2011 Salal Review

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THE SALAL REVIEW Lower Columbia College Longview, Washington Volume 11: Spring 2011

Kathryn Marks “Event Horizon” Kathryn Marks

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 and no more than 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 2011. For artwork, submit up to five pieces, either on paper or by e-mail attachment, during the month of January 2012. We will accept color submissions; however, we have more space for black and white work. An image that is submitted both in black and white and in color will be counted as one submission. 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 inquire further, receive a copy of The Salal Review, or arrange a sponsorship donation, call us at (360) 442-2630 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.


SALAL EDITORS: Dana Bolen G. Dean Bolen Jr. Austin Brigden Rose O. Edwards Mykel G. Gosch Tyler Loback Amanda L. Stoddard Cassie L. Thacker

SALAL STAFF: Jacquelyn Bouchard GraceAnne Eyer April Grasser Susan M. Leaf Andrew B. Perry Shawn A. Preston Nicolai S. Salkovics Sheila D. Sharp Darren A. Stankey Natalie Thomson Hannah Valenti FACULTY ADVISOR: Hiedi Bauer

The Salal Review Lower Columbia College P.O. Box 3010 1600 Maple Street Longview, WA 98632


PROSE Jodi Reid Dahlke

The Ant


Christopher Ellis


Scott Warfe

The “N” Word


POETRY Patrick Carrico

Bars I’ve Been To


Ellysa Champ

A Needle in the Eye


John Ciminello



Jodi Reid Dahlke

Unfit for Change


Elizabeth G. Dailey

Breathe, Dance Deep


Joseph Green

No Change in the Weather


Art History


Sharon Hartley Iverson

We Stayed Too Long


Jacob Lichty



Stained Wire


Don’t Run Screaming at the Stars


Two Miles


Lorraine Merrin

Ryan Tallmon

Silent Praise Beneath Closed Eyes


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ART Dennis Blake

Lost Glory


Abandoned Truck


Mark T. Bolen

Tunnel Vision


Angelo Boliani



Charolette Conklin



Ray Cooper



Calandra Frederick

The Storm Is Coming


Ron Gaul

First Shot


Kathryn Marks



Linda McCord

Looking Within


Jake Morgan

Morning Has Broken


Ruby Murray

Underwater Cathlamet


Judy VanderMaten

Door to the Sea


Linda Zandi






Advising the Salal, I have been told, would be a daunting task. Daunting not for want of my own capabilities, for I can appreciate a good poem with the best of them and could facilitate a pit of snakes into consensus. Daunting not for the work ethic of the student editors, for they are an industrious lot. Daunting not for the trickle of submissions, for we have received a worthy gush. No, people have told me in voices that equate to hushed whispers in smoky rooms that they tremble at the gumption it takes to fill Joe Green’s shoes. Big shoes to fill. We’re not talking the cracked leather boots you see on men from whom you wouldn’t want to steal a wallet in a dark alley. Joe was a beloved creative writing instructor here at Lower Columbia College before he retired last spring. We’re not talking Ronald McDonald’s floppy tripping hazards. Joe is a talented poet. We’re talking full on apparel from that little old lady who lived in a shoe. Under Joe’s advisement, The Salal Review was awarded Campus Literary Arts Magazine of the Year by the Washington Community College Humanities Association. In the halls of Lower Columbia College, in conference rooms, even on the phone in the safety of my office, I hear, “You’re taking over from Joe Green?” You can guess what came next. But really it’s not about shoes at all, is it? The student editors are the folks who should, rightly so, wear the pants in this outfit. My role, of course, has been crucial. As advisor, I guide conversations about artistic standards, I wrangle with behind-the-scenes paperwork, I facilitate class meetings, and I pour over every literary and artistic submission. However, it is our editors who solicit contributions and who also closely read every piece of prose and poetry that you send in (or that you should have sent in. We will find you, intrepid writer. Next year.). It is they who lay out the magazine, design the cover, collate, and bind every page. These are the folks who plan the Salal’s launch at the Spring Arts Festival. The richness of perspectives that they bring allows this magazine to capture a tapestry of fine work from the artists of this region and to present it well. Perhaps they even have their own shoes as well, dancing shoes. It has been my pleasure to waltz with this group. One might appreciate the cadence


in this poem. I counter with the symbolism in that piece of prose. Another highlights a piece’s strong verbs, concrete imagery, and effective alliteration while I turn to a piece that has that intrinsic something that makes a reader pause at the end, hungry to read it again. The editors and I dance, advocating for this piece of poetry or that piece of prose, for this piece of art placed just so in the magazine. As these rhythms have unfolded over the last several months, I am satisďŹ ed that the continuity of the magazine rests intact. Most important to this continuity is the body beneath the tapestry, and that is you, faithful contributors, intrepid writers, accomplished or aspiring artists, and loyal readers. While it is clear to all except the most diehard of postmodernists that we would not exist without you, our mission is to exist for you. Our ethos is one of transparency, to fade into the background in order to honor and showcase the artists and writers of this region. You can see these principles in the decisions the editors have made, from the philosophy behind the cover design, to the elegant simplicity of the layout, to even the careful choice of font size for the titles of the individual works and of font style with which to present their contents. Shoes be damned. Here at The Salal Review, what we’re really shooting for in every sense is an emperor without clothes. Hiedi Bauer Faculty Advisor The Salal Review


SILENT PRAISE I tear a blade of grass from its stem; like ribbons, the fibers hang loosely as they sway in the breeze. Dew, like tear drops, highlights the terrain; rays of light penetrate everything, eliciting color. Through evergreen branches dawn seeps through; mist clings to the valley and creek bed like a ghostly flood tide. A spider skims across my hand’s skin; leaving no evidence, it jumps off and disappears below. If one picture equals many words, I surely speak too much and am slow to hear life’s silent praise.






NO CHANGE IN THE WEATHER Cold, but not raining outside of Powell’s City of Books—a guy in a ratty watch cap has something to say to the streetlight. His face, spotted like oatmeal with dried cranberries in it, wads up and shakes loose repeatedly, and his fingers busy themselves with some indecipherable typing or piano playing as he speaks. Something must be done but the streetlight isn’t about to do it alone. Luckily, a black man with dreadlocks unrolls a long streamer of toilet paper and loops it from the bike rack to the trashcan, around the streetlight pole, and back across the sidewalk to block it off. No one is going to interrupt that conversation now. Standing near the doorway, the black man looks almost official in his buttoned-up black raincoat, although there’s still no sign of rain.






