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The

Salal Review

Volume 10: Spring 2010


The Salal Review Lower Columbia College Longview, Washington Volume 10: Spring 2010

Laura Waltrip “Yellow Flower”


Call for Submissions The Salal Review is an annual publication of Lower Columbia College. It involves student editors in the presentation of the best work available from the writers, poets, and artists of the Lower Columbia Region. To submit written work for consideration, send no more than five poems or two prose pieces, either by U.S. mail, with a stamped, self-addressed reply envelope, or by email attachment (MS Word or RTF) during the month of October 2010. We prefer email submissions. For artwork, submit up to five pieces, either on paper or by e-mail attachment, during the month of January 2011. We will accept color submissions; however, black and white work is preferred. We cannot be responsible for one-of-a-kind originals, so please send clean copies. Digital images may be sent on CD or by email, but must be high-resolution jpeg files (SHQ or HQ). Please include a brief biographical note describing your connection to the Lower Columbia Region. To answer further questions regarding submissions, to receive a copy of The Salal Review, or to arrange a sponsorship donation, call us at (360) 442-2632 or contact us by email at salal@lcc.ctc.edu. Mail submissions or donations to The Salal Review, Lower Columbia College, P.O. Box 3010, 1600 Maple Street, Longview, WA 98632.

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Salal Editors: G. Dean Bolen Jr. Austin Brigden Dan Dahlke Kasie Livezey Crystal R. Martin Ryan Tallmon Darlene Terry

Salal Staff:

Halie Fewkes Rasmey Khim Kale Niemiec John Reisig Nikolai Salkovics Zach Sharpe Jared Snyder

Faculty Advisor: Joseph Green

The Salal Review Lower Columbia College PO Box 3010 1600 Maple St. Longview, WA 98632

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Prose Joan Herman

Dis-ability

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Nick Hill

The Slaughter of Men

18

Kris Kibbee

Leaves of Crimson

51

Richard McCaine

The Settlement

36

Poetry Dawson Carter

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Jim Hanlen

7 Ways to Read A Poem

8

Brian F. Harrison

Astoria’s Cannery Girls

14

Janice Haupt

After the Election

43

Grant Holly

Gas Tungsten Arc Welding and Other Meditations

32

The First Night of Summer

40

Brenda Jaeger

After Mom Died

56

Christi Krug

Old Evergreen Highway

44

Irene Martin

The Ephemeral Stream

30

Lorraine Merrin

Chase Me to Eden

48

Thomas Pence

Scars

59

Deborah Brink Wöhrmann

Ties

28

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34


Richard F. Yates

Back to Dream Time

26

Kristin Yuill

Generation

60

James Zerndt

The Ocean Took a Vacation

17

Not Thinking

46

Art James Bolen

Hawthorne Bridge

35

Joan E. Bowers

Republic Square #1

9

Eric Carney

Island Legends

15

Ray Cooper

Turning to Face God

25

Greg Ebersole

La Monta単a Rusa

42

Steve Hansen

Newport Beach Sunset

16

Old Bodie Building

27

Swept

58

Contemplation

61

Reeds and Nets

13

Wooster Chapel Roof

29

Chalet Rigdon

Tree Farm

39

Pam Vawter

Daisies at Sunrise

50

Laura Waltrip

Water Birds

49

Marie Wise

Decay

55

Linda Zandi

Woman Under Bridge

31

Patrick L. Kubin

M.G. Rees

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Advice from the Advisor

Joseph Green

Welcome to the tenth issue of The Salal Review! Ten years ago, Deborah Brink Wöhrmann served as the faculty advisor for this magazine, and I was the unofficial kibitzer—the “advisor to the advisor,” you might say. With its first issue, Salal won an honorable mention from the national Community College Humanities Association as its Best New Literary Magazine. Then Deborah took on other responsibilities, and I reluctantly accepted the faculty advisor role, myself. I say “reluctantly” because I knew what was involved, and I just wasn’t sure I wanted to work that hard. Now I can hardly believe I ever felt that way; advising The Salal Review is the most satisfying thing I’ve done in nearly twenty-five years of teaching at Lower Columbia College. Since that first issue, the CCHA has honored Salal as the best smallcollege literary magazine in the Pacific-Western Region, and the Washington Community College Humanities Association has given us their top award three times in the “limited budget” class for literary/arts publications. We must be doing something right. When I try to say what that “something” is, I’m not sure I can name it, but yesterday when I left the Salal office, one of the current editors was sitting at the computer, studying the manual for our lay-out program. He’d been there for at least an hour, and he had spent some time working there in the morning, too. Two other students had worked through the noon hour, finishing correspondence. That’s a typical day at the office. The Salal Review editors always impress me with their seriousness and dedication. They begin the year without any clear notion of the way to publish an arts magazine, but by the end of spring quarter, they’ve published one. That’s something. Here’s something else: The Salal Review is a visible connection between Lower Columbia College and the community it serves. This is a community college in every sense of that phrase. A community needs a publication for its poets, writers, and visual artists, and this community certainly seems to have accepted Salal for that function. To me, that is an honor more valuable than any award. Too often, students feel that beyond the classroom, their work isn’t quite real. That feeling runs exactly counter to this magazine’s intentions.

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When Salal publishes a poem, a story, or an art piece by a student at LCC, the work appears next to something from a poet, a writer, or an artist in the larger community. It appears there because the editors take it seriously. They are saying, “This is good. We want it in our magazine.” For what it’s worth, when the editors make that judgment, they don’t know which pieces are produced by students and which ones come from the community at large. After all, if you really work at writing or making visual art, you’re always a student. You’re always learning how to do it. That’s why this endeavor has been satisfying for me, personally. And it’s why I’m going to miss it. With this issue, Salal #10, I will be retiring from teaching, and thus from advising the publication. I am grateful to the Associated Students of Lower Columbia College for funding The Salal Review, and I want to thank everyone else at LCC as well. Without the support of the college, the magazine simply would not exist; but without the poets, writers, and artists we publish, we would have no purpose. Therefore, I also want to thank the many people who have shared their work with us. Many deep bows of gratitude, all around. And my advice? Carry on. This is worth doing. Joseph Green Faculty Advisor The Salal Review

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7 Ways to Read a Poem Does the red vibrate with the horn? Does the top line lick the lower? I’d rather read alibis, excuses and lies Than hear your honest confession. Torture it. Wad it up. Bleach it until it bleeds. I like thick and warm bread. Biscuits are not socially redeeming. Don’t give it the third degree. It won’t give up its intention. Count the Franciscan stitches. Check out the gleam given off. Pay attention to the mouse Skittering in front of Guernica.

