no redeeming character to play, I can imagine believing that I Will know that grace of God the day I die.

Yawen Zhu

7+( 585$/ :5,7(5Â¶6 ,11(5 92,&( ,Â¶YH spent much of my young adult life ashamed of my upbringing. In popular culture, it seems rural areas are synonymous with ignorance, stupidity, and a lack of diversity.

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wanted a stereotypes. After all, the people around me seemed to fit the description. I wanted a big city, and most of the books I read talked about New York or Chicago or LA. High rises, lights that never go out, and what I wanted most of all, the beat. That beat that FLWLHV KDYH OLNH D KHDUW WKH IORZ RI WUDIILF OLNH YHLQV SHRSOHÂ¶V IHHW ZDONLQJ GRZQ

sidewalks, sirens and screeching tires. Nonstop unavoidable life. The isolation of a rural area, if it even had a beat, was too muffled to hear. I wanted to capture the heart RI KXPDQLW\ DQG SXW LW RQ WKH SDJH DQG , GLGQÂ¶W WKLQN WKDW FRXOG EH DFFRPSOLVKHG

writing what I knew.

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in states that people were familiar with. I forced them into urban situations like catching a bus instead of school busses being unable to pick up farm kids in the winter because the gravel roads were covered with snow drifts. It was fake, and I knew it was IDNH %XW , GLGQÂ¶W GDUH JR EH\RQG WKH FRQILQHV RI $PHULFDQ OLWHUature that seems to dictate that America is made up of two things: the cities, and the rural south. Willa Cather proves that there is something in the muted fields, something in the soil, something in the farmers in canvas and denim coats, that beats as much as city streets.

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My Antonia and O Pioneers! to memory. I know that I read them in one night, and

KRZ HDV\ LW VHHPHG WR UHDG EHFDXVH , NQHZ ZKHUH , ZDV ,W GLGQÂ¶W IHHO IDU RII , ZDV young and familiarity stuck out. It sat under the surface simmering for ten years, before the significance of Cather came to a boil. Willa Cather became my conscience as I began writing this summer. That kind of conscience gnaws at you. I saw a copy of O Pioneers! VLWWLQJ LQ WKH Â³PXVW UHDGV IRU

WKH VXPPHUÂ´ LQ D %DUQHV DQG 1REOH DQG IHOW DQ[LRXV DQG JXLOW\ , ZDQWHG WR ZULWH P\ index finger tapping on the cover of the book in my hand, and I wondered if there was 16

a piece of paper anywhere nearby or if I should repeat the idea in my head over and over to perfect it until I had something to write with. The guilt lay underneath, an empty feeling of nausea in my stomach. Arrogance and a faith in Urban America was preventing me from writing, and I had no right to say no to the stories that needed to be told. For the first time, I started writing in length about where I grew up, and the people who surrounded me. As I wrote, I often found myself stopping in midSDUDJUDSK DQG WKLQNLQJ ZKR ZRXOG UHDG WKLV" 1RWKLQJ KDSSHQV 7KHUHÂ¶V QR MDUULQJ climax, no big city, no interesting characters with unbelievable but interesting lives. My conscience, Cather, and the golden, soft-covered O Pioneers! that stared at me in a bookstore became a point to fix my eyes on to keep me from becoming dizzy. :LOOD &DWKHU NQRZV KRZ WR ZULWH DERXW UHDO SHRSOH DQG UHDO OLIH , GRQÂ¶W NQRZ D girl named Chastity Brilliance (or someone else so invented it hurts) who can change SHRSOHÂ¶V PLQGV DERXW OLIH EHFDXVH RI KHU WZLQNOLQJ JUHHQ H\HV DQG ORYH RI ,QGLH PXVLF %XW , NQRZ WKH UHVROXWH KDUGZRUNLQJ VLPSOH ZRPHQ OLNH $OH[DQGUD , NQRZ 0UV /HHÂ¶V accent, I know the fear of being at the mercy of crops. More importantly, Cather captures the stillness. When I think of my home, I think of stillness. Even matters in motion are calm. There is a stillness in the rural northern life, and reading Cather is like looking out my window. I see what she sees DQG LWÂ¶V VWLOO +HU ZULWLQJ GRHVQÂ¶W KLW D snag. None of her characters seem false, none of her land feels invented, none of the emotions out of place. ,Q D GLVFXVVLRQ ZLWK D IULHQG DERXW RXU ZULWLQJ VKH VDLG Â³, WKLQN ,Â¶P ZULWLQJ VRPHWKLQJ WKDWÂ¶V PDUNHWDEOH Â´ DQG , KDGQÂ¶W WKRXJKW DERXt writing in those terms before but, subconsciously, I was letting my preconceptions about how people would receive a book about rural North Dakota take the reins over my writing. I was afraid no one would want to read DQ\WKLQJ WKDW ZDV Â³GXOO Â´ :LOOD &DWKHUÂ¶V ZRUN SURYHV PH wrong. As a reader, the action is in the stillness. To see that authenticity reflected in a way that I can relate to has evolved from being a child, happy to see someone from a place familiar, to a writer trying to reconcile shame with the inability to write about anything but home. --Emma Preble

Linda Hess

MY OPPRESSION, MY DEPRESSION Desolate, despairing, despising :RUGV FRPSULVLQJ ZKDWÂ¶V slowly rising, Burgeoning forth, And continues spilling over, No use in that clover, For luck has run out. Merely trying, Continually crying, Perpetually lying, Narcissistic toward dying. ,Â¶P Â³YDLQ Â´ IHHOLQJ Â³IDNHÂ´ SDLQ 7KHUHÂ¶V no way His reign is good. ,I *RG LV Â³JUHDW Â´ Why am I an inmate Trapped in my body? Consolation is no commodity, Not for me, And this ebb and flow, Will show, The truth behind my sick self. --Alex Huff

TOO 6KH ZRQÂ¶W PDWFK KLV JD]H 6KH NQRZV ZKDW KH means when he looks at her this way, softly and with intention, filled with misplaced sentiment, caught up in a naive notion that thisÂ²the two of them in the here and now, experiencing the interconnection of their random lives--is of momentous quality. She knows too well

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rash. She wants to accuse him of his impending lie, a lie he might not truly be telling at all, because maybe he does mean it and maybe they all meant it and PD\EH LWÂ¶V RQO\ VKH who has lied.

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--Sarah Porter

LIKE A GRASSHOPPER I feel like a grasshopper In a field of butterflies, Ugly and pointless. :K\ FDQÂ¶W , EH D EXWWHUIO\ Full of joy and beauty? Why did you make me a grasshopper? Was it because of the size of my waist? The color of my skin? No, no, it was much more than that; You see, I am the beautiful butterfly And you are the grasshopper, Except I could never bring you down like you did to me. We can both be butterflies if you will accept that and agree, But you will not, as in time all shall see: You are a butterfly on the outside %XW LQVLGH \RXÂ¶UH DV GHDG DV D EORZQ-down tree. --Makenzie Wertz

SINCERITY AND SPIRITUALITY

$ OLIH EDVHG RQ VXSHUILFLDOLW\ LV QRW D UHDO OLIH ,Q /HR 7ROVWR\ÂśV The Death of Ivan Ilyich, Ivan leads such a life, and he seems to pay for it when he becomes ill and lonely. Everything he does in his life he does to maintain a faĂ§ade. He never actually likes his job or his wife, and his so-called happiness is based on what others around him think happiness is. Once he is on his deathbed, he becomes miserable when he realizes his whole life has been false. Not only has he failed to find his own passions rather than pleasing others, but he has completely excluded spirituality from his life. He focuses so much of his time on keeping up appearances that he does not consider the meaning his life really has. He is miserable because his life lacks sincerity and spirituality, and I believe that both are essential to happiness.

From his relationships anG KLV ZRUN WR KLV KDSSLQHVV ,YDQÂśV OLIH LV VKDOORZ One of the first matters we learn about him is that no one seems to miss him after he is dead. This starts to make sense as we continue in the novella and discover that he never does anything to satisfy his passions, only what will make him look good to others. He likes the jobs he takes up only because of the money and power they give him, not because they are actually enjoyable. He marries Praskovya FĂŤdorovna only because it is the respectable thing to do, and not because he loves her. He has children with Praskovya for the same reason, respectability, and even though all of them are miserable, Ivan claims he is fine as long as the public perceives them as a happy family. The one matter he says he is passionate about, bridge, he pretends to like because everyone else does. Ivan does not realize until he is on his deathbed that he has virtually made himself miserable by leading a false life.