CHANCES In the dark, I listen to music from a distant radio, a Sinatra tune, about a summer night, a man, a woman, a chance encounter, and the blemish of a white lie. Between the creases of a folded note and whiskey on the rocks, the scent of complications, as molecules of jasmine dance and cling and linger on the skin. Moons skip on rippled water, ecks of anticipation and the radiance of a glance, the dreamer and the dream cross an ancient borderline each without a passport, map, or compass.



It’s an old story, comfort in the dark, where anything is possible and everything turns as the dealer flips the final card and chance casts its shadow across the fools of time. Perhaps this night is different, then someone twists the dial and Sinatra gives way to the reggae beat of Jimmy Cliff wailing something about freedom and a fall from grace.




We move, feet point, step up, Feet brush, lift up, extend, Wait. Roll up, roll through, arms move, Heads turn, calves burn, lengthen, Stay. Turn quick, heads whip, pivot, Stay together, hit pose, Hold. Hearts pulse, give more, hold core, Step up, dig deep, and spring, Float. Step through, bend knees, big leap, Land silent, feet quiet, Breathe.








8 3/4


There are only a few things that a man really needs in order to feel content with his life. Call it a Zen thing if you will, although I don’t give much credence to that sort of mumbo-jumbo, but it is what I believe. Here is a list of a couple of the essentials, in no particular order: a good winter’s coat, sturdy leather boots, a Swiss army knife, a library card, and a good cereal bowl. I’m shopping for that last one now. Now, I know what you’re probably thinking. A bowl is just a bowl is just a bowl. Not true I say, and I’ll tell you why. Number one, it can’t be metal; that clank-clank as you scoop from the bottom is like chewing tin foil while running a balloon down a slate chalkboard. Number two, it can’t be too small. Otherwise, you have to fill that sucker up two, maybe three times before you’ve had your fill. Number three, it can’t be too big either because by the time you get to the last of your cereal, sog-city. I’ve been looking for a long time now, and I’ve been through hell trying to find the perfect one. But I got a good feeling about today; something in my bones tells me I might just get lucky. Yes, I know that it sounds a little silly, a little thing like a stupid old bowl. You’re probably thinking old Billy Kepp (that’s me) is a little off his rocker. Maybe you think I should be spending some of the time and energy that the good Lord saw fit to give me looking for fame and fortune, or a beautiful wife to take care of me, or both. That’s a big pile of bullshit if you ask me. Most rich guys are miserable. They spend most of their lives trying to get money by any means necessary. They invest, they save, they steal, they swindle, and they lie. Sometimes they even work themselves to death before they get to enjoy it. Then when they do get it, they spend the rest of their lives trying to keep it from another guy who’s trying to save, steal, swindle, and lie to get his own fortune. And a wife? That, my friend, is what we down at the polo club call a big, fat, belly-aching laugh. Most married guys play all nice when the wife is in the room, but as soon as she’s gone, they’re hitting on some filly (or colt), or they’re drinking their own guts out. I’ll keep my worry-free bachelor life, thank you, if it’s all the same. Anyway, back to the cereal bowl dilemma. How did I come to be so coon-dog about such a thing, you say? Well, I guess you could say it was the


way I was raised. I was born some forty-two years ago in Dolence, Alabama. They tell me I was what they call a “junk baby.” I guess that means that Momma was on the heroin when she was pregnant. The state tried to take me right then and there I’m told, but Momma fought tooth and nail, telling those welfare people, “Ain’t nobody gettin’ my boy, ‘less you kill me cold dead, right now!” The problem with Momma though is that she just couldn’t get that tar monkey off her back. Don’t get me wrong, there were times when she hid it well, fooled everybody really. Her track marks marched down from the crook of her arm to the back of her legs, like ants at a picnic. She even got a job tending bar at a place called Smokey’s in downtown Dolence. It was a pretty rough place from what little I remember. She used to bring me to work with her, and I would sit in the backseat of her old rusty station wagon with a supply of Twinkies, Ho-Hos, and grape soda, reading one of many books we checked out from the tiny town library. I would watch as bikers, laid-off factory workers, or just plain drunks walked into Smokey’s with a purpose. A few hours later, those same characters would come out, either stumbling or fighting, or both. I remember one biker in particular, and I remember him well. His name was Bobby Jack, and he was mean. Now you must understand what I mean when I say “mean.” He didn’t yell or curse or cause much of a ruckus. In fact, he didn’t say much of anything at all. But the thing about Bobby Jack was, well, you could just sense the evil in him. It was like he walked around surrounded by an air of pure hate. People stepped out of his way, even his friends- if you could call them that. He sweated mean, walked mean, gestured mean, even probably pissed mean. I still to this day have nightmares about him, my devil incarnate, the monster under my bed. I have good reason. One night when I was seven years old, I was in the backseat of Momma’s car, lost in the fantasy world of whatever book I happened to be reading. I heard the big motorcycle from blocks away, a deep thunder that put my teeth on edge. After shutting off the engine and kicking out the stand, he took a long, loving look at his Harley. He wiped a smudge off of the gas tank and let out a satisfied grunt. He started for the old saloon-style doors of Smokey’s, when he stopped suddenly in his tracks. He spun around and zeroed in on something. After a few seconds, I realized that something... was me. I tried to shrink myself down into a little ball, to disappear, to become one with the old smoke-stained seat. I could hear the clink of his boot chains, followed


by a slight drag from the limp he carried on his left side. I looked up and there he was at my window. He gestured for me to roll it down. I suddenly had to pee, badly. I hesitantly turned the crank, and the window fell a small fraction. Even though it was a tiny opening, I could smell him immediately. He stunk of cigarettes, liquor, and moldy sweat. To me, he smelled like death itself. “Hey kid, you Jonesin’ Janet’s brat?” The charnel smell doubled its intensity as he spoke/hissed through the small gap. I hated that nickname. Most people made an effort not to call Momma that while I was within earshot, but Bobby Jack didn’t seem to care, and I felt no inclination to correct him. He was huge, at least six foot eight, and built like a concrete bunker. “Yes sir,” I replied with a gritty shake in my seven-year-old voice. He seemed satisfied with my answer but stared at me for what seemed like eternity, his eyes like red-hot lasers piercing through me, burning a hole all the way to the back of my skull. “You see that hog over there?” He gestured over his shoulder. I had no idea what he meant and started scanning the parking lot looking for a pig. He noticed my confusion. “Don’t be a smart ass kid, I’ll break yer fuckin’ thumbs. I’m talkin’ about my bike.” I looked down at my hands as if to say goodbye to my thumbs. “Yes sir,” I managed to stammer. “I want you to keep an eye on it. Your slut of a ma will be inside ‘til closin’, so I know you’ll be out here. Anything happens to that bike, and it’s yer ass. You hear me, dumbshit?” “Yes sir,” I managed again, starting to feel like a parrot from one of my pirate stories. He took one more long hard look at me, turned, and walked away. I realized that I had been holding my breath and let it out in a huge woosh. I was sweating profusely, and I had to pee worse than ever, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off of the Harley. I felt around until I found an empty Nehi bottle and relieved myself, then and there. A few hours later it was closing time and the patrons started pouring out. A short fat man stumbled out through the saloon doors, swaying comically. Suddenly, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. He was walking towards Bobby Jack’s Harley! I opened the door to yell something, anything, but it was too late. He was on his knees, vomiting on the front tire. I got out of the car and ran barefoot to the vomiting man. Just then, Bobby


