Marian Burn Literary Arts Magazine Spring 2011

Marian

Burn

Spring 2011

Table of Contents

Jump Airborne Mosaic Strawberry My Faith Beautiful Day Fishing in the Dark Grass The Writer Countdown Wondering Censored Technicolor Chloe Pencil-Deep Reflection Esoteric Reprecussion Crossing All the Noise In Safe Hands The Little Dreamer Push Swinging Free Word Play The Journey

[Emily Reynolds] [Allie Schima ] [Jill Bettger ] [ Alisa Dubbelde ] [Tori Grovas ] [MaryLouise Woltemath] [Elle Wolodkewitsch] [Alexandra Naidenovich] [Ozy Aloziem] [Alexa Horn] [Maggie Ramos] [Ozy Aloziem] [Chloe Wilwerding] [Allison Dethlefs] [Annie Steenson] [Lisa Satpathy] [Toni Ptacek ] [Kyra Lindholm] [Shannon Smith] [Allison Dethlefs] [Anne Johnson] [Shannon Smith] [Lisa Satpathy] [Emma Wagner]

01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 21 22 23

to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...

burn

�

Front and Inside Cover by [Annette Vinton] Back Cover by [Maria Corpuz]

-Jack Kerouac

he only people for me are the mad “T ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad

jump [photography: allie schima; mosaic: jill bettger

[

01 [writing: emily reynolds

[

“airborne”

Do you want to see it?

The place where the sky ends and my world begins where I am free, liberated from the smoke of the past hope is required, and aversion is turned away To see it you must take a leap of faith jump with me or this will be our last dance and I will stand ready because I want to jump into the cold water and feel the millions of needles poking my skin so that they remind me I’m alive so jump rose jump jack jump you jump me and fly fly until someone catches you then look up into your fisherman’s eyes and find it. find hope, love, passion find your passion, it will save you.

It will bring you to light of tomorrow.

And when tomorrow is done we are all a little older, but who can say if we are wiser?

So take my hand and run with me run with me through the rain and the fog run until we find the place where the sky ends and jump

02

“strawberry mosaic”

my faith First of all, this is not just a story, but a reality for my family and me. This is not a poem, or a super convincing speech on how you should buy efficient cars. This is a story about my family in a time of struggle. This story is the beginning of the hard troubles in my life and finding a “Be gracious to me, Lord, for I am in distress; with grief my eyes are wasted, my soul and body spent” moment.

[photography: tori grovas

[

03 [ [writing: alisa dubbelde

It was a blistering hot day in the midst of August. My mother, two brothers- Jacob and Joseph- and I were going to go have some fun at Tilt, in Westroads Mall.

My dad was going to go to Sioux Falls, South Dakota for a while to get a break from his life.

I hugged and kissed him, saying goodbye for what I thought would just be a little trip, and not for eternity. Dad rode off on his big black Harley-Davidson Motorcycle. He was on his way to his friend Shawn’s house to spend some time there.

Later that day, Mom got a phone call. We heard her downstairs doing something she had never done before. She was crying. A few minutes later, Mom’s friend and our daily daycare provider, Sheila Hatcher, came in to comfort her and tell her everything was alright. Jacob was eight. I was eleven. We were terrified.

Each time we walked downstairs, Sheila told us everything was okay and to go back upstairs.

A few minutes later, Sheila’s husband Tony arrived to take my brothers and I out for ice cream at Dairy Queen. There, I asked Tony if everything was fine. He said that my dad had gotten into an accident. The entire ride home I guessed and wondered as to what had gone wrong.

More cars were in our driveway as we pulled up. Inside the house, I saw many things simultaneously: Mom crying, Sheila rubbing her back, many nuns, a priest, and the rest of Sheila’s family. Mom said that Dad had been in a dirt bike accident and died the second he fell off. I burst into tears while hugging her shirt and falling to the ground, not sure if I could even stand up. Joseph, who was four at the time, did not know why everyone was crying.

We tried many times to tell Joseph that he would not see his father again. I am sure that he got the message but did not know how to take the news.

My dad’s death made me realize that you only have one life; you need to live it to the fullest.

God has inspired me to love my faith even more, because of what happened to my father.

Every other night, I pray to God asking him to help certain people. I ask him to help me on that test that I knew I was going to fail. I ask him for a miracle, that I will live until I am 100 or older. I know that God can hear me, and I know my father can too.

