Marquette University Literary Review - Spring 2017 by Marquette University Literary Review

Photo Credit: Matthew Serafin

Spring 2017 Issue XI

The Marquette University Literary Review, the official literary magazine and creative writing journal of Marquette University, presents the short fiction, poetry, creative essays, visual art, and flash fiction of Marquette’s most talented student, faculty, staff, and alumni writers. The Marquette University Literary Review is published semi-annually at Marquette University: P.O. Box 1881, Milwaukee, WI 53201-1881. Telephone: (414) 288-7179. Web address: marquetteliteraryreview.wordpress.com Email: marquetteuniversitylitreview@ gmail.com. A collection publishing the most unique and powerful voices, the Marquette University Literary Review compiles only the best literary works – those that are honest in their exploration, critical in their presentation of the human experience, and highly valuable in their literary merit. This publication is edited by undergraduate students in the Klingler College of Arts and Sciences at Marquette University. Materials for publication in each issue are considered by direct submission. General Editor: Laura Litwin Editorial Staff: Elizabeth Haebig and Ivana Osmanovic Faculty Advising Editor: Dr. Angela Sorby © 2017 by Marquette University Cover: Matthew Serafin, Unidos por la esperanza, 2017, photograph. Private collection. Courtesy of Matthew Serafin, Milwaukee, WI. Acknowledgments: The Marquette University Literary Review staff extends its sincere gratitude to all who have contributed to the continued success of this publication and offers its special thanks to Dr. Angela Sorby, for her mentorship and advising assistance; Wendy Walsh, for her administrative support; Professors CJ Hribal and Larry Watson for their continued support; all other faculty and staff members of the Marquette University English Department, for their willingness to promote this journal to students, staff, and Marquette English Department alumni; and finally, to all authors who submitted pieces to this Spring 2017 edition of the Marquette University Literary Review, for their courage, talent, and commitment.

Contents

Spring 2017

Dr. Angela Sorby Introduction 6 Laura Litwin Letter from the Editor 7 Alessandria Rhines “Whispering || The Lynching Trees” 9 Rachel Harmon “Tidal Waves”

Rich Millo “Coffee”

Theresa Murphy The Clock

Abby Vakulskas "Forgetting Winter"

Jen Waters "Glitter + Ash"

Carolyn Lewis “The Whole Body A Mouth”

Zac Wierschem “Tale As End As Rhyme” Abby Vakulskas Swimming Tyler Farrell "From Milwaukee"

Saul Lopez “The Garbage Man”

Ravi Ghayal "Warzone"

Megan Smith "JT"

Mackenzie Innis "ELEMENTS" 35 Kari Hinterlong The Day She Couldn't Smell the Roses 36 Peter Spaulding "Hangman Ontology" 38 Jen Waters “Not Roy's Crying Girl” 39 Lily Cheong "Closed Door" 40 Abby Vakulskas "Miss St. Croix Dropouts" 41 Megan Smith "A Late Wife's Affair" 44 Ryan Murphy "Lust" 45 Emily Reynolds "Chevy Rearview" 46 Ravi Ghayal "Blank Slate" 47

Saul Lopez "Tierra Mojada" 48 Tyler Farrell "The Wanderer" 49 Alexis Worden "Breathe" 50 Benjamin Zellmer "After the Breakup" 52 Hannah Kirby "Delphinium" 53 Megan Knowles A Field of Daisies 54 Gina Richards "Adventure Boots" 58 Megan Smith "I Asked My Father For His Favorite Word"

Alexis Worden "Swan Lake" 61 Emma Spring "Rome, Italy: Study Abroad 2016" 63 Saul Lopez "Mi Frontera LingĂźĂstica" 64

Introduction

Marquette's writers - undergraduate, graduate, faculty, staff, and alumni - help make our community strong. When we write fiction and poetry, we enter a conversation with the culture - a conversation that began before we were born and will continue after we're gone, but that is also very time-bound. The work in this year's Marquette University Literary Review thus registers tensions and questions: How does it feel to lose a friend ("Closed Door")? Can desire be conquered ("Lust")? But they also capture anxieties raised by the Zeitgeist: Why are mentally ill people feared ("Swimming")? What is happening to the so-called "American Dream" ("The Garbage Man")? Can we find solace in the city ("Milwaukee")? I am glad that the MLR is an unsettled space where nothing is too clear or too obvious. This is work to read and re-read as we face the future together. Angela Sorby Faculty Advisor

Letter from the Editor If there is one thing I have learned throughout my semester working on this year's Marquette University Literary Review, it is to expect the unexpected. My editorial staff and I were astounded by the high caliber and quality poetry, short stories, creative essays, and visual art that make up the 2017 MLR. In the following pages you will be transported to the cobblestoned streets of Rome, you will feel the agony of heartbreak, you will experience the boundaries of bilinguality, and you will cruise through the Pacific Northwest in the backseat of a Chevy. If there is anything to be taken away from this year's Literary Review, it is that art is both contemporary and timeless. It breaks down the barriers of society and beckons us forward into a world of emphathy, grief, uncertainty, and profound joy. It asks us to listen closely to the voices in the background. It asks us to hear the song of a struggling immigrant, to feel the wind running through the trees of Natchez, Mississippi, and to smell the salt water of selfsabotage. We are asked not only to read or to view art, but to feel it with every core of our being. I would like to thank my incredible editorial staff for being the backbone of this year's Literary Review and for providing much needed guidance and insight during this semester-long journey. I would like to thank our Faculty Advisor, Dr. Angela Sorby, for assisting us throughout this process and for her mentorship. Most of all, I would like to thank the contributors who made the 2017 Marquette University Literary Review possible. Without their artistic contributions, we would not have this amazing publication to share with the world. Sincerely, Laura Litwin

General Editor

“Ballerina” Photo credit: Alexis Worden

Alessandria Rhines

“Whispering || The Lynching Trees”

All of the trees in Natchez, Mississippi are whispering at me. They tell me stories of sunshine and pain. Grandma teases and says if I linger too long they’ll reach out and steal my name. they’ll reach out and steal my name. my name. my name. my name. Of branches my limbs will become. And legs will shoot down into dirt. She sits at the kitchen table, legs pouring from underneath her. She says if they’re whispering at me, it’s because they can’t help it — My body, reminds them of someone they knew. A person with sunshine grown in them. With skin so dark all it did was glow. But the names — They cannot remember the names. I ask if it’s because it was such a long time ago? She shutters her eyes with pity, long smells like yesterday. And sounds like cracking legs! And the snapping of angry mobs with pitchforks and smiling kids! Shouting a different name — shouting a different name! Shouting a different something. The whispering has gone away. And Grandma with all her sunshine rises from the kitchen table—to walk across the floor. My talk of Natchez and whispers and trees my complaining of long winds snapping at me — has tired her. The sunshine has gone away. But moving her legs with purpose, she dances across the room. Whispering melodies of Sunday mornings. Conjuring all of their names Cordella, Marie, Emmit, Allen speaking names like speaking tongues. Pushing breath back into people. My eyes become sore from seeing. My lips grow chapped and numb all from, whispering As. She. Sang. I followed her gracious tune. I followed her out of the house & room to look long

10 and hard at the trees. I planted my legs by the roots. And told her I would not move. She said sunshine you are the sway in the wind (that sunshine) that fills my lungs. These trees are on our side. I feel it in my legs. As long as you shall live, do not forget the names, so whenever a tree may ask, you can answer back â&#x20AC;&#x201D; whispering || the lynching trees

Rachel Harmon

“Tidal Waves”

Don’t blame me for my fear of drowning when nearly 71% of the Earth’s surface is covered by water. Drinking the doctor-recommended 64 fluid ounces of water daily, I am drowning myself from the inside. Slowly killing myself in the name of fear. My insides are churned by seasickness-inducing currents, Pushed and pulled by my own tropical storms and tidal waves. I am not pristine waters. I am tsunamis and flash floods. Dropped pebbles do not send out even and photogenic ripples from my core. Instead, they land like metal tons and tombstones. I am not peaceful. I am irregular, unpredictable, moody, tragic, shaky, dramatic, unsteady. I am suffering, leaking, taking on water.

