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w e i e hT Rev l la a S

Volume 14 Spring 2014


The Salal Review Lower Columbia College Volume 14: Spring 2014

MoonlightView

Suzanne Norman


The editors of The Salal Review appreciate the support from the Lower Columbia College Foundation, whose generous contribution made this magazine possible. We are so grateful to all those who have helped create this year’s edition of The Salal Review. If not for the guidance of Debby Neely, we would have been helpless to navigate the murky waters of InDesign. We would like to recognize Dianne Bartlett, whose organizing abilities have truly been a gift. We would like to spotlight Danielle Shulke. As the head of Northwest Voices, her contributions have brought our wonderful speaker, Behind the Curve author, Joshua Howe to our annual Spring Arts Festival. Finally, we would like to thank Mike Stack for doing a truly superb job printing this magazine. It is through their gracious assistance that you, dear reader, are holding this magazine.


Senior Editor Lisa Hassett

Editors Tia Billedeaux Zach Christin Alyssa Kaufman Chuck Mitchell Jessica Presler

Staff Arthur Wheeldon Tyler Munson

Advisor Hiedi M. Bauer


Table of Contents Curmugeoned

GypsyVenus

Brydon Stewart

8

Diamonds

Brydon Stewart

Casting Shadows Ron Dodge

Crowded

Steven Ross

Just Such Serenity Brian Harrison

People Like Us

Matthew Daems

Forget-Me-Not

Summer Jennings

11 12 13 14 16

Creeping Beast Robert Prager

9

17

Hari Myers

18

19

Joe Bone

Brydon Stewart

Krad Esroh

Ata Berdiyev

20

The Circle

Robert Michael Pyle

Apocalypse

Summer Jennings

23

Mt. Rainer

Donald Frey

Sweet Dreams

Kelley Jรกcquez

24 26

Questions

Janice Haupt

21

27


Table of Contents NightView

Just Start Clapping Kelly Johnsen

Sleeping Beast

Azamat H. Berdiyev

Shadow Flower

Summer Jennings

28 29

31

Haiku

Alyssa Kaufman 34

Haiku

Klint Hull

Orcas Morning Debby Neely

Girl on the Edge Klint Hull

Unearthed

Nicole N. Jones

34 35 36 38

Suzanne Norman

41

42

43

Street Music Ray Cooper

Feathered Buddha Donald Frey

Night Train to Mombasa Janice Haupt

44

45

48

49

Equine Grace

Brydon Stewart

Perfervid Dawn Kelsey Engebo

The Embrace of Eden Richard Dreer

Frangibility

Jordan C. Loveland

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Advice From the Editors

Today, I almost enjoyed the Spring’s first sunshine. The tree’s first buds of the season are gracing the sky in vibrant hues and splashes all across town. Yet here I am at a grey desk, typing this paragraph for the seventh time, deleting it again and growing ever more frustrated in my efforts. My task is focused on delivering to you, the reader, a spark of motivation not to just experience The Salal Review, but to shape it. Reading this magazine means you’re probably either an artist or appreciate true virtuosity. You enjoy creating, snatching ideas from the murky waters of the mind and molding physical objects into symbols greater than the sum of their parts. People like you drive the beauty in our world. People like you give people like us meaning, why we get up in the morning simply for the pleasure of poring over your works. People like you make The Salal Review possible. So please, be selfish. Show off. Publications like this are dedicated to it. Being an artist is about leaving notions of humility behind and exposing your ideals to the world. Without hubris our staff cannot hope to expect magnificent works to simply be brought to us. Do you believe that words, paintings and the like can inspire people? Do you think art is a necessary food for the soul? Use your imagination, harness your creativity and form something that may far outlive yourself. It doesn’t have to be perfect – nothing ever is – but as long as it represents who you are and what you believe, it is worth showing. Pick up a pen or a brush or a handful of clay right now and never put it down. Ask yourself what you hope for most in the world at this moment and channel that into your chosen medium. You may be surprised at how easy the task may be. Only you can ever truly understand yourself, but your art helps give us bits and pieces of the puzzle. Art is like looking at bones in a museum and imagining the creature of flesh and blood they once belonged to. It is not the form that inspires, only what your mind makes of it. Like piecing together those massive skeletons of ancient creatures, creation gives form to our relationship with not only nature, but ourselves. We create only through imagination, envisioning the matter of the world around us in a position unique to history. Everything is in your mind’s eye. Our minds do not perceive the landscape, they are the landscape. The mind is the only part of you that matters, because it makes you a human being.


You are capable of breathtaking art, no matter the medium. It doesn’t matter if it is ‘objectively’ good; your art is a reflection of who you are as a human being. You may not be able to paint like Da Vinci or write like Keats, but it only takes patience and passion. Learn to embrace your abilities and cherish them – you are part of the only species in the known universe capable of creating art. And that, in and of itself, is beautiful. So don’t let my spending a beautiful morning in an office go to waste. We rely on you to hand us beauty. After that, we take on the arduous task of compiling and distributing the gems we find – even if a few accidentally slip through our fingers. In the words of Joe Green, our former advisor and a man of infinite wisdom, “If you’re writing or making artwork but you’ve not shown us what you’re doing, we hope you’ll give us a chance. Give us a try; try us again. In the end, whether you’re simply a reader or also a contributor, the truth is that we need you at least as much as you need us.” The Salal Review is not about us; it never has been. We spend hours on end, every day, for the better part of a year – specifically for you. So grace our pages with your story, show us what you truly believe and let us take a piece of you in remembrance.

