Torches n' Pitchforks Fall 2011

p. 7 Teen Parent Program: The Mission of the Teen Parent Program is to educate and nurture teen parents to become independent, self-sufficient, healthy, responsible and curious adults who make positive choices for themselves and for their children. The school district also offers safe and supportive child care on site. Workshop facilitated by Jamie Houghton

p. 9 Arts Discovery: The ARTS Discovery program at Sisters Middle School fits an important role in reaching underserved 7th and 8th grade youth at a critical time in their lives. Through exciting hands-on art workshops students develop a wide variety of skills while learning about art, ecology and the natural environment, community service projects, conflict resolution and team-building.

Workshop facilitated by Jamie Houghton

p. 17 Pilot Butte Middle School: PMBS was a ten-day residency focusing on spoken word that reached four classrooms and was facilitated by Jason Graham (Mosley Wotta) and assisted by Micah Bournes.

p. 25 Paulina Schoolhouse: Paulina Elementary school was a five-day residency on narrative non-fiction taught by Neil Browne, Associate Professor of English at OSU Cascades. They focused on essays about place.

p. 32 Crook County High School: College Level Writing class in partnership with the Advanced Credit Program at OIT. Micro- (Flash) Fiction and Personal Narratives facilitated by Jim Churchill-Dicks

p. 5 p. 6 p. 43 p. 44

About Us Submission Guidelines Archives Join Us on Facebook

All photos and graphics by Jim Churchill-Dicks, taken throughout Central Oregon. Machinima photos taken at Japan:Tempura Island and the defunct Tangiers East Steampunk Sim in Second Life.

EST. 2008, Founded and Edited by Jim Churchill-Dicks P.O. Box 506, Prineville, OR 97754 ‘hunting for voices that rise above the angry mob.’ torches n pitchforks online teen literary journal is dedicated to exploring the evolving relationship between form and content in creative writing, while also unleashing promising teen voices to the public. Sponsored by The Nature of Words.

click photo above for teaser trailer

We accept submissions of short fiction, creative nonfiction, and reviews from teen students nationwide. Poetry submissions are from regional students working with the NOW Writer’s in Schools Program only. We are also interested in short films or multimedia depictions of original poems. Original music will also be considered.

Simultaneous submissions are permitted, as long as you let us know if your work has been accepted elsewhere.

ALL SUBMISSIONS MUST BE SENT VIA EMAIL IN A WORD.doc or .pdf ATTACHMENT to: torchesnpitchforks@hotmail.com With your e-mail, send a brief cover letter with your name, age, State of residence and your previously unpublished work with the appropriate label, SHORT-FICTION, CREATIVE-NONFICTION, or REVIEW SUBMISSION in the subject line.

SPECIFIC GENRE GUIDELINES Fiction and Creative Nonfiction submissions should have a tight narrative arc, and should likewise be 2,000 words or less. Your level of craft in the use of language, imagery, character and conflict will be of high interest.

Reviews should be 1,000 words or less, and can focus on either music, books, film, art events, or other literary journals. PARTICULAR ATTENTION WILL BE GIVEN TO REVEWS OF GUEST AUTHORS FROM THE NATURE OF WORDS. In your reviews, I want you to engage with the ‘hows’ in the craft of the work being examined.

Visual artists should send a sampling of their work in the form of jpegs or .png files. I would love to see your experiments with form and media here- whether it be painting, photographic digital design, or some other unknown conjuring.

For all submissions, please do not send us the only existing copy of your work.

DISCLAIMER: While the aesthetic of torches n’ pitchforks encourages frank poetry/prose/discussion on sensitive issues of teen concern, t n’ p is not interested in publishing work with dead language, namely random or gratuitous profanity, nor does it choose to showcase works that glorify violence, sex or drug abuse.

COPYRIGHT: Upon publication, copyrights return to and are retained by the Author or Artist with the following provision: if your work is republished, in another publication, anthology, or book collection, credit must be given to torches n’ pitchforks as the original publisher of the individual work.