This falsity is simply the making of unhappiness; without sincerLW\ LQ RQHÂśV

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becomes ill and needs companionshiS +H GRHVQÂ¶W KDYH DQ\WKLQJ KH LV passionate DERXW VR RQFH KH FDQÂ¶W PDQDJH ZRUN WR NHHS KLP EXV\ KH IHHOV FRPSOHWHO\ ORVW ,W LV as if he discovers an entirely different person in himself that he kept hidden behind a faÃ§ade. This is an unnerving idea; I cannot imagine many situations more terrifying WKDQ UHDOL]LQJ RQH GRHV QRW NQRZ ZKR RQH LV HVSHFLDOO\ DW WKH HQG RI RQHÂ¶V OLIH ZKHQ there is not much time for redemption. For this reason, I strive to be genuine in my own life. If I am not true to myself, especially when it comes to PDWWHUV , YDOXH PRVW , IHHO WKDW ,Â¶P QRW GRLQJ myself justice. We may have only one life, and our inner selves are our constant companions and representations of our place in the world. Without authenticity, one also loses out on the real feelings and experiences that can render life remarkable. ,YDQ VWUXJJOHV WR FRPSUHKHQG WKLV FRQFHSW Â³Âµ0D\EH , GLG QRW OLYH DV , RXJKW WR KDYH GRQHÂ« %XW KRZ FRXOG WKDW EH ZKHQ , GLG HYHU\WKLQJ SURSHUO\"Â¶Â´ 'RLQJ everything properly does not lead to happiness; doing things one finds genuinely enjoyable is the route to true happiness. To waste life on superficiality is simply a great tragedy. 6LPLODU WR ,YDQÂ¶V ORVV RI LGHQWLW\ LQ WKH PDNLQJ LV KLV ODFN RI VSLULWXDOLW\ DQG both add to his unhappiness. A prime example is when he suddenly realizes he is JRLQJ WR GLH DQG KDV QR LGHD ZKDWÂ¶V JRLQJ WR KDSSHQ WR KLP Â³,Q WKH GHSWK RI KLV heart he knew he was dying, but not only was he not accustomed to the thought, he VLPSO\ GLG QRW DQG FRXOG QRW JUDVS LWÂ´ 7KLV VXJJHsts that he has never thought about death, and likely has not thought about much other than matters in the physical world that gave him his so-called happiness. Some sort of spirituality, at least some appreciation for the mysteries of life, such as love and death, is necessary to live a full life. Focusing on physical pleasures and the trivialities of everyday life is superficial in and of itself. Those trivialities are not even close to being fulfilling enough to make one entirely happy. I enjoy debating existential matters, and I think that being able to do so allows me to feel a greater purpose in life. It also enables me to accept life and the answers that often escape entire definition. Ivan faces a crisis when he becomes ill, because KH KDVQÂ¶W FRQVLGered the essential questions about life and death, and as a result KDVQÂ¶W EHHQ DEOH WR DFFHSW GHDWK +H FDQÂ¶W HYHQ DFFHSW KLV OLIH EHFDXVH KH UHDOL]HV LWÂ¶V 23

been pointless and devoid of meaning. At the end of the novella, he struggles to let go of his physical life, and only when he accepts the superficiality of his life and the UHDOLW\ RI GHDWK LV KH UHGHHPHG VR WKDW KH FDQ ILQDOO\ VWDWH Â³Âµ:KDW MR\ Â¶Â´ :LWKRXW VLQFHULW\ DQG VSLULWXDOLW\ LQ KLV OLIH WKH WLWOH FKDUDFWHU RI 7ROVWR\Â¶V The

Death of Ivan Ilyich is left with the shell of a life that leaves him empty and lost. By

WU\LQJ WR NHHS XS D IDoDGH RI VXFFHVV KH ORVHV WRXFK ZLWK KLPVHOI DQG GRHVQÂ¶W IRUP real relationships or realize passions he might have, which leaves him completely miserable once he becomes sick. When people base their lives on superficiality, as

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allow any room for spirituality in his life, and this contributes to his sense of isolation. A considHUDWLRQ RI WKH SRVVLELOLWLHV EH\RQG RQHÂ¶V SK\VLFDO OLIH RQ HDUWK LV

essential to happiness, because it allows for fulfillment beyond the trivialities that one can get caught up in. To prevent ending up like Ivan, sincerity and spirituality are essential. Williams

--Jewel Williams Work Cited Tolstoy, Leo. The Death of Ivan Ilyich. The Norton Anthology of World Literature: Shorter Third Edition, Vol. 2. Ed. Martin Puchner, et al. Trans. Louise Maude and Aylmer Maude. Norton, New York: 2013. 812-850. Print.

AUTUMN: A FRAGMENT All else fallen now save willow only, hoar leaves streaming hard in darkening wind.

Ashley A Wolfe

THE ROOF

His hair grayed more that month than it had KLV HQWLUH OLIH ,W FRXOGÂ¶YH EHHQ IURP WKH stress, or from the constant cycling of emotionsÂ²anger to despair to fear to sadness to anger again. He lost his son that month. After taking three weeks off work, and drinking almost a bottle a day, he

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cleaning supplies and a small desk, and thought about his son. He thought about the car accident and started to feel angryÂ²his son was only nineteenÂ²but then the special education teacher walked in.

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they had when you were gone never seemed to get my whiteboard as clean as you DOZD\V GLG Â´ George smiled, partly because it felt good to be back and needed, and partly because she confirmed his belief that the jackass they had replacing him was indeed

D MDFNDVV DQG ZDVQÂ¶W FOHDQLQJ WKH VFKRRO ULJKW +H WKDQNHG KHU DQG VKH OHIW DQG WKHQ he decided to walk around the school DQG VHH ZKDW HOVH KDGQÂ¶W EHHQ FOHDQHG SURSHUO\ in his absence. 7KH KDOOZD\V ZHUHQÂ¶W VZHSW FRPSOHWHO\ DQG KH could tell the electric floor VFUXEEHU KDGQÂ¶W EHHQ XVHG RQ WKHP LQ DW OHDVW WZR ZHHNVÂ²something he did every other day. He was sure the classrooms would be filthy, but he FRXOGQÂ¶W FKHFN while classes were going on, so he went to the gymÂ²the surprisingly well-kept gymÂ²and then stepped outside the back door for a smoke. He leaned against a wall outside the gym, shielded by brick on three sides, and thought about his sonÂ²he had always told his son he would quit smoking, and here

he was smoking. Then, there was a thump behind him. He turned around, took a few steps backward, and saw a student walking on the gym roof. George immediately recognized the student by his shirtÂ˛Michael, non-verbal, LQ WKH VFKRROÂśV VSHFLDO HGXFDWLRQ FODVV, who always wore a neon-greeQ VKLUW ,WÂśV DOO his parents could get him to wear, and now he was walking toward the edge of the gym roof. George threw his cigarette down and rushed inside. He ran through the gym and up the stairs outside the gym. A small room at the end of the hallway housed a few cleaning supplies and led to an entrance to the roof. The room was always locked, but the door was wide openÂ˛WKDW MDFNDVV WKH\ EURXJKW LQ PXVWÂśYH OHIW LW unlockedÂ˛and the trap door was flung to the side. George crawled up the ladder and stepped onto the roof. He turned and saw the back of MichaelÂśV QHRQ VKLUW LQ WKH GLVWDQFH +H SDXVHG for a moment, deciding how to approach the boyÂ˛Michael knew him and smiled when he saw him, but George was afraid he might scare him now. He walked slowlyÂ˛gray pea rock crunched under his feet and the wind blew. He got closer to Michael and grew more hesitant. Michael turned his head, smiled at George, then took a step closer to the edge. Âł0LFKDHO 0LFKDHO /RRN ZKDW ,ÂśYH JRW Â´ George pulled out his phone and showed Michael its colors and noises. Michael stepped back from the edge, and George slowly moved closer. Michael smiled again. Âł/RRN 0LFKDHO <RX FDQ SOD\ ZLWK LW Â´ Michael turned and walked toward George and George took a few steps and put his arm around Michael and handed him his phone. They walked back to the trap GRRU ZKHUH 0LFKDHOÂśV WHDFKHU DQG the principal, and a few other faculty members had gathered. George helped Michael down the ladder and followed closely behind. Âł1RZ ,ÂśP really JODG \RXÂśUH EDFN Â´ 0LFKDHOÂśV WHDFKHU VDLG giving George a KXJ Âł, GRQÂśW NQRZ ZKDW ,ÂśG EH GRLQJ LI \RX KDGQÂśW IRXQG KLP Â´ George was truly glad to be back and needed, and he ran his fingers through his gray hairÂ˛thinking about his son DavidÂ˛and smiled. --Grant Fodness 27

A Series of Prizewinning Poems

ON MORNINGS I rarely have the perfect kind of morning² a slow ascent, an ease into the day. I tend to start by force, my body forming anew. I rise from the grave again and stray, I drag a slow and shapeless mind into a weighted body, shower, add the clothes and shoes and bag. I buy the sacred brew, I find routines, accessories of those who fit in this move-forward place, survive revival every day, come back from this strange in-between where I must be alive, where waking rest is but remembered bliss, in dream or song or thought, beneath the sway of the veil, the skin, the light of each new day.

RESCUE A stupid hero leaves the victim in WKH VWRUP¶V VWLOO H\H :KDW UHFNOHVV KRSH WR WKLQN that silence is a mark of safety, peace a permanent and lawful citizen in such a manic place. There are no laws, no sacred scripture, no detailed guides on how to speak the victim language, how to make a hero out of cape and tights, KRZ WR SXVK DZD\ WKH PDUW\U¶V PDVN LQ DOO its flashy wisdom. Selfish heroes think that peace means permanence. They lead their charge WKURXJK WKH VWRUP¶V WUDSGRRU H\H DQG IO\ DZD\

Meaghan Cronin

SANCTITY OF PLACE A dining room is a common sacred place, adorned with crosses, hanging lives in frames on holy walls. This household hearth is meant as offering. A bedroom is a private place, but sleep cannot keep secrets. The heart on every shelf left blank or strewn with filthy grace displays an altar to the self.