Jack walked out of Smokey’s and saw what was happening. He picked up the fat man, who was still spewing liquor and stomach fluids down the front of his self. Bobby Jack began to beat the man mercilessly. After several blows, the man crumpled to the ground. Bobby Jack began kicking him, the chink-chink of his boot chains echoing throughout the parking lot. The kicking set off a new wave of vomiting from the little man, but the only thing coming up was blood this time. Suddenly, he stopped defending himself, and a minute later Bobby Jack stopped kicking. He turned toward me. I tried to run, but it was too late. He was on me. He picked me up by my hair and dangled me at eye level. The pain sent sparks in front of my eyes, a myriad of dancing stars and color. “I told you, you little piece of shit! I told you what would happen! Didn’t I, you little fuck face?” and with that he punched me square in my nose, crushing it into a mess of pulpy flesh and gristle. All sound fell away for a split second, then a darkness, and then a humming as I came to. Suddenly I heard my mother. “Get your hands off of my son you bastard!” Momma jumped on Bobby Jack’s back, reaching around him, trying to scratch his eyes out. He immediately let go of me to deal with her, and I fell to the ground with a thump to the back of my head which brought the stars again. Now, I was bleeding from two places. I felt myself slipping in and out of consciousness, an ebb and flow of darkness and light fighting for my attention. Bobby Jack easily threw Momma down, and she landed with a heartbreaking thud. He came at her then, and I could have sworn, through the haze and the blood, Bobby Jack was laughing. Momma pulled something from her pocket while scrambling away. It was the buck knife she carried for protection when we had to sleep in the car. She slashed weakly at him, but he came anyway. She managed to stick him in the leg, causing him to howl like the devil. Angrily, he pulled the knife out of his thigh and turned my mother over. I could see her face, the fear in her eyes as he pulled her head up by the hair and ran the knife across her throat. We looked into each other’s eyes, the life running out of her, the blackness swallowing my mind whole. Bobby Jack killed Momma that night, and the fat man died two days later in the hospital. The police pretended to investigate and even put on a sham of a half-assed manhunt, but in the end, no one really cared about Momma and the fat man. I heard through the grapevine that two years later


Bobby Jack was killed by a Dade county sheriff who tried to arrest him for an unrelated killing. Little consolation, as far as I’m concerned. After that, I bounced around from foster home to foster home. I became hardened and angry. I hated the world and felt a blackness in my heart for my fellow man. That is, until I met Myron and Edna Kepp. I was eleven at the time, too old to be adopted outright, and had resigned myself to my fate. The Kepps were old as far as foster parents go, both in their late sixties. They could never have a child of their own, so they opened their home to kids like me. When they first took me in, they had another boy living with them as well. His name was Tommy, he was twelve years old, and he was horrible to the Kepps. He would call them names, spit on the floor, and steal money from them. Sometimes, when no one was looking or we were tucked in for the night, he would bully me mercilessly. I hated Tommy. The house was of a modest size, with intricate woodwork throughout. All of the furniture was made by Myron as well, and I used to spend hours tracing the delicate carving on the arm of a chair, the inlaid bone on the leg of a table, or the masterfully crafted flowers on the molding. Myron was very handy, and he took great pride in his work. He would often tell me the story behind this chair or that table. I was mesmerized by what one person could accomplish and often daydreamed of Myron and myself working side by side, making things. At eleven, I was as skinny as a rail, but that changed quickly. Edna was an excellent cook, and she made sure I had plenty to eat, three times daily. There were pancakes, waffles, eggs, and toast for breakfast. For lunch, she would make thick sandwiches, beautiful soups, and french fries. For dinner, we would have mashed potatoes, spicy carrots, and homemade bread. And with every meal, we would have meat. Sausages, burgers, steaks, and roasts- you name it, we ate it. Tommy always complained. He complained about the fat, gristle, and saltiness. He complained about everything. Every once in a while, I got the slight impression that the Kepps were losing patience with Tommy, but they never lost their smiles. For the most part, the house was ours to roam. That is, all except the basement. We were strictly forbidden by the Kepps, which drove Tommy crazy. He had to get into that room. One day Myron and Edna ran errands, leaving us alone. Tommy


watched as they backed their old Skylark out of the driveway and pulled away. “C’mon dweeb,” he commanded me. I could tell by the tone in his voice that he was about to do something stupid. I didn’t feel like getting punched, so I followed. We eventually came to the basement door. Tommy rifled through his jeans for a few seconds and pulled out an old key. “Ta da!,” said Tommy, grinning like a jackal. “Let’s see what these old farts are hiding!” I protested, “Don’t do it, Tommy. You’re gonna get us in trouble...” “God, you’re a pansy! We’ll lock it back up, Momma’s boy,” and with that he unlocked the door and swung it open. It was dark down the stairs, but after a few moments fumbling at the wall, Tommy found a light switch. I tried to leave, but Tommy grabbed my shirt and said, “You’re not going anywhere, nerdo!” and proceeded to lead me like a dog down the stairs. Once we reached the bottom, we surveyed the room. One long workbench ran the length of the room. On the wall above the bench were hundreds of tools hung carefully, almost lovingly, on nails. There were several different kinds of saws, hammers, and chisels. There was every type of tool you could think of and then some. Against the opposite wall were several old freezers of various shapes and sizes. I counted ten in all. Tommy went to investigate some of the half-finished projects that littered the work bench. I walked over to the freezers. I opened the first one I came to, at first puzzled by what I saw. I rubbed my eyes with my free hand and looked closer. There were packages and packages of meat. Hundreds in this freezer alone. I dug a little deeper until I felt something round. I picked it up to look at it. From across the room I heard Tommy gasp. “Oh my god...oh my god! This lamp is made of...it’s bones! Oh my god!” I looked down at the object in my hand. It was a human head wrapped in cellophane. My heart thumped wildly against my ribcage, and my mind spun feverishly. I dropped the head into the freezer and ran to Tommy. He stammered, “These are human bones, man...and this is a skull!” I looked at the workbench and saw what Tommy was looking at. There, halffinished, was a lamp with three outward-facing skulls making up the base. On top of that were three femurs standing on end. Jutting out of the top was a light bulb. Beside it was a lampshade, half-sewn up one side. It looked to be made of tanned human skin. Another wave of sickness washed over me as I