12 I am breaking. I am a cargo ship destined to crash, A devastating shipwreck set on its fated course. I am meant to burn. I am meant to die. I am not the glamorous yacht coasting along the tropical spirits of the Bahamas. I am not the sailboat, peacefully wading in the still morning water, Patiently basking in natural glory. I am not you, them, him, her, whoever. I am suffering from my own sabotage. I have punched and kicked hole after hole into the bottom of my vessel. I see that I am on my way to drowning, But I kind of want to. I have tried flooding my anxiety, Waterboarding my suicidal desires, And sinking my entire way of being. But Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m still breathing, still afraid. Suffering, leaking, taking on water. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m still the same.

f Rich Millo

"Coffee"

I don’t like coffee. All she brings are sleepless nights and rapid heart beats of anxiety. She’s addicting. You’ll get hooked and you’ll believe that coffee is the only thing you need. She’ll make you believe you have the energy to stay up. But truly, all she does is stain the innocent soul you have. You think coffee will make you feel warm. But all she will do is leave an empty promise of fake bliss. A cup of caffeinated pain. Next time you want a cup of coffee, remember the dependence. Don’t fall under the trap again. Drink some tea instead.

Theresa Murphy

The Clock

Dreams turned to Dust In the old days, the train came twice daily; once at noon and once at half past five. Those had been the days, of course, before the desert had encroached upon the town, back when it was still a vibrant and bustling final stop on the railway. She had moved there in her youth, her parents eager to own land and make a dream for themselves in the open expanse of the West. Back then, the train deposited a hoard of new settlers each time it stopped down at the station. It never took anyone back. But that began to change when the riverbeds started drying up. She was just old enough to remember when the first of the trains departed, taking disillusioned settlers back East. The second wave came with the failure of the first of the wells, right around the time when she was to be married. It took her suitor with it, dragging him along the road he had traveled in his infancy, back towards the East. The third wave came with the heat, forcing more and more of the frail women and children to return to what their lives had been before the adventure and promise of the West had called out to them. That was when the clock stopped working. One day it became stuck, ever displaying the time as 4:15. But that didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter. The train no longer came twice a day. For the first few years, it came once, chugging in at the 5 oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;clock hour. Then, slowly, it dwindled to every two or three days, so that people wishing to exit would be forced to look out for days on end. Then, it lost even that frequency, coming sporadically, stopping in every month or so when an official from the East came to check on conditions. These days, the train pulled into the station perhaps twice a year. It never deposited anyone, and only rarely did it pick anyone up. There were not many left to pick up. A few years ago, a neighbor boy and his dog had gone to the station every day to wait for the train. One day, as they made their way there, they heard the scream of the engine. The boy and his dog had run as fast as they could, trying to make it to the station before the train left. He hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been quick enough. From that day on, he and his dog slept in the train station each night. In the end, they had to wait another seven months before the train returned. By then, the dog was dead and the boy was on the verge of madness.

But he had gotten out. Not everyone had. Whole families had died of thirst here, waiting for the train. Now, the woman was the only one left. When the last of her neighbors had packed up some years back, she had been tempted to join them. But Mama refused to leave this place, this small town in the West that had promised her the fulfillment of all of her dreams. So the woman had stayed, unable to leave Mama all alone in this god-forsaken place. There had still been a well then, so she and Mama had a means to survive. But Mama had been old, and she was dead now. With her death, the last of the water went. The town was well and truly uninhabitable. And so she packed up her meager things, all of them fitting into one suitcase, and went to wait at the station. It was eerie, living alone in this place that seemed frozen in history. Only the clock showed the true ravages of time, its run down face and static arms belying the truth. Otherwise, though effectively abandoned for a score of years, the place seemed untouched by the heat and drought that ravaged the town. But for the lack of people, it appeared exactly as it had been so many years ago, when she and her parents had first arrived. Though it was quiet now, quieter than a train station had any right to be. That was how she knew today was the day. The eerie silence that had seeped into her soul was interrupted by a far-off hum, almost silence, but for the fact that everything else around her was silent as the grave. It was an hour or more before the train came into view, and twenty minutes longer before it pulled into the station, screaming and puffing and ruining the unnatural silence of the place. She stood, her old bones creaking as she sauntered forward. Her suitcase was gripped tightly in one hand. The conductor met her on the platform, grabbing her case from her and indicating the place where she should board. He also handed her some water, indicating that he believed the rumors about this place; that everything was dead. And now it was. She was the last inhabitant, and now she was going. It would be a ghost town, sinking back into the nature from which it had once rose. It would be the last time the train traveled this railway. The last time a foreigner came. The last time a native left. The last drop of water had evaporated and with it went life. She was the last one to leave and with her the town let out its dying breath. As the train began to pull out of the station for the last time, she pressed her nose against the window and watched her home fade away into the distance. She would return now, to the East, to the life she had known as a small

girl. When she stepped off the train, she would be surrounded by life. The bustling of a train station, the sounds of voices, the scream of the trainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s whistles. The sound of rain and flowing rivers. The sounds of what this town had been when she had first arrived and would never be again. And she would live, carrying the memory of this place, of the West and the promise it had held, with her always. It would not be the same. All the traffic, all the people, all the vivacity of the city would be hard to get used to after the brown barrenness that she had grown accustomed to. She would survive it, of course, as she had been unable to survive the West. After all, there was water in the east. But as the last glimpse of the station slipped from her, she felt a loneliness that she had not felt in all of her months of solitude. And she knew that she had left a part of herself behind, to decay in that town. The town, now a ghost of what it had been, had promised so much. It had been the embodiment of her dreams, and the dreams of her parents before her. It had been the American dream, promised to all those who had headed West, before the heat and the drought had forced them back East. In that time, in the earliest days, the dream had been attainable. Looking out at the crowds in the station as she had first stepped off the train, she could feel it permeating the air. Hope. Hope that the West could offer something better than the East. Freedom. Opportunity. Fulfillment. All these and more had been promised to her as a child when she first glimpsed the town. Now, gaining speed, she pulled farther and farther away, aware that this train would be the last train heading West. The town was dead now. And the dream had died with it.

Carolyn Lewis

“The whole body a mouth” After “Deutsches Eck” by Rebecca Farivar Where in the world can I find The center of gravity enough to make me Whole. For these heartbeats do not match the Body And my ears break to hear, A Great White, surfacing — the whole ocean in his Mouth.

Abby Vakulskas

“Forgetting Winter”

My grandparents have told me stories about snow — How it would fall from the sky in winter in little pieces, Smothering Denali in white, Drowning the valley in gentle silence, Swooping like sand dunes, Around the pine trees and houses in the village. They say it was cold, But not like any cold I’ve known. They say — It hasn’t been really cold anywhere since they were children. It’s mostly hot here, And dry, Though they do get rain sometimes in Anchorage — But they say it was different. And I laugh, Trying to imagine the Iditarod dogs pulling clunky sleds instead of trailers, Like they do now. Sometimes, On the most frigid nights, When the thermometer huddles around forty, I bundle up in an old sweatshirt and squint at the sky. I can just make out the flashes of aurora borealis behind the perpetual, Hazy clouds — Maybe someday those clouds will bring snow again. I hope they do —

Jen Waters

“Glitter + Ash” All that glitters isn’t gold. Sometimes it’s ash smeared across your forehead during a sixty second lay-lead-liturgy, The element that makes pavement shine, in spite of being walked on day after day, what makes the bird cock her head, The janitor and art teacher sigh with hands on hips wondering how long this debris will stick to the floor. But did you see the final product? A macaroni art masterpiece! None like it in all these years. Inextricable, irremovable, integral. A history formed with this sparkle — embraced and irreplaceable. Come — witness this gritty, glittery hope.

“Anguish” Photo credit: Alexis Worden

Zac Wierschem

“Tale As End As Rhyme”

I love the way God uses time like bumpers when you are bowling. Like, When God puts the one person you don’t want to see right in front of you. And when God takes your keys and hides them in a black hole and you find the keys right where you first looked. Or, When God steals your heart and lays it on top of a towering shelf called passion and experience. And when you look for your heart you get lost and furious. I love the way God uses time to weave human lives together and connect them like an end rhyme.