JUNCTION I cannot know what heartaches to prepare, decide which dreams make solid paperweights and what to give up to the open air as folded planes and lotuses, to fare with hope in the next life, if one awaits. I cannot know what heartaches to prepare, but I can list them all with ease, compare the likelihoods, discuss these padlocked gates and what to give up to the open air like their leaving paper wings ZRQ¶W strip me bare. This worry wrings its hands, it gnaws, it hates. I cannot know what heartaches to prepare so I send The God and all his faces a prayer to open up D GRRU +H¶OO VKRZ KLV IDWHV, and what I should give up to the open air will fly away on strong, sure wings. But spare The God, I know only²the surest walk creates. But I cannot know what heartaches to prepare or what to give up to the open air. 29

Marlene Wiest

SELF EDITING ,ÂśP always trying to be concise, but my words trip out the door an hour late to any party, make themselves scholars, give awful advice. They wear frilly clothes, ignore courtesy, embarrass the neighbors without apology; trying their best for the blue-ribbon-first prize: The Most Unique and Least Afraid to Die. I am always trying to live without this clumsy spirit; to burn frills, mute boasts, VD\ P\ TXLHW ÂłSOHDVHÂ´ DQG ÂłWKDQN \RX Â´ QRW VKRXW but make the perfect guest, to bring the host a veggie tray, hell, bring a home-cooked roast, arrive with a half an hour to spare in a dress of blue ribbons, full as air.

Marlene Wiest

THE POWER OF AFFECTION ,Q 6KDNHVSHDUHÂ¶V The Tempest, readers are given conflicting views of colonization and native people. While Caliban, an animal-like servant, is commonly seen as the

native who is enslaved and VKDSHG LQWR D Â³VDYDJH Â´ WKHUH LV DQRWKHU FKDUDFWHU WR

consider in the concept RI Â³WKH QREOH VDYDJH Â´ :KLOH LWÂ¶V QRW FOHDU LI $ULHO LV DQ

original inhabitant of the islandÂ²perhaps arriving even before 6\FRUD[ &DOLEDQÂ¶V motherÂ²WKH DVVXPSWLRQ LV VKHÂ¶V EHHQ an inhabitant at least as long as Caliban. Ariel, however, is quite different from Caliban. Ariel, an airy spirit, serves as a suggestive H[DPSOH RI ZKDW FRXOG KDSSHQ WR WKH Â³QREOH VDYDJHÂ´ XQGHU D FRORQLVW

To compare Ariel to Caliban is to see a characteU LQ VHUYLWXGH D Â³VDYDJHÂ´ ZKR

GRHVQÂ¶W UHDFW ZLWK KRVWLOLW\ DV &DOLEDQ GRHV 3URVSHUR WUHDWV $ULHO LQ D ZD\ WKDWÂ¶V FRPSDUDEOH WR WKH ZD\ KH WUHDWV KLV GDXJKWHU 0LUDQGD DOWKRXJK $ULHOÂ¶V LQWHUDFWLRQV with Prospero have a deeper layer of affection. It is clear that Ariel, more than any other character, understands what it is that Prospero desires. Ariel takes that understanding as a means of escape and uses language to manipulate Prospero into giving her what she wants: her freedom.

%HIRUH LWÂ¶V SRVVLEOH WR analyze how Ariel XVHV ODQJXDJH LQ WKLV ZD\ LWÂ¶V necessary to understand exactly what it is that Prospero desires. Beneath passages of

3URVSHURÂ¶V GLDORJXH UHYHODWLRQV DUULYH DERXW WKH ZD\ KH ZLVKHV RWKHUV WR VHH KLP The most notable example is the stor\ RI KLV H[LOH KRZ WKH\Â¶YH ODQGHG RQ WKLV LVODQG as he relates it to Miranda. In his telling, Prospero portrays himself as a noble and

ZURQJHG 'XNH ,Q DGGLWLRQ DV KH VSHDNV KH RYHU DQG RYHU DVNV 0LUDQGD WR Â³KHHG KLPÂ´ DQG DVNV LI VKH Â³KHDUVÂ´ KLP $W WKe beginning of his story of exile he informs Miranda that Â³WK\ IDWKHU ZDV WKH 'XNH RI 0LODQ D SULQFH RI SRZHUÂ´ -51). This LV WKH ZD\ 3URVSHUR VWLOO SUHIHUV WR EH WUHDWHG DV D Â³SULQFH RI SRZHUÂ´ -51). A prince of his standing requires willing affectionate servants, as we will see later; and 32

what we will see through the interactions of all the players mentioned above is that Ariel is the character ZKR EHVW IXOILOOV 3URVSHURÂ¶V GHVLUHV The way Prospero communicates with Ariel has similarities to the way he addresses Miranda, more so than Caliban, who resides in an underground cave of VHUYLWXGH 7KH PDQQHU RI 3URVSHURÂ¶V FRPPXQLFDWLRQ DOORZV $ULHO WR DOLJQ KHUVHOI LQ D position of value to Prospero. In the exchanges between the two, more than in the PDQQHU RI 3URVSHURÂ¶V VSHHFKHV LWÂ¶V LPSRUWDQW WR QRWH KRZ $ULHO UHVSRQGV EHFDXVH LWÂ¶V LQ KHU UHVSRQVH WKDW $ULHO GLIIHUV IURP 0LUDQGD Miranda gives no indication of XQGHUVWDQGLQJ KHU IDWKHUÂ¶V PRWLYDWLRQV The language that Ariel uses, however, shows that she clearly does. This is obvious from the first interaction between the two, when Ariel asks for her freedom. Prospero is rehearsing his past, comparable to repeatedly WHOOLQJ 0LUDQGD WR Â³KHHG KLP Â´ DQG says to Ariel, Â³'RVW thou forget/ From what torPHQW , GLG IUHH WKHH"Â´ -252). He continues, as he does with Caliban and Miranda, to recite ways in which Ariel is indebted to him. Ariel responds by VD\LQJ VKH KDVQÂ¶W IRUJRWWHQ +HU responses are unemotional and level, whereas Miranda becomes impaWLHQW ZLWK 3URVSHUR ILQDOO\ UHVSRQGLQJ WR KLV FRQVWDQW Â³KHHG PHÂ´ ZLWK Â³<RXU WDOH VLU ZRXOG FXUH GHDIQHVVÂ´ Continuing with this interaction, we see the beginnings of how differently $ULHO UHVSRQGV LQ RUGHU WR PDQLSXODWH 3URVSHURÂ¶V DIIHFWLRns. Her responses begin unemotionally, but a change in tone occurs when Ariel starts echoing Prospero. 3URVSHUR FDOOV $ULHO Â³P\Â´ VHUYDQW DQG $ULHO FDOOV 3URVSHUR Â³P\Â´ PDVWHU $ULHO VHHPV WR EH JUDWLI\LQJ 3URVSHURÂ¶V KXQJHU IRU SRZHU PD\EH HYHQ DIIHFWLRQ in a subtle way by echoing him. Because WKH HFKR GRHVQÂ¶W RFFXU LPPHGLDWHO\ an indication is that Ariel is purposely controlling her language. During their interaction, and after HDFK TXHVWLRQ $ULHO NHHSV KHU UHVSRQVHV XQHPRWLRQDO E\ VD\LQJ Â³, GR QRW VLU Â´ Â³1R VLUÂ´ Â³, WKDQN WKHH PDVWHU Â´ DQG Â³3DUGRQ PDVWHUÂ´ -294). The echo begins after Prospero says, Â³'R VR DQG DIWHU WZR GD\V , ZLOO GLVFKDUJH WKHHÂ´ - WR ZKLFK $ULHO UHVSRQGV Â³7KDWÂ¶V P\ QREOH master!/ What shall I do? Say what? WKDW VKDOO , GR"Â´ -300). Two parts of this response are important; first, that Ariel begins and for the rest of the play refers to 3URVSHUR DOPRVW H[FOXVLYHO\ DV Â³P\ PDVWHU Â´ she also calls KLP Â³QREOH PDVWHU Â´ appealing to his desire to be the wronJHG Â³SULQFH RI SRZHU Â´ 6HFRQG VKH UHVSRQGV 33

ZLWK HQWKXVLDVP WR VHUYH KLP /DWHU 3URVSHUR ZLOO UHIHU WR KHU DV Â³P\ LQGXVWULRXV

VHUYDQWÂ´ DQG IXUWKHU RQ ZLOO VD\ Â³P\ FKDUPV FUDFN QRW P\ VSLULWV REH\Â´ (5.1, 2). These admissions indicate Prospero wants willing servants--essential to his identity as a powerful Duke. 7KH HPRWLRQ WKDW ZDV ODFNLQJ EHIRUH LQ $ULHOÂ¶V UHVSRQVHV QRZ ULQJV FOHDU DQG EHFDXVH LW FRPHV DIWHU 3URVSHURÂ¶V promise of freedom, it seems Ariel is responding in the manner Prospero desires after his underlying promise. But, first; WR UHWXUQ WR WKH VLPLODULWLHV EHWZHHQ 3URVSHURÂ¶V FRPPXQLFDWLRQV

with Miranda and Ariel is to note a significant difference in the way Prospero speaks to each. The difference is best illustrated in dialogue, when Prospero uses terms of affection to refer to Ariel, more so than to his daughter. Most notably in Act 4, scene 1, as Prospero is preparing to conjure a vision for shipwrecked FerdinandÂ²grounded by the tempest that opens the play--a small but important exchange occurs that calls into question the nature of the relationship between Ariel and Prospero. Prospero

