Paddlefish II 2015

Paddlefish II 2015

Paddlefish II 2015

Table of Contents

10

Sahara Barrett • The Evolution of Man, nonfiction -Winner of the 2015 Father Jack Garvey Award for nonfiction

15

Reilly Biel • Happy Ass, poem • Painting Egg Cartons, nonfiction • That Word, poem -Winner of the 2015 Sister Eileen Neville Award for poetry

• You Can’t Keep the Case, poem

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Brenda Kay Durst Honorable Mention for • I Am Not Your Dog, poem • Maybe Tomorrow?, nonfiction

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Levi V. Gomez • Generation Degerenate, poem • Ode to Uncle Ray, poem

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Mary Hackett • I Fear, poem

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Aimee Huntley • Feasts for the Feeble, poem • Ode to Boy Scouts, poem

Table of Contents

36

Lauren Janssen • XIX, fiction -Winner of the 2015 Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for fiction

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Karen Mayfield • Serendipity, poem • Pull, poem

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Maggie Joe McMahon Honorable Mention for • Hidden Alley, poem • The Wonder Years, poem

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Emily Pillatzki • Babe, nonfiction • The Embarrassing Injury, nonfitction

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James Luke Reeves • Your Secret, nonfiction

63

Zach Telles • The Joker, poem • Peace, poem

66

Jullie Weiland • If I Could Believe, poem

Table of Contents

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Book Reviews

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Lauren Janssen • American Sniper, Chris Kyle, Jim DeFelice & Scott McEwen • American Sniper (movie) • Me & God, Michael Skau

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Karen Mayfield • The Terrible & Wonderful Reasons Why I Run Long Distances, Matthew Inman

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Maggie Jo McMahon • Six Months Later, Natalie Richards • Thirteen Reasons Why, Jay Asher

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Jullie Weiland • You Only Get Letters From Jail, Jodi Angel • A Witness in Exile, Brian Spears

Editor

Jim Reese

Associate Editor

Dana DeWitt

Review Editor

Jamie Sullivan

Copy Editor Dana DeWitt Arts Editor David Kahle Editorial Assistant

Lauren Janssen

Cover Art Alex Mueller Book Design & Layout

Chelsea Kathol

Advisory Board

S. Cynthia Binder

Dana DeWitt S. Marielle Frigge Jamie Sullivan

Copyright Š 2015 by Paddlefish II All poems and prose are used with permission of the authors, and they retain all rights to their work published herein.

Except for brief quotations in reviews, no part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system,without prior written permission of the copyright owner unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law.

The views expressed in Paddlefish II are not necessarily those of Mount Marty College.

Paddlefish II Snagging good literature one line at a time.

Mount Marty College 2015 Student Awards

Sister Eileen Neville Award for Poetry Reilly Biel Father Jack Garvey Award for Nonfiction Sahara Barrett Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for Fiction Lauren Janssen All student awards were selected by anonymous MMC faculty.

Mount Marty College Student Awards provided by a generous gift from Liz Spivey in honor of Eugene Brinkmeyer, founder of the MMC Gregorian Club.

Winner of the 2015 Father Jack Garvey Award for Nonfiction

Evolution of Man Sahara Barrett

I sit, second row from the back, watching images swirl across the screen. I spend three hours a week here, in my comfortable corner, absorbing Ancient and Medieval History through osmosis and study guides. Nine in the morning might be too early for a lecture, but it’s the perfect time to watch history films. From high aloft on the third floor, I imagine the view from the window beside me is more interesting than the Paleolithic landscape our protagonist is exploring. It used to be hard to hear the movies. Back in the beginning of the school year, I could hardly make out the narrator’s voices over the hum of the air conditioner unit.

I’d seen units like this only once. My Aunt Patty had hers shoved into a window of her trailer house, blowing in the hot Montana air at one in the afternoon through her living room.

The air conditioner unit in Bede 326 dwarfed my Aunts three to one. It hung, wedged precariously into the bottom rectangle of the window frame, its bulky shape jutting out above thin air, defying gravity. Back in August it created such a din, I considered switching seats, but August came and went. Now I sit here in mid October, and the unit has fallen as silent as the girl who sits in front of me.

It’s so quiet, in fact, that I have become acutely aware of the bird that has built a nest on the unit. Hearing the creature’s body thump and squabble every time it lands in its nest is enough to ruffle my feathers. I think of its yellow legs, the texture of scaly scabs, its dirty, dingy grey feathers, and shiny senseless eyes, and I shudder with every scrape of its talons on the metal surface.

I try not to hate the creature so much. After all, it could be a mother bird, making a nest for winter, some place where she will lay perfect, tiny eggs and have a cheerful nest of little ones the following spring. Yuck. The thought of a nest full of mini-sky-rats squeaking for a writhing worm within two feet of my elbow is

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enough to make me want to switch my history major, anything to keep me far from that window.

If I shoved hard enough, I bet I could knock it loose. I imagine, snaking my hands through the long blinds, disturbing and separating them enough to let shards of sunlight pierce through the cracks, blinding me and startling my classmates. They might glance over at me curiously, wondering why I was making such a disturbance. I would feel their eyes bore into my shoulder blades as the tips of my fingers and finally my palms touched the grated face of the unit. I would feel the ridges imprint into my flesh, and watch my knuckles turn white with the pressure I would apply to force the machine out. Out! It would slide, and squeak, my jaw would clench at the noise and my heart pound with adrenaline.

What might I see with that final shove? My body would follow my hands, leaning out into freedom, blinds parting around my body, like the Red Sea before the hands of Moses.

Would I flinch at the flurry of feathers, or just watch blankly as the face of the machine stares back, equally blank, in its plummet towards Earth. Surely I would take a moment to bask in my victory, and blink at the blinding face of God suspended in the pale blue sky.

Then I would feel it, hotter than the sun shining on my face, embarrassment creeping from my chest, flooding up the back of my neck into my ears and forward into my cheeks.

Why? Why did I do it? I’ve been asked that my whole life, till finally in third grade, I took a bunch of tests in a doctors office, that had a couch and a mini kitchen and two chairs.