SHOUT OUT Lizbeth Santana

GRITOS:

Lizbeth Santana Para mi hijo cuando me despierta cada manana con una sonrisa Para la Senora Evers, ella nos ayuda Para conseguir mi diploma Para mi familia por apoyarme en todo Para las madres solteras quienes luchan y logran solas Para las fresas que me confortaban durante el embarazo Para la musica que me deja escapar a mi propio mundo Para mi cama por ser tan agradable Para el alisapelos por arreglar mi cabello Para las deudas que tienen los universitarios Para Victor Antonio por aprender algo nuevo todos los dias sin estar quieto.

Here’s to my son waking me up every morning with a smile Give out to Mrs. Evers, who helps us Get a diploma To family, for supporting me through Everything Here’s to the single moms that make it on their own.

To the strawberries fulfilling my craving during pregnancy Give out to music, that lets me Escape to my own world Here’s to my bed, for being so comfy To my straightener for helping my hair calm down Give out to the debts college students have Here’s to Victor Anthony, for learning New things every day and not Sitting still.

read by Melissa Martinez music by Trinity Churchill-Dicks

Laynie Hildebrand Daija Morton Jessica Shepardson Craig Wessel Lezly Buendia Jarret Sutton Gail Lowry

Laynie Hildebrand Untitled I walked on the moonlit path of my room to see the moon laying on the ebony atmosphere.

It seems like fire blazing hungrily.

I took my sliced apple and watched the moon.

The wind hit against the window with a drum beat.

My clock seems to tick slower until the sudden crack of lightning hit the earth’s bare flesh.

Every time the lightning hits mother nature, the water in my glass began to swoosh like the ocean.

Lightning seems like spaghetti and the moon a frozen meatball.

Finally clouds swam in the break of dawn.

Now I feel like I hear the rhythm of the waves and the beat of the wind I see the bleeding of fire and water of butterflies I smell oranges picked in the sea and the luscious scent of rainbows dancing I touch the flowers blooming in the blizzard and the smile of the snowflake.

I taste the burning of the moon and the shivering of the sun.

read by Anna Mae Zinn

Daija Morton UNTITLED

A person of peanut butter A town of juice boxes A cow of gummy bears A carton of pigs A world of pudding A school of pumpkins A marshmallow of chicken A sun of moons A teaspoon of human A pinch of clocks A tablespoon of change A nephew of cash A cowboy of joker A conclusion of my story A lie of mustangs A garden of mummies A hat of Popeyes A box of condos A lemon of erasers A brother of graves A mustard of ketchup A nightmare of dreams come true.

Jessica Shepardson I SAW I saw a flower of butterflies A guitar of trees A wall of leaves and a floor of clouds.

Then I saw a boombox of pizza, a table of yummy worms a car of pasta and a maze of chocolate.

Then I saw a table of CDs a blanket of microphones a fire of drums and a whale of keyboards.

My hair is made of sunlight my hands are spiders my eyes are made of emeralds my teeth are carved from the moon.

I WISH I wish I was a billionaire wearing dark blue jeans and a designer shirt in California.

The swimming pool would be sparkling under the sun like someone who was about to cry.

Inside popcorn would be popping in the microwave like someone unlocking a lock.

CRAIG WESSEL A CAT BATH

A cat bath means an ambulance with the engine running.

It also means a will.

It also means band-aids, IVs, a letter to your loved ones about your death, a nearby hospital and floating off to heaven as a spirit.

LEZLY BUENDIA UNTITLED

In a land I lived in there were monkeys that wore sunglasses in the night, cats that danced to the beat of day.

Cats were dogs.

Cars were birds.

Monkeys were trees.

Mars was water.

Stars were candies.

Tasting was color.

Fish was chicken.

Water was fire.

Art was clouds.

Ghosts were walls.

The room filled like a cloud full of water.

JARRET SUTTON I USED TO BE

I used to be cardboard but now I’m a box.

I used to be blue but now I’m purple.

I used to be an apple but now I’m a pear.

I used to be a clock but now I’m a wristwatch.