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WR ZKLFK 3URVSHUR UHVSRQGV Â³'HDUO\ P\ GHOLFDWH $ULHOÂ´ (4.1, 49). :KLOH LW LV WUXH WKH SRVVHVVLYH Â³P\Â´ KDV DSSHDUHG EHIRUH EHWZHHQ 3URVSHUR

DQG $ULHO WKH TXHVWLRQ RI ZKHWKHU LWÂ¶V D PDWWHU RI ORYH SXWV LW LQ D GLIIHUHQW FRQWH[W

3URVSHURÂ¶V DQVZHU RQ WKH RWKHU Kand, is different from his degree of affection for any other character he interacts with. A definite lack of affection is apparent in his language to Miranda but is not present, not to any extent, when he speaks to Ariel. 3URVSHUR WHOOV $ULHO KH ORYHV KHU Â³GHDUO\ Â´ EXW WKHUHÂ¶V QHYHU D SRLQW LQ WKH SOD\

when Prospero says anything of the sort to Miranda, even when Miranda seems to ask for that. Ariel might be posing WKH TXHVWLRQ WR PDQLSXODWH 3URVSHURÂ¶V DIIHFWLRQ

which suggests that his love for her, or his lack of love, is important to her, placing him in a patriarchal-like position of power, besides the master-slave position he already holds over Ariel. Even though the above exchange shows a difference in the way Prospero treats Miranda and Ariel, the difference appears in a manner less obvious almost every time Ariel enters, as in the following examples of the ways Prospero addresses KHU LQ VFHQHV LQ ZKLFK WKH WZR DSSHDU Â³$SSURDFK P\ $ULHOÂ´ Â³P\ EUDYH

VSLULW Â´ Â³0\ GHOLFDWH $ULHOÂ´ Â³0\ ELUGÂ´ Â³0\ GDLQW\ $ULHOÂ´ (5.1, 95), and Â³)LQH DSSDULWLRQ P\ TXDLQW $ULHO Â´ 1RWH WKDW WKHVH DUH HLWKHU 34

possessive or pet names and note as well that only one example of Prospero using figuratively descriptive language of this kind toward Miranda exists--when he retells WKH VWRU\ RI WKHLU H[LOH UHIHUULQJ WR 0LUDQGD DV D Â³cherubimÂ´ 0RVW RI WKH affectionate, possessive language Prospero uses is reserved for Ariel. Not only is this language reserved for her, but Ariel is the only character who returns the language. It is UHIOHFWHG LQ $ULHOÂ¶V VSHHFK EXW DJDLQ WKDW LVQÂ¶W always the case--to return to the idea that Ariel begins FDOOLQJ 3URVSHU Â³P\ PDVWHU Â´ echoing 3URVSHURÂ¶V VSHHFK DIWHU 3URVSHUR VD\V KHÂ¶OO VHW KHU IUHH $ULHO PDNHV D FRPPHQW WKDW suggests her linguistic shift to affection for Prospero LVQÂ¶W EDVHG RQ HPRWLRQ EXW is a conscious decision on her part. At one point in the play, Ariel suggests that she FDQÂ¶W H[SHULHQFH HPRWLRQV Â³7KDW LI \RX QRZ EHKHOG WKHP \RXU DIIHFWLRQV :RXOG EHFRPH WHQGHUÂ« 0LQH ZRXOG VLU ZHUH , KXPDQÂ´ -20). Two possible interpretations rise. The first is that she is VXEWO\ PRFNLQJ 3URVSHUR DQG 3URVSHURÂ¶V YLHZ RI $ULHO DQG Caliban: seeing the two as servants less than human, and therefore incapable of feeling. Another possibility is that Ariel is being candid, DQG FDQÂ¶W H[SHULHQFH emoWLRQ DV 3URVSHUR GRHV ,I LWÂ¶V WKH VHFRQG RQH ZRXOG WKHQ KDYH WR DVVXPH $ULHO LV being purposeful about her use of language to manipulate Prospero. Prospero is reliant on Ariel; almost all the magic in the play is performed by RU XQGHU WKH LQIOXHQFH RI $ULHO :LWKRXW $ULHO LWÂ¶V XQFOHDU KRZ PXFK SRZHU 3URVSHUR actually has. Prospero can inflict pain, as evidenced by Ariel, who, by the way, appears to have more power, who speeds across time and space, all frontiers, yet is afraid of Prospero, as she admits in Act 4 when she says she withheld information from him because Â³, IHDUHG OHVW , PLJKW DQJHU WKHHÂ´ -169). Ariel, then, relies on Prospero to set her free. The affection that ProsSHUR H[WHQGV WR $ULHO GRHVQÂ¶W VHHP WR stem purely from the power he receives from her, or he might be able to keep her in VHUYLWXGH ,QVWHDG LW VWHPV IURP $ULHOÂ¶V UROH RI REHGLHQW VHUYDQW DQG ORYLQJ FKLOG WKH best version of Caliban and Ariel rolled up in one. Unlike Caliban or even Miranda, Ariel is capable of manipulating Prospero, and in the end she is the character who gains the most freedom in return. No indication is given that Caliban is freed from 3URVSHURÂ¶V VHUYLWXGH DQG WKH PDUULDJH 3URVSHUR DUranges for Miranda with Ferdinand--WKH QDLYH SHUVRQ PDURRQHG RQ WKH LVODQG RI D Â³EUDYH QHZ ZRUOGÂ´--places Miranda in a situation where choice is not a likely maneuver. Ariel, on the other 35

hand, is completely freed. This is ultimately the conclusion to the case because, of

the three characters, Ariel is the one who best XQGHUVWDQGV 3URVSHUR¶V GHVLUH IRU UXOH

and affection, and is able to use her language to fulfill 3URVSHUR¶V QHHG IRU SRZHU

With that, she gains entire freedom. --Emma Preble

a Preble

Work Cited Shakespeare, William. The Tempest. The Complete Pelican Shakespeare. Ed. Stephen Orgal and A.R. Braunmuller. London: Penguin Books, 2002.730-761. Print.

7+( '$06(/¶6 621* My anxious heart is fluttering and picks the lock from the ribcage where I keep it contained. Emotions start sp-sputtering and losing control as the darkness finds a way to my brain; Slowly losing hope, my joyful thoughts run for cover as the monster rears its ugly head and takes its place in my chest where a heart of love should reside instead. ³:KHUH LV P\ KHUR"´ , FU\ LQ WKH QLJKW as I lie awake in wait of my knight who would break through my hardened black shell of a heart, but the moQVWHU RQO\ JURZV LQ PH WKH ORQJHU ZH¶UH DSDUW

--Addison Olson

Jessica Best

JUSTIFICATIONS

I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't even have answered your text. But I did, and ,Â¶P KHUH DQG ZH UH GUXQN :KHQ \RX UH GUXQN \RX JHW FRQIXVHG DQG GRQ W

XQGHUVWDQG Â³QRÂ´ DQG Â³VWRSÂ´ DQG Â³GRQ W Â´ DQG ZKHQ , P GUXQN , JHW FRQIXVHG DQG

don't understand whHQ WR VD\ Â³QRÂ´ RU Â³VWRSÂ´ RU Â³GRQ W Â´ 6R , ZRQ W VD\ DQ\WKLQJ XQWLO

LW V SUDFWLFDOO\ WRR ODWH DQG \RX ZRXOGQ W XQGHUVWDQG RQFH , GR DQG ,Â¶OO HQG XS QDNHG

in your bed again. Because you're confused and I'm confused and we're drunk and lonely. In the morning, we'll say it won't happen again. We'll say it was a mistake and that it was only for the night because we were drunk and lonely, as we were a month ago and a year ago and most days when we first met. Five years ago, when we met through friends, I had recently been dumped,

DQG \RXÂ¶G EHHQ FKURQLFDOO\ VLQJOH :H ZHUH ERWK XQKDSS\ DQG XVHG HDFK RWKHU DQG

alcohol to feel less alone. That was our bond, and we actually became friends over our shared suffering. We spent our nights together, drunk and miserable, but at least ZH ZHUHQÂ¶W DORQH , QHYHU ZDQWHG WR VOHHS ZLWK \RX EXW , OHDUQHG WKDW ZKHQ \RX UH

GUXQN \RX JHW FRQIXVHG DQG GRQ W XQGHUVWDQG Â³QRÂ´ DQG Â³VWRSÂ´ DQG Â³GRQ W Â´ DQG ZKHQ

, P GUXQN , JHW FRQIXVHG DQG GRQ W XQGHUVWDQG ZKHQ WR VD\ Â³QRÂ´ RU Â³VWRSÂ´ RU Â³GRQ W Â´

EXW QHYHU FDUHG WKDW PXFK ZKHQ \RX GLGQÂ¶W OLVWHQ Every time, under the sobering light of morning, we said it wouldn't happen again, because we didn't want to hurt each other, and it was a mistake, but we didn't stop until I started dating Mark. We stopped because I wasn't lonely anymore. I GLGQ W QHHG \RX , GLGQÂ¶W VHH \RX WKH \HDU EHIRUH , PDUULHG 0DUN RU WKH \HDU DIWHU

because our friendship was dependent on having no one else. Now he's often away at

work, and when he is home, he's not present, VR , P ORQHO\ DJDLQ DQG \RXÂ¶UH VWLOO

FKURQLFDOO\ VLQJOH VR \RX WH[W PH DQG VD\ ZH VKRXOG JUDE D GULQN , VKRXOGQÂ¶W DQVZHU but Mark is gone again, and I don't want to be alone in that big, empty house. We told each other it wouldn't happen again, and I told myself that was true and it was okay to answer your text because I don't want to sleep with you. I just don't want to be alone.