Easily the most comfortable exam room I ever was in and yet with the most condemning diagnosis result. The only thing between me and that soft spoken doctor was a coffee table, covered with papers and puzzles. I drew shapes, struggled with math problems and answered questions with eight-yearold logic. By the end of the hour long test, I finally had an answer for all the exasperated “whys?” I’ve ever heard…Attention Deficit Disorder, with an extra helping of something called “lack of impulse control.”

My explainable drifting attention is drawn back to the

screen, where our Neanderthal experiments with basic Stone Age tools, and I think about all the reasons why my brain is “special.”

I’m wired differently, most textbooks say, kind words, something I might have heard Barney, the big purple dinosaur, say to me through the television while I waited for my mom to finish getting ready for work and drop me off at school. I read more on my particular diagnosis since then. One theorist concluded that in Paleolithic times, all humans had ADD, at least the successful ones. We depended on our rapid-fire impulses and instincts to survive as hunters. The individuals with the quickest reactions often survived the longest. Somewhere around the Neolithic era, humans became farmers. Cultivating a steady food supply turned us into a bunch of passive, logically thinking people, and the hunters became the weirdos with short attention spans and quick to change tempers.

I watch the cave man on screen, this crude depiction of our monkey man ancestors, and wonder, who is the man beneath the beast? Along with my lack of self-control, the Lord blessed me with a double dose of empathy. I cry in movies, I cry at music, I weep for both the smiles and the struggles of people I see and don’t know.

I feel my God-given gift extending to this actor on the screen. Bless his heart. Who is this man? He who must wear an ape suit. I imagine donning the suit, shaped into some designer’s best rendering of the missing link. In my mind’s eye, I can see him pressing himself into the plastic sack, filling the flimsy cavity.

I imagine him crawling around on the set, sun beating down, sweat pooling in uncomfortable places, faux gorilla hair tickling the back of his neck. Does he also blink at the blinding face of God, and grit his teeth, unable to wipe the sweat off his brow for fear of smudging the oily and oppressive makeup?

I once wore the mascot costume for my high-school. The Coyote Ridge Coyote. My slight frame didn’t fill up the oversized suit very well, so the costume hung in folds, sagging off my arms and legs, pooling in puddles of fake gray fur around my ankles.

The trick to being the mascot was no one was supposed to know who you were. I would hide behind the Snack Shack to take breaks, where staff members would pass me bottles of water, and

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hold my coyote head, all while keeping a lookout to make sure no one slipped behind the shed to discover my identity. I had a few moments to sit on an overturned delivery crate while I wiped my sweaty bangs back into a tangle of bobby pins and tried to rehydrate. When my panting faded into heavy breathing, it was time to suit up again, time to see my peers from behind the mesh eyes of a coyote. They didn’t always treat me well; kids would pull my whiskers, or step on my tail, even my friends. I never told them it was me. I was too embarrassed on their behalf.

I feel equally embarrassed on behalf of the actor on the screen. Perhaps he’s a starving artist, struggling to make a buck, trying to fund his dream to make it big. Would he ever even watch this show? Would he add it to his collection after it was released from production? Would this Scholastic film The Dawn of Man rest on his DVD shelf, stacked between Indiana Jones, and The Untouchables?

So I sit here second row from the back, my comfortable corner, waiting for my pill to kick in. It’s the same one I’ve taken every morning since that uncomfortably comfortable doctors visit in third grade. I like that pill, it helps me focus, my grades are better, but my friends all say I’m more fun when I forget to take it. It takes about twenty minutes for it to start working. I can already tell my senses are dulling; the bird warbling on the unit doesn’t distract me anymore, and my mascot memories fade into the past where they belong. I lean back into my chair and think, I’ve seen two dawns today in Bede room 326, and it’s nine twenty on a Monday.

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Sahara Barrett has spent her life creating, whether it be at a pottery wheel, with pen and paper, wet sand on a beach, or paint and canvas. Her studies in fine art, creative writing and English have led her as far as Deree (the American College of Greece in Athens) to Colorado State University.

She is currently a junior studying at Mount Marty College.

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Happy Ass Reilly Biel

For a moment, I think it’s an extra tall twelve-year old with a ten o’clock shadow that’s barreling towards me. His eyes bright and bloodshot, mouth stretched in a grin that almost reaches both ears, he dumps enough change to last a Coinstar machine for a month on the counter. As I start counting, he hurriedly attempts to separate the greys from the browns while apologizing breathlessly for the confusion and explaining about the settlement he recently received and how his happy ass spent most of the cash the previous evening, but he needs some more to get him till Monday, and he’s still smiling all the while. I listen politely while internally debating if it’d be in poor taste to ask what the settlement was for. I scrutinize the change and count it carefully, note that he did a pretty good job sorting it, and type the amount in. I hand him a couple tens and fives bofore he whooshes out the automatic doors, leaving scattered papers and plastic bags in his wake.

“Monkeying Around”

Kristen Shanahan 15

Painting Egg Cartons Freshman Year Reilly Biel

A question has been lingering in my mind longer than I’d like.

Maybe I should tell someone. Maybe I should ignore it. Maybe I should talk to my mom. Maybe I should brush it off. Or maybe I should focus so I don’t get paint on my fingers.

I set the carton on the table and stare hard, searching for any dry gray cardboard peeking out at me. I see a spot and plunge the brush wet with yellow into the crevice of the carton. I set it aside to finish drying and glance at the neatly stacked pile of its brethren beside me. Four days I have been doing this. No wonder I feel down.

But I still get out of bed every day, shower, do homework, come to work study when I’m scheduled to, and prepare crafts. But am I putting any real effort into it? Not really. I come and go, speak little, smile when it’s appropriate, and that’s about all I do.

Maybe I am a little sad.

I look down at the half-finished carton, the globby yellow paint ready to be transferred on, and am struck by a moment of clarity that manifests into a single phrase.

I am feeling depressed while painting egg cartons.