plucked at Tommy’s shirt. He couldn’t move. “Well, well, well...look what we have here, Mother.” We spun around to see Myron at the top of the stairs. Edna peered over his shoulder. “Looks like we have a couple of naughty children, Father.” They began to make their way slowly down the steps. “What to do, what to do, what to do,” tsked Myron. “I thought I told you to stay out of the basement. Now you’ve found my little...hobby. Mother so likes my work. It keeps us happy. What should we do with you two?” “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again!”I blurted out. Myron and Edna looked at me, and in their eyes I saw something curious. Tommy finally snapped out of it. “You sick old farts are going to jail! I’m gonna call the police!” Myron shook his head. “We never did like Tommy all that well, did we Mother? He certainly deserves punishment. Nasty little thing. But Billy? What to do?” Myron and Edna looked at each other communicating in silence, the way only an old couple can. After a moment, they seemed to come to an agreement. They turned back toward Tommy and me. “Father?” “Yes, Mother?” “Don’t you think Tommy would make an excellent cereal bowl for Billy? Hmm?” The Kepps then began a slow descent down the stairs, never losing their smiles. So now do you see my dilemma? The old bowl that Myron lovingly carved for me is fine for a kid, but I’m much older now, and I need a much bigger bowl. Too bad Bobby Jack isn’t still around. His head was enormous.







Diseased and broken, awed and decayed. Brittle bones and nails, dull as dust and ďŹ ne as powder, swept under the rug. Glass eyes follow shadows, dancing around the dim room. Neutral grays and blues cast ghostly glares and memories throughout the area. Each blink of those glass eyes brings one closer to the end of his time. Curled in a corner, ancient brown, and dry as tea leaves. Discarded and forsaken. Ashes spilled, a broken pot lies strewn, clay shards like a puzzle never meant to be pieced together. Empty hearts like a graveyard. Eyes full of sorrow, like the full moon, ivory and glass. Pain and fear and regret, no longer haunt. All is forgotten, besides silence. A needle in the eye.


BLACKLUNG I took the 507 back It had to be caught and I grabbed the cab Called the cab in And threw the behemoth bags of laundry In the deep trunk Kings Station, please. I need to catch theCurling, coiling Wafting white waves of smoldering smoke Middle Eastern man Coughing and Hacking and waving his hand No problem my friend. Dropping the meter, it clicked and rose up My wallet felt skinny Turning, I noticed his cut, blemished nose And the flare of nostrils Ranting and Raving he violently stated This country’s no good And his fist, solid and dark, pounded dash I am Habib, he sighed And ran his brick fingers through stone hair I am Jacob, I sighed And ran spindly fingers through thin strands Clearing his throat Sound tracked the drive, beating drum with The smoke. That smoke! We passed the city in flashing colors, blurs He didn’t seem to look And his face, made of steel, was held by his Brick fingers sternly I gave him the benefit and talked about sport Choking, smoking response



15 dollars by now had been rode on my ride And still, I saw nothing Not the beauty of the buildings in the clouds No one on the street As perfect as Habib, struggling to hack up Coughing it away Blowing the spindles of smoke silently out To another attack At 20 dollars the station in sight, he put The windows down And looked back at me with soft eyes And stone hair And the paper melted as he lit one more up Sorry for this I paid him the twenty and a five dollar tip Because that’s all I had So I pulled the behemoth out of the back And pulling away Habib coughed once more for assurance Shook his head Pulling away, head and fingers merged So, I turned Bags in hand I began to approach the train When I hacked








DON’T RUN SCREAMING AT THE STARS LORRAINE MERRIN If you get lost they say stand still hug a tree. That only works if you weren’t aiming to get someplace by dinner time, and if a lot of people know you and where you’re likely to be headed. Otherwise, you could stand there wrapped around that damn tree for as long as it takes ‘til your arms fall off— ain’t nobody coming for you ain’t nobody even figured out you’re missing, and you certainly didn’t look lost when you sauntered through the other night with your half-full bottle of Jim Beam and two pretty gals wrapped around you, though most will concede they figured you for one helluva hangover when reality set in. Brother, I don’t know what to tell you—you never listen anyway.


If you can’t find your way home, it’s too late to help you. If you can’t find yourself, than the odds aren’t good. Best to keep your head low and your mouth shut— don’t run screaming at the stars or the devil will surely find you.




Lions’ fangs lacerated flesh. Men, women, and children knelt united on the bloody dust and looked to heaven as 50,000 zealots gorged and cheered. Holy servants shredded bone and marrow. Below bell tower steeples, they wielded saws, hot irons, and crucifixes, chanting holy words while tearing tendons and twisting truth. Nooses snapped slender necks at the drop of a black cockle hat. Uncovered heads nodded as lips spewed thanksgiving for warding off the workers of wickedness. Fuming furnaces burned bodies, skeletal corpses succumbed to cyanide. Piles of spectacles, shoes, and golden stars littered the ground—silent, screaming witnesses. Printers spill black ink: “Never Again!” Papers skid across silent, murky streets following trails of bloody feet worldwide. Beneath closed eyes, intolerance thrives.







She was superstitious about stars, the way they sat in the sky to rest in their deep stillness till dawn. The weight of water carries its own charm we bring up from the valley of time. Uncertain how the pieces will fit in our dizzy heads. But we were fit to dance in the stars’ glow, to take what we needed of time before we succumbed to rest and lost the gravity of our charm sinking beneath the coming dawn. Sadly, every daybreak has a dawn, like time that doesn’t fit. We are rattled by our seamless charm glowing brighter than the stars. We are undone by the rest of love we will lose in time. Every time, like this time the sun rises slowly with the dawn, yet night provides no rest for disintegrating fires that will fit bits of charcoal in our gloves. So many stars unresolved to charm.