Abby Vakulskas Swimming

The cotton sheets bunched up around my feet, heavy and stifling. Even though mom had hefted the bedroom window up as high as it would go, the night air was still thick with July heat, and a feeble breeze muttered through the curtains. I was sitting in my bed, knees drawn up to my chest, my arms encircling my shins. It was too hot to sleep; my Cherokee Braves t-shirt threatened to strangle me. Karen snored softly from the bed across the room and I listened with envy. From my perch I stared at my dresser. In the faint glow from the streetlight outside, I could see the shape of the ring my brother found earlier today. Joe had gone swimming with the rest of the guys in the neighborhood, and I’d been all ready to go too, with my swimsuit on and everything. But when I burst through the screen door to join them, Joe scowled. “You can’t come, Kate. This outing is only for men,” he announced. His friends snickered, and I felt the blood rising in my cheeks. “It’s a free country and a public pool,” I glowered. “I got all my chores done and you can’t stop me.” “We’ll see how you feel about that when I take your water wings away,” Joe snapped, then lowered his eyes as the others snorted, knowing he’d just used his kill shot. The painful truth was that, even at eleven years old, I still had trouble swimming without the stupid water wings. Tears of betrayal sprung to my eyes and I threw my towel at him with as much strength as my scrawny arms could muster. “Sorry,” he mumbled, as I ran back into the house.

I spent the better part of the afternoon hiding in my closet and sulking and when I got bored of sulking I found Tom Sawyer and a flashlight. I read all the way up to the part where Tom and Huck watch Injun Joe murder a guy in a graveyard. After that it got too scary in the closet, so I crawled out and wandered downstairs to watch The Beverly Hillbillies with Karen. Around four o’clock I heard Joe saunter back into the house. I retreated to my room to avoid him, but pretty soon he knocked on the door frame. “Hey, slobberface,” he said, holding something in his closed fist. “Go away,” I replied, pretending to be vastly interested in the stitching on

my quilt. “Okay! But you’ll never know what I was going to give you.” “Aw, get over here, what is it,” I grumbled, flopping back on the bed. He sat next to me. “Well you know, we all went to the pool today,” he spoke low and conspiratorially. “Yeah, yeah, what’s new.” “Shush! Listen. After we got tired of that we were walking around looking for stuff to do and the insane asylum’s so close, you know?” I sat up; this got me interested. The Mental Health Institute was a favorite horror of all of us kids. Rumors saturated the town, and dozens of stories were often whispered only at the giddiest, latest parts of every sleepover. Suzy Pickins talked of terrible screams coming from the building and Sam Buell swore he saw an old woman once, dressed completely in white, catch a squirrel and bite it like it was a piece of fried chicken. But the most magnificent report came from Anna-Mae Gustafson, whose aunt and uncle lived near the Institute. She said one night, they woke up to find a man sitting on the end of their bed, staring at them! They had to call and get someone to come pick up the escapee. Anna-Mae was frequently invited to sleepovers. “Sam dared me and Jiggs to run all the way to the back of the asylum, where they keep the really crazy people and put bars on the windows,” Joe continued. “What’d you do,” I gasped. Joe puffed out his chest. “I did it, of course!” Like it was obvious. “I ran even faster than Jiggs. I got there first and slowed down, and it wasn’t really scary at all…it was kind of pretty, even, with all the trees and grass to calm down the loonies and it was real quiet, you know? Then Jiggs caught up and he had the bright idea to look in one of the windows. He wanted me to heft him up onto my shoulders, so I did, and he grabbed ahold of the bars. ‘D’you see anything?’ I asked him and he said no, it was just a real sad looking room with bare walls. Suddenly, I hear a thump on the glass and Jiggs hollers and drops straight off my shoulders onto the grass. I looked up, and Scout’s Honor, Kate, there was a hand pressed against the window. Boy, it was the whitest hand I ever saw, whiter than these bedsheets! We didn’t wait to see what would happen next; we were out of there like jackrabbits.” I fell back onto the bed after absorbing all this secondhand excitement. “Holy cow, Joe,” I murmured, my voice mixed with admiration, fear,

and envy. “That’s some story.” It took me a few more moments of processing to remember that he was supposed to be giving me something. I sat up again. “So what do you got?” He looked at his closed fist. “Before Jiggs caught up, I noticed this on the ground.” He opened his fingers to reveal a gold ring, set with jet-black onyx and a diamond chip. “Gosh,” I whispered. Then I realized the implications. “Joe, that could’ve belonged to a looney! It could be cursed somehow!” Joe nodded gravely. “I know. Here’s where you come in,” he said solemnly. “I have a proposition for you.” “What?” I was suspicious. “If you suck it up and wear this ring for a whole week, you’ll prove you aren’t such a baby and you can come with me and the guys whenever you want.” I hesitated. “Whenever I want?” Joe nodded again, and I couldn’t see any hint of dishonesty in his eyes. “What if it is cursed, and it makes me like one of them,” I pressed. “Then I won’t let them take you alone — I’ll wear it and go looney too,” Joe declared, lifting his chin valiantly. “Hmm. Okay then, I guess it’s a deal,” I consented, offering my hand for a shake. Now that I’m thinking about it, it was probably all these events that were keeping me up, along with the summer heat. My week would start tomorrow and, until then, the black onyx stared at me like an eye through the darkness. I suddenly shivered, thinking about Injun Joe and murder and curses and loonies at the end of the bed. Disregarding the temperature, I dived under the sheets to hide from that black eye, huddling there until I drifted off to sleep. The next morning, when I stood trembling, in front of my dresser, no earthquakes accosted me as I slipped the ring on my small finger. I walked to the park with Karen and Joe, jumping every time a car honked or a squirrel ran by. Joe took advantage of this, frequently wailing, “What’s that?!” and doubling over in laughter at my reaction. But it was all in my head — the week passed uneventfully, and after a while I forgot I was even wearing the thing. Soon, I sought out Joe to reap my reward. “Well, well, well, look who wore the ring for a whole week,” I crowed. “It was nothing. In fact, I think I’ll keep wearing it.”

Then Joe smiled maliciously, and my heart sank; I wasn’t out of the woods yet. “I guess you’re pretty brave after all,” he began. “And I’m a man of my word — you can come with me and the boys whenever you want now. In fact, we’re going on an adventure tonight, and I’d like you to come with us.” My eyes narrowed. “What kind of adventure?” “Old Man Hedgewick says the insane asylum graveyard is haunted, and we feel it’s our duty as citizens to go investigate.” I must have blanched white as paper, because Joe smirked and continued, “Someone as brave as you should be thrilled at the prospect of such an adventure!” With every shred of common sense clamoring to refuse, I stood up straight and set my jaw. “Of course,” I replied. “You bozos will need my help, no doubt.” At one AM, Joe and I tiptoed out of the house, clad in sweatshirts and armed with heavy flashlights. We glided through the night, silent as thieves, but almost screamed when we collided with Sam Buell on the sidewalk. “Jeepers, fellas,” he whispered harshly. “Don’t do that!” “Hush Sam, let’s go,” Joe said. All too soon, we stood before the threatening iron gates of the Mental Health Institute. “How do we get in,” I whispered. “Don’t you know anything, Kate,” Joe whispered back. “If we walk far enough south, the big gates turn into a chain-link fence we can climb over.” Following his direction, we found the spot and scaled the fence like ninjas — slightly clumsy ninjas — and we were in. I was struck by how silent it was, save for the wind in the trees; there were no birds or animal noises. A decent amount of moonlight lit the grounds and the darkened building. “Don’t turn on the flashlights yet. Anyone could see them from here. The graveyard is this way — follow me,” Joe instructed. As we ran, the quietness gave way to the sound of water. A wooden bridge spanned a small river, leading through another thin wrought-iron gate to the cemetery beyond. The grass appeared to be a sea of black, with tiny white headstones glowing in the moonlight like morbid sailboats. Standing at the edge of the bridge, I was suddenly cold with fear. My stomach did cartwheels. “Joe, I don’t know about this.” He hesitated, and though his words were confident, I could hear he felt it