Zachary Christin Editor The Salal Review

Cascade

Darrin Moir


GypsyVenus Brydon Stewart


Diamonds She’s Got Diamonds on the Soles of her Feet. (A Paul Simon line that alone all by itself caused The author of this poem, alone all by himself, to Weep softly, with an equal mix of agony and joy, nonstop For an hour); or, YOUNG VENUS UNCHAINED (All applicable Dire Caveats All around, Boys) The Poem. Well, She’s a dusky-skinned, flashin’-dark-eyed Latina kinda Little Orphan Annie Gypsy (some see a Vampire Pixie), topped By a mop of thick, soft, midnight curls; Poetess, Painter, Draftsman, Designer; Joyful Wielder of Fire and Molten Metal; High Clear Soprano (Classically trained), Dancer-Actress-Dark Beauty—oh! And whose cherry pies take blue ribbons at the county fair; Also (did I mention?) Sea Girl Swimmer; Tri-athlete, Maker of Medieval Chain Mail, Messerschmitt, Aspirant Boxer (the list is almost ridiculously Endless)… the one Constant being she’ll do whatever she wants to do whenever she wantsta… So There… Yup she’s a down home kinder reg’lar Renaissance gal, she be (Is There anything that gal can’t do?); on toppa Everything else, though—as the final felling Blow to thems she Slays— A Woman of the Horse: a exhibition trick-ridin’ Rodeo Queen, Born to the saddle on a East Colorado horse farm. Well, One hot midsummer dusk, while high atop her fiery Appaloosie, en route to her rock-singin’ lover’s rock show, where she’ll clear the dance flo’, with her easy-crazy wild all-night-long dancin’ (it’s her job with the b.f.’s band), she casually paused a space en passant (Thanx for the Thought, Kid) To gather up and carelessly pluck this aging Artist’s aching old Heart (old, yet grown tender with age as a raw, spring Virgin’s, old Heart); 9

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And then, as a kind of kind After Thought (thanx redux) for the Heart’s possessor (Brydon’s really old, but he’s really so sweet, you know) she Took it, said somm’t wrinkled, yet still red, beating heart, and tucked it away in the back seat of her skintight britches for safe keeping, may G-d bless her And keep her, the li’l darlin’; may Vios Con Dios her forever, the hard-sweet li’l Angel From Brunette Heaven. And Hell… first come to Land upon a Sea Shell (a bored-out 90-over with four Stormburg 97s Sea Shell) Sea Shell)

(Cow Girl

LeAnne’s Reaction to the Poem. (I the poet can hear her saying this, right into my right ear even if the reader can’t) OH PUH-LEEZE! HA! DON’T MAKE ME LAUGH! (‘Cept I guess I just did laugh…well, HA! AGAIN! Then) SO: BRYDON! I see that, after 66 years of living, you think you’ve Met your Match! At LAST! Been quick-tossed and pinned, you been, three times outta three…You think you found your Soul’s Mate and Love of your Life… and, Hey! Who’s to say you haven’t?! It’s just too bad you’re only forty-five years TOO LATE about it, though, HUNH?! HA HA HA HA HA! Comes now the patented Pat Paul Laugh…… ‘Cept it isn’t a laugh so much LeAnne had/has so much as it’s a whinny; LeAnne, see, having always seen herself— and sees herself still—as a bi-pedal Filly… , THIS SPACE ASSIGNED AS SECOND SHOE DROP ZONE. As can be plainly seen, still empty. The Poet’s Reaction to LeAnne’s Reaction. Well… that’s, just, like… your opinion, Missy. (And by MISSY I’m sayin’, I think you’ve “missed” on this one…) (Missy.)

Brydon Stewart 10

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Casting Shadows

11

Ron Dodge

The Salal Review


Crowded Steven Ross


Just Such Serenity

Last night I slid open the door So my final sight before sleep Might be the blackness Of the lake— still enough To reflect stars and moon, Silent but for fish-splash And coyote song— I thought Of the dying generations Who might have blessed Their lives with the same Ritual, memorizing Enough of the scene To recall this place As they later lay dying, Praying they might Waken to an incarnation Of just such serenity.

Brian Harrison

2014

13


People Like Us The front door was shut. Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows. The only light in the small living room came from the fast-dwindling fire that threw wild shadows onto the polished wooden walls. The aromas of burning oak and fresh whiskey hung in the air. A man leaned over a table with his palms pressed onto it. His hair was brown, and he wore a dark wool coat with matching pants, and a bright white shirt. There was a Colt Dragoon revolver on the table, and on its ivory handle there was a design of a polished obsidian scythe slicing through a chain. The crest could hardly be seen in the dim light. Another man paced back and forth, obscured by the shadows in the room. To the first man, he appeared to be of Romanian blood, but there was no mistaking the bands of metal that protected his form, or the short blade at his hip. The pacing man came to a steady stop, and spoke in a slow, quiet voice. “They’re coming, John. They’ll be here soon.” John lifted his head. His face appeared ashen in the dim light, but his eyes shone. “What should I do?” His voice shook. The standing man smiled and shrugged. “What you were meant to do? What you think you should do? What you’ve already done? What you want?” The standing man walked over to the fire, grabbed the stoker, and poked at the flickering embers. John shook his head. “I’ve no allies. Most of my men are dead. I haven’t seen my wife or my children in months.” He 14

paused, drew a slow, measured breath, and continued. “Do you know what Lincoln said to me when I asked him for help?” His voice was a whisper. “‘I disapprove of your methods.’” His bone-white hands were pressing so hard into the table’s coarse wood that he could feel splinters driving into them. Looking again at the stoking man, he saw that he must have been mistaken before. Closer to the fire, he looked much more like a Native, perhaps of the Lakota, and he was wearing furs instead of armor. John could hear people shouting at the edge of the city. He turned his gaze back to the table. “They’ll take every black man, woman, and child, and they’ll kill any white man who tries to resist them.” John hid a slight tremble. The stoking man regarded John with a sad smile. “Yes, they will.” “And if I go out there, they’ll kill me too.” “Yes, they will.” The stoking man grabbed a dry piece of wood from the hearth and placed it on the tiny red tongues that remained, and they gently enveloped it. Somewhere, a rifle shot rang out, followed shortly by a strangled scream. John shut his eyes. After a few moments, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked up not into the face of a Native in furs, but that of a black man wearing a strange suit and tie, with a warm smile on his face. “John, if you can fight for your dream just one day, one moment, then someone like me might be able to come along and share their dream.” The Salal Review