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Winner of the 2015 Sister Eileen Neville Award for Poetry

That Word Reilly Biel

When our eyes meet, he doesn’t look away and neither do I. Everything happens so quickly, with my pulse jumping and the cogs in my mind spinning to stay focused lest I make a fool of myself. Him and his friend ask me my age and where I’m from, such that in hindsight, I shouldn’t have answered but their eyes say they are genuine, so genuine, that I feel I can trust them. We banter back and forth, about what, I can’t recall – my uniform maybe – while they purchase their snuff and cigarettes. As the moment reaches an end, he, the one that first made eye contact with me, says it and I feel as if I’ve reverted back to a pubescent girl and barely have the grace or time to stammer a thank-you before they go. The word is in the forefront of my mind the rest of the day, like it’s branded on my forehead or eyes. That night, I look at myself in the mirror and examine the features I have long memorized, trying to see what he deemed worthy of that word, and I think that he must have been lying, he couldn’t have meant it, but I can’t let go of that word, that sweet word. When he comes through my line a few weeks later, he looks not at me but the girls with him, fawning over him. This boy who said to them what no man has said before, and I know how it made them feel, that if there hadn’t been a counter between us, I would have followed him out the door and pledged my undying devotion to him. If I only could hear him say that word again and again, until I believed it was true.

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“You Can’t Keep the Case” Reilly Biel

He blinks at me, incredulous. I look back at him, perplexed.

Why he wants to keep the clear, seemingly indestructible plastic game case is a mystery that hangs suspended in the air between us. What potential does he see in owning it? To use as a place to store wrinkled dollars or his mother’s jewelry? To use as a weapon in case someone breaks into his home? Something clicks as I stare into his face. Maybe he sees the case as something else, a metaphor for something he holds dearly to his heart. No, not something he has, but wants. Something he can’t purchase like the Madden 15 videogame safely encased in the plastic box, protected from being stolen away by unworthy hands. Something as strong and secure that will hold him in place, protect him from the bumps and dings that life often leaves on everything imaginable. If I could look longer into his face, I imagine I would see the answer written in his brown eyes. As it is, an entire second has passed and he has now processed that this strong, protective case is not his to keep. He gives it to me, warm from his hands, and I deftly remove the game from it and return it to him, this object of enjoyment that will distract him from remembering what he needs is not yet in his grasp.

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Reilly Biel has recently graduated from Mount Marty College with an English degree. She is a full-time journalist at the Yankton Press & Dakotan. Biel entered college disdaining the genre of poetry but has since learned to appreciate its various styles and forms.

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I Am Not Your Dog Brenda Durst

I am not your Chihuahua.

I was not bred for your pleasure.

I am a woman, capable of independent thought.

I am not here for you to pat on the head when I have been good, or to rub my nose in my mistakes.

I will not wait patiently by the door for you to open to let me out.

I will pull on your leash, every time.

My purpose isn’t to give you dominion, as I am as strong and as smart as you are.

I will not be trained to bring you your pipe and slippers, or greet you with a wagging tail.

Don’t bother with rollover, sit, speak or stay, or expect me to beg for treats.

I am not your lap dog, so kindly unwind your fingers from my fur.

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Maybe Tomorrow?

Brenda Durst

I woke up feeling like Virginia Woolf today. Not in the literary sense. Not in the tall and statuesque sense. Not in the brilliant, happily married with a girlfriend on the side sense. No, it was more of a putting rocks in my pockets and walking into the river in silence sense.

I woke up in the dark. Like I do every day. This morning, the darkness wasn’t just outside, it was inside as well. This morning, hope had slept in and left me alone to battle the voices by myself. As the sun rose, so did the voices, growing ever louder, my resistance to them fading rapidly.

“Perhaps I am just tired,” I tell myself. I haven’t been sleeping well lately, so I drag my body to the couch, push the dog over, and snuggle in. I close my eyes, attempting to force sleep, but sleep—she evades me. I toss and turn. The voices are relentless, telling me what I already fear, over and over and over.

I lay there, too sad to cry. Too angry to yell. Too tired to sleep. Too weak to fight. Too stubborn to give up. It is my persistent stubbornness, my friend, my foe, that pushes me out of bed, and back into the world. The cruel, angry, ******-up world.

The path of least resistance has resisted being my path, the easy way out has proven to be anything but, and my rose colored glasses have caused near blindness. I am the star of my own shit show, performing to an empty house. This can’t be my final curtain call.

So I run in circles, calling my sister, looking up recipes, starting projects in every room. Projects I know I will never finish, refilling my coffee cup time and again. Jacked up and numb, I go through the motions of the day. Checking on myself, just every now and then. The voices are a dull roar I am tired of indulging, so while I still hear them, I am listening no longer. I hope that hope returns. Maybe tomorrow.

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Brenda Kay Durst is a non-traditional student at Mount Marty College. She has no awards to speak of, but has so far survived college chemistry. Brenda is known for her sarcastic sense of humor and can craft an amazing bowl of Pho’. She spends her time reading to her dogs, and collecting shoes.

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Generation Degenerate Levi Gomez

We skated on cracked pavements and splintered decks along ocean sunrises and coastal winds, pushing us further and further into our own frigid manifest destiny.

We wore torn Vans, checkered or plain, that either slipped on or laced around our filthy feet, riding for hours at a time till our tattered Levi’s had more holes than was comfortable.

We fell more times than towers did on television screens, than semester grades did in shit jobs for an education that we could never give a crap about, except that when we ate it we got right back up, waiting to fall again.

These were the times we lived in, our generation from another generation, where we spoke like beach bums and pool sharks and everyone else spoke English.

We drove jeeps and trucks through God’s valleys, claiming it our own as rocks crushed into pebbles and tire tracks cultivated into streams, while our engines mowed trees down like blades of grass.

We ate burgers off of charred grills and stale bread soaked in nectars of Sailor whiskey and Corona beers.

We dove our fat mouths into the platter and clung to our red solo cups like a king’s scepter.

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We danced to the beating of electric rave noises that some called techno, others dubstep, maybe a few house, but we called music, sweet gentle music that was anything but gentle and sweet, only vibrations- feel the music.

These were ages of Raw paper joints and ecstasy tablets, free from responsible cages, where we could laugh and cry of unspeakable things yet to come, of what would become of us.

Now we work part time jobs and attend expensive universities, drink coffee with cigarettes and eat bread with low fat butter.

What became of us we are still unsure of except that once upon a time we lived only as characters in the same stories we will never stop telling.

“Musica�

Janaya Lewis 24

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Ode to Uncle Ray Levi Gomez

I’d only remember the tobacco stained smell, your dirt stitched hands, your alcohol mint breath, the spiders inked on your forearm.