04

My Dad’s death made me realize what a struggle it was to keep God in my life. Right after his death, I wanted to punch God and make him suffer for what he made me go through. I was enraged. I wanted to say to God, “Why did you do this to my family and me?” I, of course, never got an answer. I cannot see God and say to his face that I am mad. I can only whisper before I go to bed and say, “Why did you do this to me?”

God changed my views on faith forever. I love him sometimes, need him always, and could not ever live without him. God strengthened my faith because I wanted to figure out why he took my dad from me. Now, I know exactly why God did it. He did it because he loves me. It was right there in front of me the entire time. If God chooses to give us “nasty” humans the passage into his kingdom after death, then he truly loves us all divinely.

God has changed my life. He is still changing my life. I could not live without him, literally.

He took my father away from me, but somehow I know that he still loves me, no matter how painful that may seem. I know I love him too.

“beautiful day”

[

photography: elle wolodkewitsch

[ writing: alexandra naidenovich [

[acrylic: marylouise woltemath;

“fishing in the dark�

05

Empty Pages blank gazes pen moves slowly calculating the next word to place on the line

06

the writer

Scratching sounds of pen meets paper feverish grin of inspiration ink leaves marks without hesitation words flowing like a steady waterfall growing, swelling the page constricts weighted down with emotion Calmed contentment the page is in disarray there stares a headstrong piece begging to be read and reread A new ink marks the page red scribbles dictate the corrections rearranged, edited Once perfected a happy smile forms filled with a sense of pride a job well done.

“grass�

[photography: alexa horn]

count

[writing: ozy aloziem]

07

Close your eyes darling and count to 60 Imagine you are in a soft white room This is your room to do with as you please You decide to change the world with your room So you line it in soft red velvet and name it love 58 You blink and now the walls are covered in chalk drawings On the ceiling is a hangman game You can tell the empty space clearly spells out We Are All Dying But the player is either oblivious Or refuses to accept this fact So the game struggles on As the man is being drawn around his noose 47 You are happy You’re 5 years old and chasing the ice cream truck You’re 14 and doing hand stands in swimming pools You’re 62 holding your granddaughter for the first time You scratch your nose and she’s gone 36 You are changing Suddenly you’re in a carnival You are in The House of Mirrors You see glimpses of yourself all around you You’re becoming distorted and grotesque You bend down to tie your shoe and suddenly Your life is just a desperate struggle 25 You are helpless You are standing in front of a cardboard box You open it and find everything you never did You’re a child and mommy and daddy are yelling

“wondering”

08

tdown

You run into the bathroom where you see Your sister crying and carving Hate into her thighs You stand and stare, then flee to hide under your bed Your life is a never-ending game of hide and seek You cough and tag, you’re it 14 You are dying You find yourself in an endless game of double dutch You’re playing hopscotch but the squares never end It was fun at first but now your legs hurt, you’re fatigued You realize you aren’t strong enough for this game You find yourself slowing down, giving up You take a deep breath but your lungs don’t fill up You begin to wheeze and then, nothing 3 You’re 87 and watching your funeral You hear testimony after testimony about who you were For the first time you realized you have lived a life Suddenly you are crying, you’re relived Everyone else is crying, they’re sad NO! You scream out but no one hears you IT’S ONLY IN DEATH THAT YOU ARE ABLE TO LIVE You reach out to touch your weeping daughter 2 You’re almost done now Where you go, no one knows You’re okay, you realize that now These feelings you’ve felt have been felt by all They don’t control you, silly one, they shape who you are 1 Now open you eyes Take a deep breath And breathe

[mixed media collage: maggie ramos [

[

[writing: ozy aloziem

“censored�

09

10

technicolor She thinks in technicolor, deriving a life out of symbolism guided by mistaken realism She struggles with living and puzzles pieces of her life, like puzzle pieces she wishes would fit together She justifies her loss of love, justifies her loss of life, just if her lies could revive her will to survive She dreams in black and white, her mind subconsciously oscillating between darkness and light Desperately trying to right the desperation of her life, desperately clinging to ideas of an effortless afterlife She wonders what will happen after life, after the caterpillars no longer change because they are too afraid of the strife

After the lions realize the real lies in their roars, after the eagle’s soul is too sore to soar Her life is a sentence fragment, she’s just a common noun missing her predicate companion She’s spent her whole life misusing punctuation, not knowing where to start or when to end She’s missing the part of her that makes her more than an empty idea, emptying her of this idea That she can change the world with her verbs, as if the world ate her up and spat her out She’s choking on the barely concrete thoughts she’s longed to spit out, she’s dying, dying And everything she has ever wanted can be summed up to chalk drawings on concrete It was always just within reach, but out of her reach; so she reaches and she reaches but her hands come up empty She exists in shades of confusion, confusing what she has with what she’s lost with what’s been missing Existing in the absence of hope and in the existence of hunger, a hunger for change and love’s quintessence She’s simply just black marks on white paper, desperate to take flight, leave these meaningless sheets and Never Ever Taper.