Matthew Daems John sighed. “What will dreams do against people like them?” He put his head in his hands and whispered, “There will always be people like them.”The black man smiled and held his fist to his chest. “No, there’ll always be people like us.” The fledgling flames found pitch in the wood and burst into a writhing conflagration. “People like us…” he whispered. John removed his hands and saw the new flame. His gaze lingered for a just few moments before he snatched his weapon from the table, shoved it in its holster, and threw the door open. He shielded his eyes against the flash of noonday sun that surged through the doorway. He uncovered his eyes, stepped into the street, and saw a pack of riflemen marching in his direction. At twenty yards away, one of the riflemen in front held up a hand, and they stopped. The rifleman stepped forward and addressed the troublemaker with a shout. “Hey, who the hell are you!?” John didn’t answer, but turned to look back into his home; the one he had spoken with was gone. The rifleman looked him up and down, and caught sight of the revolver at his side. “You’re in our way! Get yourself the hell back inside, now!” John stood like an oak in the dirt road. “Listen you; you’d best not do something stupid! The law says we have a right to what’s here, which makes getting in our way a crime!” The rifleman paused only seconds before issuing another command to his men. “Take aim!” They pointed their rifles 15

at John. “Fire!” The staccato sound of their shots assaulted John’s ears; the bullets kicked up dirt and blew apart bits of chattel on both sides of the road, but none of the rounds found their mark. John slowly drew his gun, his grip driving the splinters further into his hand. The obsidian crest on the revolver’s handle gleamed in the light of day. “You ask my name?” He aimed with care at the rifleman, who was then scrambling to draw his own pistol. “I am John Brown!” The report of John’s revolver echoed throughout the city. “Let America know and ponder on this: there is something more frightening than Cain killing Abel, and that is Washington killing Spartacus.” –Victor Hugo

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Forget-Me-Not

16

Summer Jennings

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Creeping Beast

What conversion occurs when shadows crawl forth and thirst for the twinge of morbid hate? Eyes glance evil at ev’ry conceivable chance for exile that negates the smooth caress and blissful kiss that human hearts desire. Rumbling thrums become a roaring radiant pyre banishing that beast’s skulking hateful power, which seeks only to devour frightfully fragile flowers.

Robert Prager

17

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I don’t have a sense of humor. I don’t even like to laugh. That I do is just a rumor Started by a blue giraffe. He accosted me at dinner With an endless stream of wit. Wore my patience thin…and thinner, ‘til I put a stop to it.

by Brydon Stewart (next)

Curmugeoned

Tied his hands up with spaghetti. Made a gag of garlic bread. See if he can be so witty With green beans on his head!

Hari Myers

Joe Bone

He looked desolate and broken. I felt fully gratified. Though my victory went unspoken, Perhaps I grinned a bit too wide.

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20 The Salal Review

Krad Esroh Ata Berdiyev


The Circle It is the unpremeditated murders you regret the most, the witless killings that half a thought would have stayed. The cat hit when you drove too damn fast, the wrong tree cut when you failed to check the leaves. “There’s a black widow out here,” the house painter called. “It can’t be,” you said, “this side of the mountains.” But it was: come back, no doubt, on your camping gear. So you caught the spider, set up a proper habitat, named her Rosie. I say proper: coffee jar, screw top, twigs; a bit of sponge for moisture. Fed her flies, and all went well — her beautiful black shine, double-delta ruby, virtuosic legs that caught the flies you brought and tumbled them up in her web. And you, ex-arachnophobe, came to love this spider. Then, damn! Too little air, mold came, she died. Every child knows you punch holes in the lid. You were going to pickle Rosie for the museum. But the spider man said, “the specimen isn’t that valuable, since it doesn’t represent a local population.” And your friend asked, “She doesn’t even get to join the great circle?” So when the sun came back and a pot of crocuses opened wide

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you placed Rosie deep inside one purple cove. Each day that crocus opened wide, you saw Rosie’s hourglass again; saw it run red into the West, a few more times. Then that Tyrean shroud closed up for good around her chitin form. But wait, there’s more! When you looked next day, the pot showed only short green stems. The yearling deer had eaten every bloom. Sometimes the circle closes by grace; other times by stupid accident. You’ll take it, any way it comes.

Robert Michael Pyle

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Apocalypse Summer Jennings

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Mt. Rainier once an alpinist now ever weary of my rope wary of rock fall I yearn for soft meadows at first light mountain goats traverse ridges of my memory as an island floats detached above a horizon awash with clouds a distant mountain face defying gravity a summit crater bulging rock and ice steaming primordial energies massive rock buttresses secure the summit wedged together above walls of ice stratums of rock and soil glaciers push past ramparts spilling monolithic fractured rivers of ice into valleys below grinding debris sending water to the sea

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on lower slopes fir and hemlock shelter delicate alpine fields where I will always sample huckleberries smile at flittering chickadees and bustling marmots watch fluffy anemone globes sway with sweet scented lupine and scarlet paintbrush along receding snow fingers clinging to rocks and shrubs under scurrying shadows as errant clouds flee the sun insects awaken and whir streams surge and spray picas whistle

Donald Frey

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Sweet Dreams My friend is afraid of nuclear power plants. We must tear them down, she says, as I place a soda can into her recycle bin. Radiation destroys everything. It will destroy the food supply. I remark that her dinner smells wonderful. The fear wakes her up at night; she shudders at images of children and cities blown apart. I admire aloud at the tidiness of her home. She remembers the five dollars she owes me. And the greed, she groans, attacking her purse. Thank you for the money, I say. I had forgotten. What about the future, cries my friend? It occurs to me that her children wear metal smiles— a clear sign that their future has been contemplated. She fears inevitable nuclear destruction. I tell her to sell the house, spend all her money. Take the kids out of school; see the world before it ends. Very funny, she says. But the world has gone mad. Yes, it has, I agree. But not yours. For Susan

Kelley JĂĄcquez 26

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Questions no one knows what angered the water what made it rise up and rage and claw at itself where it first had slept why it turned from blue satin like lovers’ sheets into a tunneling grave or why the thin curve of catamaran that had teased so well on the edge of foam became a futile toy and as quick as a lost breath relinquished three young friends to the sea

Janice Haupt

27

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Just Start Clapping: Out of context but useful advice The power words have are often never measured. Because lives move so fast we seldom have time to see the impact our words can have. Although difficult to truly assess a value to, the following three chapters try to give some weight to words. It may seem odd to take you back to my first year in the teaching program at WSU,Vancouver, however it is a must. A simple phrase offered by one of my classmate was used to deeply touch the souls of the fifth grade students I taught It was a phrase with the power to minister in sorrow and in joy. March, 2009 Kenny was our cohort’s most free spirited classmate. He liked to have fun, laugh, and live in the “don’t take life too seriously” moment. Another quality of his was he equally had the ability to hold a deep conversation as well. Although I probably shouldn’t have sat by him in class, I did. He was just so fun to be around. Throughout the many “methods in teaching” courses, we were required to write lesson plans. We were to then teach the lesson to our peers as if they were the elementary students. This practice was designed to help find the strengths and flaws of effective and purposeful planning. Most of the time the presenter’s lessons were well thought out and 28