I haven’t yet forgotten you just yet, but I can’t seem to remember a single damn word spoken.

I’d run through the crowded house of old and young, filled with hollering laughter, filled with red plastic cups and beer cans, with whatever decorations for whatever time of year.

You sat wherever the party was happening, but you were only a quiet addition with your back pressed to the wall.

I’d find you like I had found a pirate’s chest, every time you’d smile with golden teeth, every time I’d leap onto your bony lap, sitting there both entirely amused and unamused, but quiet.

I knew I was going to be more like you than any other damn person in this family; I just wish I wasn’t right.

I’d look at your flannel sleeves hiding the ink all too familiar, “Show me your tattoos Uncle Ray.” Show me the tarantula that made you king and the black widow that broke your heart with the poison in hand.

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You’d roll up the tattered cloth unveiling your dry arms, and crawling out were two of the realist fiends I’d ever seen.

I’d look at those spiders as if they’d tell me anything, like they were the good and the bad, like they were the strong and the weak, as if they were our everything and anything yet nothing.

Shit, I was only about 5 years old, less than 5 years later, you would be long gone.

You’d have one hand on my shoulder, the other choking a beer can, I would ask for a little sip, you would say go on ahead.

We’d laugh, “Shit, a 5 year old and 50 year old can be each other’s only company.”

It puts a hole in my heart that I can’t remember our conversations, but every time I think about it, I kind of just make one up for the both of us.

I’d ask you, “Hey Uncle Ray, why are we drinkers?”

Well, I guess because a man with a drink is a man that feels it the most.

I’d ask you, “Hey Uncle Ray, why are we smokers?”

Well, I suppose because a man with a cigarette is a man that cares the least.

You and I knew more than any man could know a boy, and whenever we looked at each other, we just took a little grin and looked on.

I’d ask you, “Hey Uncle Ray, what the hell am I ever gonna do?”

Well, you’re going to do what matters most to ya, kid.

I’d ask you, “Hey Uncle Ray, what the hell are you ever gonna do?”

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And that’s where it ends; I only know so much of you to know what to say.

Here I am now, your hopeless nephew with my back pressed to the wall, except that your liver took you first, and what I’d give to share a beer with you now.

I’d often think of those spiders and what the hell they meant.

I guess they’re as much of a mystery as you are to me.

I guess the things we love most are the things we can never claim.

I suppose a man can be a tarantula, but it’s no match for the sting of a black widow.

I thank you for being a voice I needed most.

I only wish I could of have been yours.

“The King”

Lauren Heyden 27

Levi V. Gomez was born in Whittier, California, in 1994. The eldest of three children in an American family, he was raised in Hacienda Heights of Los Angeles County and graduated in 2012 from Los Altos High School, his family’s alma mater.

Levi is currently a junior attending Mount Marty College in Yankton, South Dakota, and is an English major. This is his first publication.

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I Fear Mary Hackett

I fear that my past will be resurrected— that it’ll haunt me forever,

taunting my mind into the abyss.

I fear that one-day, people will find out, that they won’t admire me the same,

that they’ll slowly up and leave.

I fear hearing his name again, that I’ll be caught in his path of destruction,

that I’ll never be safe.

I fear the light turning to dusk— the deafening darkness

sucking me into oblivion.

I fear time lost, time wasted, missed opportunities

never to return again.

I am wandering aimlessly, afraid of standardized expectations,

that I’ll never be satisfied.

I fear my endless racing thoughts, my relentless actions

driving me into the cold hard ground.

I’m scared for my mother— that she’ll go mad trapped in her mind

before she loves again.

I fear for my sister, the poster child, that she’ll succeed,

leaving me in the shadow.

I fear for my father in old age,

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of his intentions

drowning in gin.

I fear for my deceased grandparents, fear they don’t feel my love,

my sorrow and my strength.

More than anything, I fear for myself.

“Untitled” Megan Turner

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Mary Hackett was born and raised in Omaha, Nebraska and is currently studying for her degree in psychology and English writing at Mount Marty College. Mary started out writing young and is hoping to become an established writer by captivating audiences with non-fiction pieces.

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Feasts for the Feeble Aimee Huntley

After the first close call we gorged; half pound Minnesota Fats burgers at the Upper Deck Bar. Hot, grease- dripping meat extruding from the bun.

Slices of Swiss and American cheese products fresh from their plastic wrappers melted on top, and the secret sauce hidden within.

A side of almost burnt fries we shared— mayo for me, ketchup for her.

I saw them mark my mother’s breast with a felt tip pen.

Watched them inject the permanent metal BBs. Eyes glued to the screen as the needle probed the flesh, hunting for intruders.

When she called me a few months down the line with the news, I came right over and we drank Relax wine straight from its blue bottle, crying on separate paisley couches.

She chose expensive red wigs that she hated.

My friends knitted her cheery soft caps for her bald head that she refused to wear.

She had earned a curtained lounger in the luxuriously decorated spa for the sick.

The treatment only took a few hours each time.

Just when her hair grew back in full, the lost weight returned, and the tingling in her extremities receded, we had another visit with our white-coated medication chef.

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Did you know that breast cancer chooses liver and ribs, too?

We dined at Minerva’s, for no ordinary pub fare would do.

When you feel sick to your stomach and have no words for conversation, what is left?

Holding hands like lovers, but clutched much too tight.

Marsala for me, the Mayo Clinic for her.

Clinking glasses in consolation, a toast for success.

“Night Owl” Kirsti Skuza

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Ode to Boy Scouts Aimee Huntley

Boy Scouts I hate you. I hate going to a den or pack meeting every single Monday night at 6:30 with one my of my sons. Hate ransacking the house once again, for the miss-sized, rumpled blue shirt with the glued on patches that fall off every time I wash it. The neckerchief that refuses to curl, and the tin slide that keeps falling off and getting lost. I hate running straight after dinner to yet another obligation, when I just want to stay home and crash. I hate feeling guilty for buying Rice Krispy bars and Capri Suns for snack time, instead of making something from scratch. I hate sitting there with the other mamas that don’t want to be there either, while they text on their cell phones or stare into oblivion, uncomfortable on metal folding chairs… I hate nonchalantly looking at the clock as the minutes drag by, feeling like I’m in some sort of karmic detention. I hate cleaning up all the crumpled napkins, brownie smears, and Sunny Delight puddles from families that have already fled the scene. I hate the monthly Saturday morning recycled paper collection. The disgusting, beer can infested, aluminum cage cleaning outside of Ace Hardware too. I hate trying to sell the overpriced popcorn and nuts outside of WalMart while we freeze our arses off. I hate the damn Lock-ins at the Summit Center, where we finally eat cold pizza at 10PM and the kids want to stay up running amok in the gym until morning.