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Jim Hanlen


Republic Square #1

Joan E. Bowers

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Dis-ability

Joan Herman

I know the look well—too well. “Oh, you poor thing,” the eyes seem to say. “I am so sorry for you. Crippled before your time.” I hate this look. I get it most often after answering the question, “Why are you limping?” If it weren’t for the look, I wouldn’t mind answering. I have multiple sclerosis, or MS, a neurological disorder. I was diagnosed more than eleven years ago, and at the time, I, too, jumped to the conclusion I imagine most with the look have: “MS is a horrible disease that forces its victims into wheelchairs, to the point they eventually wither up and die sad, lonely deaths.” Cue the violins for dramatic effect. Excuse my sarcasm, but I can’t help myself. I understand this line of thinking because I made the same assumption before I became known as one of the “disabled.” I will let you in on a little secret, though: I am not dis-abled. Before I go on, please don’t consider me a brave, cheery role model, refusing to be beaten down by adversity. Like all of us, I’m just doing what I have to do to survive and thrive. As I like to say, what’s the alternative? Admittedly, I can offer plenty of evidence for labeling myself “disabled.” The state DMV has issued me a cobalt-blue placard allowing me to park in disabled-parking spots. These are the same spots my pre-diagnosis self thought were a waste because I believed, mistakenly, most were rarely used. As further evidence of my disability, when I was in the market for a fulltime teaching position several years ago, being the honest-to-a-fault person I am, I usually checked “yes” when asked if had a disability that altered my lifestyle significantly. I did so in spite of concerns that such an answer might hurt my chances of being hired. Yes, discrimination against a person with a disability is illegal, but it likely still occurs. But the most obvious evidence of “disability” is my ever-present accessory: my cane. I have four, but my favorite one has brightly colored pansies on it. After a colleague turned me on to a cane website, I have lusted after one covered with cats. Besides the cane, my latest “mobility enhancer” is the set of ultra-light trekking poles my boyfriend gave me for Christmas. He was worried I would consider the gift akin to getting a broom. I told him the poles were the most thoughtful present I could have received because they

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allow me to walk about twice as far as a cane does. Plus, they don’t shout “disability” like a cane. I’ve been using a cane, or now the trekking poles, for about six years. Where once I felt extremely self-conscious, I’ve learned to embrace these aids; they help me stay vertical. I do walk with a noticeable limp, which is more pronounced some days than others, due to MS-caused damage to the myelin sheath, a neural conduit which carries electrical signals from the brain to the muscles. As a result, I have lost considerable coordination and strength. Some people diagnosed with MS never experience any permanent impairment, while a few end up in wheelchairs. I’m somewhere in the middle, affected but still very much active and able. With all this evidence of disability, how can I honestly say I am not disabled? I do so because my loss of leg coordination and strength does not define who I am. Especially today, my physical ability represents such a small part of me. Eleven years ago, I could not have said that, as my athletic achievements in competitive cycling made up a significant part of my identity. No longer, though. I now know there is so much more to me, thank goodness. Furthermore, as an English teacher, I take seriously the limitations words place in our minds, often without our awareness. We throw a word such as “disability” around without thinking about what it means, yet as fluent speakers of English, we do know on a gut level. We understand that “disability” literally indicates “lack of ability.” Admittedly, I can’t think of a better alternative to the word “disability,” which replaced “handicapped” (which replaced “crippled”) as supposedly the more sensitive term, but it still bothers me and does not accurately represent who I am or my situation. I admit that I have a disability, but I am not disabled. To some, that may sound like quibbling, but to me, there is a significant difference. My disability does not own me; rather, I own it, meaning, I decide how it will affect me. Having a disability has taught me that I am nothing if not resilient; it’s our instinct as animals, that will to survive—and for me, thrive. And let me tell you, having a disability is not the end of the world. I actually have a really good life, much better than my pre-MS life, indeed, much better than many able-bodied folks’. The post-diagnosis me has taken risks I wouldn’t have dreamed of when I was “-abled”: in just the span of a decade, I’ve changed careers, been admitted to graduate school with a full scholarship, earned my master’s degree, found a sought-after position in a rewarding profession,

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bought a lovely home, even made a successful post-divorce plunge into online dating. Indeed, one of MS’s gifts for me has been a what-do-I-have-to-lose attitude. I am sometimes told how inspirational I am because I am so upbeat in the face of adversity. But what’s the alternative? For me, anything less would mean giving up, and if I were to do that, I probably would wither away and die, something I definitely am not willing to do. I don’t mean I am holding my breath waiting for a cure. I don’t stress over that because I have no control over it. What I mean is, I have a great life today, “disability” or not. Perhaps MS’s ultimate gift has been my awareness of my own strength, even optimism. I know in my bones that I can handle—with aplomb, no less—whatever life throws at me. So please, don’t feel sorry for me. At the end of the day, I consider myself pretty darn lucky—and very much able.

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Reeds and Nets

M. G. Rees

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Astoria’s Cannery Girls Years ago this riverbank, clogged with canneries along the shore, spiced the very air with ammonia steam and fish remains rotting in the gutters. Salmon and crab, hours from the ocean, gutted and stuffed into steel cans, along the viscous endlessness of the slime line. Remember the cannery girls in their long white aprons? Waiting for coffee and doughnuts, Camels dangling from carmined lips, black rubber boots sequined with fish eyes and scales. How they stood in lines like pearls hanging from a dowager’s jowls.

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Brian F. Harrison


Island Legends

Eric Carney

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Newport Beach Sunset

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Steve Hansen


The Ocean Took a Vacation

James Zerndt

She thought she might be bipolar, but the doctors prescribed Dramamine and a visit to the city where she could spend time gazing at a horizon of high-rises. She brought the moon along, took his picture posing beside the rows of street lights. The two collected beer cans to bring home and place upon her shelf of sand. But when she returned, the fishing boats felt her tossing in her sleep again. The running joke among the whales: it was all the constant ups and downs that kept the moon from getting married. As the ocean paced her floor in the morning, it wasn’t the medication, or the kelp tea, that made it possible for her to return to work. It was placing the shell of an empty can of PBR to her ear, listening to the distant roar of car alarms, and remembering the boyfriend-lit strolls at midnight, that eventually gave her sea-legs back.