effortlessly delivered. On occasion though… While sitting in a Math Methods class, the presenter struggled throughout her lesson. As the lesson dragged on all could sense she didn’t know how to wrap it up. It became brutal to everyone. Then it came. A lull. Surprisingly, Kenny started clapping. Everyone joined in. Smiles of relief were seen though out the room. The lesson was over. As each table group talked during the short break between presentations Kenny offered an observation in this simple phrase, “Just start clapping. It makes everything better.” He asked if we noticed how everyone’s countenance, including the presenter’s, had changed as the clapping started. I hadn’t. From that moment on I watched it work without fail. September, 2010 In a moment of inspiration, I had asked Kathy (my mentor teacher) permission to use a small portion in the upper corner of the white board. It was to be called “Mr. Johnsen’s Free Lesson.” Weekly, a new poem or phrase would be written there. At times it would be silly such as, “If a man lost his entire left side, would he be all right or alright?” Fifth graders like this kind of humor. At other times the free lesson would be thought evoking. Attention to the words was never forced because it wasn’t needed. Students The Salal Review


Sleeping Beast

29

Azamat H. Berdiyev

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always wanted to know what the words meant. It was here, I loved asking what “Mr. Johnsen’s Free Lesson” meant to them. It was a great opportunity to hear them think. “Just Start Clapping” was my second entry. We moved on not knowing the need for such great advice. September, 2010 Kathy’s Departure: Finding out Why I am Really Here Cancer cares not about the family it tries to destroy. Its impact has no regard for race, culture, family support, or age. Unfortunately, its presence made itself known to our young. During week one Kathy had shared with me her need for a simple surgery she was to have scheduled in November. This meant we purposefully planned to accelerate my role as student teacher ahead of the WSU schedule. I was to take over the class while she recovered. Kathy expressed her confidence in me and as always assured me she knew I was here for a reason. She let me know I would be a great teacher. Sometime during week three of the school year it was made clear my purposes for being there. I thought it was to observe a great teacher, to glean the skills needed, and to prepare me for a class of my own. It turned out Friday of week three was a day for crying. Kathy’s doctor appointment the 30

day before brought the heaviest of news none should bare. Further test confirmed a terminal cancer. It didn’t seem possible. She appeared so healthy. Yet, the doctor gave Kathy only three months with treatment. She let me know of the results before the school day started and gave me permission to excuse myself from the room as needed. As difficult as it was learning I was to lose her as a mentor, more importantly, I was losing a friend. She charged me to tell no one. Kathy wanted her peers to keep moving forward doing the great job they were doing. For a time, it had to be our secret. She also explained she wanted no pity. Kathy had done what she was called to do and had regretted none of it. She smiled. I left the room several times that day. It was still her class. She kept student learning going in spite of her secret. We met Saturday morning to discuss her life, my life. We laughed, cried, and then focused together how to best care for our students. We knew there was little time to take care of our own needs for grieving. We pressed on with a new plan with the whole student in mind. The following month and a half I found myself teaching more, planning more, and quietly grieving more. Excluding my wife and children, I had never connected to someone in such a level as with Kathy. I still have trouble conveying the unity we shared professionally and personally.

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Shadow Flower

31

Summer Jennings

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November, 2010 The week before Thanksgiving we had discussed how to share with students, parents, and staff why Kathy wouldn’t be coming back after the holiday break. Although some of the staff had to be told of her illness in order to find her replacement, it remained mostly unknown to others. There were only three days scheduled for the week of Thanksgiving. There was to be telling the news on Monday, Tuesday the introduction of the new teacher with her observing the class, and Wednesday having the new teacher taking over the portions I wasn’t already teaching. Kathy would be free to visit her teaching family on her last day to say her good-byes. Monday was heavy as expected. Sadness prevailed throughout the day. There were hugs and more hugs. Tears and more tears. Reassurances expressed followed by more reassurances. Kathy spoke more into their lives that day than could be imagined. She let them know how truly special they were to her. Half of the class Kathy had had the year before when she taught a four-five blended class. These students were especially saddened. They suffered even more. It seems unfortunate that the plan for transition wasn’t in our hands as much as we had wanted. God’s intervention or Mother Nature; snow would force the school to close 32

Tuesday and Wednesday. One day was all we were given to say goodbye. We are unable to fully know what effect the change in weather had to our class. December and January would start with Kathy no longer being part of the classroom. We would write letters and make cards of thankfulness and well wishes but still she was missed. There would be a day we would have to face. January, 2011 Our Loss Student learning pressed on. As Kathy’s time drew closer the school made preparation for such a great loss. The plan for grieving included a place for students to meet with counselors in the library and extra teachers to fill in for grieving fellow teachers. Each would be able to go freely to the library whenever they wanted. We had learned of Kathy’s passing late in the school day. We said nothing to the students. Parents were all called later that evening. The school district felt it best for parents to know first so they could share the news with their children in order for them to grieve as a family. The next day I found myself going in early to prepare myself for a day I had been dreading. For months, emotions had been held in check. The Salal Review


Kelly Johnsen I pictured in my mind the suffering my kids would experience and began to cry. Nothing could be said to ease their pain. As a man, I just wanted to fix this great problem. There was no answer. I could fix nothing. Most of the students came in knowing of Kathy’s passing. We cried and embraced many times. At times we would gather some sort of composure. Students were told whenever they wanted to excuse themselves to the library, without question, they could go. Students spent most of the time in the library that day. They would share remembrances, draw pictures, share their sadness, and make cards for Mr. Benny. The entire week we struggled with our unpredictable emotions. Seldom was their lasting relief from our sadness. Just before leaving on Friday, we were experiencing one of the deepest moments of grief. It was the words of a child, the words of one of my students that spoke to all of our lives collectively. These words were pivotal. We were all sad. They were the words we needed to hear to hurdle a barrier we were all facing.

Although the original context of the phrase was so different than at this time, I could have never predicted the usefulness of Kenny’s words. I had seen this phrase change the faces of my peers. I was now able to see it change the heart as well. This phrase wasn’t finished helping us yet. These words were repeated the following week, not in sadness, but in celebration. Kathy’s impact on us was so tangible. We had been expressing our thankfulness for Kathy being in our lives when another student raised his hand to explain how clapping is also seen as a sign of appreciation. Again, we clapped long and loud. She was gone but not forgotten. She was and will ever be a part of our lives.

The room was quiet when a precious girl raised her hand. Her face showed so much heart break when I called upon her. She merely said, “Mr. Johnsen, just start clapping. It makes everything better.” I am not sure how long we clapped. It did make it better. 33

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Crisp air tears at leaves. Children crack the day with cries Of morning laughter.