I don't know why we always think it'll be different. I pull up the sheets of your bed to cover myself, and I'm ashamed. I'm not ashamed because I'm married, I'm not ashamed because it's wrong or that it's cheating. I'm ashamed that I lie to myself. I'm ashamed that I'll do anything to feel less alone for a moment. I'm ashamed that I don't care about you and you don't care about me and that our friendship is circumstantial and that I know it only happens because we're drunk and lonely. I'm ashamed because it's becoming more and more difficult to convince myself that I don't know what I'm getting myself into, that we're just confused. It's becoming more and more difficult to feel faultless because it's becoming difficult to convince myself that I mean it when I say I didn't want it to happen and when I say it won't happen again. I'm ashamed because, here and now, I can't convince myself that you didn't XQGHUVWDQG ZKHQ , VDLG ÂłQR Â´ EHFDXVH , GLGQ W VD\ LW %XW WRPRUURZ , OO WHOO P\VHOI that I did. I'll reconstruct the whole night, claiming I have sober clarity over tonight's drunken confusion, and believe that I tried to stop it but you didn't listen, and I was too drunk to care, and I'll go home to an unsuspecting Mark and tell myself I love him and this won't happen again and that I never wanted it to. --Sarah Porter

DYNAMIC

2XW WKHUH LWÂśV FKDRV HYHU\ZKHUH with stifling tension in the air; The storm is pelting sheets of rain and thunder shakes the window pane. In here, the storm is muffled, though the silence only seems to grow. This focused calmness comforts me and constitutes tranquility. --Jewel Williams

THE PLACES WE LEAVE

<RX NQRZ D WRZQ LV GHDG ZKHQ WKHUH LVQÂ¶W D EDU DQ\PRUH 7KDWÂ¶V ZKDW P\ PRP XVHG to tell me. I think all small towns that are scattered over the barren countryside

VKRXOG EH SXW RXW RI WKHLU PLVHU\ SXW GRZQ EHIRUH WKH\Â¶UH HPSW\ DQG IRUJRWWHQ , OHIW St. Cloud at one this afternoon. At 2:30 the landscape changed from full trees dispersed in thick bunches along the green-hilled countryside to burnt yellow, a flat line of dead grass against the blue sky. July has been unforgiving to the fields. Last time I called my mother, she informed me of the status of the crops in North Dakota DQG IRU D IHZ PRPHQWV , ZDV WURXEOHG EXW LWÂ¶V QRW P\ FRQFHUn. ,Â¶P KHUH RQO\ IRU WKH ZHHNHQG I see the water tower first, as it tends to go in my home state. You can see

WKHVH IURP PLOHV RXW ,Â¶YH DOZD\V WKRXJKW WKH\ ZHUH OLNH OLJKWKRXVHV WKH ZD\ WKH\ promise shelter, but instead of stormy seas they deliver you from miles of emptiness.

, GRQÂ¶W IHHO FRPIRUWHG E\ WKH VLJKW RI WKH JUD\ VWHHO ,Â¶YH EHHQ ORRNLQJ IRUZDUG WR

WRGD\ DV VRPHRQH PLJKW ORRN IRUZDUG WR D IXQHUDO )XQQ\ WR IHHO WKDW EHFDXVH ,Â¶P

here for a wedding. My youngest brother, at the age of thirty, iV JHWWLQJ PDUULHG ,Â¶P

not unhappy for him but bitter that he chose to have his wedding at home. Fargo is only an hour away and that would've been tolerable. A decent venue, plenty of buildings to shelter us from the seemingly endless, sickening lonely stretches of land. ,WÂ¶V the cemetery, a mile out of town, I reach first, a fitting welcome. My grandparents are buried there, and my great-grandparents, aunts and uncles, a

cousin, my father, an LQIDQW VLVWHU 7KHUHÂ¶V D VORXJK HQFURDFKLQJ RQ WKH SORWV DQG ,

FXUVH WKH GURXJKW IRU GU\LQJ LW XS DQRWKHU VHDVRQ ,I LW ZHUH WR IORRG ,Â¶G KDYH WKH

ERGLHV PRYHG WR P\ ZLIHÂ¶V IDPLO\ SORW D QLFH ZHOO-kept, sprawling green cemetery in

a suburb of the Twin Cities. 7KHQ ,Â¶G QHYHU KDYH WR IHHO ,Â¶YH DEDQGRQHG WKHP DQG ,Â¶G QHYHU KDYH WR IHHO WKLV WKLFN ZDYH RI VDGQHVV WKDW VXIIRFDWHV PH ZKHQHYHU ,Â¶P KHUH

All the roads, aside from Main Street, are gravel. The outlying houses of town are run down, with leaning porches, sinking and buckling foundations, and chipped 40

paint. A few brand-new farms are sprinkled here and there, if you were to explore the surrounding land, built by farmers when the crops were doing better, with dark green or blue siding and triple garages. In town itself, after the chipped-up houses, two streets of nicer houses with well-kept yards exist. The only grocery store was closed, I think, last year. The cafÃ© was attached, so that closed, too. It was tough on the farmers, who now drive ten miles to the next town for a cup of burnt coffee to complain about the weather and how most of the businesses they grew up with are closing down. The house where I grew up is at the edge of town. I pause in the street and stare at the green siding, at the small cement deck with a black metal railing. I used to play on the deck in the summer when I was growing up. The cement sucked up all the sun and I'd sit, letting it warm my legs until my thighs were red, while I ran metal Matchbox cars on the bumpy surface. I pull my full-size car into the driveway and turn off the ignition. I pop the trunk and pull out a duffel, grab the suit hanging in the backseat passenger window, and walk into the garage. It smells the same. Gasoline and something damp. I go up the steps and open the door that leads to the living room. It smells like chicken. Â³<RXÂ¶UH KHUH Â´ 0\ PRP FRPHV RXW RI WKH NLWFKHQ RII WKH OLYLQJ URRP Â³, WKRXJKW \RXÂ¶G EH JHWWLQJ D ODWHU VWDUW 6XSSHU ZRQÂ¶W EH UHDG\ XQWLO VHYHQ , FDQ ILQG VRPHWKLQJ LI \RXÂ¶UH VWDUYLQJ +RZ ZDV \RXU GULYH"Â´ She hugs me and I inhale her lotion and soft, floral perfume. Â³/RQJ Â´ , VD\ Â³:KHUH VKRXOG , SXW WKHVH"Â´ Â³<RXU URRP Â´ So off to the left, where my bedroom is, untouched by my decades of absence, the twin bed made up, smooth and welcoming. My heavy wooden dresser is next to it. I put my duffel on the bed, hang my suit in the closet, and see myself in the closet PLUURU DQG GRQÂ¶W NQRZ ZK\ , H[SHFWHG WR EH JDQJO\ DQG DFQH-ridden. My reflection takes me aback. How can a man with fading brown hair and a soft paunch be the same person who used to go to sleep in that bed every night? ,Q WKH NLWFKHQ , DVN Â³+RZÂ¶V 0DUN KROGLQJ XS" *HWWLQJ FROG IHHW"Â´ Â³2K QR Â´ P\ PRWKHU UHSOLHV Â³, WKLQN KH ZDQWV LW RYHU ZLWK EXW QR FROG IHHW $UH \RX KXQJU\"Â´ 41

Â³$ ELW Â´ , VD\ 6KHÂ¶V SXW FRIfee on, and the smell causes my stomach to respond ZLWK D UXPEOH , KDYHQÂ¶W HDWHQ VLQFH HDUO\ PRUQLQJ 6KH SXOOV D SDQ RXW RI D FXSERDUG DQG XQYHLOV LW Â³, PDGH \RXU IDYRULWH

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Â³:KHQ ZLOO -HQ EH JHWWLQJ KHUH"Â´ Â³$URXQG VXSSHU 6KH GLGQÂ¶W OHDYH ZRUN XQWLO WZR DQG LWÂ¶V D ILYH-hour drive. I MXVW KRSH VKH GRHVQÂ¶W JR WRR IDVW VKHÂ¶V DOZD\V JRLQJ WRR IDVW DQG WKHUHÂ¶V a lot of VHPLV RXW RQ WKH URDG Â´ Â³,Â¶P VXUH VKHÂ¶OO EH ILQH Â´ , VLW DW WKH NLWFKHQ WDEOH ZLWK P\ DUPV RQ LWV FRRO PHWDO WRS 6RRQ WKHUHÂ¶V D

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bushel of wheat painted on the front. WHÂ¶YH KDG LW IRU \HDUV RQH RI WKH HOHYDWRUÂ¶V

DSSUHFLDWLRQ JLIWV ,W ZDV P\ GDGÂ¶V PXJ RI FKRLFH RQ 6XQGD\ IRU KLV SRVW-church coffee.