I hate the autumnal canned food drive where we are dispatched en mass, to attach thin plastic bags to neighborhood doors, only so they can fly off and add more errant litter to the rain gutters and dogwood bushes. I hate going to the Blue and Gold Banquet, which is really only the annual membership drive poorly disguised as a fellowship meal. I hate feeling so grouchy and burned out about something a good parent should feel proud to do. The only thing I hate more than Boy Scouts…is Girl Scouts.

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Aimee Huntley works at the Mount Marty College library and is a part-time student working towards an English writing major. When not crafting poesy behind the lilac tree, she can be found battling crabgrass in the garden. She lives with her family in Yankton.

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Winner of the 2015 Eugene Brinkmeyer Award for Fiction

XIX

Lauren Janssen

I stare at the POS sitting in the driveway, the car I was finally able to buy with the money I saved from shitty tips I earned serving whiny assholes at the only decent diner this side of town.

The car salesman, Ernie, balding, shiny with oil and sweat, glasses as thick as Kevin’s bed-wetting cousin Fuller from Home Alone, tripped over every other word and tried to be suave coming off as a slimy greaseball. I signed the form as fast as I could and ripped the keys from his moist grasp. I hopped in and peeled out. Probably not the best idea considering the state of the car, but this was freedom. As run down and rusted as it was, this was my escape from the hellhole others called home. I listened to the engine whine and puff pathetically as I eased off the gas. I cranked the radio and drove on the nicer side of town, where the majority of my class was from.

Mercedes and Mustangs littered the streets, where three story high mansions towered above. This was living. I imagined butlers and maids busy dusting down every nook and cranny and bustling around the heated kitchen, preparing dinner. These people surely never needed to slum it up and eat at the cheap diner across town; they probably never even had an excuse to set foot on the other side of the high school, except to say they had.

I glanced at the gardeners trimming the hedges and weeding the garden. The flower beds looked prepped for a photo op. I could only imagine the horrified looks their faces would morph into at the sight of my mother’s jungle like garden.

Mom calls from inside the house, “84!” She uses her gifts to pick lottery numbers, never to buy an actual ticket, but to hone her abilities. She’s never been right, but she’s been close. I walk up to the car and rip the note that was tucked snuggly under the wiper. It’s a brochure for St. Dymphna’s, the mental institution

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that comes up at least once in any conversation I have with anyone about my mom. I know it’s from Mrs. Anderson. The bitch is determined to get rid of my mom and, consequently, me. I walk up the street and knock on her door. I pull out the lighter my grandfather used to carry and hold the paper over the flame. It catches momentarily and I drop it on the porch. I saunter down the stairs and head home. I hear the door open and a woman squeal. “Louise!” I show her the finger and keep walking. A rare smile on my lips.

“Going the Distance” Lauren Orwig

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XVIII Lauren Janssen

She’s sitting out on the lawn, plucking blades of grass one by one. She’s making piles, five different ones. She’s in shorts and a ratty t-shirt, completely oblivious to the chilly October air. I pull my jacket around me tighter and sit down next to her.

“Hi.” “Louise, do you have paper? Or the camera?” I watch her inspect each and every blade before carefully placing it directly atop one of the piles. “What are you doing?” She ignores me and continues squinting at the wide blade in hand. “Does it look different to you?” She laughs, a deep guttural noise, like I’m the crazy one. “Of course it’s different. Look at the writing!” She shoves it towards my face. “Oh right. Well, my eyes can’t read it; it’s too dark.” She sighs, “It’s a date. 14 May 2044. I’m going to be prepared.” She puts it in the pile furthest from her. “What do they mean?” “Your trees aren’t growing.” She comments without looking at the sorry excuses for apple trees. “Nope. You didn’t do anything to them, did you?” “Apples are Satan’s weapon of choice.” I roll my eyes. “They’re also good for you.” Mom laughs, “Yeah.” I lean back on my elbows and look at the clear sky. “Ever wonder what’s out there, Mom? Past the planets—” I look over and Mom’s taking pictures of the bald patches with her hands wrapped around an imaginary camera. She jumps up and walks back to the house. I grab one of the blades and hold it up to the moon, trying to see something—anything. Nothing. I put it back and follow her. She’s heading for the knife drawer. I watch, heart pounding. She grabs the handle and pulls. It barely opens before jerking to a stop. She savagely pulls several more times and heads for the living room. I release the breath I’ve been holding. I put a child lock on the drawer. It deters her deranged behaviors, if only briefly. Mom’s sitting in her favorite recliner and dozing off, eyes trying to watch the television, which isn’t even on. “Want to go

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to bed, Mom?” She snuggles into the chair more, so I drag Dad’s blanket over her and tuck it around. I sit down opposite her and sigh, feeling exhausted. I watch her, now peaceful, and can’t help but feel resentment settling in my heart for her. “Some days I want to believe so badly that you’re messing me with. That this is some big joke. But most days, I wish you weren’t my mom.”

Weeping Angle James Luke Reeves

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XIII Lauren Janssen I never leave the door unlocked. When I got home and saw it ajar, I dropped my bag and ran inside. “Mom!” I check every closet, nook, and cranny in case she’s in one of her spells or hiding from an intruder. Her usual closet is empty. I run outside and look around frantically. I’d like to call the police, but that might snowball into her being taken away for good. I run through the jungle of a garden and even drive to her favorite park – all empty. I go inside, hold my finger over the 9, internally debating what I should do. I need to find her – she’s not okay alone. I dial 9-1-1. “What’s your emergency?” “My mom –” A sharp knock from the front door echoes through the house.