[

[pencil: allison dethlefs

[pencil: chloe wilwerding [

11

“pencil-deep reflection�

“chloe”

12

esoteric [photography:toni ptacek

[

13 [writing: annie steenson; lisa satpathy

[

The syllables on the crease of your rosy lips The indecency of your brain on the wondering tips Concealed into the overbearing vault The endless stream on conception Dying to consult Tell yourself to let go and breathe But you don’t want the disguised dignity to leave It’s like a dam Building up at the mountain peaks When half of you strives to patch up the leaks The other side is the water cascading against the brick barrier She didn’t realize what that stork had to deliver in the carrier When you first opened those esoteric brown windows to your soul Yin and yang had already started The blazing flames from coal A continuous fight against the person Death do us part That duel only occurs for the mind and the heart For the only time the battle is resurrected to the surface Is when the two worlds collide And control is at a miss Never forget the intense bondage between the two They may never have the strength or courage To push those craving syllables for me and you

14

repercussions

“crossing”

Darkness thickens To those with gold and privilege It begins not, in the den of the drunkard The bowels of poverty, I’ve witnessed As coming with a stroll down the saddest city lane Traced the footsteps Of the greats gone before us Hoping they left instruction, In an old tin can, amid this rubble Of the struggles they fought And how they won

I come back To dig amid the rubble Refusing to acknowledge the present I see the plight of the thief; morally righteous The cry of justice; a frightful foe As unlike my comrades The police chase misses the alley The bread reaches the hungry homely souls Yet the passerby Avoids looking at them

all the noise [photography: shannon smith

[

15 [writing: kyra lindholm

[

Life is a cacophony There are no words to the songs we sing Scream aloud to let them know We are here! We are here!

All we hope and fear And plead and refuse And love and hate And wish and want And pick and choose Just want to contribute A key or a note A chord or a chime A lyric or rhyme Something so they won’t ever forget I am here! I am here!

March across the strings Tambourines in our wake Trumpets in the distance Drum up an earthquake No familiar tune to follow Make it up as we go Tap out a beat With our hands and our feet Our voices pitter-patter Sung aloud, out of sync Every voice Every cadence Every intonation Every key Inhaled and released In one final battle cry The great crescendo Proclaiming we lived Before we die

16 “in safe hands”

the little dreamer

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there lived a little girl. She lived in a small village in the beautiful mountainous country called Yemen, a place where very few women ever got the chance to learn how to read and write. The little girl’s dearest wish was to go to school so that she could grow up and change the world.

[illustrations: allison dethlefs

[

17 allison dethlefs

[

[children’s story:

She dreamed of discovering new planets…

…scaling impossibly high peaks…

…curing deadly diseases…

…painting beautiful landscapes… …and exploring faraway lands.

Every day, the little girl would ask her father, “Now may I go to school?” And every day her father gave her the same answer. “No, my child, not today.”

“Why can’t I go to school?” she asked her mother, who was busy hanging clothes out on the line to dry. Her mother finished shaking out a clean black veil and sighed.

“Women are not meant to get an education like men, my dear,” she answered. “We have women’s work to do at home. We must take care of our men.” She stopped to straighten the fabric rippling the breeze and then surveyed her disappointed daughter.

“Look at you,” she said, smiling sadly. “You are already growing up. In a few years you will be married. Then you will have a house of your own to worry about, and there will be no time for things like school. You’ll see.”

But the girl did not want to grow up and get married and doubted very much that there would ever be more important things to think about than wanting to learn.

18

The next day she approached her father again and asked, “Father, today may I go to school?” “No, my child, not today,” he replied, firmly shaking his head.

The little girl spotted her two older brothers playing with their old, tattered soccer ball at the edge of her family’s fields. She ran up the rocky hill and tried to join in, but was frustrated when they stopped playing the moment they spotted her. “Why can’t I go to school with you?” she asked them as they walked over to shoo her away.

“Girls are not meant to learn,” they laughed, tossing the ball back and forth over her head. “And besides, the only school we have is several kilometers away. You are much too small to walk that distance every day.”

Still laughing, the boys scooped up the ball and raced down the hill, leaving their sister to ponder their words under a dusty, cloud-streaked sky.