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Â³,WÂ¶V EHHQ EDG Â´ VKH VD\V VLWWLQJ DFURVV IURP PH ZLWK D WHDFXS RI FRIIHH DQG

the smallest bar she could find in the pan. All the food she makes and she barely eats

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when nobody was mowinJ RU WKURZLQJ RXW WKH GHDG IORZHUV 2I FRXUVH \RXU GDGÂ¶V

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IHHO , KDYH WR ILJKW LW HYHU\ \HDU ,WÂ¶V JHWWLQJ WKHUH Â´ I drink my coffee, washing down the guilt building in my chest, imagining my mother, thinner than I remember, on her hands and knees in the hot sun trying to

FRD[ KHU KXVEDQGÂ¶V JUDYH LQWR GHFHQF\ 6KH KDV WKUHH ER\V DQG QRW RQH RI XV FDQ

KHOS" , KDYH WKH WLPH EXW WKH GULYH LVQÂ¶W FRQYHQLHQW 0DUN FRXOG, he lives right here,

LW ZRXOGQÂ¶W NLOO KLP 0D\EH VKH GRHVQÂ¶W ZDQW WKH KHOS VKH FDQ EH VWXEERUQ ,W NHHSV her busy and she likes being busy. If I exhale the guilt will go with that breath. I do.

I drink two cups of coffee and eat four bars, then tell her ,Â¶P JRLQJ WR UHVW

before supper. I go to my bedroom, move my duffel, and lie down on top of the covers. My pillow smells of fresh air. I close my eyes and listen to her doing dishes, 42

the sound of clinking pots and plates, and an indiscernible radio voice keeping her company. The front door opening wakes me. The sun has lowered, shining through the trees into my window, draping a box of shining light over my legs, where dust sparkles in the light. When I first started to wake, I thought I heard heavy footsteps, EXW , ZDV PLVWDNHQ EHFDXVH P\ VLVWHU LV DV VOLJKW DV P\ PRWKHU DQG ZRXOGQÂ¶W KDYH made such noise when she came in. For a moment I think if I open my door my father will be standing there, taking off his work boots. I leave my bed, and find my sister in the living room on the couch. She stands and hugs me briefly. We sit and talk about my family and her job and nod our heads to fill the silence. Our conversation is polluted with the unspoken knowledge that age has made us strangers. My mother comes in, smiling, and tells us supper is ready. I GRQÂ¶W NQRZ KRZ WR H[SODLQ WR P\VHOI ZK\ P\ WKURDW KDV WLJKWHQHG Â³7KHUHÂ¶V SOHQW\ Â´ VKH VD\V SDVVLQJ PH D ERZO RI PDVKHG SRWDWRHV Â³, PDNH WRR PXFK , MXVW FDQÂ¶W VHHP WR FRRN IRU RQH Â´ Jen and I look at each other across the table. I imagine I must look like she does, the thank-yous and I-love-yous caught in our throats. I picture my mother, alone at the table with a spread of food for company, and can think of nothing to say to comfort her, because I know that wKHQ , OHDYH RQ 6XQGD\ QLJKW , ZRQÂ¶W EH DQ\ more inclined to come back than I have in the last few years. , GRQÂ¶W OLNH WKH ZD\ WKLQJV FKDQJH WKH ZD\ WKLQJV VWD\ WKH VDPH WKH ZD\ WKHUHÂ¶V RQO\ D VOLYHU RI WLPH ZKHQ HYHU\WKLQJ LV SHUIHFWO\ DOLJQHG :KHQ \RXÂ¶UH \RXQJ \RX KDYH D FXULRXV LGHD WKDW VRPHKRZ \RXÂ¶OO JHW WR GR LW DOO DJDLQ :KHQ ,Â¶P DW KRPH ZLWK P\ ZLIH DQG RXU VRQV , GRQÂ¶W PLVV P\ GDG +HUH , PLVV KLP +HUH LV ZKHUH KH H[LVWHG DQG DV ORQJ DV ,Â¶P QRW KHUH KH VWLOO GRHV H[LVW +HUH , PLVV P\VHlf. Here is ZKHUH , ODVW NQHZ P\VHOI DQG DV ORQJ DV ,Â¶P QRW KHUH WKHUHÂ¶V D FKDQFH WKDW , UHPDLQ --Emma Preble

FRAGMENTED SELF

a three-poem series, Jewel Williams

At midnight, when the darkness isolates-entangled, winding thinking does the same. The ruthless rumination only abates when I no longer recognize my name. My mind feels separate from the rest of me, ZKDWHYHU ÂłPHÂ´ LV OHIW DPRQJ WKH PHVV of broken paths, to which an end is likely. 7KH MRXUQH\ GRHVQÂśW PDNH one any less; To lose and doubt and question is to find the fragments meant to guide and then evolve. Life and the loss of self are intertwined, a maze or puzzle not for me to solve. Despite the dark and where my thoughts may roam, the mess of me is here. My breath is home.

LAST IMAGES Because my memories are a scattered few, the ones that stay with me are sacred now: her hands were knotted and her eyes were blue. Her voice and face partly obscured from view, I struggle to recall her cluttered house because my memories are a scattered few. When I was young, with her to look up to, , NQRZ VKHÂśG RIWHQ NLVV PH RQ WKH EURZ-her hands were knotted and her eyes were blue. I now rely on stories to construe WKLV SHUVRQ WKDW ,ÂśYH KDG WR OLYH ZLWKRXW because my memories are a scattered few. ,ÂśYH OHDUQHG DERXW WKH IORZHUV WKDW VKH JUHZ and how she worked all day until sundown, her hands knotted and her eyes blue. There are still too many things I never knew, and grasping these pieces has been my vow. Although my memories are a scattered few, I know her hands were knotted and her eyes were blue.

GHOST GHOST $OWKRXJK \RXÂ¶YH QRZ EHHQ JRQH WHQ \HDUV RU VR I thought I smelled your perfume yesterday. ,Â¶YH PLVVHG \RX PRUH WKDQ HYHU--this I know. It must have been only my mind at play. But then I thought I heard your favorite song, some notes that seemed to float down through the air. Was I remembering? Or am I wrong? This doubtful hope is more than I can bear. No, wait, an object is lying on my bed. I GLGQÂ¶W SXW LW KHUH XQOHVV LWÂ¶V WUXH-this gift from you, re-given from the dead? Are these sensations me or are they you?

Jessica Best

DISSOCIATION Superstores at midnight are like hospitals. My mother was a nurse, and I've found myself revisiting the waiting room that I sat in as a child, wearing overalls, sitting on my light-blue winter coat. Our county hospital was across the street from my elementary school, and when my mom was working I'd walk across the street at 3:00 p.m. until she was done with her shift or my dad could come pick me up. I'd sit and watch reruns of sitcoms and the people on the screen were more real to me than the lady behind the desk or the bodiless voices that would echo behind my head as they came in and out of the entrance. The canned laughter would be welcome, now. The similarity that the superstore holds isn't in the warmth of childhood moments in

IURQW RI D JUDLQ\ SLFWXUH EXW LQ WKH GLVFRPIRUW RI KRVSLWDOV ,WÂśV LQ WKH VWHULOH VPHOO RI freshly mopped floors and the fluorescent lights that blur the shiny tiles and ceiling into one white box that enable these combined sensations to make everything around me feel intangible. The plastic basket is looped around and cutting into my forearm, weighed down by a circus of useless items I've picked up since I entered the store. A two pack of soap, on sale for five dollars. A pack of blue washcloths. A couple of off-brand vanilla scented candles. A bag of gummy bears. A quart of milk that I maybe need. A jar of peanut butter that I do need. But a person doesn't put on their ratty gray yoga pants with bleach stains on the hem and their ex-boyfriend's college sweatshirt, wearing their hair in a greasy, two-days-since-last-washed ponytail and puffy eyes adorned with nothing but remnants of mascara in the creases after 11:00 p.m. for washcloths, candles, gummy bears, soap, milk, and peanut butter. What I need is in aisle three. I know exactly where to go, I've passed it on the way to my shampoo every few months for nearly two years. The idea is that I've filled my basket so I can bury my shame in a pile of distractions. I walk down the aisle, stop short of my destination to look at body washes that I don't need while a woman with an eyepatch and employee-vest restocks the men's deodorant behind me. She finishes and I step a couple of inches to the left. The boxes at eye level are the most expensive, promising God-like accuracy. Digital, clear, easy to read, results in two minutes. The boxes at my feet are the cheapest, half of them 46

crushed. Right above my head are the middle-of-the-ground tests. I pick a pink three-pack. I shuffle the contents in my basket and place the box at the bottom, covering it with the pack of washcloths. I buy a pack of tampons on my way out of the aisle in an act of defiant optimism. The condoms are hanging neatly in an even row at the end corner, next to the tampons and pads. I know he used one. I didn't think about it until two weeks ago when I realized my monthly visitor had failed to stop by for almost two months. When panic brought on no cramps, I started replaying what I could from the night. My recollection is far from perfect. I was intoxicated by a combination of cheap vodka and the promise of feeling wanted. I know he used one. I remember feeling reassured at how steady his hands were when he tore open the square, no matter that he was on his knees and swaying like the bed was a boat. I'd like to think that was a sign that he would've been able to warn me, that he would've noticed, if the thin barrier had broken. I remember how his breath was heavy with the bread-like smell of beer and his tongue tasted sour enough to make me pull away from his sloppy attempts at foreplay. I know his face, we both frequent the same bar on Saturday nights with our usual group of friends. I don't remember his name. I don't want to have to remember his name. The self-checkout I was counting on is closed, so I wander to the other end of the store to one of three open checkouts. The eye-patch lady that was stocking shelves is working the register. She is not real, as the lady at the front desk of the county hospital where my mother worked was not real. She scans my items without prejudice, her hand doesn't hover or hesitate at the box. She doesn't look up to see my puffy eyes. If she was real, my puffy eyes and box of pregnancy tests would mean something to her and she would see me and recognize that I needed reassurance IURP D FRXQWHUYDLOLQJ ZDUPWK EXW ZDUPWK LVQÂśW SUHVHQW in hospitals or in superstores at midnight. I can't wait to take the test at home, and maybe if I don't take it at home, whatever the test says won't affect reality, will dissolve into this white, freshly mopped limbo. I walk into the bathroom and hang my plastic bags on the metal peg on the inside of the stall and dig through both with numb hands until I find the box. I take off the plastic wrap, rip off the top, and take out one of the sticks, briefly reading 47