Alyssa Kaufman

Dewy blades bear small, pale feet, patiently, then rise re-borne in moonbeams.

Klint Hull

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Orcas Morning

Debby Neely The Salal Review 35


Girl on the Edge “It’s okay,” she reassures. Then: “I’ve done this before.” A lie. She leans way over, way, way over , going further than the rest of us had dared , we stare , skin flushing , breath caught in throats , every one a coward , except me (or so we tell ourselves) . Her short skirt flutters in a capricious stir of breeze, the pleats fan-dancing, maddening; one leg straight out, toe pointed, one leg straight down : majestic in the moment, a skater gliding on a blade, a silk-legged teenage weathervane. Tip ping forward, teasing, she glances back playfully, head cocked to one side,

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and winks, her knowing, flirting, hinting wink, she wavers the air, a breath the lightest caress an exhalation a slip of grip a foot belies and cool, green eyes fly wide, surprised; a white silk stocking starts to slide from sight and falling drives her certain smile astray and eyebrows furrow hair in disarray and likewise fulsome lips can only purse and stammer “hey –” in that last slip of innocence the day she fell away

Klint Hull 37

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Unearthed

“I’m gonna kill that bitch.” The same phrase for the last seven hours. Traveling through the desolate terrain of Eastern Washington, my brother’s half of the conversation was limited to this idiom. I kick my high heels- discarded hours ago- around the floorboards. I recall the long search through family trees and telephone records that have led to this point. Eleven months of hunting have finally furnished results: an address. My best friend since birth, and someone I’ve considered my sister, has been found she didn’t want to be found. I never agreed with Allie’s decision to leave. I understood it, yes but never agreed. The lifestyle of the Rose City Hell Raisers MC isn’t the first place I’d pick to raise a family, either. Looking at my brother, his rage palpable, I question a choice of my own. Four months ago, my brother was just a whisper of a human being. Never on the straight and narrow; I never thought too much about Daniel’s drug and alcohol use. But, his hollow cheeks, dead eyes and constant reek of liquor cemented my decision. Not knowing Allie’s fate was slowly killing him. She “disappeared” in the night, or at least that’s how we made it look. For weeks he had raged – demanding answers that I refused to give. Most of which I didn’t know anyway, most importantly… where. Daniel’s relationship with Allie was rough. She and I both trying to dig our way out of the criminal shadow cast by our fathers’ motorcycle gang; dreaming in secret of marrying men in business suits that were 38

home by six. We were both determined to get out, and live a safe, boring life. That was, until Daniel started showing more than brotherly affection towards my B.F.F. A whirlwind of passion, the two fell in love, inseparable until Danny’s position in the club started taking him away for longer and on increasingly more dangerous jobs. Threats, bullet holes, and trashed houses are to be expected in our everyday life. So until I was certain that Daniel’s downward spiral had reached critical mass, I couldn’t justify disclosing my best friends secret. I envisioned being told I was to be an aunt much differently. I always figured there would be tears of joy and giddy screaming. Not the mess of shaking limbs and fearful tears erupting from Allie when I opened my door that night. Danny had been gone for a week, I’m sure that fueled the reaction before me. She had determined to leave, abort the baby, and disappear. Panicking, I begged her to reconsider, thinking of my brother, and what he wanted. He had always wanted a family, and I knew her decision would crush him. Undeterred by my begging, she refused my tearful pleas. Allie planned to leave the following day. So yeah, I knew the why. Just never the where. She had left town before I made it to her place to say goodbye. My respect for her was the only thing that held my tongue through my brother’s verbal lashings. After I reluctantly divulged Allie’s secrets, Daniel started getting better immediately. He said he needed to “get his head straight” for when he found her and wrung her neck. I didn’t really think he’d strangle her, his love for Allie The Salal Review


was extreme. You could feel the sexual tension across the house and through closed doors when those two were in proximity. Allie used to joke that he was the ‘big bad wolf,’ she said she always felt like he was going to devour her. So I wasn’t worried about her safety until hour four of Daniel’s mantra of ‘killing the bitch’ as we continued on our trek through the Eastern flatland. A halo of light over the expanse of dark terrain was our first indication that we were near my latest nightmare. I was starting to panic so I asked Daniel to pull over so I could use the restroom to get my shit together. I’d counted every faded blue tile, and peed twice before I heard Danny trying to bust down the door. I screamed as the door flew open and shards of door frame scattered. I stared at Danny, heaving and wild-eyed, and I burst into tears. I saw regret flood his blue eyes as he took a hesitant step towards me. He wrapped me in his big arms, and I took a chance. “This is a bad idea, Danny. Please, let’s go home.” I told him. “No!” Was his huffed reply. “She doesn’t want to see us. It’s done. Danny, we can’t force her to come back.” I was almost begging. “I don’t give a shit what she wants! She up and leaves me, kills my kid, and leaves the club, my family, to pick up the pieces. Fuck her. That bitch is gonna see my face when I tell her what a disgusting piece of shit she is. She deserves worse.” He sneered, trying to remain calm, and failing miserably. 39

I heaved a sigh, nodded, silently relenting. Knowing this is one battle that I couldn’t win. Sending a silent prayer that the next battle won’t end in casualties, I follow my brother to the truck feeling like I’m about to witness a horrific scene. We traveled in silence for the final stretch of our journey. Danny probably sensed I was on the precipice of madness, and not wanting to give the final push. I’m filled with trepidation. I haven’t seen Allie in a year, I miss her desperately. On the other hand my heart is filled with so much anger towards her for what she did to my family that I, too, wanted to cause her bodily harm… Or did I? As it turns out, Allie’s long lost aunt had unsuspectingly taken her in in her time of need. I wonder if Allie ever informed her of what or rather who she was running from. Would her aunt be as hospitable if she knew what kind of trouble is nipping at Allie’s heels? Not likely. I close my eyes and try to breathe through my anxiety as we make our final exit from the highway. When I open them again, my eyes don’t leave Danny. How could they? His increasing tension with our decreasing speed made him feel volatile. He was a ticking time bomb and I was way too fucking close to the fuse. His blonde shaggy hair, the same color as my own, was a mess from running his hands through it. Another time, I would have thought this was his nervous tick, something I always linked with his being shy. But, as his anger has been his driving force for months, I now know this to be unlikely. The Salal Review