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The Slaughter of Men

Nick Hill

John’s feet hurt. So did his hand. He had been standing there holding his sea bag for what seemed like forever. The brig guards were real bastards. John just wanted to get out of the Navy. That’s why he smoked that weed, and that weed was why he was standing there at attention, barely holding on to his sea bag and staring at that gear locker. “You ready to get down in my brig, prisoner?” John wasn’t sure which one of them screamed the question that time, and he didn’t dare look. He just kept staring straight ahead at the bottom corner of the second “n” of the words “cleaning gear” stenciled on the front of the locker and replied in the manner that had been beaten into him for the last umpteen hours, “Petty Officer, yes, Petty Officer!” What came next was a replay of the same forty-five seconds John had been living over and over since he entered that hellish space. “About… FACE!” John didn’t flinch. It was a trick he had fallen for too many times that day. Any normal sailor would execute the move on the command “face,” but prisoners aren’t supposed to do anything until they’re told to “Do it now.” “Do it now,” a different, quieter voice resonated from behind him. John fought the urge to look around as he placed his right toe behind his left heel and pivoted 180 degrees. The fingers on his right hand were starting to go numb from holding on to the nylon strap handle of his sea bag as he spun around. He stood at attention, his heels burning. With his back to the locker he fixed his eyes on a black dot one of the petty officers had drawn on the bulkhead with a sharpie a few hours prior, just for John. A static haze began to overcome his peripheral vision as he waited for his tormentors’ next command, and he thought about how he had arrived at a place he never thought he would be. * John turned the chrome handle and cold water began to rain down upon him. Wet enough, he thought as he quickly reached up and pushed the valve lock on the showerhead. At home he would have let the water run until it was warm while he stood safely at the other end of the bathtub. On the ship, however, the stainless steel shower stall was barely spacious

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enough to allow him to bend down to wash his feet, and potable water was a precious commodity. The desalination tanks could only produce so much each day, and rationed out over five thousand people, there was no excuse for waste. John resigned himself every morning aboard the boat to what was affectionately referred to as a Navy shower: get wet, turn off the water, soap up, rinse off quickly. If you did it right the water never got warm. It was just after 0430 and John was the only person in the portside washroom of the forward IM-03 Division berthing. He listened to the sounds of waves crashing against the outer bulkhead as the ship cut through the sea. He thought of the contrast of that savage pummeling to the peaceful quiet of the forty-some slumbering sailors stacked three high on the other side of the opposite bulkhead. John’s skin was beginning to warm again as he rubbed a thick lather over his body. He placed his soap back into its travel case and let out a long sigh as he reached up to toggle the valve lock back on. John shimmied around inside the refrigerator box-sized stall trying to make sure he rinsed all the soap from his body before hypothermia set in. When he was done he turned off the valve lock, then the faucet handle. As he dried himself, this time with his towel, he heard a test shot fired from the forward catapults that were used to launch jets from the deck of the aircraft carrier. Whoosh-SLAM reverberated through the washroom, and the toilet paper rolls in the commode stalls danced on their holders. Another fly day, as almost every day had been for the last month since Pakistan granted permission to use their airspace. Polk and Jones entered the head, groggy and half asleep, as John was gathering his things. Jones went straight to a commode stall, while Polk turned on one of the showers to let the water warm up while he took his morning dump. John waited until Polk was sitting down, then turned off the shower. “Navy showers, gentlemen,” John said as he headed for the door. “You don’t want to be the reason the XO starts rationing water.” The berthing was still quiet when John finished dressing. He usually got up earlier than everyone else, he didn’t like to wait for a shower and the lines for breakfast were shorter early in the morning. He lowered and latched the lid to his coffin locker, secured his padlock, and proceeded to straighten his navy blue sleeping bag on the rack above. Before heading out he reached under his pillow and pulled out a small, tan-colored book. As per the berthing regulations each sailor was allowed to leave one

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religious text on his rack. The Holy Bible was the standard for most people who chose to take advantage of the regulation, but John liked to assert his individuality in little ways whenever he could. The book that John had under his pillow was the Tao Te Ching, translated by Stephen Mitchell. As far as he knew, no one else had chosen that particular book as their leave-out, which made him smile whenever he thought about it. A lot of the passages made sense to him, too. He didn’t have to wade through pages of “So-and-so begat What’s-his-face” to get to the good stuff. He flipped backward through the pages before finally stopping on a random passage: 31 Weapons are the tools of violence; all decent men detest them. Weapons are the tools of fear; a decent man will avoid them except in the direst necessity and, if compelled, will use them only with the utmost restraint. Peace is his highest value. If the peace has been shattered, How can he be content? His enemies are not demons, but human beings like himself. He doesn’t wish them personal harm. Nor does he rejoice in victory. How could he rejoice in victory and delight in the slaughter of men? He enters a battle gravely, with sorrow and with great compassion, as if he were attending a funeral. John tried to digest the wisdom as he closed the book and placed it on top of his pillow. He took one last look at his rack to make sure everything was in order. As he switched off his rack light, another Whoosh-SLAM rocked the berthing. This time it was accompanied by the high-pitched scream of a jet taking flight.

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* “Forward march. Do it now,” the quiet voice spoke from John’s peripheral. John marched exactly five steps forward to line his left shoulder up with a giant Naval Corrections badge that had been painted on the bulkhead to his left. It was a relief to be able to shift his feet in those five steps, but his fingers could barely tolerate the jostling of the sea bag as he marched. Through it all he never took his eyes off of that black dot. “So far so good, but I still think he’s going to fuck it up!” one of the loud guards bellowed. “Square off,” instructed the soft voice, almost whispering, from behind John. His weight shifted before he could stop himself. His movement was only slight, but still obvious. He hadn’t been told to “do it now.” John flushed as he burned that sharpie dot into the bulkhead with his eyes and waited for his next reaming. The sound of his own fast breaths was all he heard as that static haze returned and the black dot on the white bulkhead turned into a photonegative version of itself. * John entered the aircraft generator repair shop to find Brock, his subordinate, looking at a video file on the computer. “Check this out, dude,” Brock said as he restarted the video. Their relationship was fairly casual, even though John was technically the boss. “A buddy of mine in Operations sent this to me.” Dah duh-duh-duh-duh, the opening riff of “Bad to the Bone” sounded tinny through the computer’s speakers. Black and white night vision footage followed taken from jets as they bombed targets, haphazardly choreographed to the rest of the song. The bright white explosions were timed to hit during that familiar riff, and every time George Thorogood stuttered out “b-b-b-bad,” the video was edited to stutter along with him. Brock’s face lit up while he watched the video screen. He obviously enjoyed it. He saved his cheer for the end. “Yeah, that’s why we’re here, man!” He grabbed at the mouse and appeared as though he was going to play it again. How could he rejoice in victory, and delight in the slaughter of men? The words John had read that morning echoed through his mind. “Bring up the back log, would you,” John said, cutting off Brock’s attempt at a replay. “F-14 gens are