Tonight with its broken charm battles will not end in time nor keep their distance like stars that shine before the crackling dawn. We forget we are unfit for change and too afraid to rest. You walk in search of the restLaughter is their charm; a tickle in the throat that can drown us or fit into forgotten time. Too many days take the dawn that makes its way into the stars. Time refuses to rest. Dawn remembers how it lost its charm, and whatever galaxy we are in, the stars don’t fit.




Caged merely to a crawl; crawl upon the land Bodies heaving from souls around leaving Fence and walls prevent a progress Embracing the sounds of the echoing change As boiling blood rushes to their heads “What we leave is a legacy untold feeling no remorse and spending no time healing what has been done” As long as they Sit outside Of no man’s land “What we feel; what a breathing living being all this shock pushed into our shells is so much. Once more we fight something we do not understand or even comprehend but we fight and fall for no man.” And some live; many do Others die and are pushed aside A cross and a star is passed by Caged and not crawling As when they crawled for their sins And their blood stained the wire







Christ, how many crucifixions do we need to see? How many severed heads? (Here’s St. John again, I catch myself saying aloud, or at least a piece of him on a platter.) Maybe Europe was always a dark place, even for the Enlightenment. Maybe we just cannot see ourselves in its trompe l’oeil mirror, or maybe it is water, after all, that runs thickest in us. But I have been holding back. I’m sorry. I have scrubbed out my cranium more than once and started over. Still, I’m always getting it wrong: my daughter used to live in the same building where a friend of mine needled himself to death. My father gave me the ring he’d worn for more than sixty years, but it barely fits my smallest finger. In the end he wouldn’t eat in my house because all my chairs were uncomfortable.


These are things that do not matter to anyone but me. And yet, somewhere someone else is weeping over something I can neither fix nor feed: the stray dog of remembered things. Like the way a Cambodian student told me her father died: his glasses smashed, his journals burned, his mouth stuffed full with their ashes, then the bludgeon, the bloody packed dirt outside her family’s house. Even Picasso’s horse writhing, dying on a museum wall in Madrid is not enough. But how many dying horses do we need? How many animal screams on canvas? How many sliced eyes, pierced hearts, electric shocks, cigarette scars, fractures, contusions, apparently random arterial spills? Carry me through all this, I say inside the museum, not really knowing who it is any more that I’m trying to get to listen.







marooned moon he can see us but cant reach coyote and blues man shines like that then dies like that lonely bar room light




Every morning, the table by the window at work houses a tiny colony of ants. Whoever reaches them first swipes them up with a napkin, and they scatter. They are the bulls in Spain, running furiously for their lives, for revenge. They are people in the streets running from the frightening Godzilla, seeking out shelter. They are climbing the Empire State Building. They are King Kong, and they beat on their chests with their fisted hands. They are tiny children playing at recess. One of them yells, “You’re it!” and the rest sprint away from “it,” avoiding the outstretched arm that fights to tag the next victim. They are sand beneath my feet. A multitude of ants is the conveyor belt at the airport. If you stand on their backs they will carry you through the terminal and to your gate. They are the escalator that takes you up to the second floor, and if you’re not careful, they’ll suck you under their metal teeth. They are the wheels, rotating to move you along the busy freeway. Their sturdy shell holds the weight of the car and its passengers and rolls along the ants that bond together to form pavement. They inhabit your television screen when the picture is unclear. They run in attempt to entertain and perform the circus act that they work so hard to perfect. They dance and sing their way across the stage.


The ant is the voyager that treks across Europe in search of enlightenment. He is the water that falls from the sky and drips from the power lines. He is energy zooming from the cable to the washing machine where he turns and scrubs the laundry to make it clean. The ant is the tickle in your throat, producing a cough that shakes him from his habitat. He ies through the air and is the wind that pushes the sailboat through the water. He links with his friends to make a chain as they wrap around the bike and secure it to its post. They hold tight, producing blisters on their tiny hands. He hangs from his buddy’s ankles, and his buddy from his, to form the strings on my guitar. They stretch and fold as I tune each chord, and they swing in melodious rhythm as the pick strums and plucks them individually. They are the metal wires on the bottom of my snare drum, working to produce the raspy but sharp beats in response to the wooden stick. The ant is the lightning bolt that bursts from heaven, igniting a ďŹ re on the ground. He bends and folds to create words on a page. As the typist writes, he scurries to reach the destination on time, to fool the writer and appear as text. His picture appears in every book. He is printed on the page; he will never die.




When the yelling started, he’d say Two miles, let’s run, and we’d take off, away from the house. We’d return to quiet, with Mama sleeping, Daddy gone off in the truck somewhere. Two miles, a prayer as he carried his best buddy to medics and the life-saving whir and clack of that chopper. Two miles and he’d walk the kids down the road to the general store, buy them popsicles or jelly beans while his wife pulled herself together, tossed out her empty beer bottles, dressed, started dinner. C’mon, c’mon, he urged his tired dogs, downstream along the river bank at dusk, hoping to find the neighbor’s boy. Just a mile or two, he coaxed the old truck, laboring its way into town: gonna’ by God see that new grandson. Down behind the home place is the sweetest little fishin’ hole— The breeze carries his ashes across the sparkling water as fish tease the surface.










“You’re such a nagger,” I say to my mom, who was trying to get me to finish my sandwich. “Aaron, do not talk to your mother that way. Do you understand me?” my grandma says. “But, she gave me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with chunky peanut butter. She knows I hate chunky peanut butter. It feels like I’m eating lady bugs.” She gives me that look that says “one more word and your gonna get a spanking.” I didn’t feel like testing her, though I knew I was right. I mean, how could I finish this lunch? Not only did they give me chunky peanut butter, but they also gave me a glass of juice that had tomatoes and ginger in it—I don’t like tomatoes at all, and I don’t even know what ginger is. My mom needs to have a serious conversation with my grandma, so they leave the room, even though I already know what they are going to talk about because I overheard my mom talking to my dad about borrowing money because my dad hasn’t been able to find work because of “Affirmative Action B-word.” Whatever it is, it makes my dad angry, and when he is angry, I get sad eyes. To keep me preoccupied while they have their “adult conversation,” my grandma gets out my favorite coloring book. It is my favorite coloring book because it has baseball players in it. Not just any baseball players, but the top 50 baseball players of all-time. I got it for my birthday this year because I love baseball. I have baseball cards. I have baseball hats. I once had a baseball tattoo that I bought for 50 cents at Los Gallos, which is a Mexican restaurant that my mom and grandma and dad and I go to every Wednesday night. I love it there because I get to hablo mucho espanol con mi amigo Emilio. My grandma got me this book for my birthday because I really wanted it. When I unwrapped it, I couldn’t wait to get home and use it. But, my mom said that I had enough coloring books at home and that we should keep it at my grandma’s. I was not at all happy about this. In fact, I tried to explain to my mother that “the opinion of ‘we’ is irrelevant because ‘I’ own the book, as it was a gift to ‘me.’” Needless to say, just like the time I tried to convince my mom that toothpaste was actually better for cleaning out my “dirty mouth” than soap, my argument did not go over too well, so I spent the next thirty minutes in exile, trying to find shapes in the plaster of my grandmother’s spare