“Ma’am?” I hang up. Melissa Anderson stands outside, her arm slung through Mom’s. “I found her!” Melissa shouts proudly. She’s only six, blonde and loud. “Thank you, Mel! Where was she?” Mel smirks, “It’s our secret, right, Mrs. Hopkins?” Mom nods. That’s not our last name. “C’mon, Mom. Let’s go inside.” I pull her in slowly. “Go sit down. I’ll get dinner in a bit.” She moseys her way down the hall to her favorite armchair. “Okay, thanks, Mel. I owe you.” Mel smiles and skips down the path to her mom who I have just noticed has been standing there. She directs Mel to go home and starts toward me. “Mrs. Anderson, thank you.” “Louise, I’m worried about your mom. I think she needs professional help.” I step back and cross my arms, on the defensive. “Well, that’s your opinion.” She shakes her head sadly, “No, several neighbors agree.

We worry about her safety, yours, and ours. Maybe she should be living in-” “We’re fine. She hasn’t acted up in a while – it’s just a setback.” Anderson looks skeptical and far from backing down. “I came home to find my daughter having tea with your mother. Their shoes were muddy, and their faces smudged with what I hope was dirt. Mel has never lied to me, and now she won’t tell me where they were. That scares me.” I let her talk before dismissing her. “She’d never hurt anyone-” “What about your arm five years ago?” I close the door.

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IX Lauren Janssen

The sun reflects off my new watch – the one Mom gave me. It’s large and bulky on my wrist, but I don’t think I could ever take it off. It belonged to Dad. When I first saw it, sitting there in the box, I almost started crying. Believe you me, I don’t cry, especially in front of my mom. She has always been secretive and possessive of anything that pertains to him, so for her to give me this watch…She walks into the kitchen and her eyes fly right to my wrist. She stops moving, just stares, chest rising and falling suddenly. “Mom?” Tears pool her eyes and silent sobs rock her. Jumping up, I pull her to me and hold her. “It’s okay, Mom.” Teardrops stain my arms and clothes, she smashes her face into my shoulder. “Where is he?” She sobs harder. “He’s gone, Mom. He’s been gone for a while.” She pulls back, refocusing her eyes and heading to the fridge. “We need more milk. Call your father, tell him we’re almost out.” I stand there, drained and helpless.

“Okay, I’ll call him.” She smiles and flounces back to her room. I twist the watch around my wrist before unlatching it.

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Lauren Janssen is from Sioux City, Iowa. A senior at Mount Marty College, she’s pursuing a career in editing and publishing. She currently works at the South Dakota Magazine and as an editorial assistant for MMC’s Paddlefish II and Federal Prison Camp-Yankton’s literary journal 4PM Count. Her writing has appeared in the South Dakota Magazine, MMC’s Moderator, and Paddlefish.

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PADDLEFISH II

The Definition of Serendipity Karen Mayfield

I crossed the finish line of that half and you were there.

You looked like most distance runners; tall, white, and wearing only short shorts.

I didn’t think twice about you…

You were just another skinny distance runner; not my type at all.

I catch your eyes again before a 10k; they are clear blue and focused.

You found me after that 10k tired, sweaty; near tears frustrated, exhausted.

I ask how you did and you reply that your coach made you drop out at mile four.

You were feeling the same way I was; could have, should have, would have.

Later, I found myself thinking about you.

I feel a pinch at my elbow and turn.

My eyes met those blue eyes a foot above mine.

“You ready for this?”

“I suppose.”

Honestly this 5k was for training purposes only; I wasn’t real excited.

There we were standing side by side and my eyes wandered.

You weren’t as skinny as I thought.

No, your legs were long, but they were strong, muscled legs.

You clearly could pick me up if you wanted to.

But damn you were tall.

During the race I rolled out along every backstretch focused on you giving me splits.

I win the race and after I am finished you’re there.

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You were close and your hand was warm as it grabbed mine for a second; an elongated high five.

You forgot my sweatshirt.

My pink hoodie back on, I found you again freezing in a t-shirt and shorts.

“You want to cool down with me?”

Your dark eyebrows shot up a little and I saw that smile.

We clipped along and everything was better all of a sudden.

I was beginning to think that loneliness and marathons went together.

But then you found me and we ran.

Together.

“Untitled” Natalie Gross

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PADDLEFISH II

Pull Karen Mayfield

The shot is short lived, but the effects last longer.

My face puckers at the sour burn left in my mouth.

The orange flavoring doesn’t do any favors to the 40 proof, but my head buzzes and I smile despite the unpleasantness.

The ten dollar bright orange bottle gets passed around the circle of girls.

We’re an odd group dressed as a mermaid, Eve, another mermaid.

I myself am dressed as Tom Hank’s volleyball.

Pull again.

God this stuff is terrible.

We are all smiling, relaxing, and letting the liquor corrupt our judgment.

A few shots in we head downstairs slightly disoriented and lacking grace.

Entering the basement is like slipping through a wormhole.

It’s bright and fun, and full of young life; it makes my eyes open wide.

The music is loud, but quiet enough to keep suspicion away from outside.

The atmosphere is welcoming; nobody is here to judge.

Bodies are close and the air is mixed with old spice, peach Smirnoff, and bud.

A game of pong is just about to end.

My eyes blurrily search the room, looking for my Castaway.

Red cup in hand, I point at you with the other and you beeline over to me.

You grab a ping pong ball.

I lace my arm through yours and smile.

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Karen Mayfield was born in Amarillo, Texas, but for the most part grew up in Watertown, South Dakota. Along with living on a small farm and riding horses, Karen is a cross country and track athlete as well. She currently studies at Mount Marty College and is a recreation and business management major with an English writing minor.

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PADDLEFISH II

Hidden Alley Maggie Jo McMahon

The milky-white of the clouds are turned a twisted, murkybrown in the reflections of the mud-spattered water. A lake here, a droplet hidden there—all scattered around the dilapidated alleyway. The January sun, unusually strong, gave way to the melting of the snow stubborn enough to cling to the rough surfaces littering the little world hidden away in an 11th Street junction of backyards. The milky-white snow, like clouds, now turned an ugly muddy-brown. Miniature lakes and rivers winding through the soggy grass, remnants of what was. Like this place, rundown and muddled, a ghost of the space that it was. Leaves billowing about, trash stuck in the sodden earth, and tires off an old Ford Sierra—long forgotten. The entire aura of the plot screams unkempt and uncared for, but for a single plywood board, with cracks in its surface and speckled with flecks of mud, set out in the center of it all. The ground on either end of the board, one side a foot or so higher than the other, appears unlike all the rest. Skinny tracks lead to and from this plywood ramp, deep ravines in the sticky mud. A bike ramp. I can imagine the boys, the older brother struggling to pedal through the muck on his silver and lime green Mongoose, while the younger one holds on tight to his shoulders, feet precariously balanced on the pegs. I hope the boys never stopped pedaling.