Gail Lowry

THE GREAT OUTDOORS The swish of the grass, the loop of the wind, the crack of lightening like a whip on flesh.

The shadow of the night and light of the day often scares creatures away.

The smell of the scent of the pine like a jar of perfume.

So fragrant and so fresh.

Gabino Perez / Shainaylee Goodman / Sarah Conner /Alex Nava / Austin Robison / Abbey Mortar

Gabino Perez Art My passion is art. but the key of art is in your heart even Lewis and Clark drew art on their chart Leonardo DaVinci was my start. you can see his art when it has his mark Part of wind, and the tree bark I can see color in my own dreams. so my soul flow through the streams by that time the bugs and plants they feel that my passion like a seed is starting to grow. But if it doesn’t keep growing my soul will die. Soon I will never stop drawing, coloring and making it will be good.

I wish we famous in Hollywood. The arts is not in your heart but in your soul.

Shainaylee Goodman Eternal I put my heart into all that I wanted with you, and you showed me time and time again that I’m not worth the sacrifice. You won’t really miss me until I’m gone. So please, Love me without fear, trust me without wondering, Love me without restrictions, want me without demand. Accept me how I am. And love like that will be eternal. You pretend like I don’t matter, you act as if I’m not there. I AM NOT INVISIBLE. I’m here. I always have been.

Eternally.

Sarah Conner Dad He is a joker he’s a smoker he’s a hate he’s drunk he is bad he is a nag, he doesn’t have a 6-pack it’s more like a 20-sack he’s mad he’s sad ‘cause my mom walk out she never comin’ back I am sad ‘cause that’s my dad I wish he wasn’t so bad and gets out of my head all I do is lay in bed wishing he was dead.

I have so much bad memories of what he has done sometimes I wish he wouldn’t have come undone. I wish he could be my 31 he was always there when I was one he left my life when I was five I really wish he wouldn’t lie but he did he left his kids But he did he left his kids and Beautiful wife it ruined our life in the middle of the night I still cry wondering how I survived after I saw that gun flash before my eyes as my dad dropped to the floor and cry cry cry I pray to the lord that someone won’t die.

Alex Nava

World Peace Now don’t get a fake image about me.

I am not the kind of person giving out flowers and wishing everyone would just love and care for each other.

Cuz I am smart enough to know it’s not like that.

Because the world we live in, we’re making it worse by using our fists to fight to deliberate.

So listen to me I am not just dreaming for this day to come.

I am demanding it.

Because I don’t think you guys realize that people are killing each other for some respect and colors because we’re all the same, we’re all just one.

Austin Robison Thoughts

It’s time to find who’s real, who’s fake.

Time to find what’s on your mind, whatever has you on the wind. What people say isn’t always set in stone, but more cast like a show, all played out like a conspiracy, it has to be. It’s all the time to feel the truth, in your roots, down deep, let the tears seep, you’re all better now.

Ups and downs all around, you can’t think.

Relax Cut some slack, don’t do crack, take life like a battle axe, slicing and cleaving away.

Make it rain.

Let it all M e l t a w a y

Abbey Mortar ‘Cuz It’s Chicago There’s Chicago Home to Cousin Mo Full of pizzza and wind But I hate the snow It really makes me low I have no choice but to go ‘Cuz it’s Chicago But wait...but what about Piece?

And the hot dogs and the smell of the air?

That city’s what I breathe Man I really do care ‘Cuz it’s Chicago Scraping the sky Shining its lights Catching your eye Can’t say goodbye ‘Cuz it’s Chicago Picking its fight Holding its might Spittin’ in spite You gotta like ‘Cuz it’s Chicago Flying so high!

‘Cuz it’s Chicago Better strain your eyes!

Jordan Fleck //Reata Youngblood//Lacy Camara//Alison Sumerlin//Sierra Fortado

Jordan Fleck

The Favorite Place With an Ugly Girl rod, an expensive reel, and a bait fish on the hook, the rod sinks with a five-foot sturgeon on it, and the fight is on. After two hours the line breaks, but that’s okay. The fish bite every five minutes.