too: “Don’t be silly, there’s nothing to be scared of. Come on.” The bridge made a hollow thumping sound as we crossed it. Soon we were drifting through the cemetery like ghosts ourselves with the flashlights and the fear began to wear off a little bit. I observed something strange. “Joe,” I called. “Why don’t any of these gravestones have names on them?” I shone the light on the small marker closest to my feet. “This one just has a number — 183.” Sam answered me, and his voice sounded detached. “Sometimes they don’t know who the loonies are; mostly their families just drop ‘em off ‘cause they don’t want ‘em.” In the dark, I could see him shrug. “Even if they do know, no one comes and visits ‘em when they die, or pays for a nice plaque. So they just got a bunch of numbered rocks in storage to save time and money.” Joe peered at Sam in the dark. “How d’you know that, Sam? Hey…didn’t you have a brother in there or someone?” Sam’s face contorted angrily, and his eyes darted back and forth between us. “No! Ain’t no loonies in my family! My cousin works here in the summer, is all.” He spat at the ground and swung his flashlight away from us. I stared at the sad 183 and wondered who was lying under my feet. As scared as I was of the people in the asylum, something about it struck me as wrong. All of a sudden, a noise interrupted our quiet investigation. The three of us froze, hurriedly switching off our flashlights. “What was that?” hissed Sam. “It sounded like someone coming over the bridge,” Joe murmured. My spine turned to ice. As we squinted towards the entrance of the cemetery, a cloud passed over the moon, plunging everything into total blackness. “RUN!” Joe bellowed. I screamed, throwing my arms in front of me blindly, sending the flashlight flying, my feet pounding the grass. My foot caught on a headstone, and I flew through the air, hit the ground hard, and was sent spiraling with my momentum. I could feel myself crashing down a slope, scraped by a million branches, before finally plummeting into the river. My system went into shock. Everything was black, and the sound of my thrashing was deafening; my legs kicked helplessly in the deep water and my arms flailed, but I couldn’t keep myself afloat. I tasted brine and mud and

listened to the abrupt silence as my ears were filled and I went under. Then I felt arms around my chest, felt a pull, and I was out, I was being dragged; my lungs were on fire and bright spots flared at the edges of my vision. I choked and vomited water onto the grass where I was laid. Coming to my senses, I whirled around to find my savior. The moonlight had returned, and sitting at a safe distance from me was a middle-aged woman. She sat crosslegged on the ground, clothed in a thin white robe with the letters MHI stitched neatly on the breast. Her eyes were sunken and her skin was horribly white and papery, but she was watching me with an expression of profound concern. I couldn’t move a muscle. After what seemed like years I offered a raspy, “Thank you.” She blinked and said nothing. I cleared my throat. “Thank you for saving me.” She blinked again. I felt the urge to do something to return the gesture. Feverishly, I pulled the ring off my finger and approached her. I held it out, but she just stared. Startling myself, I gently took ahold of her hand and placed the ring on her finger. “It’s yours now,” I said softly. She gazed at her hand, and I saw tears slip out of the corners of her eyes. I became very chilly then, and realized how wet and scared I was. “Well — goodnight,” I stammered. I hurried through the darkness to find Joe and Sam, and to return to the world of independence and comfort that existed outside those wrought-iron gates.

Tyler Farrell

â&#x20AC;&#x153;From Milwaukeeâ&#x20AC;?

everything is north or west. the state of being, and sometimes we do crave exits away from the city. But mostly we hope to remain in the largest place in Wisconsin since we know how to treat ourselves with kindness and wonder like the light from the lake in winter filled

with love.

Saul Lopez

“The Garbage Man”

The garbage man picks up trash because nobody picked his back in Jalisco. The garbage man wakes up early because back home there was no future for him to wake up to. The garbage man kisses his children goodnight because his own father didn't have enough time, for he was in El Norte working as a bracero. The garbage man watches dubbed sitcoms because when he was younger all he had was a crank powered radio he had to share with his five siblings. The garbage man dreams of moving back to his Pueblo because despite having lived here thirty-five long years, this American soil doesn't feel like home to him. The garbage man does not mind being called names anymore because he’s learned that people are more scared of him than he is of them. The garbage man sings at night because it helps him remember his dead father, who he couldn't visit at his deathbed because he had to pay for his son’s tuition. The garbage man reads self-help books because they help him become a better person in this upside-down world.

30 The garbage man cries at work because he must decide between eating or sending money to his bed-ridden mother. But despite all of this, my father sleeps soundly at night because in his sleep he gets a chance to relive the American Dream he so desperately longed for.

Ravi Ghayal

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Warzoneâ&#x20AC;?

Heavy shoulders and cookie cutters. Shoes flutter as they hit the gutter. It's a warzone tonight, in a civilized manner. The young boy is sitting, trying so hard to understand her. The screech of the board and the bullets are flying away. The silence so desolate, deafness in the morning of May. Minds flourish as experience vanishes into thin air. To do what others before them could not, the weight to bare. GRenADES are gained, and failure is not an option. WEapons are given into the system, and the future only lends exhaustion. No rest for the weary or for anyone. Nothing is said but everything gets done. The marching of men to a common destination. Passing with flying colors is the only expectation. And when the war has finished and a paper is given. Only to re-enlist once again, motivationally driven. Endure longer and prosper throughout. All the numbness turns into shouts. And when it is all said and done. And the war is won. Only one survivor is left. And that is the gUn.

“Genkies” Photo credit: Matthew Serafin

Megan Smith

"JT"

I grew up to the sound of my father’s voice — whispy articulations of dreams from authors I had yet to realize were untouchable. Tolkein. Rowling, Tezuka and Terui. I don’t remember most of the things he said, but I will never forget the inflections — the way words sprang to life when he read them from the page, to dance to the melodic hum of his voice. All of the bad in the world is shed — lightens as he leaps into the magic, invites us to follow.

inviting them

Everything is safe when it’s wrapped

in my father’s voice. No matter how deep his sleep he hears every, Psssst. Are you awake?  Pleading for just one more story. My father’s voice is always composed as though there’s never been a bad day. I grew up believing he was the serious one. Supposing because he was the one with

the job, with the boss, with

deadlines to meet, it meant he had to be tense, easily angered, worn down by life and all the ways that it was nothing like he thought it might be.

Isn’t that what

34 a father is? Certainly those were the fathers I expected him to be. Then I got to know this fellow, whose salted hair was nothing more than that — hair.

Whose only

wrinkles showed where his eyes smiled, and whose guilty pleasure manifested in sitting around the corner so his daughters wouldn’t see him watching The Notebook. This wasn’t a father at all. This was still a boy who wanted nothing more than to be invited to play. He was Obiwan, Pikachu, Gandalf, taxi driver even an axe murderer that one day. He smoked pot once, bit his tongue at every meal, but always jerked in surprise;

felt, even in REM, the frame of a daughter

in the door — ran so fast the football team called him crazy legs. He’ll watch whatever is on TV, but we can’t watch commercials anymore because he dances to the jingles and it concerns mom when the capitalists are winning. When he watched Les Mis he cried, and bought the beach towel, and he likes to blast James Taylor and pretend shared initials equate a shared destiny. I still wake up to his singing in the garage beneath me. There is no room for embarrassment, and if the book says to sing, then by God there shall be a song.

Mackenzie Innis

"ELEMENTS"

1. I threw my love into the sea, A bird had brought her there to me. 2. He flicked the ash into the trash And now the house is burning. 3. the wind blew in the clouds today but I am Nowhere, at all. 4. poignant phrase. roots. stem. flower. smell, your head, my heart, our hands, s p i n n i n g.