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The Wonder Years Maggie Jo McMahon

There are days I want to believe so badly that a child can hold on to their boundless wonder.

That the world won’t someday strip them of it, taking something precious— leaving something fragmented.

There are days I want to believe that the little boy with the green jacket and the wide, innocent eyes will still believe that his daddy loves his mommy— that he won’t come to see the truth behind the bruises.

There are days I want to believe that the little girl with the Cabbage Patch doll and the blond curls will forever see the beauty in the world.

That she won’t ever fall victim to her dad’s habit— stuck with a bottle in an ugly place.

There are days I want to believe that the young teen with the speckled cheeks and the thick, round glasses will continue to dream beyond his situation— that harsh words won’t come to confine him.

There are days I want to believe that the barely-a-teen girl with the ponytail and the over-rosy, blush-dusted cheeks will always believe she can be anything, do anything— that a glass ceiling will never cut her imagination short.

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There are days I hold on to my wonder.

Days I pretend— that the little boy wasn’t wrong, or the ponytailed teen was still rising.

Days I escape— the cruel words the world spits at me, my brother’s search for the answers just out of reach somewhere in the bottom of a bottle, too.

Days I believe— that beneath all the hideous layers, something beautiful and loving lives.

The Calm

Janaya Lewis

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Maggie Jo McMahon is originally from the small town of Wisner, Nebraska, and is currently a junior at Mount Marty College, pursuing a major in English with an emphasis on writing. Aiming to land herself a spot in the world of publishing as an editor, she hopes to help authors share their work and ideas with others. Aside from dedicating time to her major, she is also a Residence Assistant on campus, a member of two Mount Marty choirs, and tutors in the Center of Academic Excellence. She has been published previously in Paddlefish.

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PADDLEFISH II

Babe Emily Pillatzki

The only 4-H job between the last Friday of July and the following Monday is keeping all of our pigs alive. We have been successful all summer. Now, we have three days to go until fair time.

My very first pigpen was kind of redneck. I don’t think my dad thought I would stick with hog farming so we just threw something together that we hoped would last two barrows for three months. An old, green horse trailer provided protection for the pigs from the pouring rain and scorching hot rays of the sun. A metal feeding trough for piglets sat inside of the trailer. The pigpen had a large area outside of the trailer for the pigs to play in the mud. My dad and I found an old flimsy wire fence that we were able to use as a boundary for the pigs. Inside of the fence sat the old cattle water trough and the brand new wooden feeding trough, which was for slop.

Four of my siblings and I each have our own 4-H crossbred barrow to show at the county fair and dad has one to butcher for the family after the fair is over. By this time, the barrows we bought in early May have gained a lot of weight. We buy the hogs from Stan Adelman, the man who owns the swine farm across the road from my grandpa’s house. Our pigs were all born in mid February. By the time my dad, my siblings, and I bring the pigs to their new home during the first weekend in May, they already weigh 100 pounds. So they really aren’t babies, but to us they seem like baby piglets. They act like newborns that just opened their eyes, desperate to explore their surroundings. My siblings and I love to watch the pigs on their newest mission as they explore every inch of their new home and dig their snouts into the fresh dirt.

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The first year of being a hog farmer was quite the adventure. My dad and I each had our own barrow, but I had to take care of both of them. My very first pig’s name was Roady.

Roady was a black crossbred Hampshire barrow with a white belt that started at his front legs and worked its way around his shoulders. My dad and Uncle Richard called both of the pigs Babe.

I told my dad that he could call his Babe but my pig’s name was Roady. After that, he still called both of them Babe.

Usually, I’m not all lovey-dovey about the hogs. However, graduation was a different story. We have had a graduation in my family three years in a row. Natalie, Monica, and I have all had our graduation parties on Sunday following the graduation ceremony at Milbank High School. The receptions have all been held at our house, ten miles north of Milbank on South Dakota Highway 15.

Every year, cars from every decade litter our yard, which meant I could show off my pigs to a ton of different people. Hannah, my cousin Lindsay’s daughter, absolutely adored the pigs. She loved to poke her head through the fence and oink at them. The hogs loved her, too. They would all come up and attempt to rub their snouts on her. Hannah, in turn, would quickly pull her head out of the fence and stick her hands inside so she could pet them.

Throughout the summer, my siblings and I take turns doing chores. It usually takes two people to feed the hogs, especially around the time of the fair since the pigs have gotten so big. One person has to carefully crawl over the wobbly fence to feed the hogs, while the other person stands outside of the fence to hand the bucket of feed over to the poor soul standing inside. We have all of the pigs in the same pen, so you have to be careful if the chores are done later than normal because the pigs will get really excited to finally eat so they tend to be a bit more aggressive. Each pig weighs anywhere from 260 to 300 pounds, so the person inside of the fence has to be careful to not let any of the pigs roughhouse them over into the mud and manure.

After feeding the pigs, the next job is to check the water, make sure that there is enough and that the hogs have easy access to it.

The last job on a hot summer day is to make a mud puddle for the pigs to cool off in. Making the puddle is the worst job in my opinion because the pigs love to jump in it right away and then

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immediately stand up and shake it off. If any of us are standing too close, we get covered in the splashes of mud.

The metal feeder inside the trailer was not meant for pigs that weight more than 150 pounds. At first when the pigs only weighed 100 pounds, they were not big or strong enough to push the feeder around. However, as they grew they gained a lot of strength and were able to push the metal feeder around as if it were the little pink rubber ball that sat in the mud puddle right outside of the trailer door. Everyday during chores, I had to push the feeder to the back of the trailer, so it would take the pigs longer to push it towards the door. It bought me some time before they would eventually push it out into the big mud puddle, and I would have to figure out how to get it back in the trailer.