the instructions on the side of the box. Most effective in the morning, but I can always take another, and maybe I won't have to. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow morning in a puddle of blood and wonder why, the night before, I was desperate for a hint of pain. I sit down and take a few deep breaths and do my best to steady my shaking hand long enough to do what I need to. I put the pink cap back onto the stick and set it upside down on the back of the toilet. The box says to wait ten minutes for best results. I laugh out loud and it echoes through the empty bathroom like the laughter on the static-riddled television set that plays on and on in the back of my head. It's funny, because ten minutes was all it took to get me into this. --Emma Preble

ma Preble

ROB LOWE IS ETERNAL The movie is old but not too old, and Rob Lowe, star of shower scene and of my heart, Is eternal. The years go by, his job The same, his face the same, a work of art. Like Reeves, no aging here, the years are kind. The world is wrong, the tech is all, but still This man is always young. He makes my mind Preoccupied and him over the hill. At least the film is always there, the eighties, 7KLV PDQÂśV WUXH SULPH ZHOO LI LWÂśV HQGHG EXW I guess he could still get some; the ladies, , PHDQ %HFDXVH KHÂśV IRUHYHU DQG QR PXWW --Aurora Bear

THE ESCAPIST'S PEN I write for you and me to escape from what it is we see To where, at least for a moment, we wish to be. I write for thrillÂ² To envision nervous hands brushing away thick jungle vines From pitted, gray stone. A pyramid tomb with gold insideÂ² Enough to fill the coffers of a kingÂ² Rises from the trees, rain clouds only separating ,W IURP KHDYHQ %XW WKHUHÂ¶V D KLWFK LQ WKH KHLVW :KHQ D IULHQG VXFFXPEV WR JUHHGÂ¶V YLFH Betrayal leads to death-defying escape followed by a mad dash To the muddy river where a ready biplane is a last /LIHOLQH IRU HVFDSH $ WXVVOHÂ¶V RXWFRPH GHVHUWV WKH XQWUXH Friend in the jungle, watching the biplane fade from view. I write for romanceÂ² To embrace passionate lovers locked in competing Allegiances to themVHOYHV RU WKHLU IDPLOLHVÂ¶ Crowns. With no option to marry, except if they flee, They prepare and set a date. But in his haste he leaves An open letter enumerating their secret rendezvous. Their instantly sweet meeting under cover of darkness is reproved B\ KLV IDWKHUÂ¶V WKXJV VKH LV URXJKHG XS DQG MDLOHG IRU UDQVRP $QG KH LV WRUWXUHG <HW ORYHÂ¶V YROFDQLF DQWKHP Bursts free from any cell and so too the lovers from their chainsÂ² Reunion, secured by a harrowing break, is sweeter for its pains. I write for intriguesÂ² To solve the mystery of a man murdered with a shoe. The body, one of many recently washed up at the docks, seems too Bludgeoned to be a random murder, but no one wants to hear The fresh-from-the-DFDGHP\ GHWHFWLYHÂ¶V WKHRU\ WKDW WKH HDU Marked by a VPDOO Â³2Â´ LV D FRYHU-XSÂ¶V FOXH :KDWÂ¶V WR FRYHU XS" The dead man, yes, had had run-ins with the law, but Only petty crimes. His widow, though, says he was into something %LJ EHIRUH KH GLVDSSHDUHG $Q LQIRUPHU VD\V WKHUHÂ¶V ERRWOHJJLQJ That runs from dusk to dawn in aging warehouses near the docks. In a hail-of-EXOOHWV EXVW WKH GHWHFWLYH LV YLQGLFDWHG DQG %RVV Â³2Â´ LV FDXJKW

I write for action² To spin bronze wheels till they whistle² Chariots racing around the Circus circuit, spittle Flying from the mouths of mad men Whipping their frantic teams toward glorious victory. With a weapon Spoke, the Roman champion plows Through his foes, his machine cutting a straight trough. +LV H\HV EXUQ IURP WKH GXVW RI D \RXQJ ,EHULDQ¶V WHDP Galloping at unrelenting speed. With an oath to Jove, he wilily Prods his steeds till, parallel, the charioteers meet eyes. He reins to ram but a charger slips, and the Iberian takes the prize. I write for laughter² To buffet the pirate ship Coup with clean Caribbean waves. The floating 40-gun won by the captain with a knave Strikes fear into the heart of her crew. Despite her leaks, holes, and rumored curse, the &RXS¶V Captain vainly sails in search of gold. She finds herself hard-matched against an old Sloop well-manned. First her mast, then her hull, The Coup is pummeled and shattered by forty iron balls. Her captain holds A white flag, pleading for his life. Terrified fishermen emerge from the sloop And begrudgingly ransack the sinking Coup. I write for you and me to escape from what it is we see To where, at least for a moment, we wish to be.

YOUR BROWN EYES You look at me with those brown eyes And suddenly the world is clear. You would think brown eyes would be dark And sad but, no, not yours, my dear. They shimmer like the moon hitting the water at night. They look at me and see a different person, They see the person I was meant to be. They are not too dark and not too light. 50

They are just right to me. I wish I could show the world what I see, But for now they are my own treasures Hidden in plain sight. If the eyes are really the gateway to the soul Then your eyes, dear, forever glow and glow. --Makenzie Wertz

ON DROPPING OFF MY SON AT DAYCARE I left my son at daycareÂ²had to catch A train to work. My parting words rang small: Â³*RRGE\H HQMR\ \RXU GD\ Â´ +RZ WR XQSDFN What I desired to sayÂ²Â³,Â¶OO QHYHU EH Too far away; I leave but will be here :LWK \RX LQ WKRXJKW"Â´ %XW ZKDW RI WKRXJKW" ,Ws reach, So limited, seems anthem for a man Without a better song, a man whose words Are bought for 40k. The time we had Together, father and son, will always be A fond collection of memories he may not Remember; memories I will cherishÂ²walks Traversing our little town while fall $QG ZLQWHU IHOO 6LQFH ELUWK ZHÂ¶G URFNHG WR VOHHS ,Â¶G IHG KLP IURP WKH ERWWOH 1RZ ,Â¶P SOHGJHG To give him up, it feelsÂ²entrust his care To others. No, but merely a wait for more $GYHQWXUH OLHV LQ VWRUH Â³0\ VRQ QRZ RXU PremieUH WKRXJK JUDQG KDV SDVVHG \HW ZKDWÂ¶V WR FRPH ,V VR PXFK PRUH WKDQ WKDW ZKLFK ZH KDYH VHHQ Â´ --Matthew Nies

+,*+:$<Â¶6 '($' $7 (,*+7 He hated driving in the winter. It was stupid, and he still did itÂ²he still had to go to work and get groceries, and then drive fifteen miles to get back homeÂ²but he hated it. Once he got out of town it was usually all right. The highway was dead at eight. He could punch the cruise control and turn up a classic rock station and feel anxiousness coagulate in his chest until he turned onto gravel.

+H KDG KLV VXSHUVWLWLRQV KLV FDU ZDV ROG DQG GLGQÂ¶W DOZD\V VWDUW VR HYHU\ WLPH he made it safely to his destination, he made sure to give her (he never called his car

ÂµLWÂ¶ D FRQJUDWXODWRU\ SDW RQ WKH KRRG RU WDLOOLJKW GHSHQGLQJ RQ KLV SDUNLQJ MRE $QG when he drove home, passing mile markers and street signs, he shouted out how many miles were left. It made him feel better, to hear how close he was to being able WR VWRS DQG JR LQ DQG HDW VXSSHU WR KHDU D Â³IRXUÂ´ RU Â³VHYHQÂ´ RU Â³WZRÂ´ RYHU 2]]\

2VERXUQHÂ¶V \RZOLQJ RU (GGLH 9DQ +DOHQ WHDULQJ LW XS RQ JXLWDU +HÂ¶G QHYHU EHHQ LQ D FDU DFFLGHQW DQG KHÂ¶G EHHQ SXOOHG RYHU Rnly once, when he had a burnt-out taillight. +H KDGQÂ¶W HYHQ HYHU been in a car that someone else had spun into the ditch or anything. He had no real reason to hate driving in the winter with this intensity. But he hated it.