Nicole N. Jones

The residential streets are just starting to come alive with the dawn as we drive over the poorly cared for roads. As the navigation system directs us to our final destination I stare forward, unable to look at my brother, as we roll to a stop. I fear what might be reflected in his eyes. I hear a loud exhale from the driver’s seat, and a resolute smack against the steering wheel. I sensed him steeling himself, trying to gather his rage for the moment he comes face to face with the woman who betrayed him. The driver’s door opens and slams, I quickly roll down my window sure that this will be one train wreck I can’t just sit and watch, I’ll have to interfere. “Allison!” I start as I hear my brother’s scream. I look around but see the streets are still dead; but at this rate they won’t be for long. “Allison!” He screams again as he pounds his large fists on the front door of a small brown home. When persistent beating on the door brings no results, Daniel, flushed with rage starts to stomp across the well-manicured lawn towards the large white home next door. I follow him with my gaze, but a slight movement distracts my attention back to the brown house. My brother still stalking toward the large white home hasn’t noticed the motion. The door swings open and there stands Allie. Pale and thin, but she’s just as beautiful as I remember. I sucked in air at the sight of my best friend, tears burning my eyes. I don’t know whose gasp he heard, mine or Allie’s. Danny turns around abruptly and stops. Allie drops to her knees, disbelieving 40

shock on her pale face. Hands shaking, she covers her mouth as she let out a barely audible sob. Danny’s shock wore off, and he started toward her. Stalking her. “Listen here, bi-“ Just then another motion caught both of our gazes. A woman peeked into the doorway behind Allie. The woman was in her mid-fifties. The same auburn hair as Allie, this was no doubt the long lost aunt. The woman caught sight of Danny and started to step forward. “Allie, honey, do I need to call the police?” She asked reaching for Allie’s shoulder. Now in full view from the doorway, I gasped. Danny hit his knees, face in complete rapture. His earlier anger put aside. I couldn’t decide whether to watch Danny or keep my eyes on the woman’s arms. Because in the woman’s arms, swathed in a bright pink blanket, so small, was the most beautiful baby. I could tell from my seat in the car that the child has the same blue colored eyes as my own, the same as Danny’s. I was trying to hold in my sobs as I looked at Allie. She hadn’t moved, and I didn’t miss the fear in her eyes as tears streamed freely down her face; looking for all the world like a trapped animal. I quickly looked to Danny fearing his hostility. I didn’t see the hardened criminal, I saw my brother... with silent tears of his own.

The Salal Review


NightView

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Suzanne Norman

The Salal Review


Street Music Ray Cooper


Feathered Buddha A rainy day down towna sparrow flutters in a curb side puddle, like a child at play, confident, serene, and joyful. Unmindful of racing wheels and raised voices, she fluffs and preens. A feathered Buddha, unburdened by time and meaningGains a disciple.

Donald Frey

2014

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Night Train to Mombasa Take me to your magic place, Passion fruit and gold papaya, Elephant, giraffe, and zebra, Where Mt. Kenya climbs the sky. Take me far and warm Savanna over-land, the long voice Calling, “All ab-o-ard” Fast plains, past prairie, Coffee black? Coffee white? Rickety rails…so hold it tight. Gold papaya and passions fruit. Choose your upper bunk to sleep, if you can hold the slats together; and fix six inches for your gear. The restroom trek demands some skill; scramble Down the bunk and hang-on down the hall as the train sways its risky dance. Take a breath, go on in, but beware the large hole in the floor… The Indian Ocean and Mombasa are a gentle duet; hold hands so you won’t float away. Walk the slow enchanted sunset, Full moon nestled in the palms. Wonder at the surf so creamy, sand melting, moving, swirling. Splash our feet with silken water, legs and arms, cheeks and lips. Take me where you go, the whisper place, the floral night where wishes swim like colored fish, sheltered by coral reef and mango trees, papaya, passion fruit.

Janice Haupt 44

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Equine Grace Preamble to the Story The Horse, of course, is mankind’s better in every wise … When He created the Horse, the CreateOr shoulda quit while He was ahead. A peace-full plains-roaming herbivore, the Horse, whose first recourse In a fight is always Flight; and who, like any merely human Avatar, Ever lets his Belly’s needs be his daily guide. And when the time for the Horse’s earthly span to end comes due, he doesn’t fuss, He doesn’t fret; he only matter-of-factly nods… And toward them Achingly ever near-yet-distant …Horse Heaven HHHills, (with their limitless Promise of pure Green), He patiently plods … (Hoping for Nothing, Expecting even Less). The Story. When Old Jack, Wayne Welles’ retired cow pony, stepped on a rusty nail in an old fallen fence-board hidden in the grass in his sorry meager pasture, he got sick, from tetanus— a condition that moved Wayne Welles, down in town, 45

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not a jot, all of Pat’s impassioned pleadings on Jack’s behalf to no avail: Aw Hell, said Wayne Welles, draining his shot glass, you ‘spect me ta pay a vet ta go all the way up there ta treat a 22-year old hoss?! Just let him go! Go ahead and shoot him if ya “Can’t stand to see him suffer”… (Save me the trouble.) Mean while, back up at the Halfway House, on the Old Wenas Road (aka the Shushuskin), Old Jack, as if on cue, struggled to his feet from the belly-prone position he’d assumed for days, and staggered off into the bush, northward bound, toward the top of North Umtanum Ridge (where the Observatory is). And out there, in a little shallow draw in the sagebrush, in the only patch of shade and consequently fine green grass left for ten mile round, Old Jack he laid himself down again, heaved one long, unsad sigh, and died. That night in the cabin we heard the coyotes (must have been about four score and seven of them) away off under the hard stars and cold, indifferent Moon, whoopin’ it up, singing as they feasted;— sounded like a grand convention of Regal Knights of Galápagos throwin’ a matchingly grand fish fry. 46

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Early next AM we saddled up and rode out into the desert to see what we could see. Came upon that last patch of soft green grass aforementioned; now trampled flat, and brightly-glistening wet… though not with dew wet. (It was pushin’ one hundred already.) (A hundred even here in this last, lost little oasis of shade.) The biggest piece of anything we found in all that grisly, stark, flattened circle was part of a hoof; and, in the circle’s exact center— for coyotes can have a keen sense of symmetry— one gnawed, red, vertebrae. Dedication. To LeAnne Patricia “Pat” Paul, 1951-1978; and Leonardo Da Vinci, two eminent equinophiles… and also and finally, of course, to Old Jack, who, as most all would agree, had been dealt by Fate all things considered a raw hand at the end of his horse’s day.