Kari Hinterlong

The Day She Couldn't Smell the Roses

The clock read 10:30 pm, it’s green light casting an eerie glow in the darkness of the kitchen. Anna turned on the floor lamp, it’s warm yellow light bathing the room in a benevolent ambience. Anna smiled. And light shall shine forth in the darkness. She loved these small things. To her, turning on a light was not simply turning on a light. It meant more than that. Everything could have a deeper meaning if you chose to give it one. And that was exactly what she did. Perhaps that was why following a routine was so important to her. She thought of it not as a collection of trivial actions, but as a ritual that must be performed with reverence. She took care with every action she took, did not mindlessly go through the motions like she could have, but instead focused all her attention on performing each task. She measured a cup of filtered water, slowly poured it in the teapot and set it on the stove to boil. She opened a packet of chamomile tea and tenderly placed the tea bag into her favorite mug, the one her sister had made for her in a pottery class. It was light blue and it had hand-painted daisies drawn near the handle. Her sister was always taking classes for fun. First it was baking classes. For a whole month Anna had received a dozen cupcakes every week. Then it was knitting. That time she had given Anna a matching scarf and hat and gloves. This time her sister was on a pottery binge. Some people thought Anna’s sister was silly, jumping from hobby to hobby like that, but Anna admired it. If her sister got bored with something (and she often did), she just waved goodbye and moved on to the next thing. Anna was the recipient of all her sister’s abandoned hobbies, a collector of faded interests. They were orphans and she took them in, gave them a loving home. She treasured these little knick-knacks more than anything else she owned because to her they represented unfulfilled potential, and to her at least, that was a sacred thing. If Anna picked up a hobby, she could not put it down. She felt compelled to stick with something, even if she did not enjoy it. She slogged through books that she did not enjoy and finished every page. Even if the book was not a page-turner, she vowed to be one. She turned the pages steadily and proudly finished each book she picked up. The teapot started to hiss, quietly at first, then much louder. It startled her, because she did not often get so lost in her thoughts. Steam rushed out of the spout. She ran toward the stove and removed the boiling pot from the heat. She poured the tea into the mug. She stirred in a sizable portion of honey and took the mug to her room and set it on her nightstand. She sipped the tea as she read Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, waiting for the words to blur and for her head to be weighed down by the

insistent drowsiness that usually overtook her, but it did not. Not tonight. Her head felt clear. Her limbs felt weightless. And that was the problem. Her body did not feel tired tonight. She had gone on her usual walk that day, to the lake and back just around the time the sun was setting. Same number of steps even, but her legs did not feel tired as they usually did. In fact, she felt energized, ready to run a mile or perhaps swim some laps. There was no way she would be able to fall asleep like this. She decided to do some exercise. That might wear her out enough so that she could fall asleep. Anna was in the middle of her third jumping jack when the smoke detector in the apartment building went off. She froze, both arms straight in the air as if she had been caught at the scene of a crime. She came back to her senses while the shrill screech of the alarm continued. Perhaps she needed to be jolted out of her daydreams. She was daydreaming quite a bit these days. Maybe this is a way to alert me to come back to the present moment, she thought. She put on her slippers and shuffled to the door then peeked her head out see if anyone was heading downstairs to evacuate or if it was another false alarm. She had barely opened the door when she smelled it. Smoke. The fumes were unmistakable. She choked and in her panic began to hyperventilate.

She woke up in a hospital bed. To her surprise, her mother was sitting in a chair next to her. “Anna,” she breathed. Her voice was scratchy, her eyes rimmed with red. “I’m okay Mom. I don’t even remember how I got here. It’s like a miracle isn’t it,” she beamed. Her mother was grasping a bouquet of flowers so tightly that the rose thorns dug into her palms and little drops of blood trailed down her hand. “Flower-arranging. That was the class your sister was coming from,” she whispered, barely audible. “She was on her way over to give these to you, but…” She stifled a sob. “She managed to get you down the stairs, but the doctors said she breathed in a lot of smoke. Too much.” Her mother took a gasp of air and choked out, “She’s gone, Anna.” Anna stared at the bouquet. At the unfulfilled potential.

Peter Spaulding

"Hangman Ontology"

Playing hangman with you, I think of origins. Is it a tragedy that he only begins to exist in death, or is he lucky?

Jen Waters

"Not Roy's Crying Girl"

I. 46” x 46” The act often happens alone during deep slumps of doubt, fifth-life crises of existential dread, apprehension of vocation, of God, of self. I came around the bend to meet the eyes of the Crying Girl with her back against the north wall. She has wiped her eyes for fifty three non-stop years, and will continue to do so for the rest of her life.

II. Me x Her I continue to meet with the Crying Girl, now called Comforter. We reflect on an action so primal, and colors so primary, of being stamped on steel to display strength, permanence — a life sentence, of domineering men causing misery, and a thousand empty eternities.

Lily Cheong

"Closed Door"

Face so grim and sullen sudden. Wondering where did our friendship go? know,

cause I'm thinking of you all a

Too bad neither of us

but what I felt was so much more â&#x20AC;&#x201D; closed door.

I wish I could have told you, but I'm behind a

Abby Vakulskas

"Miss St. Croix Dropouts"

It was a good decision we made — Not to win the pageant. That moment we looked at each other, Stopped pretending, And sat instead, On the table in our dresses, Legs swinging, Scooping up peanut butter with Oreos While the other girls shrieked about jewelry and ate celery, Exclaiming with relief when their gowns fit. Exclaiming like they’d just won the Nobel Prize. They ripped out their hair, Dyed their skin, Subsisted on low-calorie snacks and compliments delivered through clenched teeth and not much else. We shrugged, Raised our Oreos, And promised to sabotage each other if that’s what it took. They strapped and sewed themselves into their shoes — We ran barefoot down the hallway with the stage crew, Telling dirty jokes.

42 Their smiles were plaster of Paris â&#x20AC;&#x201D; We were now free to frown, Free to make any expression we wanted. And as the heavy crown came down on the skull of the squealing victor, And the homogenous throngs screamed and swarmed the stage, We slipped out the back â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Smiling for real.

“An Irish Mirror” Photo credit: Jasmine Sunderlage

Megan Smith

“A Late Wife's Affair”

Oh, honey—

look at you!

This is a nice view. The word stunning fit before but now — now that I’ve dissected you! Touched limbic and cuneiform, exposed everything from sacral vertebrae to rectus abdominis, squeezed bile between fingers, hummed the melody gushing out your brain, played croquet with the organs beneath your ribs, and tasted the curve of your spine; Now that I’ve carved foreign semen off your breasts, hurled your limbs across the room, and smelled the inner layer of your skin and laid inside it — Now,

I can say that I know you.

And what I know is made clear by your lung in my hand; You, my dear, are beautiful — inside and out.

R Ryan Murphy

“Lust”

Right when I think I’ve conquered the need to pair off and share my life, To buy rings, a house, new sheets — Right when I think I’m happy to take life at my leisure, Quietly, a single man, I find myself in a bar. My friends with their lovers, Me, content to sip beer, Above love. Content to be a friend With just friends, To mock the thought of having or being more. Then, music blaring, lights dim, Among the drinkers I see A laughing face — Then, that fiend desire leaps free, fangs bared, Tearing down the illusions I’d so carefully pinned up. And as that mad bird rages, I see my task was futile. And when again my path is crossed by lovers hand in hand, I’ll see that crooked smile, And yearn and be sad.

Emily Reynolds

“Chevy Rearview”

My cousin Al and I were the rulers of the backseat, Our domain, littered with crumbs and crayons and trail maps. We sang ABBA too loudly, and asked too many questions. We were an incessant soundtrack of giggling, singing and whining. It was a Pacific Northwest road trip, The kind of road trip you wish you were older for, Views you wish you were tall enough to understand. Sunsets in the car you wish you could relive. A wide stare, a jaw dropped in wonder. My father told us both we had to keep a journal, of how it felt to be eleven, and camping. Take notes on the animals and plants. I want to be there when I read it. So Al drew pictures and I wrote, An overlooked tell of who we were to become. I described the smells of Yosemite, The heat of an afternoon hike, a bite from a red ant, And the chill of the nights you beg to share a sleeping bag. I didn’t journal about the sights, more the people seeing them with me. Like my aunt and uncle, I hid in the tent while they fought. The patient old man in the clearing, taking pictures of deer. How close the fawn got to him, how gentle and slow it moved. I wrote about the woman in Portland and her compost pile, How she praised her rotten carrots and banana peels. And she told me to always give back to the Earth, And that waste is rude to those who have nothing.