bedroom to pass the time. I am trying to focus on the glaring blank spaces in the Babe Ruth picture. The only problem is that most of the players in the coloring book, like Herman “Babe” Ruth, Lou “The Iron Horse” Gehrig, Stan “The Man” Musial, and Melvin “Mel” Ott, played in a time when color photography was not “economically feasible,” like my grandma says. The problem I am having is that I have no reference to how I should color these players. Was Babe Ruth’s skin Almond or Banana Mania? Or, was it Cotton Candy? I have a crayon that is labeled Flesh, but what color is Flesh? I have flesh and my grandma has flesh, and neither of our flesh is Flesh. Hers is more blue-pink-brown while mine is mother-of-pearl-bronze. Yet, they are both flesh. Also, I have a “friend who is black,” named Marcus, and his flesh isn’t the color of Flesh. So, how am I supposed to color my all-time favorite baseball player Henry “Hammerin’ Hank” Aaron? Because he is my favorite, I am going to save his picture for last because Emilio said it should be my “obra maestra.” Once when Marcus was over, he wanted to help me color it, but I would not let him, even though he is my best friend. Hammerin’ Hank is not my favorite just because his last name is the same as my first name (which is pretty cool), or because he is black like Marcus, or because he played for my favorite team, or because he played the same position as me, or because he hit a lot of homeruns, which I want to do, but because of all those reasons combined. So, because I do not trust Flesh, I just shade in the pictures of the players who played before the 1940s so that they look like black and white photographs. Hammerin’ Hank is Marcus’s favorite player too. This is why we are friends because we have “common interests,” which, according to my grandma, is what makes for a lasting friendship. Marcus got mad at me once because I said he was my black friend. He thought that I was saying that our friendship was a different kind of friendship because he was black, which I wasn’t. My class was having a discussion about why people don’t like Barry Bonds as much as they like Mark McGuire. The teacher, Mr. Hale, suggested that it could be because Barry Bonds is black. I thought that that was ridiculous because I have a black friend and I barely even notice that he is black. So, when Mr. Hale called on me, I said, “Mr. Hale, I think that that is ridiculous because I have a black friend, and I barely even notice that he is black.” After I said that, I looked over to Marcus, expecting to see a look of satisfaction or of congratulations, but he shook his head at me instead. I was confused because I


thought I had a made a really good point and because I didn’t think I had said anything wrong and because it was true. But, when I got on the bus he hadn’t saved me a seat, which he had always done, and so when I sat right behind and tried to talk to him through the space between the seats, he ignored me. I even tried yelling because I thought he couldn’t hear me, but he could. So, I got really mad because everybody was laughing at me because he was ignoring me, so I told him that he was a jerk for making me feel like a jerk. By the time the bus got to my stop, I was crying because I felt like I was invisible, but under a spotlight at the same time. I ran to my mom’s car crying, and she made me tell her what was wrong, even though I didn’t want to. I just wanted to tell my grandma. I told her how Marcus wouldn’t talk to me because of the things we talked about in class, but all she could say was that it was too “mature of a topic for us to be discussing.” That is when I asked her what “juicing” was. She told me she didn’t know. I told her that it was what the students said that Barry Bonds was doing and that is why people don’t like him. But, she said she still didn’t know, which is why I like talking to my grandma more because she knows everything and because she has a TV—which I don’t—and she watches it a lot, probably as much as people who are in my class do, so maybe I figured she’d have heard. As I was trying to decide between Manatee and Gray for the color of Babe Ruth’s jersey, I couldn’t help but to hear my mom and grandma talking about my grandma’s health. My mom says, “How have you been feeling lately, Mom?” Which I think is weird because my mom called somebody else mom, and I guess I hadn’t ever thought that my mom had a mom, especially that her mom was my grandma. My grandma says, “I have been feeling better.” “Have you been juicing?” my mom asks. I almost didn’t hear it, and I wish I hadn’t. There is a pause in the conversation, and I am on the edge of my stool, hoping that she says, “No, of course not, because juicing is bad, like I told Aaron.” But, she is not responding and I am getting worried. I can feel heat rising in my cheeks, as my heart pounds in my chest. “Yes, but I don’t really think it is working.” My breathing becomes shallower because I can’t believe what I am hearing because my grandma can’t juice because when I had asked my grandma about what juicing was after I heard about it in class that day that Marcus wasn’t talking to me, she said “juicing is very bad,” and when I asked what she


meant by bad, she said “it is like cheating,” so when I asked if the students meant that Barry Bonds is a cheater, she said “kind of,” because “some baseball players take steroids or juice,” which makes them play better, but I didn’t get what the big deal was because it didn’t seem like cheating, so I said that I drink pickle juice before my baseball games because it gives me better endurance, and then I asked if I was a cheater, and she said “no” and that “I was not understanding,” so I told her: “make me understand,” which she didn’t like very much, and she said “Juicing gives players an unfair advantage because it makes them good at things they would not ordinarily be good at,” but she said “drinking pickle juice is ok because it does not give you anymore of an advantage than drinking water,” which I disagreed with, and she said: “using steroids is liking stealing the answer key to a spelling test,” and she said: “Barry Bonds was able to hit more homeruns than Hank Aaron only because he juiced.” Then, I got it. I feel just like I did when Marcus wouldn’t talk to me on the bus, when I asked Marcus what his problem was, when I yelled at him in front of everybody, when he wouldn’t even look at me, when I told him that I did not want to be his friend, when I called him the n-word. I didn’t really want to say it because he told me that it was a really hurtful thing to say, and I didn’t want to hurt him, but I lost control. When I said it, I was crying and so ran off the bus and into my mom’s car. That is when she asked me what was wrong, but I didn’t tell my mom the last part because I always throw up when she cleans my mouth out with soap. I am trying to think of something else, but I can’t. I start screaming and crying and tearing up my coloring book—my favorite coloring book that my grandma had gotten me for my birthday. The same book that my mom made me keep at my grandma’s house so that I would have a reason to come spend more time with her. I tear it to pieces because I want to teach her a lesson, because I want to make her sit in the guest bedroom for thirty minutes alone, because I want to wash her mouth out with soap, because I never want to see her again, because she betrayed my trust, because she betrayed me, because she is doing something that she said was wrong, because she is making my chest hurt. As I am ripping out the last pages from my coloring book, my mom and grandma come running into the room. My grandma is the first person to