Brydon Stewart

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Perfervid Dawn

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Kelsey Engebo

The Salal Review


The Embrace of Eden Warm, dry air flowed over the mountains and through the valleys, bearing with it the sweet scents of a God-given Earth: Lavender, soil; the flesh and toil of a thousand long years working. It was in a divine valley, gilded and loved, that these scents took shape from mere molecules to more substantial things. It was in this garden that Man arose. It was not a Genesis, it was not divine favor. A Lord on the sidelines merely watched, playing the spectator as a scientist would one of his experiments. It was a given that the experiments must not be interfered with unless directly necessary. So, in wonderment and grandeur, He watched. The still-straight back of Man reared from his work in the soil and dirt of the land. He saw all that needed to be seen, felt all to be felt, smelled all that there was to be smelled. There was nothing that escaped his piercing, careful eyes, which raised from his furrowed brow. He calculated and took to account all things he saw. He worked not because he must, not because of instinct, but because it dictated his self-worth. Man worked for the right to work. And Man built for the right to build. He constructed gleaming pyramids, startling towers, crafted tools and knowledge and a basic understanding of the world around him. And during this, he realized that his garden could be so much more. The maize and palms and wheat could be gown into something so much more splendorous. And as Man 49

constructed his home, his sanctuary in which he found peace and solitude, well-earned after a day in the Garden, the observer grew nervous. His will be absolute; Man may seek to overturn him. He had set it in motion, but it was quickly spiraling out of control, on a crash course with Learning. Man realized that, without his Garden, he was free to busy himself and build all that he pleased. The crops wilted, the trees and palms so tenderly cared for slowly went into hibernation, and finally died. The garden was a black spot, a mar on the perfect landscape of the gilded plane. The Valley of Perfection was perfect no more. And still the observer watched. He watched as Man became more and more self-centered, and forgot about all that was given to him. But Man knew the truth. It was not about what was given to him, it was not about the opportunities offered or the promises made and kept and broken. It was about the happiness of the self. And here, in the desert, building archaic landmarks to the beauty of the self and inner soul, Man was happy. But one day he awoke to find a strange, unfamiliar place. It was a world of black and of fear. A fear of the unknown, of the new darkness that washed over the world overnight. But it had not happened overnight. It had taken many eternities to reach this point of entropy. The Garden was no longer existent, and the God that had watched over The Salal Review


Richard Dreer had long since abandoned his experiments. All that was left was the buildings that Man had designed so long ago. Images in his own like, for his own sake, and for his own advancement. His tools were advanced and his brain had long since grown tired of the maize he had once fawned over. He was the Architect, the creator of all that he saw fit. He was now the one to watch over the experiments. He built the Parthenon and the Pantheon; he built the mystic cities of Cairo and Nineveh, of Jericho and Babylon, kissing each with humanity. These cities were built by Man for Man of Man, and knew no other creator. This blackness, this absoluteness of the world around him had given Man not reverence to his God, but to himself. For even in the scorched landscape, Man found pride in his achievements. He had long since lost his spectral God, and had moved into the worship of the Self. He was happy in the world of bleakness, because he realized that it was his own power which had crafted it. Not in terror, but in joy, he continued his advance. Man soon learned to move beyond the Valley of Perfection, into greener, richer areas. These lands were not soil driven, and there were no longer low-hanging fruit to harvest. Instead, in his steady descent, Man turned not to soil, but the stone and the wonders that stone held. Soon, Man was constructing machines, using the ancient, withered bodies of creatures long since deceased to further himself. It was a time of prosperity not of the 50

Soul, but the Mind. The Learning of Man reached a pace so blindingly swift he himself could barely keep up. So Man created vast lands solely for the collectivizing of his knowledge. In doing this, Man moved from reaching out to the heavens for guidance, but into himself, growing more and more centralized and self-aware – At a price. For his self-awareness had lead to self-absorbment. He had finally, irreversibly, lost his attention to God, and God had lost all interest in his failed experiment. Man was free. Man was free to dream and create, and the swaths of darkness he left behind troubled him naught; Empires were to be constructed, chrome structures that visually blared their presence to anything with eyes. These kingdoms gleamed just as much as the pyramids and Parthenons before them, if not more so. The freedom was an unshackling of ties Man had never known chained him. No longer chained to the soil, to the observer, no longer chained to his nature, Man had grown into a being as powerful and absolute as the God that had once silently watched over him. And not only was Man free from the Valley, but the Valley was free from Man, who spent his days breaking his back over his empires of iron and steel. Deep in the heart of Earth, deep in the hollow and withered landscape, bloomed a single bud, rooted in the venerable soil of the Valley of Perfection. The Salal Review


Frangibility

Jordan C. Loveland The Salal Review 51


Contributing Artists Azamat H. Berdiyev is a medical student at Lower Columbia College.

Photography is his hobby, and it helps him to remember “not to forget about beautiful aspects of life.�

Ata Berdiyev has been a graphic designer for Associated Students of Lower Columbia College since Fall 2013. He is currently aiming towards a business degree and is planning on transferring to the University of Washington next year. He also is part of a variety of clubs on campus.

Charlotte Conklin is a previous editor of The Salal Review and loves to write and to travel. She recently returned from a trip to India and is toiling away on the next great American novel.

Ray Cooper teaches art at Lower Columbia College. Matthew Daems was born and raised in Washington state. At an early age,

he developed a fondness for great storytelling. He is a student at Lower Columbia College.

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Ron Dodge was born in Page, Arizona and grew up in Goble, Oregon. He

is considered somewhat of a sojourner and has traveled all fifty states -minus Alaska- as well as various other countries. He loves photography and how it speaks without words. He feels that photos transcend time, generation to generation, capturing moments that will never be seen again.

Richard Dreer lives on the river banks of Kelso where he spends his days

fishing and writing. He loves the Northwest coast and spends more time than necessary on the San Juan Islands. He enjoys long walks on the beach, salt and pepper beards, and Caesar salad.

Kelsey Engebo is passionate about photography and the outdoors. He loves

to hike, climb, and bike. He has been taking pictures for around five years. He is not sure what he is going to major in.

Donald Frey has lived and practiced law in Cowlitz County for more than

forty-five years. In the 1960s, he taught business law at Lower Columbia College. He regularly meets with friends to read and write poetry.