Ravi Ghayal

“Blank Slate”

Wake with a blank slate, Time to put on the disguise that people see.  Stand in line and wait, Pretend to behave and be the best you could possibly be. Laugh and smile behind a fake face, Read and write behind an order of command.  It's a competition, it's a race.  Top of the page is your own official brand. Shoving and pushing your way to a nonstop path, #2 sheets are read by a computer.  Other than accomplishment, you feel your own wrath Because you will always think about your future. The future is near, Permission to forget.  Anytime is a time to fear, The past here is full of regret. White sheets that record information, Directions to do everything.   An add-on to a timely situation, Practice, practice on anything. 8 hours of brainwashing orders, Ending off where you began. Finding the answers, going beyond the borders, Trying to form the perfect plan. An emotionless day here and gone, To find yourself in a restless state.  Do the same thing over again and so on... Start again with a blank slate.

Saul Lopez

"Tierra Mojada"

La masa de la tortilla corre por mis venas, de serpientes me alimento, y con orgullo solo me sustento. Soy Latino, pues fui, y seré, porque el presente es la mezcla de lo real en un mundo imaginario. La tierra que piso, es la única que admiro, como el agave, se tiene que esperar para disfrutar. Que me quemen como Cuauhtémoc, si por mi patria fuese, pero el problema es que ninguna me pertenece. Tláloc llora, al ver a sus hijos en el limbo transnacional. Es tiempo de sentir, no de proponer, porque el corazón del pueblo está en busca de vida, y no se detendrá hasta ver la marea invertida.

Tyler Farrell

"The Wanderer"

Pluto planet PL plots long and drifty Greek voyages. Gods surround space in our heads, our eyes form the night sky. They photograph us, each finger nail in the celestial playbook. Tombaugh analyzed every single negative from the astrograph, connected dots in the heavens. Little movements, a large moon and debate trajectory accidentally. Discovery telescope told the tale from Mars Hill in Flagstaff, on planet Percy Lowell, distantly spinning askew like a teenager wandering the entire galaxy in the ancient orbital path of a 17 degree deviation.

Alexis Worden

“Breathe”

I don’t remember learning, but by age twenty-two I have become proficient at breathing — too bad it’s not a resume builder. Don’t ruminate about it unless you yearn to taste suffocation — fretting is frivolous; your autonomic nervous system will keep your tocker ticking. If you need tactile validation, place left hand on heart, right on stomach. If visual learning is the only way for you, try standing face to face with your reflection. My favorite is auditory — ear pressed to a lover’s chest.

“Self Portrait” Photo credit: Alexis Worden

Benjamin Zellmer

"After the Breakup"

The sun sits softly high in the sky, A spring breeze sweeps through the valley, The river gently jogs around the rocks, Bouncing about on every turn. I follow the footprints left by the one ahead, The ground comforts me along every step, The trees embrace me with their sweeping arms, Somewhere a bird hums my favorite tune. The world loves me today. Loves me more than he ever did. More than he ever would. He was as gentle as a rock, As warm as a shaded waterfall. I wish I could take this rock, And break through what seems so smooth, Exposing the crookedness inside. I wish I could take this rock, And this rock, And this rock, And this rock, And smash them into each other until nothing remains. He loves me not. He loves me not. He loves me not.

Hannah Kirby

"Delphinium"

Mom says the television isn’t working. Dad says he’ll fix it. Mom says too bad you can’t fix endometriosis. Dad says we’ll keep trying. We tried the surgery and it didn’t work. We’ll try something different. Mom fixes dinner. Dad fixes the television. There was an 85-percent chance we would get pregnant this year — And we were the 15-percent. We just have to keep trying. We’ve been trying for 11 years. Mom asks do you want to stop? Dad asks do you want to stop? We could think about adopting again. We could save up for another treatment. Do you want to take a break? Do you want to take a break? Mom clears off the table. Dad washes it off.

Megan Knowles

A Field of Daisies

I remember the field where they found Elise’s body. Six-foot high grass and wild daisies filled the vast open lot in the sleepy suburb west of Chicago. Local kids would bike through flattened paths of grass or cut through it to get to the nearby subdivision. It was the same field where neighbors would recall Elise walking her family’s sheepdog, Gus, every summer morning and it was the same nearby subdivision where Elise lived in a tidy split-level with her family before she was murdered at the age of 16. Elise’s death was before every teen had a cell phone attached to their hip equipped with GPS, before the big box stores and 4-lane roads had taken over the slowly growing suburb and no one could safely travel on foot or by bike. When Elise didn’t come home that evening, there were no text messages to check where she was. For her parents, it was normal for her to take solitary walks through the field or neighborhood, especially on warm evenings. But when the sun went down that night and Elise hadn’t returned, something was wrong. Her mom anxiously watched out their living room window, her brother and his friends rode their bikes all over town shouting her name while her father frantically phoned the police. The local paper reported that two grade school boys had stumbled upon her lifeless frame while digging through the brush the morning after she disappeared, mere hours after her parents reported her missing. She was hastily buried under soft dirt amongst the tall grass in a corner of the field, a bouquet of freshly picked daisies clenched between her cold, white hands, neatly folded across her chest as if she rested peacefully in a coffin. The town was equally disturbed at two children finding the body of a dead highschool girl as at the meticulously arranged flowers. But nothing was talked about more in the town’s lengthy gossip than the murder itself— a gruesome combination of stab wounds and strangulation. During the days following her death, the questions and chatter of the town became far less sympathetic toward Elise and consisted of disingenuous declarations that something had to change, that the police weren’t doing their job. How could something like this happen here? What can we do to make this town safer for our children? But somehow they knew that this must be an isolated incident. They were convinced that there must have been some passionate motivation to kill this young girl. Police questioned Elise’s father, brother, and teachers—all the potential predators in her short life. Her family was outraged. It was impossible for her hard-working father or Ivy League bound brother to commit such a heinous act. Her parents desperately told police about Elise’s necklace, a silver-chained piece of jewelry with a blue topaz daisy charm that she wore every day. It wasn’t found on her body and they were sure she had been wearing it the day she disappeared. Distraught with grief, they knew her necklace was somewhere. That he had her necklace. That he was hiding it, a sick sort of keepsake. And so detectives combed the newly

55 awakened suburb for clues, traveling from house to house with questions, armed with Elise’s most recent school photo, the daisy charm necklace visible under her soft smile. I remember that it was during the last week before summer break in June when the police came to our school to conduct interviews with Elise’s classmates, to search the lockers for the necklace with the daisy charm. I remember seeing the police dogs throughout the solemn hallways and Elise’s friends crying and holding hands in the cafeteria. I had moved to the Chicago suburb from Cincinnati a few months before, one of many moves my family would make throughout my scattered, inconsistent childhood. I remember feeling so detached from the town and its people, especially since I hadn’t managed to make any friends yet. But most of all, I remember the short interaction I had with Elise one afternoon in our school’s music room, one of few we would have in the short time we went to highschool together. I joined the school band to play the trombone and practiced after school in the small rooms of our music department, a welcome refuge where I felt like I was actually a part of the school. One afternoon, I remember hearing the distant sounds of the grand piano in the music hall around the corner. I was curious to know the player behind the piece. A petite girl with smooth auburn hair sat at the piano’s bench, her long pale fingers dancing across the keys, her bright blue eyes fiercely fixated on the sheet of music in front of her. I watched her from the corner of the room, completely absorbed in her playing. She was beautiful. I moved to set down my textbook on the nearby table and clumsily dropped it, making much more noise than I would’ve expected and leaving me red in the face. The piano keys clanged in a sudden stop. Elise looked up with a start, her intense concentration broken, her pale cheeks coloring red. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I heard you playing and I—your playing is lovely,” I stammered, avoiding her wide blue eyes. “Oh, it’s really okay,” she started, her voice flustered and rushed. She jumped from the piano bench, shuffling her sheets of music, impossibly shy and embarrassed that someone had heard her practicing an unfinished piece, full of mistakes. I felt guilty for intruding on her and I hurried to make some semblance of conversation. “That’s Bach’s Aria da Capo, isn’t it? I think I know it...well, I recognize the melody at least.” Elise nodded with the slightest hint of a smile, impressed that someone knew one of her favorite pieces. “I try to practice it after school, but there never seems to be enough time, and it’s… just so beautiful. I want to get it right,” she said. “Well, do you have a piano at home,” I asked, afraid she would leave and eager to continue this moment, one of the only meaningful interactions I’d had at school so far. Her shell was easier to break than I thought. Suddenly, she started telling me about how she would be inheriting an antique piano from an elderly neighbor, a former pianist