me, like she usually is, and she tries to hug, like she usually does, but I try to fight her off. I scream and kick and cry and yell and punch and cry and cry and cry and cry and kick and punch, but my grandma refuses to let go. I think that it must be the juicing because she seems stronger than usual. Despite all of my best efforts, she hangs on and just strokes the back of my head and rocks me in her arms, like she usually does when I am upset at the world, when I am upset because mom and dad fight all the time. She holds me close and rocks me like she always does to make me feel like the world is ok, like everything is ok. I finally calm down, and my grandma asks me why I am so upset. I want to say that I heard her talking, that I’m not stupid, that I know what you’re doing is wrong, that she was the last person I ever thought would intentionally hurt me, that she has let me down big time. But, I just shake my head. So, she says: “Are you sure? Because I know it makes you feel better to talk about things. And you are so good at talking that it would be a shame for you not to.” I shake my head, refusing to look her in the face. Then, she starts to get upset. I can see the tears collecting at the corners of her eyes, and she gives me this sad look and says: “Please, will you tell me what is the matter? You always listen when I am upset, and I really wish you would let me listen to you when you’re upset like this.” I don’t want to give my grandma sad eyes because I don’t like getting sad eyes, and I know that other people probably don’t like getting sad eyes either, and when I give people sad eyes, especially my grandma, I get the world’s most saddest eyes, and I cry elephant tears. So, I take a deep breath, and I tell her. I tell her that she really hurt my feelings, that she betrayed my trust, that she should really reconsider her choices because she is about to lose her only grandson, and that I do not think I could ever forgive her for this. And, I tell her that I heard them in the kitchen talking about juicing, that she is the one who told me that juicing is like cheating, and that dad says that people who say one thing but do the opposite are full of the s-word and that I should not “be associated” with them. And, I tell her that I am crying elephant tears because Marcus isn’t my friend anymore because I called him the n-word because he didn’t save me a seat on the bus because I told the class that he was “my friend who is black,” which I know he doesn’t like because he told me he doesn’t like it. “Aaron, first of all, Grandma is not using steroids,” my mom says. “She


is using a machine that makes juice. We gave you some with lunch today.” “And, second of all, where did you learn the n-word?” I say that I had heard dad say it and that dad told me to not say it because I would get in trouble because “people who are n-words prefer to be called African-Americans or some b-word.” I say that in my coloring book it says that Jack “Jackie” Robinson had played in the n-word league before he “broke the color barrier,” and that I knew that was a hurtful thing for the coloring book to say, so I crossed it out and wrote “African-American,” so Jackie Robinson wouldn’t be mad or get sad eyes. “The n-word league?” my grandma asks. I tell her the n-word league was a baseball league made by blacks who were not allowed to play baseball because they were black and that Jackie Robinson was black and that he played for the Kansas City Monarchs, which was an n-word team, and that he did not like playing in the n-word league because people gambled a lot and also, probably, because it was called the nword league. “You mean negro,” my grandma says. “N-word,” I correct her. “So, you called Marcus a negro?” “Yes, an n-word,” I correct her again. “Sweetheart, negro is not the n-word. In fact, negro is an okay thing to say.” So I ask why my dad would say that it is not and why he would tell me that using the n-word would make people mad? She says that she doesn’t know and that my dad says a lot of strange things that she finds it is better to just ignore. My mom rolls her eyes and tells me that me we need to go home and that I can call Marcus when we get home and apologize, which I do not understand because if negro is not the n-word, then I did not do anything wrong, so I explain that I do not need to apologize because I didn’t do anything wrong and that Marcus should be the one to apologize to me because he was the one that ignored me and gave me sad eyes and that grandma told me that real friends won’t give me sad eyes and that because Marcus gave me the world’s most saddest eyes, he must not be my friend, unless he apologizes. “I think you should apologize, Aaron. You said it yourself that he doesn’t like to be called ‘your black friend,” my grandma says. “‘My friend who is black,’” I correct her.


“Regardless, Aaron, if you knew it gave him sad eyes when you say things like that, then why would you say it?” I say that to me it is not a big deal and that to me Marcus is not my friend because he is black and that Marcus is my friend because we both like the Braves and because we both like Henry “Hammerin’ Hank” Aaron and because I like to play Right Field and he likes to play Center Field and because he once traded me one of his Ken Griffey Jr. rookie cards for my Jim Thome rookie card, even though he knew it was not a fair trade and because he always picks me to play on his team, even if there are better players, and because he once got in trouble for throwing rocks on the school roof, even though I was the one that was throwing them, and because when I wet the bed when I spent the night at his house, he never told a person. I say that he is my best friend because whenever I have sad eyes because mom and dad are fighting, he makes them unsad. “Well, it sounds to me like Marcus goes of out of his way to make sure you don’t ever get sad eyes. Shouldn’t you do the same? Even if it is not a big deal to you, shouldn’t you consider Marcus’s feelings, like he considers yours?” my grandma says. I had never thought of it that way and thinking of it that way gives me really sad eyes, so I cry because I do not know what to do because I feel like I have been a bad friend because I am real worried that Marcus will never be my friend again, which means I’ll have to spend lunches alone, which means that I’ll never get picked to play on teams anymore. My grandma rocks me, letting me cry. My mom picks up the pieces of my favorite coloring book, saying that I did quite a number on it. Piece by piece, she gathers the shreds of paper. Some are fragments of color. Others are remnants of the different shades between blacks and whites. She places them on the table. “Oh look,” she says. “One picture weathered the storm.” When I look up, she is holding the blank picture. It is pinched between two fingers: my obra maestra, fluttering in the breeze from an open window. And, when I see it, I know what to do. We leave my grandma’s because my mom says we have to go. When I get home, I run to the phone and call Marcus. His mom answers and says that she is glad that I called. When Marcus picks up, I apologize and invite him over. I tell him that I have something that will prove how sorry that I am. I tell him that I have something that will show how much I “appreciate” him.