This spot is my favorite place. It is where two rivers connect. If I look to my left, I see the beach curve in and sand turn to stone—then just little stones and all of a sudden big gray jagged rocks. If I look to my right, I see across the river where the trees turn to sand and the sand turns to water. But on top of the sand I see kids playing, and girls getting their suntan. And the most favorite thing that I like here is the fish jumping, making a big sound of splat coming down.

This place is important to me because I feel like I can be myself.

When I am here I feel like I am a part of nature. I feel like it will be no lighter or darker without me here. When I am waiting, I doze off in a hunting memory. It’s 6 AM when I get up. I am ready to go hunting. I get my gun, cammo, and ammo, and I am out the door. My boots fully laced, I move at a steady pace. Two hours later I am in my blind hunting. I see movement in the creek, then a coyote bolts across the field at a rabbit like it was its last hunt, and it was. I pull the trigger, and I wake up when the rod sinks once more.

read by Jim Churchill-Dicks

Reata Youngblood Through the Trees

When I am here I feel like I am in paradise. I like to be here in the summer. If I could, I would stay here forever. I like it because of its warm breeze blowing in the trees. The smell of pine trees and fresh air. Looking around at the green trees and all the colorful wild flowers growing like a garden. The yellow buttercups and the purple, pink, blue, and yellow wildflowers growing everywhere.

After the summer rainstorm, everything smells like fresh rain. In the shade the trees give you, you’re not in the hot sun all the time. It’s not too hot and not too cold with the shade the trees give and the warm breeze.

The brown deer eat the grass like the cows. They walk around as they’re eating, flickering their tails and always staying alert. The baby deer have white spots on their backs that are as white as snow. They’re following their moms.

One day my dad and I were moving cows in the forest. It was a hot day and we moved our first bunch of cows. We moved them through the green trees onto the dirt road. When the cows were going down the road, we saw something in the distance like a truck or something. We got closer and saw it was a fire truck. There had been a fire on the hillside across the fence.

After we got the cows to the right place, we went back and started with our second bunch of cows. We got going through the trees because we weren’t taking the road this time and it started to rain hard, almost as if it was hailing. I was only in a T-shirt and pants. I didn’t have my long-sleeved shirt on or my chaps. I got soaking wet! We got to the place we were going and went home. It wasn’t a fun day for me after I got wet. Luckily it didn’t happen again that summer.

On the way home, I looked at all different sized trees. I also looked at all the cows. I looked at the cows’ colors, sizes, and brands. The cows mooed as we went by because our dog is in the back of the pickup. I have the window down and the wind in my hair. That’s why I feel like I’m in a parade when I’m here.

Lacy Camara Cow Camp

At Bony View there’s a road that goes up the country. Up there, there’s a Y in the road. If you take a right, then far up there’s a creek and a cabin (which we call Cow Camp). I love this place because it’s quiet, without phones and cars. The inside of the cabin has two bedrooms and a kitchen. Outside there’s a huge meadow with daisies, a creek, corrals, horses, and an outhouse. I love this place because of its beautiful scenery. I love to go through the fields of grass and explore.

When I’m here, I feel like I’m in heaven with the beautiful golden grass around me. It’s one of the best places I’ve ever been and ever will be.

Alison Sumerlin My Maiden Home

One car passes by on the crumbled road. As the sound echoes away, I look exactly where to go. My feet slip off the flip-flops as my head glances at the clock.

Barefoot at noon I walk through a shining clear door, hearing the cracking sound of it closing and then listening for the soft click when it is fully shut. The sound of my feet walking on the polished wooden deck to the summer green grass. When I step, it sounds like I’m saying its name every time my foot hits it. The sound of the newly built steps going down to another layer of grass screaming its name, all of this leads me to a giant trampoline that is sitting quietly over a jolting sprinkler spraying up at an immeasurable speed. The sounds of the springs squeaking as I get on and get up soon leads me to jumping in the sparkling water. Getting chills from the wetness, I smile and laugh.