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pool critical, and Chief wants us to get at least three out today.” Brock closed the video viewer and opened the maintenance documentation program. “Sure thing, boss,” he said with a hint of sarcasm as he began to search through the list of work orders for the aircraft generator repair shop. John found himself dwelling on that passage from the Tao Te Ching throughout the day while he waited for the fifty-five year old generator test bench to warm up, or while Brock was documenting maintenance. He had never really thought about his role in the “war on terror” until that morning. Every generator they sent out their door went into a warplane. Every WhooshSLAM followed by a fleeing scream meant another brilliant flash like the ones on Brock’s video. Every brilliant flash on that video meant death and destruction. John was helping people kill other people. He knew when he joined the Navy that their main product was foreign corpses, but he now felt the full weight of that reality. Brock was finishing his portion of the maintenance documentation for the third generator they had finished testing when the computer chimed indicating he had new mail. “Hey, I got a new video,” he said as it began to play. There was no music on this one, no sound at all. John watched as the black and white picture moved over a barren landscape before finally focusing on what looked like a large truck. A white comet came into the frame before meeting the truck and bursting into a flash of white. What was left of the truck was on fire. Suddenly a tiny light grey figure appeared in the corner of the frame. The video readjusted and focused on the figure. It looked like a person. The figure began to move away from what was left of the truck. Another white comet appeared in the frame; this time taking much less time to reach its target. In an instant the little grey figure was enveloped in a brilliant flash of white and the video ended. “Fuck yeah!” Brock exclaimed while selecting to replay the video. “Bastard was probably taking a piss.” John looked at Brock. He didn’t seem to be having a problem with his conscience. John envied him. He watched as Brock played the video a second time. “Look at that rag-head run!” Brock said. That’s not a person to him. It’s okay, that’s not a person. “Yeah, fuckin’ raghead,” John said, sounding a little like Brock. That’s a rag-head, not a person.

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It didn’t matter how many times John told himself that, he couldn’t make himself believe it. * “Do it now,” the quiet guard said, bringing John back to the present. He had been lost in the black dot and had forgotten what he was doing for a moment. But the sound of the loud guard sucking breath, undoubtedly to scream at him again, lit a fire under him. John’s immediate action in taking one step forward, executing a left face, then taking two steps forward and executing another left face was enough to stave off another verbal assault. John had been here before, more than once. Every time before there had been a polished metal door in front of him barring his entrance to the brig. Every time before he had done something, or not done something, that sent him sprawling back to the beginning of this routine. This time the door was open, and John stood staring into a ladder well that led down into the brig. His eyes began to search desperately for something to affix to and finally found a sign posted on the ceiling. “Honor, Courage, Commitment,” the sign read. John chose the dot of the “i” in the word commitment to focus his eyes. “What are you looking at prisoner?” the loud guard was yelling again. “Petty Officer, I’m looking at the Honor, Courage, Commitment poster, Petty Officer.” “What does that mean, prisoner? Honor, courage, commitment.” “Petty Offic…” John began to answer. “Don’t answer that! I want you to think about it. You think about where yours went.” The guard shut up, and John stood there in silence, his feet screaming to move again and every joint from his knuckles to his shoulder stretching like a heretic on the rack from the weight of his sea bag. * “Good job today, AE2,” Chief said as he finished signing off the last of the maintenance documentation from the generator repair shop. “Thanks Chief.” John was staring blankly at the Honor, Courage, Commitment poster taped to the side of the filing cabinet next to the Chief’s desk, waiting for him to finish. “Everything okay?” Chief asked as he handed back the generator shop logbook. “I know this is your first deployment and we’ve been out here a long time. How are you holding up?”

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“Okay, I guess. I don’t know.” “Well, just keep fixin’ those gens. We’ll be home before you know it. Hey, have you seen this yet?” Chief turned his computer monitor slightly so John could see. That familiar black and white aerial footage played on the screen. “How’s that for a sense of accomplishment? That’s why we’re here.” “Yeah, thanks Chief. You have a good night.” The whoosh-SLAM-screams continued through the evening, well after taps, shaking the berthing and rattling the padlocks on the racks. Night-ops had kept John awake a couple of times during the first weeks of the war, but he learned to sleep through the noise. He didn’t sleep that night. He listened to the sound of death: Whoosh-SLAM-scream. Weapons are the tools of fear… Whoosh-SLAM-scream. A decent man will avoid them… Whoosh-SLAM-scream. His enemies are not demons… Whoosh-SLAM-scream. How could he delight in the slaughter of men? * “Good job so far, prisoner. We’re going to let you downstairs,” the quiet voice praised John. “I want you to know that you still have a long way to go before you get into your cell, and we can always bring you back up here if you can’t get it right. Now, I want you to hold the handrail with your left hand as you carefully descend the stairs. When you get to the bottom, stand at attention. Do it now.” John didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the rail and bolted down the stairs holding his sea bag in front of him. Standing at attention at the bottom of the stairs he had to try hard not to smile. He didn’t want to give them any excuse to send him back upstairs. He was almost out, almost free of his unconscionable obligation. The rest of his thirty days in the brig couldn’t possibly be this bad, and he felt like he could tolerate almost any indignity if it meant he didn’t have to be a part of the killing machine anymore.

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Turning to Face God

Ray Cooper

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Back to Dream Time Cocoon or womb each night I return Too warm, too moist with flakes of memory torn and crumbling but still reflecting the pasts and futures of might-be and never-when From this dock my skiff sails each night sometimes by day ruddered by a thought or fear And I’m a captive explorer but by no means the captain

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Richard F. Yates


Old Bodie Building

Steve Hansen

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Deborah Brink Wรถhrmann

Ties Icicles hang in blue sky light not yet melting the pain of imagining them gone family who shouted through night until doors slammed, as no others can.

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Wooster Chapel Roof

M.G. Rees

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The Ephemeral Stream

Irene Martin

Here in winter, gone in summer, The stream bed in our pasture is A vestigial reminder of where the water used to be. Skamokawa Creek has whipped back and forth across our valley, Responding to storms, floods and winds over centuries, Leaving this meandering indentation that fills In mid-winter and empties late in spring, To the shrill racket of spring peepers.

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Woman Under Bridge

Linda Zandi

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Grant Holly

Gas Tungsten Arc Welding and Other Meditations Ten minutes before my shift I’m grinding tungsten alloy electrodes precisely the way you would #2 pencil graphite before an exam. I hone the point and think she’s still sleeping under the covers somewhere out there beyond the descending shop doors my own Shrodinger’s cat purring in a dream. I can’t say anymore with certainty that she is alive or dead or drinking bloody marys by herself.

I curse science for such momentous strides in anxiety. Square wave blur my little thermo-electrical flashlight under the argon blanket fort where I quilt sheet metal in the secrecy of a mass blinding white starlight. Maybe this is what Heaven is like? Where the separation between all things upwards from the quantum levels protected, corrosion less indivisibility.