Days passed, and each morning the little girl hopefully snuck up to her father as her brothers prepared to leave and asked if she could accompany them. But his answer never changed, and she was forced to stay at home.

“Why must I stay at home when other families send their girls to school?” the little girl asked her grandfather as he sat whittling a chunk of wood by the fire. He stopped and held the smooth side of the wood out for her to feel, revealing the beginnings of a bowl.

“We just don’t have the money to send you off to school with your brothers. All we have is our land, our fields, and even then we are barely getting by. We need your help here, dear one.”

“But why do they get to learn then?” the little girl pleaded. “Why not me?”

“Your brothers must learn so that they can come back as educated men, ready to support and make a better life for our family. But you, my dear, are not a man. I’m sorry little one,” he added as the little girl turned away to hide her tears. “I would give anything to have learned to read and write when I was young, to be educated enough to have provided a better life for you and your brothers, but it is too late for me. I do not wish the same for you, but this is the way of things, the way things have always been, however unfair.” The little girl nodded glumly and brushed a few wood shavings off the unfinished bowl before handing it back to her grandfather.

The weeks went on, and the little girl tried not to show her frustration as her dreams of going to school and changing the world began to seem more and more like far-fetched fantasies. Unwilling to give up hope, however, she continued to ask her father every day, “Today may I go to school?” And she tried not to show her disappointment when he continued to refuse.

“Why is it that no one thinks I’m strong or smart enough to go to school?” the little girl asked her grandmother as she got a pot out for morning tea.

“Oh, little one,” her grandmother said, the etched lines on her forehead furrowing slightly as she drew a wrinkled hand across her brow. “you are the brightest little girl I know, and no one who knows you as I do can doubt your strength, so don’t you mind what your brothers say. No, it’s not you, but the school itself I I don’t trust.” She patted the little girl on the shoulder.

[illustrations: allison dethlefs

[

19 allison dethlefs

[

[children’s story:

“All male teachers, not a woman among them,” she muttered fiercely, shaking her head reprovingly. “Do they expect us to send them our girls and risk their safety at the hands of men? Bah! You’re better off here, little one, where your mother and father can keep an eye on you. There are other things to learn in life besides reading and writing,” she trailed off, stirring her cup absentmindedly, and staring out the window.

“But grandma,” the girl whispered, “I don’t want to stay here forever. I want to go places no one in this village has seen before. I want to help people and fix big problems. I want to change the world!”

“Just you keep your mind off it, darling,” her grandmother scolded. “Little girls in Yemen have no place going and changing anything, let alone the world. Things will turn out,” she said, softening at the look on the little girl’s But as the little girl ambled away, shoulders sagging, she found that she was no longer sure those words were true.

Time passed, and although the little girl had almost given up hope that she was ever going to be able to learn and go to school, she kept asking her father every day, “Now may I go to school?”

Finally one day, after a very long time, her father called her to sit with him on the craggy hillside facing the first rays of sunlight that lined the majestic peaks on the horizon.

“My child,” he said quietly, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smile as she settled down beside him, “how would you like to go to school today?” Stunned, the little girl looked up into her father’s twinkling eyes.

“But why?” she whispered.

“Why now after all this time? Why have you never let me go before?”

20

“You are my only daughter,” he said, reaching over to clasp her small hands in his large, callused ones. “I have spent a lot of time in thought over the question you have asked me every day for so long a time. There are many people who would say it is not proper for a girl to learn to read, and write, and take care of herself. Many who believe that a girl’s only role in life is to get married and give her husband a family, to do what men say, and think nothing of dreams like the ones you have shared with me.”

“But I,” he stopped her before she could interrupt, “am not one of those people, and I know that these things are not true. I know very well that you are capable of learning as much, if not more, than any man. Although I do worry about your safety, daughter, the real reason I did not send you to school before now was that I could not bear to let you go. For I have known since the day of your birth that you would soar the moment you realized that you were blessed with wings. I will hold you back no longer. I just hope you’ll not forget your old papa when the time comes for you to go.”

“Never,” she whispered. And as he hugged her close, the little girl thought she saw a single tear trickle down her father’s cheek and into his beard.

That very morning, the little girl set off to school with her brothers, and every day after that. She poured all of her energy into her studies, stopping only to do her work around the house and to teach her parents and grandparents what she had learned at school.

And many years, and obstacles, and triumphs later, a proud father saw his little girl’s dreams come true.

You see, she went on to change the world. One little girl at a time.

The End

I can’t contain myself, I’m spilling.

Flow with this rhythm and push back.