He asks his mom, who says that he can only stay for a little while because tomorrow is a school day. When Marcus gets to my house, we just go into my bedroom because my mom and dad are fighting because of what my grandma said. We don’t talk about the fight, like we usually would. Instead, I show him my coloring table. On it, I have dumped out every crayon I own. They lay in a large pile, like a mountain. And, at the base of the mountain is the blank picture of “Hammerin’ Hank.” I say that because we are such special friends that I think we should color it together. I tell him that we are not special friends because he is black and I am white. I tell him that we are special friends because we “consider each other’s feelings.” He smiles and starts to color. So, we just color, using every crayon. We start taking crayons from the top, and the mountain slowly becomes just a hill, then a mound, then a clod, then nothing. There are no more crayons, just Marcus, me, and a picture of Hammerin’ Hank. And, he looks just like he does in the real life, just like Marcus, just like me. It looks just like I had pictured my “obra maestra” would.





WE STAYED TOO LONG SHARON HARTLEY IVERSON We stayed too long Our words got small.





CONTRIBUTORS DENNIS BLAKE’S photos were inspired during a three day trek to Okanogan

Country. He ran across these abandoned “classic” vehicles left in farmer’s fields. These relics of the past now provide artists subject matter.

MARK BOLEN says, “In life, it’s always ok to have Tunnel Vision, but you must live with the potiental that you eventually will end up in a head on collision.” He would like to attribute his love for photography to his high school teacher Mr. Steve Hansen. ANGELO BOLIANI has been a photographer for thirty years. He started taking pictures of people in the ghetto neighborhood he grew up in. He moved to Washington after one too many run ins with gangbangers, and has since moved on to more subdued subject matter. PATRICK CARRICO likes to think his voice reflects the coy nihilism of his sar-

castic, meth ravaged generation. His film, The Coatroom (www.thecoatroom.com 2005) won numerous awards on the indie film circuit. He has settled outside Cathlamet, to stare blankly at the river for the rest of his days.

ELLYSA CHAMP is a student of both R.A. Long and LCC. She enjoys read-

ing, writing, and drawing in her spare time. Her ambition is to become a published writer.

JOHN CIMINELLO is the author of “Shrine Above High Tide.” His work has appeared in The Sun, Mentor, and Rain. He recently placed first in the Haunted Astoria Short Story Contest with “The Interpreter.”

CHAROLETTE CONKLIN is a Kelso writer who enjoys travel. She says, “While the best photographs and stories are often home based, this picture was taken in Egypt.” RAY COOPER is an art instructor at LCC and a frequent contributor to the


JODI REID DAHLKE graduated from LCC with a transfer degree in 2006 and earned a Bachelor of Arts in English from WSU. She currently works at LCC as an Academic Advisor and plans to earn an MFA in creative writing. She also


enjoys writing fiction in her spare time.

ELIZABETH G. DAILEY, while still in Running Start, took her capstone in

creative writing, centering her project on dance, particularly ballet. Dance holds a special place in her heart . “What better way to express your art, than with your own form?”

CHRISTOPHER ELLIS is a computer science transfer student at LCC. “8 ¾”

is a short story that he composed for Joe Green’s creative writing course. He enjoys writing but seldom has time for it these days.

CALANDRA FREDRICK is a local artist who recently graduated from OSU. She

currently lives in Rainier, OR and is a member of the Longview art club, For the Love of Art. Her photography has been previously published in Rain and also PRISM Magazine.

RON GAUL is an English/art teacher at Toledo High School and a member

of ArTrails of Southwest Washington, as well as For the Love of Art. Also, he has shown his work at the Koth Gallery in the Longview Public Library.

JOSEPH GREEN left his teaching career after nearly twenty-five years at LCC

to spend more time writing, printing poetry broadsides at The Peasandcues Press, splitting firewood, mowing his lawn, doing laundry, cooking meals, and washing the dishes afterwards.

SHARON HARTLEY IVERSON is a transplant from the Midwest. She owns

a snow shovel that is retired on a nail in the garage. She continues to enjoy the culture and natural beauty of the Pacific Northwest and is curious about people and their stories as told in books, art, or a mixture of both. She is an art intructor at LCC, and feels blessed to be a part of the learning community.

JACOB LICHTY says “Truly an honor. I’ve enjoyed this publication for quite a while now, so to be part of it is… pretty cool, for lack of a better term.”

KATHRYN MARKS’S realization of a passion for painting hit her recently. She dreams in color and strives to achieve uniqueness in every painting. Her works are shown at Columbian Artists Association events and The Broadway Gallery. LINDA MCCORD says, “ ‘Looking Within’ is an intaglio/etching of a woman


meditating. Embossed in the background is a ghastly image of a look at the future, or whatever interpretation the viewer wishes to use.”

LORRAINE MERRIN’S poetry has appeared in several journals, and her new poetry collection, “Holding Tight to Gravity’s Tail” has just been relased. “I must learn to blog. Oh my!” JAKE MORGAN was born and raised in Toledo, WA. After graduating from WSU, he tutored English at LCC. He recently moved back to Toledo from New York City. RUBY MURRAY is a writer and photographer who lives on Puget Island. Her photos have appeared in Connecting Waters and at the Broadway Gallery in Longview. A photo essay, “Ghost Fishing”, will appear in American Ghost.

RYAN TALLMON is a 2010 alumnus of LCC and a former editor of The Salal Review. He is currently studying theology, pastoral ministries, and English at Multnomah University. He wishes to thank Salal for the honor of being published and for Salal’s role in fostering his affection for poetry. JUDY VANDERMATEN has lived in the Lower Columbia area for about

twenty-five years, and is currently a resident of Cathlamet. She has taught photography at LCC for almost sixteen years. Currently, her work includes both analog and digital photography.

SCOTT WARFE credits his influence to Kurt Vonnegut, Nicole Krauss, and Paramahansa Yogananda. He writes and professes. He prefers small, manageable adventures to large, life changing ones. If he wanted to be known for anything, it would be his capacity for love, and also his karaoke skills, but mostly just the love. LINDA ZANDI is a lifelong resident of Kelso who graduated from LCC in

2009. She is currently attending WSU Vancouver. “I learned to love black and white photography from Judy VanderMaten at LCC.” Linda found a cementcovered wheelbarrow and rake in her friend’s yard, and couldn’t resist taking a photo.


SPONSORS Gary and Martha Bolen Charolette Conklin Joe & Marquita Green Susan James Jim & Chris McLaughlin Paul & Cathleen Miller Maureen Smith

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.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 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 Review 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.

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