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is unified


Where the four states of matter in raw elemental purity wait on a painter’s pallet, when mathematical randoms suddenly harmonize oscillating and phasing out perception. A quiet place, finally. I cut the arc and lift my hood at the end of the weld. A string of metal cools revealing my gleaming atomic weave. I wonder why it is easier to plasma-and-lightning cross-stitch cold plates of steel than it is to talk a suicidal girlfriend into drying out. Sometimes my mind goes there inside the green liquid shade of a welding hood. The needle point electrode glows fading orange like a light bulb slowly.

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102509 Here comes a deep conversation You can taste it on your lips and I can smell it Screaming energy building a race to drink The smile is worlds away to be found outside of the bars stumbling toward oncoming traffic ticket to ride the path less traveled she says she’ll pay anything but attention to detail is submerged in alcohol whiskey’s number one fan needs more coke hurting my black eyes I need sunglasses to hide the fact that last call is coming too soon she cashes out and leaves me alone to the street signs pointing me toward the flow of traffic

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Dawson Carter


Hawthorne Bridge

James Bolen

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The Settlement

Richard McCaine

He felt an unaccustomed satisfaction looking out over the nearly completed settlement. If there was any reason to feel dissatisfied, it was the result of being unable to find the proper words for expressing what he felt without resorting to clichés, a situation that was, he supposed, a cliché in itself. He dismissed the potentially endless chain of profitless thinking with a shrug: “Don’t think it and don’t say it; there’s nobody to hear it but you.” What had he been thinking when he had agreed not only to participate in, but lead the expedition to resettle? He had wanted more than a chance at a new start. He could have had that as simply a member, a follower, one among many in the group, but he had wanted more than merely to regain what he had left behind. And he had. The proof was before his eyes. And he would do what was necessary to ensure the situation remained as it was. The descending sun on the valley ridge marked the time to begin making his way back down for the weekly meeting, to review what had been accomplished and what remained to be done. It should prove to be a short meeting; it was the one they had been anticipating. Immediately, as he stepped through the door and entered the church which also served as the general gathering place, the consensus seemed clear: “It’s been a long time comin!” “At long last!” “We done it!” And the occasional, too infrequent, voiced acknowledgement, “Good work, Michael, it’s finished!” Not yet, he thought, but it would be. Michael took his accustomed place in the pulpit, signaling the start of the meeting. However, before he could say a word, someone called out, “Let the Preacher begin with a prayer!” “Yes, let’s give special thanks to the Lord this evenin’!”came from the assembled. Masking his annoyance with a grin, not quite a smile, Michael stepped aside as Jeremiah, already on his way, assumed his position in the pulpit and began, “Lord, God Almighty, we give thanks for guiding us through the wilderness to this our new home. Long have we trusted in you and your Son.

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Thank you for your divine guidance and protection. May we be among those who serve your purpose and by doing so continue to receive your blessings. In Jesus Christ’s name, we pray. Amen.” “Amen,” came the response and Jeremiah returned to his seat. Michael began speaking, “My brothers and sisters, we are quickly nearing the end of our long task.” Heads nodded up and down in silent agreement. “It started with a long and difficult journey, but we’re nearing its completion.” “Halleluiah!” “Amen!” “But, listen to me, my brothers and sisters, we’re not there yet. I see things that still need to be done. Things I need to show you before we can stand completely on our own.” “You showed us all we need to know,” a voice in the back softly stated, but easily heard in the silence that followed Michael’s last words. “You trusted me to lead you here, deal with the neighboring towns. I’ve shown and taught you everything I can. Trust me a little longer to know what more I can do for you.” “Need foh you ta step aside an’ let us be gittin’ on wif dem ‘lections like they do in dem other towns.” Michael sensed the change in the people, his people, and staring at their faces and into their eyes, he saw eagerness and anxiety in some; regret and sympathy in others; and, even after all the time spent leading them to this point, anger and suspicion in more than a few . Nowhere did he any longer see wholehearted support. He said, “Jeremiah, would you please come up and take over this meeting. I see what I have to offer is no longer needed. It is, indeed, time for you to shepherd the flock.” Michael left the pulpit and, instead of taking a seat, continued down the aisle. No one attempted to stop him. Then just as he reached the door, Tobias confronted him, saying, “We might not o’ gotten de book learnin’ you did in de big house from de Mistress, but we got schoolin’ in other things from de White man. And we learned dem lessons, ‘Massah’ Michael.” Yes, they had, thought Michael as he left through the quickly opened doors, as did I.

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He walked into the neighboring wood down the path illuminated by the nearly full moon, Michael’s resentment over his fall from leadership did not diminish his appreciation of past accomplishments or contemplation of his future in the community. The opportunity for his people to regain their appreciation of his special talents would present itself. Sometimes it was necessary to administer a harsh lesson in order to teach children their limitations. Michael halted in the middle of a small clearing and eyed his instruments of instruction: two riders, cloaked in white. One spoke, “Well, boy…”

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Tree Farm

Chalet Rigdon

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The First Night of Summer

Grant Holly

I. I rode a warm blow of bourbon fumes down 46th street to Ponderosa on the lamp lit orange sidewalk right after sundown on the first night of summer. I stand in the very center of a sidewalk panel under the poplar trees just across the street from your apartment of late. Your light is on. I watch you drink a glass of water pouring the last half out watering a plant. I watch you flick through a magazine you’ve already read. I watch you put a cigarette in your lips. It takes you three tries to strike the match. You put one hand under your elbow and rest the side of your head in the other. The smoke floats away just above you into the ceiling fan blade. II. I watch you undress. The way your hair falls on your back like a paintbrush wet with a heavy mahogany lacquer. I taste the sticky June night air and the dirty honey of the bedroom light beaming over your skin in a sweet glaze

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smelling the cedar and cinnamon where your necklace lays on your collar bones. I hear the heat softly humming in your blood riding the rhythm of your breathing. I try to inhale you into my lungs and take you in my blood for a walk. III. Now I lie on my back looking at the ceiling of my apartment I am trying to cut a deck of cards with just my left hand. In the glow of the lamp I saw a moth. or maybe it was the ghost of a moth flashing its giant shadow wings. I watched him ram into the light bulb trying to get inside in a trance until eventually he flew away unmartyred and unimmolated. I watched you through your windows that face the park on 46th And I never went back.

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La Monta 単a Rusa

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Greg Ebersole


After the Election

Janice Haupt

It’s over. It was a bitter cup someone had to swallow. Now burn your paper bonfires and believe again. “He” or “she” still loves you; your dog will always think you are a winner. The ice in the buckets is melting around the bottles of champagne while a cold smile continues to hang on your ashen face. The guests invited to your party touch you on the shoulder and, one by one, quietly leave. With all the gracious words you had planned now stuck in your throat, and knowing you are hours from the balm of sleep, you bumble your lonely way to the darkened garage like a suffering child to weep.