56 who suffered from arthritis, but loved to hear what she called the “unmatched passion” of Elise’s playing. We walked out of the music room together, discussing classical composers and the upcoming orchestra concert. In a moment that came far too soon, Elise said she had to go. Her mother was taking her dress shopping for the end of year dance. I sent her away with an awkward wave and watched her head toward the field near the school. Elise went to the dance with Paul, a rowdy and popular tennis player a year ahead of her. Thinking about the blushing perfectionist talking about the intricacies of Bach, I couldn’t imagine her getting along with a boy who spent most of his time goofing off with his friends or throwing paper balls at girls in class. The night of the dance, I remember seeing Paul drink from a flask he shared with friends outside the gymnasium. I remember sitting on the gym’s bleachers, the designated seats for wallflowers and losers, watching Elise in her peach-colored dress, the silver-chained daisy necklace sparkling across her neck. She slow-danced with Paul to “Try Me,” an old James Brown love song, and I watched from the sidelines, always from the sidelines, with insatiable envy and self-pity. After another ballad, Paul snuck off with his buddies to sneak sips from their flask again. Elise found her friends near the table of stale snack mix and plastic cups of soda, her body language suggesting that this was not how she imagined her night with Paul would turn out. She chatted frantically to the two girls, her arms gesturing toward the door and then folded defiantly across her chest in an almost childlike frustration. The girls returned her gestures with a few sympathetic nods and open-mouthed eye rolls. Still, she waited for him. Her blue eyes kept darting toward the closed gymnasium door and back to the floor of much happier couples enjoying their evening, her disappointment visible with each glance. When Paul finally came back, drunk, he stumbled over to Elise, attempting to playfully grab her around the waist. I remember seeing Elise and Paul begin to argue. As Elise tried to get Paul to look into her eyes and steadied him by his broad shoulders, Paul shoved Elise’s far smaller frame away from him, Elise’s angry tears sent her carefully applied mascara streaming onto her cheeks. She hurried past the couples across the dance floor and made a quick exit out of the gymnasium. She was humiliated, wondering how she could’ve been so naïve to believe that tonight would be different, that Paul liked her too much to sacrifice their night together just to get buzzed for the hundredth time with his buddies. When the drama was finished, a few people pretended they hadn’t seen anything and a few more whispered on the sidelines. Still attached to the bleachers, I realized that it was close to the end of the dance as I heard the love ballads begin to fade and I watched more and more laughing groups of friends and shyly smiling couples filing out of the gymnasium. I followed them, slipping on my pathetically thin windbreaker before heading into the far colder night air. I scanned the throngs of students for her auburn hair and peach-colored dress. I wanted to tell Elise what a jerk I thought Paul was, how she didn’t deserve to have her spring dance ruined by a brainless wannabe jock. But she was gone.

57 The Monday after the dance, I remember seeing Elise and Paul kiss outside the Biology classroom. I put my textbooks slowly away in my locker as he spoke to her in a hushed whisper, his eyebrows contrived to express concern and humility. She hugged her textbooks and blushed as she met his eyes. She looked happy. I couldn’t believe how she would forgive him so easily after he made her cry, after his violent outburst, one that could happen again. But people aren’t always who you expect them to be. When Elise’s body was found, students who saw him shove her at the dance and knew about his inclination for goofing off and partying all suspected Paul. But there wasn’t enough evidence to convict him. Not from prints on the body, not from searching his house, not from interviewing him and his friends. According to the police, he wasn’t guilty of anything but being a teenager with a temper and a knack for getting in trouble. I remember how I never had the courage to ask her to the spring dance, how I should’ve just asked her that day outside the music room. I remember how it could’ve been different if I had asked her, how she wouldn’t have had to cry that night, the last time she’d ever get to experience a dance. But I know there’s no use in regretting the past. Now, I return to my old suburb, a foreign town I haven’t seen since the end of my high school days. It’s much louder and more developed than how I remembered it. I hear the rush of cars driving on nearby highways. A sprawling Walmart replaces the field of daisies and tall grass across from the school. It was foolish to expect nothing to have changed, especially as I look at the reflection in the rearview mirror of the blundering young trombonist, now 20 years older. The engine of my old Chevy sedan clanks over the light trills of Bach’s Aria da Capo serenading from my cassette player as I stall in the Walmart’s parking lot, unabashedly and perhaps even unknowingly constructed on Elise’s grave. It was far too easy to forget the past. I shut off the engine and exit the car, walking away from the store and the crowd, heading toward the back of the lamp lit parking lot. The dozens of evening shoppers pass me by without a second thought, never a second thought at someone like me. They don’t seem to know or care about the significance of this very lot, to know about the grisly crime that took place here only two decades earlier. I reach the corner of the parking lot, crickets busily chirping in the surrounding grass. With a heavy sigh, at long last, I pause to set down a bouquet of white daisies in one of the many empty asphalt spaces, and I finger the silver-chained necklace with the blue topaz daisy charm sparkling in the lamp’s reflection, my keepsake of Elise.

Gina Richard

"Adventure Boots"

My dad told me, You can't have adventures without good shoes. And so on the first day of college, I traded in my old pair for â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Sturdy, Trustworthy, Brand new, Adventure boots. My adventure boots and I, We've seen and conquered small pieces of the world together. Slivers of mountains, plains, and oceans, Won and forfeited within the past four years. We've danced along car park rooftops, Tracing the edge with our toes and skirting away when the wind was tempted to blow us over, Watching trains go by in perfect silence. We've dipped our souls into the Danube, Laughing and splashing Jordan who, Drinking liters of beer in the sunshine thought only of scaling the graffiti mountains. We spun recklessly down grassy hills, Breathless scary delight when we read the sign, The cliffs are subject to random mudslides, Please beware.

59 We clambered desperately down Wisconsin Avenue, 4am, hopelessly drunk, Fearlessly claiming our newfound world, Shouting to the lights that we were ready. We fell in love in Cedarburg, And the golden leaves and bonfire smoke. Stood still around our halo, And followed as a friendly shadow. We cried a lot, On planes, in cars, at the ends of long nights, At the stop and start of adventures, Because the unknown is never broken in. But most importantly, We learned what it means to live. How to make a planet a universe, How to find treasure in a home. Adventure doesn't begin with a map, But with a great windows, ready to break. Free and wild, begging: Lace up your boots.

Megan Smith

"I Asked My Father For His Favorite Word"

omphaloskepsis: the contemplation of one’s own navel as an assistance in meditation. a humorous thought to a high school boy, retained by a man’s venerable soul. he’s an innie. why? how had he been cut from his mother’s womb so it indented his surface center? who was it that chose ring designs for his stomach cavity? how was it they knew how many waves he’d need in order to sail, carpe diem, dis-remember all the waves of his face? and who wrote the word so that it giggled like Pillsbury dough? a belly button.

Alexis Worden

"Swan Lake"

Tingles and prickles reverberate through lower limbs as Daddy

drives to work. Calls from the office describing his collapse

creates chaos. Mother scrambles to reassemble herself despite

terror threatening to bore through her tender temperament.

Doctors deny dreams of Daddy dancing. Brother’s first birthday balloon

tethered meekly to the foot of Daddy’s bed.

Brother plopped in between toes crippled with atrophy.

Mother softly sniffles into a well-wisher’s handkerchief as nurses

shuffle round and round and round with every tick of the clock. Oxygen orchestrated within tubes controls the

trachea while metronome precise morphine muddles the mind.

Quiet conversations create a chorus to compliment the machines.

Doctors detect flinching and wincing while Daddy

dreams of dancing.

“Resfeber” Photo credit: Matthew Serafin

Emma Spring

“Rome, Italy: Study Abroad 2016”

To know Rome is to not know it at all. It’s a feeling. Rome isn’t just a place to get to know, like a new friend or lover. It’s an overwhelming awareness of your senses; the smells that fill the narrow, cobblestone streets and to see the most magnificent sights when you least might expect it. To “know” Rome would be to not know it at all. Rome doesn’t greet you with a warm hello and a firm handshake. It’s a brief "ciao" or simple kiss on each cheek. Rome doesn’t want you to know it, it wants you to experience it. If you think you “know” Rome, you’re simply wrong. The Pope, the great and mighty emperors, the families that never left – none of them know Rome. They feel it. The history, the omniscient presence of God, the secrets deep beneath the surface. To feel Rome is to feel it body, mind, and spirit. It is to love it like the passionate romantics in the middle of the street. And to hate it like the people you pass by shouting in Italian so fast they can barely take a breath. To know Rome is to never be able to fully understand it. It’s the feeling of being lost, but never alone.