Nobody was coming his way now VR KH IOLFNHG RQ KLV EULJKWV ,W GLGQÂ¶W GR

much for his visibility, but having something to do with his hands besides freeze them under so-bulky-they-make-it-hard-to-drive mittens helped his mental state. He SDVVHG D PLOH PDUNHU Â³1LQH Â´ +H GLGQÂ¶W UHFRJQLze the song that was playing on the radio, which was weird, because he listened to the station so much he could usually name at least the band. %XW KH GLGQÂ¶W NQRZ WKH VRQJ 6RPHWKLQJ ZLWK D ORW RI JXLWDU ZKLFK WR EH KRQHVW

GLGQÂ¶W QDUURZ LW GRZQ PXFK 7KH ground was flat so he could still see the taillights of someone who had passed him a mile and a half ago. The guy was at least three or four miles off. He checked the rearview mirror. No headlights behind him. He drove slow. Even in the summer he went the speed limit, but in the winter it made him nervous to edge over sixty. Also, better gas mileage at fifty-seven. 54

%XW SHRSOH SDVVHG KLP DOO WKH WLPH DQG KH GLGQÂ¶W PLQGÂ²except when he got close to his turn, then he started to get a little nervous. He put his blinker on early, PD\EH WRR HDUO\ EXW KH DOZD\V IHOW D ELW RI IHDU WKDW VRPHRQH ZRXOGQÂ¶W JHW LW WKDW KH was slowing down to turn and smash straight into him. But nobody now. He hoped nobody appeared for the rest of the drive. The highway was dead at eight. Â³(LJKW Â´ The thing with classic rock was there were always those weird background noises. Phones ringing, horns, stuff like that. It freaked him out sometimes, if there ZHUH VLUHQV RU WKH OLNH EHFDXVH KHÂ¶G MHUN WR DWWHQWLRQ WR PRUH DWWHQWLRQ than he was already at, stare into his rearview mirror for a couple of moments to make DEVROXWHO\ RQH KXQGUHG SHUFHQW VXUH WKHUH ZDVQÂ¶W D FRS RQ KLV WDLO WR JHW KLP IRU VRPHWKLQJ KH ZDV SUHWW\ VXUH KH ZDVQÂ¶W GRLQJ WKRXJK DIWHU WKH WDLOOLJKW LQFLGHQW KH was a little paranoid about the same thing happening again, only this time it ZRXOGQÂ¶W EH WKUHH LQ WKH PRUQLQJ DQG WKH FRS ZRXOGQÂ¶W OHW KLP RII ZLWK D ZDUQLQJ For this song, it was a train horn, which was weird. He glanced into his rearview mirror to look for the train, though that was stupid. No tracks crossed the highway. It would be a stupid place to put a set of train tracks. Or a highway. He was pretty sure all the train tracks in North Dakota came before the highways. So there was no train behind himÂ²obviously there was no train behind him. But he did see a set of headlights, which made his heart stutter-stop in KLV FKHVW +H IOLFNHG RII KLV EULJKWV +H KDGQÂ¶W VHHQ D FDU EHKLQG KLP D PLOH DJR 7ZR or three dips in the road existed between town and home, though, so it must have EHHQ LQ RQH RI WKRVH 2U KHÂ¶G EHHQ LQ RQH RI WKRVH +H GLGQÂ¶W NQRZ He looked back to the road. Â³6HYHQ Â´ He glanced back into his rearview mirror. The car had its blinker on. It was going to pass. Unsurprising. He glanced back at the road in front of himÂ²not even WKH WDLOOLJKWV KHÂ¶G VHHQ D FRXSOH RI PLQXWHV HDUOLHU 7KH WUDLQ KRUQ ZDV EDFN LQ WKH song. The car started to pull out into the other lane, the north-lying lane, and was in front of him in an instant. He was an easy guy to pass. He stayed on cruise control at fifty-seven. The song was practically all heavy drums now. Almost a Disturbed Â³'RZQ ZLWK WKH 6LFNQHVVÂ´ NLQG RI YLEH ([FHSW IRU WKH WUDLQ KRUQ 7KDW ZDV VWLOO 55

present, mixing with the drums in a way that was kind of cool in an unsettling way. +H ZRXOGÂ¶YH SUHIHUUHG LW WR EH D VRQJ KH NQHZ VR KH FRXOG \HOO DORQJ DQG PD\EH

release some of the anxiety that still tightened up his ribcage. Then a train smashed into the car that had just passed and he punched on the brakes. His car was the worst at stopping, especially when it was icy, but the highway was pretty good, it was actually pretty good, especially for winter. The car stopped, he flew forward, the seatbelt caught him, and he was sent back into the seat with a fresh case of whiplash. The train kept going in front of him. The train kept going in IURQW RI KLP DQG LW GLGQÂ¶W PDNH DQ\ VHQVH He glanced in his rearview mirror. Nothing behind him. He was seven miles from home on a deserted highway at eight, eight-fifteen by now, eight-fifteen at night, and a train was going on in front of him. The radio was out. Sometimes his station fuzzed out, though, so he tried for a different station. Nothing. Not even the static, nothing. He tried not to listen to his CDs or auxiliary cord when he was driving, especially at night, and especially in the winter in case of inclement weather incoming, like a tornado or a blizzard that was about to hit in thirty seconds that he, IRU VRPH UHDVRQ FRXOGQÂ¶W VHH +H ZLVKHG KHÂ¶G SLFNHG XS WKH QHZ %HFN album when

KHÂ¶G KDG WKH FKDQFH +HÂ¶G UHDOO\ SUHIHU WR EH IDFLQJ ZKDWHYHU WKH KHOO WKLV ZDV ZLWK

Beck instead of silence.

7KH WUDLQ ZDV VWLOO JRLQJ 7KLV ZDVQÂ¶W VXUSULVLQJ JLYHQ KLV NQRZOHGJH RI WUDLQV It was surprising given his usually pretty steady knowledge of the highway he took

every day. $Q XQSOHDVDQW UHPHPEUDQFH VXUIDFHG LQ KLV PLQG D FUHHS\SDVWD KHÂ¶G

read on his phone during break a couple of weeks back, about this road you turned off on and if you made it through, you were insanely successful the rest of your life. 0RVWO\ \RX GLGQÂ¶W PDNH LW WKURXJK But that was stupid. First of all because it was a creepypasta, some stupid story meant to scare twelve-year-olds at sleepovers, the twenty-first-century version of an urban legend, and not an actual entity that existed, and because KH KDGQÂ¶W

turned off onto anything. He should have seven straight miles left, and then he should have a turn onto gravel, at the place where the mile marker and the street number matched up, and then two more miles, then the driveway, then chicken

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KDGQÂ¶W because he already had a big bag of generic brand chicken nuggets in his freezer and he was trying to save money so he could move into town and not have to deal with this stupid commute. He fooled with the radio again and looked in his rearview mirror. Nothing from either. When he looked back at the road, the train was gone. The remains of the car it had plowed into were smoldering in the ditch. Â³6KRXOG FDOO WKH FRSV RU VRPHWKLQJ Â´ KH VDLG DV KH HDVHG KLV IRRW RII RI WKH brake and back onto the gas. There was a certain amount of trepidation about going forward, a certain sort of certainty that he was also going to get plowed into by a UDQGRP FDQÂ¶W-be-real-train (and as he drove forward he noticed a notable lack of WUDLQ WUDFNV EXW KH GLGQÂ¶W +LV FKHVW loosened a bit. It was still its normal amount of WLJKWQHVV EXW WKDW WKH WUDLQ FRXOG SUREDEO\ DSSHDU ZKHUHYHU LW ZDQWHG GLGQÂ¶W VHHP real. It was a stupid kind of safety, but he latched onto it anyway. Â³6L[ Â´ Â³)LYH Â´ Now he was starting to feel comfortable again. Really comfortable. Less stress always occurred once he got within five miles of his turn. Â³)RXU Â´ Â³7KUHH Â´ 7KH UDGLR EXUSHG RXW PXVLF DJDLQ DQG KH UHFRJQL]HG WKH VRQJ ,W ZDV Â³5HEHO <HOOÂ´ E\ %LOO\ ,GROÂ²not only a song he recognized, but one he could yell along to if he was starting to get too nervous. He shook off his mittens like a hockey player ready for a fight and turned up the radio. The car had been running long enough now DQ\ZD\ VR KH GLGQÂ¶W UHDOO\ QHHG WKHP DQ\PRUH Â³7ZR Â´ Almost there. He had the rest of this song, maybe a little bit of another one or VRPH FRPPHUFLDOV DQG WKHQ KH ZDV KRPH IUHH +H GLGQÂ¶W ORRN LQ KLV UHDUYLHZ PLUURU DQG KH GLGQÂ¶W SXQFK KLV FUXLVH FRQWURO EDFN RQ Â³2QH Â´ Â³5HEHO <HOOÂ´ HQGHG +H UHFRJQL]HG the next song, too. 'LVWXUEHGÂ¶V Â³'RZQ :LWK WKH 6LFNQHVV Â´

As he turned onto gravel, the train blew past from behind. He drove alongside it for a couple of minutes before it disappeared into the field. He watched it go and, once it was gone, considered whether he would have ice cream with supper, too. --Aurora Bear

Jewel Williams

ROAD TRIP #2

Westa Barstow, easta Baker, DQ XQGHUWDNHU¶V KHDUVH VORZV GRZQ D red-headed clown dead ahead. Taxicab waiting. Trading in an empty casket for a Cadillac with a blown head gasket driven by a bitter-ender, with misdirection meant to send her into the way of Mr. Zippy (a flowered hippie microbus, In luv we trust stenciled RQ WKH GULYHU¶V VLGH RIIHULQJ D KLW-and-ride and I get busted clear to Reno near an LDS casino; when I won at bingo I lost it playing keno. Three days later close to Needles a roadside joint with jukebox Beatles just as a little help from my friends ends, some old bartender ILOOV D EOHQGHU ZLWK FKLD VHHG DQG VRPH NLQGD ZHHG WKDW¶V DOO I need. Just my luck, a long-haul trucker sidles up hip-to-KLS ³7DNH D WLS , JRW IURP D FRS WKH VHULDO NLOOHUV DOZD\V VWRS ´

--Jim Stone

Grant Christensen

$15.00