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Old Evergreen Highway Mattress-kept bills Built this pine-shadowed estate Swept needles from the dirt drive And once counted all the bricks Stacked proud against the slope-roofed Garage, before thick moss Softened a project that never took off The white latticework of broken bench Pokes at the sharp scent of Folger’s. Next door, stashed in mud, a Surprised BMW blinks chrome In after-rainlight Trees stutter sodden-leaf syllables. Branches crumble into concrete, tired Walks shift, stretching stone shanks, Hoping for conversation. Far up The line, a rheumatic train shuffles This used to be the main route. Now it’s a granddaddy, shy. Looking down lonesome white ankles while Half a mile south, the rakish freeway Spins restless partners

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Christi Krug


Behind No Trespassing sign A man blows out of doors With slicked hair and plain Vanilla raincoat. Same he’s had For 35 years. Good when he bought it; It’ll do Rattles open the old Buick, Keys it coughing to life. Gnarled hands grip black tape At two o’oclock and ten. Carefully looking both ways for nobody, He watches the traffic of 1942

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Not Thinking I’m not thinking about the odds involved in seeing my father die while visiting for the first time in four years. Not thinking about the bathroom, the bile I can still smell on my fingers as I drive these thousands of miles away from him. I’m not thinking about being unable to lift him from the toilet or about telling my mother yes, I’m sure he’s dead. Instead, I think about what I see: the old men atop John Deere tractors waving in plaid shirts like easy stalks of wheat, the retreads from trucks and jaywalking deer shredded along the roadside, the dogged mountains with their fir trees shaved away after surgery,

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James Zerndt


the cows looking like burnt-out logs laying at the bottom of the plain’s fire pit, the old barns drunk draping their shadows over the tired landscape, the small towns who place giant letters made from white rocks on the face of their biggest hill like so many distress signals.

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Chase Me to Eden

Lorraine Merrin

Show me the shape of truth, the color of trust, show me how to dance that thin line between Amen and Hallelujah. Come, meet me on the banks of Jordan or in the shadow of my father’s house. Chase me to Eden, or I’ll fall into a riverbed dry as stone and drown. Chase me, or I’ll fly off, lost in the great wide, forever calling your name.

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Water Birds

Laura Waltrip

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Daisies At Sunrise

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Pam Vawter


Leaves of Crimson

Kris Kibbee

It was early October, but the trees were nearly bare. A warm September had come to an abrupt, unforgiving end with a 20 degree temperature dip and jettisoned our small Northwestern town into a seasonal tailspin. As I traversed the carpet of golden maple leaves, I noticed only traces of gravel peeking through. Beneath every formerly-leafy tree lay a sea of its castaways, spreading a nearly perfect shadow. The bare spaces of ground in between trees created the illusion of stopping points in a race, marked intermittently by bright yellow takeoff points. The weather was continuing in a downward spiral and the latest torrent of rain that had blown in was keeping all but the devoted away from the walking paths at Lake Sacajawea. I kept my head tucked low even under the cover of my massive umbrella, laboring to remain dry. With the sky heavy and gray above me, the clouds pregnant with rain, I marveled at the ribbons of unnaturally green algae winding through the lake’s glassy surface. A dim outline of a man, flanked by a pair of Labradors, the first soul I’d encountered in a mile, appeared hazy even at a short distance. As the trio came into focus the older of the two dogs, sensing my approach, peered eagerly over his shoulder and gave me the full weight of his wide, coffeecolored eyes. He was much lighter than the other dog, his pale gold coat piped with a gray that dominated his coloring. Droplets of rain beaded on his back and trickled down his sides in rhythm with his slightly geriatric gait. His hindquarters were narrow and weak with age, and patches of skin showed through his balding coat. I smiled in spite of myself, musing at how an aging dog loses hair on his rear while a man seems to grow it there. As the dog glanced back at me, I could sense that the repeated leashtugging had irritated his owner, and I wasn’t surprised when the man kept his gaze focused downward as I strode past. On the lower pathway that looped to the water’s edge, I was awestruck at the quick work Mother Nature had made of coloring much of the foliage. A series of plump bushes, painted crimson, lined the trail along the lake’s rim. Their leaves were as thin as the cuttings from a paper snowflake, and the deepest, most vibrant red I’d seen in ages. I admired them as I marched past, still combating the sheet of rain that

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punished me for heading out on such a volatile day. A runner approached from the opposite direction, breaking my gaze at the last grouping of stunning bushes just as I spotted a peculiar and unsettling sight. For the slightest of moments, I thought I’d seen a trail of blood on the ground beneath those crimson leaves. Not wanting to draw the attention of the jogger, I walked on, certain my mind was mistaken at what my eyes had seen, but I revisited the image in my head over and again. It made me uneasy, and even as I lay in bed that night I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d bypassed some sort of warning. It was dusk by the time I made my way out for a walk the next day, and while the weather was decidedly more forgiving, the day was still gray and increasingly dark with the weight of pending night. A Parks Department worker was blowing the last batch of fallen leaves from the pathway up ahead, and I quickened my steps to catch up with a pair of middle-aged women, in hopes that it would save him from having to stop the blower a second time for me. He wound down the motor and nodded politely, smiling a crinkled smile, and said overly-loudly, “Just cleanin’ things up for you ladies.” One of the women, a brunette with fuzzy, short-cropped hair and a banana-yellow jacket, its taut fabric straining against the weight of her girth, giggled approvingly. I passed them and walked on toward the steel bridge, which would take me to the east side of the Lake. A couple with a cream shepherd mix stood at the foot of the bridge, their excited dog sniffing noses with another, whose owner was grinning in response. “I wonder what they’re talking about,” he mused. The female half of the couple, who was holding tightly to the shepherd’s leash and obviously struggling to control him, said, “Maybe he’s telling her about that squirrel over there!” The east side of the lake was much less densely populated. Only a short-box Chevy pickup gave a hint of activity as it rumbled past on the road nearby. I quickened my step and set out for the lower, lakeside pathway. As the colored leaves welcomed me back, my thoughts drifted towards the image I’d seen the day prior. I’d thought of it often throughout the day and couldn’t shake the peculiar feeling it always elicited. I found my heartbeat quickening and my footsteps slowing as I approached the final cluster of bushes. I scanned the foliage for that unnatural ribbon of liquid hiding between the leaves. The shrubbery became a repetitious pattern in which I