From dry to wet, I turn off the flying water and lay on the grass, feeling it peek up one by one. I feel as dry as the sun and start walking. Through the talking grass, over the stomping steps, through another layer of talking grass to the soft, polished wooden deck. Then as my hand grasps the door handle, I know I will return to my family’s maiden home again tomorrow at noon.

Sierra Fortado Louellen Springs

There is a beautiful place, and it is my favorite place. I will tell you about this place called Louellen Springs.

We hop on the 4-wheelers; it takes about a half hour to get to the springs from my house.

We pass a lake or two and ride through a patch of juniper trees. When we get there, it is about lunch time, so we get out the lunch stuff and sit beneath the trees. For lunch we usually eat egg salad sandwiches. YUM! My favorite. It is spring outside and it is quite warm. When we get done eating we pack up our stuff and go for a walk. My sister and I are arguing like tow bears over one fish. My mom is taking pictures as always of the hills and the spring scenery.

The leaves are starting to come out after a harsh winter of snow. The green grass is starting to come in. the birds are chirping high I the tree tops. All you can smell is the freshness in the air—the blue sky overhead, the sun shining so bright. There is no one to be seen, and it is quiet and peaceful. I see a red and white woodpecker going peck, peck, peck, looking for food. The deer are tan with big ears and eyes; their fawns have white spots on their backs s white as snow. They are grazing on the grass for the first time this spring. You can see the valley below with the grass coming in. the geese and ducks are flying to the lakes. That’s why it’s my favorite place.

When we get done at the springs, we load up everything on to the 4-wheelers. Then we start heading home. The sun is setting to my right—there are reds, pinks, and oranges in the sky. When I look back at Louellen Springs, it looks like a freshly painted picture.

Then pretty soon we are out of sight of the springs. I think to myself, “Can we go back to Louellen Springs tomorrow?” When I am here I feel as if I were a bird flying high in the sky.

troy jackson nicole berry cody buss kara merril kole brewer

Troy Jackson Paper Planes

I used to be a boy with a dream, an inconceivable wealth of knowledge, and a desire to create something revolutionary. Yes, at age seven I was going to be the first human being to launch a cardboard rocket ship off of my rooftop.

It was perfectly sensible; all sixty five pounds of me sitting inside of four and a half pounds of cardboard and duct tape. It just seemed perfectly logical to me. I figured if man can build these massive machines that can weigh close to twenty five tons then why couldn’t I design one that weighs significantly less; after all, with my third grade level of education I came to the conclusion that the less it weighs the more likely it is to fly.

After constructing well designed blueprints of the craft with my box of crayola crayons I sought the approval of my mom, because I knew in order to get this bird in the air I would need the expert knowledge of someone equal to my expertise of aeronautical experience. I approached my mother with a more than recognizable aura of confidence,

and quickly pulled the plans out of my folder I had constructed with two pieces of college ruled notebook paper labeled “confidential” and half a dozen staples. I demanded her attention at once because what I had going was clearly more important than whatever she was doing on the computer. She very blatantly ignored every word I was shouting at her, claiming that at the moment her taxes were a bit more important than my so called drawings. That then raised my question of what taxes were. She said I was too young to understand but it’s comparable to me not wanting to go to the dentist. I became furious at the fact that she believed at a time like this anything at all could gain priority over my desire to fly in a cardboard box. I dismissed her disrespect towards my dream of becoming airborne, and instead interpreted it as approval.

I decided to remodel the backyard into my workstation by taking a shovel and cutting out a reasonably sized patch of grass to designate my workspace, because in order to design such a complicated flying machine you obviously need a workspace. Now that I had given myself a place for the building process to begin I needed supplies; at least four large cardboard boxes, a roll of duct tape, scissors and as many power tools as I could find in my dad’s toolbox. My dream had begun to seem so surreal; I was actually going to fly in something I created myself. I felt invincible, like nothing could stop me. I could not wait to go back to school to shove it in my teacher’s face that in all her life she

had done what? Teach a bunch of kids how to use basic punctuation correctly? Well guess what? I broke the laws of physics and flew across my backyard.