Saul Lopez

“Mi Frontera Lingüística”

El lenguaje no conoce frontera, Yet we want people to pay for our mistakes. Para recitar un soneto de amor bajo una noche estrellada, One mustn’t show a valid form of ID. I have faced no charge for this unholy matrimonio de dos lenguas ya bastardas, llenas de sangre, guerra, revolución, y un poco de deceit. Yace el pensamiento impuro que I have to decide which one to pick and which one to forget. Pero es tan corta la vida, y tan larga la ignorancia que me rehuso a soltar my two sets of alphabets, one with an extra letra or two. Porque no es lo mismo leer un soneto de Shakespeare en español y mucho menos un soneto de Neruda en Ingles.

Mientras se pueda, both languages must learn to respect their diferencias y aprender uno del otro. Because the day will come where ninguno de los dos will be used. For once we die, la muerte nos muestra el lenguaje de la vida.

“UTOPIA” Photo credit: Alexis Worden

Contributors

Spring 2017

Alessandria Rhines is a graduating senior at Marquette University. Rachel Harmon studies Advertising and Writing Intensive English at Marquette University, while partaking in volunteer work, slam poetry, and more. She hopes to dedicate her career to bettering the fair representation of all people in the media and wishes to collaborate with as many different people and cultures as possible. She believes in the power of storytelling to ground people and to show the importance of empathy. Rich Millo is a freshman studying Secondary Education and English. Poetry has become an important part of his life in recent years because it has helped him explain his thoughts and ideas creatively. It has become a form of expression, but it has also become a coping mechanism through his tough times. Rich has plans of being a high school English teacher in the near future, but has bright hopes of being a college professor in the long run. Theresa Murphy is a senior at Marquette University, studying Elementary Education and English Language Arts. Carolyn Lewis is a current sophomore double majoring in Digital Media in the College of Communication and Writing Intensive English in the College of Arts and Sciences. She enjoys writing flash fiction and novellas along with writing daily poetry. She hopes to involve screenwriting in her film career and to one day publish a novel. Abby Vakulskas is a sophomore studying Psychology, English, and Music. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s recently dawned on her how much she procrastinates through creative writing and that maybe she should pay a little more attention to her pipe dream of becoming a childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s author. In her free time she likes to hike, read, and perfect her omelet-making skills. Jen Waters is a student who strives to pursue what is truly right and just, and attempts to be blessing and glory and honor and light. Sometimes she writes from that framework, sometimes she does not.

68 Zac Wierschem is a junior at Marquette University studying Innovation and Entrepreneurship. He is originally from Houston Texas, where he attended Strake Jesuit College Preparatory and excelled in choir and musical theatre. Zac studied abroad in Athens, Greece where he was able to serve refugees and travel. Now he is a part of two startup ventures on Marquette's campus and writes poetry as a way for self-expression, while dancing in shows for the Bayanihan Student Organization and living in the Catholic House Community. Tyler Farrell (whose name is Irish for "courageous") is currently a Visiting Assistant Professor of English at Marquette University, where he teaches writing, poetry, literature, and drama. He also leads a summer study abroad program to Ireland. Farrell has two collections of poems published by Salmon Poetry (County Clare, Ireland), Tethered to the Earth (2008) and The Land of Give and Take (2012) and wrote a biographical essay for James Liddyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Selected Poems (Arlen House, 2011). A forthcoming book of poems entitled Stichomythia is scheduled to arrive in late 2017. Saul Lopez was born and raised in Milwaukee. He is a first-generation MexicanAmerican student who is studying Writing Intensive English and Economics. On campus he is involved with LASO (Latin American Student Organization) and Dance Inc. He started writing poetry during his freshman year at Marquette, and has not stopped since. He likes to play soccer, run, and read Latin American literature when he is not busy with his studies. Ravi Ghayal is a freshman at Marquette University in the college of Health Sciences, pursuing a Biomedical Sciences major and Pre-Dental studies. He loves to write and to express himself in ways that no one else can, by writing poems that relate to beauty of people and the world. Megan Smith is a graduating senior at Marquette University. She has a double major in Writing Intensive English and Social Welfare and Justice. You can view more of her poetry at letseffitafterall.blogspot.com. Mackenzie Innis is an alumnus of Marquette University. Kari Hinterlong is a senior studying Biomedical Sciences and Psychology at Marquette University. She believes both science and writing are creative endeavors, so she likes to experiment in the lab and on the page. When she's not busy reading scientific literature, she reads (and tries her best to write) fiction.

69 Peter Spaulding is a first year graduate student pursuing his master's degree in English at Marquette University. He is looking to study Early Modern English Literature at the PhD level (such as Milton, Shakespeare, Donne, and/or Herbert). Lily Cheong is a freshman from Hoffman Estates, near Chicago. She plans to major in Economics and double minor in Entrepreneurship and Criminology. In her free time she enjoys finding new places to hangout, taking artsy pictures, and going out on spontaneous adventures with close friends. Ryan Murphy is a senior at Marquette University majoring in Business Economics and minoring in Writing Intensive English. He has written for the Marquette Wire as an opinions columnist and is an honors student and a third year Resident Assistant. Emily Reynolds is a senior in the College of Communication studying Advertising and Writing Intensive English. Emily has been writing poetry for over three years and enjoys writing sestinas and short fiction, as well. Her favorite contemporary poet is Warsan Shire. Alexis Worden is senior with a major in Psychology major and a minor in Fine Arts. She would like to thank everyone who pushes her to dive into her funky side because it fuels her to be the most authentic version of herself. In her free time, Alexis loves rock climbing and her favorite animals are wolves. Benjamin Zellmer is a junior at Marquette University studying Biomedical Sciences. He is from Elm Grove, Wisconsin. While at Marquette, Ben has volunteered with a free health clinic just north of campus, worked for the Center for Community Service, and studied many hours in the library. Poetry is his way of procrastination. Hannah Kirby is a senior majoring in Journalism and minoring in Digital Media. Writing is one of her greatest passions, whether itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s song lyrics, a poem or a broadcast script. She is the general manager of Marquette University Television and she freelances for the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. Upon graduation, she plans on pursuing a career in Entertainment Journalism.

70 Megan Knowles grew up in the Western suburbs of Chicago and is a senior majoring in Writing Intensive English and French at Marquette University. She has been a cellist for thirteen years enjoys old school video games. One day she hopes that she can have a home large enough to support a Great Pyrenees. Gina Richard is a junior studying English. After graduation, she intends to use her degree to pursue a copywriting career. She enjoys all forms of writing, but particularly loves writing poetry and short stories. Emma Spring is a junior majoring in Journalism and minoring in Digital Media in the College of Communications at Marquette University. She recently was blessed with the opportunity of studying abroad for a semester in Rome, Italy at John Cabot University. She gained an appreciation for differences and plans to someday continue traveling the world to learn about many more people and their cultures. Matthew Serafin has been making photographs for most of his life, starting from the first camera he received in 8th grade. In 2012, he was selected for a National Geographic Student Expedition to the Grand Canyon specializing in photography. He spent 2016 traveling through eight different countries with Up with People, a nonprofit service and performing arts organization. Now a senior at Marquette University, Matthew can be seen on campus shooting stories for the Marquette Wire. Jasmine Sunderlage is a senior at Marquette University, studying English Literature and History. Growing up in Chicago, IL, in a creative family, she relies on various mediums to convey a story and it's emotions, ranging from the visual arts of photography and drawing, to the written word. A curious mind, avid reader, and lover of travel, she enjoys discovering the world's hidden secrets. Previous works through Marquette University include an essay, The Prominence of Pippin, and various stories as a Global Correspondent, during her time abroad in the Fall of 2016.