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was determined to find the flaw. Leaf, leaf, leaf…just as it should be. But then came an odd spot. Not a trickle of blood, but an odd spot just the same. An empty, hollow spot. My eyes labored to adjust from searching the river of red to focusing on this emptiness. But not in time to make out the face. A figure erupted from the bushes and hit me with such force that I found myself gasping for breath. It’s a strange thing, to go from observer to player in a split second. The shock of change was nearly as riveting as the blow itself. Before I knew it, he was on top of me, the pair of us camouflaged by shrubbery. The bed of leaves beneath me was cold and hard, not at all as I would have imagined it to be. Jagged rocks just below the earthy surface tore at my back, and I could feel saturated dirt soaking into my clothing. His face was close to mine. His breath was hot and smelled of tobacco. His body felt immense and immovable on top of me. I struggled futilely to free my arms from his heavy embrace. “I’d rather die” was all I could get out before his palm cupped roughly over my mouth. His skin was leathery and reeked of oil. I thrashed and flailed in every direction. He was so strong. “Someone will come. Someone has to come,” I repeated over and again in my mind as he fumbled with my zipper. My right arm momentarily free, I hurriedly used my body’s leverage to jerk my left one away and plunged my thumbs into his eye sockets with a force I never realized I was capable of. I felt the membranes of his eyes give an unsettling squish as he recoiled in pain and yelped aloud. The night closed in around me. It was over. Despite the events of the previous night, I awoke the next morning feeling oddly refreshed, powerful. I had never been in a physical altercation of any sort, and knowing that I had the ability to defend myself was euphoric. After a quick foray to the attic, where I unearthed a stun-gun my Dad had given me two Christmases ago, I donned my most impenetrable rain slicker and headed out the door. Sheets of precipitation pummeled me, but as I clutched the gun riding unassumingly in my hoodie pocket, I felt invincible. I made my way to the Lake, mentally revisiting my youthful aspirations to become a cop. Maybe I could do it. Maybe I could make it. I was stronger than I thought. I puffed my chest boldly and deviated from my customary walking route, cutting to the crimson-lined lakeside pathway that had been the backdrop for the previous night’s victory. The scarlet leaves fluttered rhythmically with the rain and wind, as if applauding their champion. I gave a triumphant smile from beneath my hood and strode self-assuredly through

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my parade of admirers. But the wind died and the leaves became still. And with a sharp breath of disbelief my eyes came to rest on a bright ribbon of blood trailing through the leaves. The huffs of an approaching runner broke my frozen awe. I leapt out into the middle of the pathway, prepared to beacon his attention. “There’s blood. There’s blood here!” I found myself sputtering. I must sound like a crazy person, I thought. But his lack of response was unsettling. Perhaps I wasn’t making enough of a fuss. “Hey, something’s happened! There’s blood here!” I gestured wildly towards the suspect shrub. The runner got nearer and nearer but still registered no concern on his face. “Something is wrong! Somebody’s been hurt!” I was really shouting now, and he was nearly on top of me. “What’s your problem? Somebody . . .” and my breath left me. The runner’s footsteps echoed straight through me and then behind me until only the pounding of the rain and the whistling of the wind remained. All of the people I’d passed. All of the interactions I’d perceived. I was merely a shadow to the living. “I’d rather die,” I breathed aloud, falling onto my crimson blanket with an immense sensation of relief and release. This time it was just as soft as I’d imagined.

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Decay

Marie Wise

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After Mom Died

Brenda Jaeger

I awoke but I could not move. The sun’s rays broke me free. I shivered with the morning cold. A fish brought me water when I was thirsty. A fish brought me water, I drank my fill. I saw the green start to flow, long striations from my toes to my knees. Was I a plant? I couldn’t stop the way my wings opened. A dragonfly took me to a black mountain along a blue sea. I found a very old map in my hand. The fierce wind blew the words away as I read them. I will be home tomorrow in the morning, I told myself. The eye opened wide. I had found it outside, next to the wheelchair ramp. I gave it to a young child, who smiled and ran away. As she ran, she looked back over her shoulder. Would I change my mind? The wind brought me a story about seven children who stole their mother’s heart. She made another out of cookie dough, and it worked just as well. A keyhole opened in the clouds above me. I threw the key from the beach up as high as I could. It went into the opening and disappeared. I stood there, waiting.

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When many hours had passed, I saw a young woman walking at the Memorial Park Cemetery. She had knees like a wild horse kicking through a stable door. Her skin drank in the sun as a new hive of bees devour sugar water. I knew I shouldn’t talk to her but I could not help myself. I couldn’t understand her; the way she talked I thought she hadn’t spoken for centuries. She wasn’t one person but many. Her hands became bones as she spoke. I read her eyes as she slid into dust. Someone left a newspaper on my front porch. This happened every morning at 4 am. I put the newspapers into a box and mailed them to my sister. She would know what to do with them. I thought, maybe I’ll make up a new song. Maybe it’ll be in Spanish. A magpie sat on my fence, watching me. OK, I told the bird, I’ll write about ordinal numbers and you are El Primero. I have nothing to say today, nothing, nothing at all, no one to say it to. I have something to say today, something, everything, all the words in the universe to say to you, you who listen, you who listen.

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Swept

58

Patrick L. Kubin


Scars

Thomas Pence

Let’s talk scars, cicatricial mementoes, Pale, perfect reminders of fateful blows: Perhaps claws tearing, gashing flesh; or fierce Fangs rending gobbets, making gaping holes. I have scars, slight wrinkles about my face. Once I laid these to saber slashes, base Dross of dueling days at Heidelberg—sad Silly posing for a credulous date. My real scars measure in feet, not inches, And lie in recesses, remote niches, Gulfs large enough to harbor small mammals, Where I nurse these souvenirs of losses. Life’s vagaries and accidents leave wounds That heal like tough, hardened galls I entomb. Only I know what missiles’ swift strikings Taught lessons that envenom and consume.

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Generation

Kristin Yuill

After Chris Forhan

The beer bottle kitchens, the bad-morning-afters were not then. Nor final exams, stick shifts, Paved driveways: All was mountain, and cedar and we lived on the lawns of our family. A family with blueberry buckets and green garden hoses. We counted vine maples, lived between huckleberries if only for the preservation of our souls, if only for the good of our complexion. We did not choose between wood sorrel and salmonberry. We let the bee provide our sweetness. We let cottonwood fall on our tents like blessings. Before, were the days of meteor parties, trampoline summers, chipped-paint porches and lines of lilac trees. Then one of us dreamt of birthdays, and stumbling, skinned a knee. Somebody said kindergarten. Somebody miscarried while another gave birth.