How on earth can I keep going if I’m alone?

PUSH BACK.

When I fall into the depths of my soul, I’m only taking the dust, pebbles, and ants with me.

We’ll only be speaking compassion and honesty.

When you don’t believe in you anymore, I do.

I see how beautiful you are.

The capacity in your bones for truth.

My pockets are empty, but brimming with change.

I’m done with apathy.

Nobody has God in their pocket.

Don’t tell me you can’t feel.

Don’t you dare tell me that your heartbeat isn’t rebelling against you.

That your eyes don’t betray you every time you look up to heaven.

Look me in the eyes and tell me that you can’t feel.

Look me in the eyes and tell me that you can’t hear.

Feel the heartbeats of the dust, pebbles, and ants that lie forgotten.

Hear the crying of the kids you slap in the face with your words.

[photo illustration: shannon smith

Pity races my heartbeat and I cry.

I drown them with my sopping grief and think that maybe they’re better off, soaked than hopeless.

Asking them why they don’t shine anymore.

Asking why they’ve accepted the cracks and darkness.

I have some holes in my body.

I’m missing some elbow and kneecap, but my blood is still pump pump pumping.

My lungs are urging me to live, but I’ve been lying on the concrete.

Talking to the dust, pebbles, and ants.

Never really thought I could be, but I know I can love.

I know that I can be love.

I know that I am love.

Drape me in Christmas lights to hide my faults, because I’m not perfect.

If I’m the only light that people see, then I am going to shine.

I’m trying not to scribble anymore.

Everyone has been scribbling.

[

[writing: anne johnson [

21

Push back

“swinging free”

So pick me up, bare-boned and stumbling out of this cavern.

My bones have lost their mass, they’re hollow.

Waiting to be filled by you.

Waiting to be with honesty and compassion, because they are so important.

They’re exploding in my teeth and suddenly I’m singing.

Singing to you about my bones and those ants I bet you forgot about.

I don’t know why you don’t care about things.

About people.

Awbout yourself.

I don’t know how people can treat people in terrible ways, but they can.

And they do.

I don’t know how people can ignore the pleading sobs of the lonely.

But they do.

All I know is that I am so afraid of leaving the world untouched and broken.

I want to write an honest poem.

I want truth coming out of my pores.

I want raw like I want oxygen.

I want to say:

Scribbling again.

“Everyone” is a hard habit to break.

What isn’t?

22

push

[photography: emma wagner] [writing: lisa satpathy]

23

wordplay The world whispers of poetic devices—the drip, drip of onomatopoeia, the boom smash; click, clash of a rhyme and end rhyme. Rhyme singing in sync; the soup-like sour slurp of alliteration, the imagery of a sea of stormy clouds, the simile like or as a blow away paper in the wind, the metaphor of a forgotten poem with the satire and irony of two love birds, the nightingale and the morning lark. Remember the slant as thyme and time, can never quite rhyme. A poetic sea before my eyes, the allusion to the Sea. The ambiguity of what this could mean as the English sends you astray, like young and love in an assonance. The comic relief that laughs and cries to witness the couplets scattered within, a description of my heart’s melody and the drama with diction written in this dramatic monologue. “Honest Abe” the epithet of the exposition in poetic device of haiku, free verse and an iambic. All literacy crushed into prose and idioms as it rains cats and dogs, the mood a paradox of what is expected in poetry. This persona of mine all broken up into a plot, a climax, some dissection of literary mastery—take apart the poem—this pun as I make mouse calls—the repeated refrain as you take apart the poem and cut the rhythm—all lost in my wordplay.

Luke Ostrander Faculty Advisor

Jenny May Copy Editor

Maria Corpuz Editor

Rachael Kreski Editor

Allison Dethlefs Editor in Chief

Megan Andreasen Editor

Hannah Grace Assistant Editor

Alexa Baumer Head Copy Editor

Annie Dovali Art Editor

Lauren Tussey Editor

Zoe Ursick Editor

Laura Atherton Editor

Editorial Policy Marian proudly presents Burn, a creative writing magazine which features written work, photography,

and artwork done by current students. The Burn editors reserve the right to make minor grammatical or spelling corrections and modify submitted pieces to fit design concepts. Pieces are selected based on creative talent and on the uniqueness of the individual submission. Submissions are judged blindly by the staff members.

Burn is a school based publication of Marian, 7400 Military Ave. Omaha, NE 68134. Burn is distributed twice a year, once in the fall, and then again in the spring.

To see work not featured in this issue, please visit burnmagazine.tumblr.com.

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