With my station prepped and all the tools I needed to complete the job, and then some, I began work. I labeled all sections of the plane with sharpie and made the cuts flawlessly. With several pieces of cardboard scattered about on the ground, I had two wings and four matching squares to make a box for me to sit in. It was perfect; I assembled them together, took a step back and examined my work. I had just outdone the Wright Brothers. Sure, they created the Arial Age, but I perfected it. In less than fifteen minutes I had created a work of art; I could not have been happier.

With the conclusion of the building process came the moment I planned for. I snuck into the garage to fetch the ladder so I could more easily get onto the rooftop.

With my cardboard plane in one hand, I slowly climbed up the ladder and stepped onto the edge of my roof. As I set the plane onto the roof I realize my footsteps may have caused enough noise to alert my parents. My window of opportunity was closing, and my time to act was decreasing. I thought to myself that maybe this isn’t such a good idea after seeing that the wings would not even stay upright on their own, but my ability to act on impulse mixed with the adrenaline coursing through my

veins told me otherwise. I ignored all common sense and logic, and reminded myself of the history I would make if I pulled this off. I stepped into the plane and as soon as I took my second foot off the ground and sat down it occurred to me that my roof was slanted so any hope of controlling when I wanted to go was gone and I was sliding. In that moment it seemed like time stood still, yet everything began to happen at the same time. I was a few inches from leaving the roof when I realized I had been wrong all along. What the hell was I thinking? There was no way this was going to work without wheels on the bottom to land on. In a last ditch effort to hurl my body out of the plane I managed to catch the gutter. It slowed my fall, and quite possibly saved my life, but not without a price. I managed to rip down roughly fifteen feet of it, and in that moment my dad walked out to see the chaos.

Without any further words he told me to go inside. Except the way he said it was much more explicit. I was just sitting in my room thinking of how he was reacting to his tools all over the torn up yard, the ladder leaned against the roof and miserable attempt at creating a plane. I tried to think of a fitting excuse to get me out of this, but there wasn’t one. I could only hope for the best. A few short minutes later he walked inside and told me he needed to speak with my mother. I never understood why parents needed to do that. They have a mind of their own, and are more than capable of using it. In the meantime I was

sentenced to an hour in the corner for the crime of simply having a dream.

One hour had passed, and he had come back with the verdict. Little did he know I wasn’t facing the corner the whole time, so the joke’s on him. He told me I was grounded indefinitely.

My beloved airplane was smashed, and all dreams and aspirations of redefining flight as we know were crushed.

For a seven year old, I had a lot to learn. Life was going to be rough.

Nicole Berry Tornado

As I take the corner at 95, the sirens sound in the city.

Too late. Escape. My body is screaming with the urge.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins. My legs itch to be in motion; running; fleeing. Instead, I push the car farther away from town, touching the back of the gas pedal to the floorboard.

I hear the whimpering cries of my children in the backseat mix with the whine of the engine. They both want the same things. They want me to go back and slow the car, the very two things I can’t do.

I hunch forward in my seat, ignoring them as my knuckles turn red and then white, gripping the steering wheel. Darkness falls suddenly as the sun is obscured by debris. Glancing up into the rearview mirror, I see the raging mass of wind and wreckage gaining on us. I try to push the car even faster, but it’s hit the limit. It won’t go faster.

The seconds tick by like years and in the confusion, I start praying to a God I never believed in. Please help us. We take the last bend at 110, my car’s maximum speed.

Far off into the distance, I see my sisters’ house. Good. Phil said he’d meet us there. They have a bunker.

Two of the SUV’s wheels come off the ground as I gaze off towards the beacon of safety. The kids scream in the back, but I don’t hear them. There’s something wrong with the house ahead. Wheels land hard on the rough pavement, and with a jolt I realize what’s wrong. Phil’s car isn’t there. He’s not there!

I pull up to the house, squealing the tires as I slam on the brakes. In autopilot I take the kids out of their car seats. I balance one on each hip to run them towards safety. Practically flinging them into the arms of my sister, she gives me a pitying look to confirm my worst fears: He never arrived.