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Brian Harrison taught anthropology and fencing at Clatsop Community

College in Astoria for thirty-five years. Now he enjoys watching the river flow by as he contemplates the universe in a grain of sand. He believes he is close to learning the meaning of life.

Janice Haupt has lived in Cowlitz Country her entire life and has no intentions

to leave. She gained much of her knowledge of poetry from Judith Irwin and Joe Green. She has four daughters and twelve grandchildren; they try to get together at least once a year.

Klint Hull has lived in Longview and taught at Lower Columbia College since 2004. His wife Kristie and daughter Sydney work and play here, as well.

Kelley Jácquez is a former college English intructor and newspaper managing editor, as well as a short story writer and poet. Her stories have appeared in anthologies and literary magazines. Seven stories have been recorded and aired on public radio. Her story “One Night . . .” is required reading at Arizona State University, Tempe, in English and Spanish literature classes. Her book Holding Woman and Other Stories of Acceptable Madness can be found on Amazon.

Summer Jennings has lived in Longview for several years. She is currently a

student at Lower Columbia College. She is a full-time photography student at Lower Columbia College. 54

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Kelly Johnsen is an Lower Columbia College staff member working within

our area middle schools through the Educational Talent Search Grant. The work featured here is merely a window of what he learned while completing his student teaching degree in 2011.

Nicole N. Jones is a lifelong resident of Cowlitz County and a student at

Lower Columbia College. She is a colossal bookworm. She enjoys writing within the same genres that she reads.

Alyssa Kaufman is a Running Start student attending both Lower Columbia College and Mark Morris High School. She has lived in Montana and Alaska, but Washington has by far been her favorite environment. She will be going to Western Washington University next year to study English literature and linguistics.

Jordan C. Loveland is originally from Pocatello, Idaho but has lived in the

Kelso/Longview area since 2001. She is currently pursuing an Associate’s Degree at Lower Columbia College and will be attending Eastern Washington University in the fall. She plans to major in Creative Writing. When Jordan does not have her face nestled in a book, she enjoys drawing, drama, stage design and writing. She hopes to one day become a published novelist and playwright. 55

The Salal Review


Darrin Moir grew up in Woodland running through the moss covered trees

with his three brothers. The Cascade foothills were a permanent backdrop to their games. He feels that it’s a place where the mountains steal stories from the clouds, lifted from the great Pacific, weighing heavy in the graying sky and rain them down in a way that no matter how many layers he wore, it gave water to the marrow of his imagination.

Hari Myers was born and educated in Longview. He presently lives near

Kalama where he writes for the pleasure of telling a story and the whimsical toying with words.

Debby Neely moved to Woodland in 1979. She learned the art and craft of

woodcuts from Carolyn Brookhart while taking art classes at Lower Columbia College in the early 1980s. She has a great fondness for the power of the black & white images in woodcuts. There are several galleries that display her work, but her home gallery is right here in Longview – the Broadway Gallery. She also teaches at Lower Columbia College in the art department.

Suzanne Norman is a former Lower Columbia College graduate who

completed her Bachelor of Science in Psychology at Washington State University Vancouver in 2006. She started her journey with spray paint art in late 2011 and found that it was the method she favors. She enjoys art and hopes to one day create the “perfect painting,”whatever that may be.

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Robert Prager was born in Forks. He has always enjoyed reading and the

multitude of dimensions he can travel through just by turning the pages. Not a fan of writing until very late in high school, he has chosen to embark on the journey to become an instructor of writing.

Robert Michael Pyle is an essayist, poet, fiction writer and biologist who

dwells about two miles above tidewater along Gray’s River in Wahkiakum County. Of his eighteen books, the latest is Evolution of the Genus Iris: Poems, published by Lost Horse Press.

Steven Ross is a forty-two-year-old single father of a teenage daughter. He is

a proud Lower Columbia College student, who is preparing to graduate with an Associate Degree in art. He hopes to attend the University of Washington next fall. He has always loved all forms of art and feels blessed to be able to reunite with this passion.

Brydon Stewart is a lifetime resident of Washington and Oregon. For the last few years, he has worked in the area illustrating books and painting murals.

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Sponsors Cary Rhode Keith Erikson

Anyone interested in sponsoring The Salal Review can make a tax-deductible donation to: LCC Foundation: The Salal Review. All donations are honored in the following publication of The Salal Review

Acknowledgments The editors of The Salal Review are so grateful for all of the help we receive. We are very thankful for the likes of Debby Neely, Dianne Bartlett, Danielle Shulke, and Mike Stack, who all made it possible for this magazine to exist and properly be presented to the public. We also greatly appreciate Klint Hull, who has supported us year after year. We’d like to thank Chris Skaugset from the Longview Public Library for giving us the extra boost getting author Joshua Howe here this year. We’d like to give thanks to Dan Schabot and the Fighting Smelt Forensics Team who have and continue to fight for us. We also are very appreciative of our gracious sponsors. Finally, we’d like to acknowledge all those artists who submitted their work to us. Thank you to everyone.

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Call for Submissions The Salal Review is an award winning arts magazine published annually by Lower Columbia College. The board of editors consists of current students dedicated to the presentation of the best work available from writers, poets and artists in the Lower Columbia Region. To submit written work for consideration, please send no more than five poems or prose pieces, either by U.S. mail with a stamped self-addressed reply envelope, or by email attachment (Microsoft Word or RTF) to salal@lcc.ctc.edu during the month of October 2014. For artwork, submit up to five pieces during the month of January 2015. We have limited space for color submissions, so black & white work is preferred. We cannot be responsible one-of-a-kind originals, so please send clean copies. Digital images may be sent on CD or by email, and must be high resolution JPEG files (300 dpi minimum). Photos taken with smart phones and tablets will not be accepted. If you’re not familiar with photo resolution, we are able to assist with taking photos. With your submissions, please enclose a brief biography of your background and connection with the Lower Columbia Region. For further questions regarding submissions, to receive a FREE copy of The Salal Review or to arrange sponsor donations, contact us at (360) 442-2630, or email us 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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Antidepressants Snatch winter-bright sky keep it in a locket. Seize sunshine warmth; put it in your pocket Jam joy in a jar. Cache laughter away. Coins for the devil on the next dark day

~ Charolette Conklin

2014 Salal Review  

Award winning literary and arts magazine of Lower Columbia College.

2014 Salal Review  

Award winning literary and arts magazine of Lower Columbia College.

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