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Contemplation

Patrick L. Kubin

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Contributors JaMes boLen’s fascination with art began as a kid when he saw his first Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. From that moment, he knew he wanted to be a professional photographer, and he continues to work toward that goal. Joan e. boweRs’s photo is of the Main Square in Yerevan, Armenia. She spent three weeks in June 2009 in Armenia with an Earthwatch program. Visit her website at www.irongatephotography.net. eRic caRneY’s art piece, “Island Legends,” was inspired by a picture taken by his parents on the Hawaiian island of Maui. Dawson caRteR is currently a student at Lower Columbia College, majoring in theater. He would like to express gratitude for being able to share his work. RaY cooPeR, an art instructor at LCC, says, “Art is the source.” GReG ebeRsoLe was a photographer at The Daily News. He presently lives in Cali, Colombia, where he photographed, “La Montaña Rusa,” the roller coaster. His website is http://gregebersole.wordpress.com. JiM hanLen says, “LCC provided many opportunities for my writing. I took workshops from Wagoner, Hugo, Stafford, Clifton, Smith, Gallagher, and many others. Thank you, LCC.” steVe hansen taught photography and physical education at Woodland High School for forty-nine years. bRian F. haRRison lives in Astoria, where he teaches fencing and practices poetry. He has survived a kidney transplant and a fistfight with streptococcal pneumonia, verifying the moral and physical benefits of practicing poetry. Janice hauPt loves poetry, roses, and chocolate (not necessarily in that order) and knows better than to ever “run” for office. Joan heRMan teaches English at LCC. She was a competitive cyclist, runner, and swimmer in another life. She is happiest in the great outdoors, especially on a large body of water in her sea kayak. She shares her home with three cats and dreams of having a horse again someday.

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nick hiLL served in the Navy for nine years, then returned to Longview in 2007, where he graduated from LCC in 2009. He is attending classes at WSU-Vancouver and working toward a B.A. in Digital Technology and Culture. GRant hoLLY works in the Learning Commons at LCC. He would like to meet any of the other Salal contributors who might be interested in starting a writer’s workshop. bRenDa JaeGeR participated in the community of poets in Longview and surrounding areas for over eighteen years. She has moved back to Alaska to be closer to her parents as they grow older. kRis kibbee studied in the Professional Writing program at Washington State University and was a contributing writer for The Vancougar. Kris began her college education at LCC and is now the college’s primary Print Shop clerk. chRisti kRuG teaches creative writing classes for Clark College in Vancouver, Washington, and blogs about the writing life at www.christikrug.blogspot. com. PatRick L. kubin is an attorney, writer, and photographer living in Longview. His photographs “Swept” and “Contemplation” were shot in India at Golconda Fort, Hyderabad, and Goa, respectively. iRene MaRtin has written numerous books and articles on Lower Columbia River regional and fisheries history. Her poetry focuses on fisheries, the environment, and the struggle to maintain salmon runs. RichaRD Mccaine’s short-story publication fulfills a long-held dream. He thanks his family, especially Wanda, his wife and creative inspiration; and his mom, who from his earliest years surrounded him with books. LoRRaine MeRRin’s poems have appeared in all but the first three issues of Salal and have been included in several other journals and anthologies as well. thoMas Pence says, “I am a retired laborer who had the privilege of auditing a Creative Writing course with Joseph Green in the Fall of 2009. I am grateful this poem will be published in The Salal Review.” chaLet RiGDon’s photograph “Tree Farm” reflects a typical Pacific Northwest

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winter. She is especially fond of afternoon winter light. M.G. Rees has a home in Skamokawa, Wahkiakum County, where he enjoys the ever-changing mood of the Columbia and the remarkable community that lives in the area. PaM VawteR is a twenty-nine year resident of Mossyrock, WA, in Lewis County. She says, “Painting is my way of showing my love for this world and its Creator.” LauRa waLtRiP is a full time student at LCC and ASLCC President. In her spare time, she is a wildlife and nature photographer. MaRie wise has painted everything from apples to wind. She loves the dynamics of color and spreading paint on a canvas, but sometimes she just wants to draw with sharpened pencils, such as in this year’s submission, “Decay,” which symbolizes things that need fixing in the world. DeboRah bRink wöhRMann is grateful to all The Salal Review students and their advisor, Joe Green, for the heart-work they do. She says, “We often forget to notice this ordinary looking leaf, the salal, and all that’s required to keep it growing green.” RichaRD F. Yates lives in Longview. He was a featured presenter and workshop instructor at the Raymond Carver Writing Festival in 2008 and 2009, a winner of the 2007 Ooligan Press Flash Fiction Contest, and is a member of the Washington Poets Association. kRistin YuiLL graduated from LCC and attended the University of Edinburgh in Scotland, where she studied English, Scottish, and Irish literature. After running out of money, she came back to America and finished her B.A. in English at Western Washington University. LinDa ZanDi graduated from LCC in 2009 and now attends WSU Vancouver. She enjoys studying clouds, shadows, water, and reflections, which is how she found the woman under the bridge in her photograph at Lake Sacajawea. JaMes ZeRnDt teaches in the Transitional Studies department at LCC, and is an avid Gummy Bear eater.

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Sponsors Gary and Martha Bolen Mark and Shellie Bolen Charolette Conklin Marquita Green Susan James Lynn Lawrence Jim and Chris McLaughlin Allan and Marie Wise To be among the sponsors listed in the next issue, make a tax-deductible donation of $10, $25, $50 or more to: LCC Foundation: The Salal Review.

Acknowledgments The editors wish to thank the Associated Students of Lower Columbia College and the LCC Foundation for continuing to fund and support The Salal Review, the LCC Office of Instruction and Department of Language & Literature for supporting the Magazine Publication course that makes Salal possible, the LCC Publications and Purchasing offices for their invaluable assistance, Coprintco for their help with layout and their care and skill in printing the pages, The Peasandcues Press for making its hand bindery equipment available, and our individual sponsors for their financial support. And finally, our sincere thanks to Debby Neely for saving our bacon.


James Bolen Joan E. Bowers Eric Carney Dawson Carter Ray Cooper Greg Ebersole Jim Hanlen Steve Hansen Brian F. Harrison Janice Haupt Joan Herman Nick Hill Grant Holly Brenda Jaeger Kris Kibbee Christi Krug

Patrick L. Kubin Irene Martin Richard McCaine Lorraine Merrin Thomas Pence M. G. Rees Chalet Rigdon Pam Vawter Laura Waltrip Marie Wise Deborah Brink Wรถhrmann Richard F. Yates Kristin Yuill Linda Zandi James Zerndt

2010 Salal Review  

The 2010 Salal Review, award winning literary and arts magazine of Lower Columbia College.

2010 Salal Review  

The 2010 Salal Review, award winning literary and arts magazine of Lower Columbia College.

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