I look from my sister, to the car, to the storm, and to my sister again.

“No, Mellisa. Don’t!”

“I have to.”

After hastily kissing my children, I hurl myself into the car and jerk towards the writhing wall of fury to find their father.

Cody Buss 7 Seconds

Handful of that Cheyenne clay, nothing like the mouthful imminent. Seven seconds for nothing, A lifetime wasted waiting for that exact moment, that blip in the eyes of the onlooking public that will make a hero rise or never be remembered by anyone except the ones gambling everything. A thought of the hunger and pain looming in the back of his mind.

The roar of the crowd so loud that the adrenaline of getting on the back of a crazed bull seems partially numbed.

Tightest grip in a hand weak from fear like life hanging from a wire. The memory burned into his retina, 7.8. A hair longer, one less fatal flaw and the money would be his.

Dull pain like a punch in the stomach. He’s worked so hard to provide for his family. A wife who has been there with him the whole time and the light of his life, a six year old girl who’s dreams have always been to be like daddy. The only thing he has ever known was the life of rodeo. His dreams of aspiring to be a champion and provide, were more rough than expected.

The thought has never crossed his mind until now,

should he hang up his hat and immerse himself in the world he has never known for the better of the ones he loves. Working with his hands has never been a problem but never the calling he has longed for. Another try and maybe a Chance for the dream, another go around and the toll of his punishing life gets worse.

A kick to the head as a rank bull turns like a tornado, a world of color suddenly turns black. Words no man can can experience until it is reality. Paralyzed says the doctor, a blessing on the count he still has his life. A silence as the the news is registered for all to hear. A moment like to other he has ever experienced, a sense of helplessness and anger.

Why does life have to be so cruel on a man trying to do the best he knows? The answer to that is answered by the view of his family as he looks to his side. Realization of what life means to him at that very moment like no other has experience, a fulfilment belonging only to him. A pain of happiness and regret flowing over him. It must hurt like hell, when a cowboy cries.

Kara Merrill Was

He is a good man. He has a love for blue healers, acoustic guitars, country songs, family, and whiskey. He is a good man. He sits on the broken office chair covered in silver dog hair and watches the black and white television.

He sits inside his makeshift shop. Tools and aluminum cans are scattered on every surface. There is a welder in the corner and greasy chains litter the floor. Everything is outdated, ragged, and used. The four-wheeler sits in the center, a gift from Becky and the kids. A constant reminder. The four-wheeler is the only item in pristine condition except for the recently purchased six pack. He is a good man but he is breaking my heart.

This is the place where the loneliness, stubbornness, and intoxication all begins. This is the place the gray haired, big bellied man changes. This is the place he goes from nice to mean, from sweet to stubborn, from full of knowledge to full of bullshit. This is the place.

He is a good man. He downs one beer. One goes to two, two goes to three, three goes to four. He sets down the fourth, three-quarters of the way full, and forgets. Four goes to five, five goes to six. He lights up a cigarette and stumbles from the office chair to the hiding place. He withdraws the bottle-shaped paper bag from his secret stash and shuffles his way back to the tattered chair. He re-acquaints himself with his long time friend, Black Velvet. In the presence of his so-called “friend�, he transforms for the worst. I love him but everyday there is less and less to love.

He is an old man, a handy man, a sweet man, a loving man. He is a good man. He was a good man.

Kole Brewer

Death and Pain

The blue van rolled down the road at a comfortable speed, slowly approaching the driveway to my home. My girlfriend and I talked casually inside the van. A lethargic mood, usually associated with a sunny Sunday afternoon, hung heavily in the air. Not many people could ask for a better day; church in the morning and my little brother’s football game directly following. The phone in my pocket went off, destroying the calm mood. My little sister began to speak very hurriedly on the other end of the line. One word ran into the next, colliding into an incomprehensible jumble. I asked her to slow down and tell me exactly what she wanted, and she slowed just enough for me to understand that she wanted us to stop right where we were, in the middle of the road. In the small community of Powell Butte, traffic is usually a non-issue, so this request did not ignite any sort of warning in my mind.

Once my parents’ car finally caught up, my father rushed to the driver’s side door and instructed, in a very stern, commanding voice, “get out!” to my girlfriend. He sat down in the car, and floored the accelerator, “What’s going on dad?” I asked my father. “Mike is stuck underneath

a bale wagon.” The full gravity of the situation hit me like a head-on collision.

I was instantly on the phone with a neighbor of ours informing him of the situation and he replied saying that he would be over immediately. A high-pitched whine emitted from the van as it was pushed well beyond its limit. Winding through the Powell Butte backroads seemed to take an eternity. A large field came into view with a harrow bed (a machine used to stack baled hay) in the far left corner.

The van bounced violently across the field at speeds almost damaging to the vehicle. We came within close enough proximity to see a man clearly stuck underneath the oneton table that lifts the hay to be stacked. Several other men were watching as one of them tried to lift the table with the hydraulics of the machine. The man was limp.

His legs dragged along the grass as the harrow bed bucked, trying to free him. My initial hope was starkly contrasted by the reality in front of me. When the other men realized that my dad and I had arrived, they began shouting to lift the table by hand. I ran after my dad to the other end of the machine to begin lifting the table. One ton became lighter than air with the help of adrenaline and five other men.

Holding the table up, I looked over to see one of the older men pull Mike out. The impulse to just let go of the table

was blocked out by my dad shouting, “Let it down slowly!” When the table came to a rest I ran to the other end of the machine where Mike was laying on the ground.

He lay face down in the grass. A Superman hat lay on the ground next to him. His whole head was a dark purple and he had dark red marks all across his chest. Although I had never seen his face before, the instant I saw his limp body lying on the ground I sent a prayer out for his life to be saved.

My dad rolled Mike on to his back and ripped away what was remaining of his shirt. “Mike! Mike!” was my dad’s constant repetition, desperately calling to a soul that had already passed on. Red and blue flashing lights appeared on the scene, and the first officer began CPR. With the first push of the officer’s hands on Mike’s chest, it was quite apparent that any hope of saving him was gone.

His chest caved in with no resistance at every pump of the officer’s hands. A ripple across Mike’s whole body occurred with every pump in the same way that coagulated gelatin ripples. Every vein on his bald head could be seen from the pressure of being crushed. The red marks across his chest fully illustrated what the weight of one ton pressing on top of someone can do to a body.

I took in my surroundings to see local farmers with depression written all across their faces at losing one of their own. Family members and loved ones of Mike’s

were strewn all across the field, crying desperately. Instantly a prayer went out for them to be comforted. We determined, through the collaboration of several stories, that Mike had been stuck under the harrow bed for at least ten minutes after being found by his girlfriend. The amount of time he was trapped before being found is a mystery that haunts everyone present that day.

Mike was one of the best farmers around, with over 40 years of experience. What possessed him to crawl underneath the most dangerous part of the machine by himself, while it was running, is a question that will never leave the minds of everyone involved in the life and death of Mike. I had nightmares of being stuck, where Mike was, for weeks.

Being crushed by a ton of steel, unable to move, unable to call out for help, and then unable to breath were the images that circulated behind my shut eyelids.

Following this incident was the overwhelming respect for the machinery that I had become too comfortable with. If a man who made his living from the inside of farm equipment, could be killed by the machinery which had become like a part of his own body, then the possibility for the same to happen to me increased infinitely. The frailty of life also was cemented into my mind.

Mike was a man just doing what he had always done, with

no foreshadowing of his impending death. His family members were destroyed by a single moment that took away a man they could never imagine living without.

All this hurt and pain collided with utter surprise into a single image of Mike’s brother, completely unaware of the situation until seeing Mike laying on the ground, kneeling by his brother’s side holding his hand and crying silently. Under a hot Sunday sun, a group of farmers and neighbors gathered into a circle to pray for the loss of one of their own and his family, still kneeling all around and mourning with loud weeping.

...thank you for reading torches n’ pitchforks! Come back again in the Spring of 2012!

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