During my first summer of being a hog farmer, it rained cats and dogs for about three days straight. The barrows didn’t like the rain, so they stayed inside of the trailer protecting themselves.

After the rain had finally quit, I had to do the chores because my dad had other work that needed to be done and didn’t want to waste his precious time on something that I could easily do. After strategically walking through the pigpen to avoid the deep, gooey puddles of thick mud, I discovered that pigs don’t care where they do their business. There was no way I would be able to get to the feeder and put it where it belongs without stepping in the manure that had built up around it for the past couple of rainy days. At that moment, I was very thankful for my knee-high Tingley work boots.

The next challenge was to maneuver the metal feeder to the back of the green, rusted out trailer. Pushing the feeder to the back of the fence was harder than normal. The feeder was full of feed and stuck in the huge pile of thick, wet manure. It was the most disgusting thing I have ever dealt with. I had to put my whole body into pushing the feeder. However, that was not enough. I became very frustrated and kicked the feeder. That was a stupid mistake because I had left a footprint made of crap on the side of the feeder where I would have to push again. On my way out of the trailer to grab a shovel from the shed, my left foot slipped out of its boot and landed in the manure before I could stop it. At that moment, I wished I were wearing socks because a sock would have prevented the manure from squishing between my toes. I was very pissed at

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myself and too concerned about getting the manure off my foot to finish doing the chores. I ended up attempting to storm out of the trailer, but I forgot to duck. My head smoked the metal bar on the doorframe of the small trailer. I made my dad finish the chores when he got home from checking how much standing water was left in all of his fields.

The first Monday morning of August is always an early wakeup call. It is one of our earliest days of the summer because we have to wake up at sunrise in order to get everything ready for Achievement Days. My family and I need to be in town with the barrows by 9:00 a.m. for swine weigh in. Before we can leave home, we have to clean the pigs and pack the trailer, my Uncle Richard’s pickup, and my car with everything we could possible need at the fairgrounds for the next three days—even though we can easily make the fifteen mile trip home if we forget anything.

The first job of the morning is to clean the filthy hogs. The pigs will each receive their very first bath. The hogs are always thickly caked in dried mud and manure. For some unknown reason, it is always my job to be the one who has to actually clean the pigs inside of the trailer. I clean the hogs one at a time, but before I start I have to get everything ready. I need to have a scrub brush, Dawn dish soap, and the hose in the trailer ready to go for the first pig. My black Tingley boots are a necessity even though they usually end up soaking wet. The first pig is always the easiest to get in the trailer because the ground isn’t wet yet and my dad always grabs the pig that is most willing to leave the pen. The pigs have never been in the trailer before so it is difficult to get them in it, as it is a new and scary experience for them. By the time we get to the next hog, there is always a puddle that we have to work around to get the pig inside the trailer. When we get to the last one, the puddle outside of the trailer is huge, so it is a bit more difficult to get the hog in the trailer because it wants to lie in the fresh mud.

The water coming out of the hose is always ice cold.

I have to let each pig take a drink before I spray it with water otherwise it will freak out more than normal. My next step is to lightly spray the pig with water. Then, I drizzle a good amount of dish soap on top of its back. Scrubbing the mud off pigs is hard

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because they usually don’t like it. They squeal so loud that the neighbors probably think I am torturing the poor animals. The floor of the trailer becomes slippery from the soap and water, so it’s hard to make the pigs stay in one spot; if they move and I don’t get out of their way, I end up on the ground soaked in water and covered in feces.

After all six barrows are cleaned, we finish loading up the rest of the trailer and the pickup truck. We pack the truck with the dish soap, a hose, and scrub brushes to clean the pigs with again before we show them at the fair. The show whips are packed because my siblings and I need them for when we show our barrows round the rink as they are being judged. The water tanks made out of CBC pipes are a necessity for the three days of the fair. The purple bags of swine feed for the show feeder are the last things we pack in the trailer. Then we hit the road to the 4-H grounds on the outskirts of the south side of town.

“Untitled”

Jennifer Swanson

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The Embarrassing Injury Emily Pillatzki

First grade was full of injuries and bad memories. Mrs. Anderson was my favorite teacher. Most elementary students adore their teachers as long as they are compassionate and kind.

Well, I was one of those annoying students who would come to school everyday and tell the teacher about the eventful night at home. Mrs. Anderson listened to me tell my stories everyday as if I really was telling a tale about the greatest night that could ever exist.

Mrs. Anderson became a role model in my life. I wanted to do everything she did. If there were projects that needed to be done, I would always be one of the first volunteers. I never turned down an opportunity to help her pass out papers. I adored Mrs. Anderson so much that I started to have a jealousy problem.

When a student other than me was asked to do something like walk ten feet to the office across the hall to have the secretary make copies of a paper, I would feel a little fire of jealousy burn inside of me.

Lunch was held at the Milbank Middle School. Everyday, the entire St. Lawrence Catholic Elementary School would walk three blocks to lunch. One day my classmate, Britta, wasn’t paying attention and walked right off of the curb of the sidewalk before everyone was even out of the glass school doors. Britta was a short petite first grader with perfect hair; it was a beautiful brown color and fell right above her shoulders. She and I had no resemblance – I was a chubby kid trying to outgrow the awful bowl shaped haircut my mother forced me to get. Britta hurt her ankle when she fell off the curb, so Mrs. Anderson let her walk at the front of the line with her. They even held hands as they were walking to lunch together. The fire of jealousy was flurrying inside of me. I attempted to step off of the curb and roll my ankle, too. I failed every single time. I don’t think I have ever been more disappointed to not be hurt.

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I continued to try different tactics to get a minor injury.

When I noticed Jessica, the girl in front of me, did not have the shoelaces to her boots tied. I saw an opportunity to get hurt. I was so excited that I had to take a minute to breathe before I tripped myself with Jessica’s shoelaces. By the time I contained my excitement, the lunch line was already to the three evergreen trees on the far corner of the school parking lot. I thought to myself, It is now or never.

I made up my mind; I took a breath and went through with my latest plan. As I reached my foot out to step on the shoelace in front of me I realized I would probably end up tripping Jessica and hurting her instead of hurting myself. In my moments of panic, I ended up falling. I fell to the cement harder than I originally planned. I heard everyone around me begin to freak out. I got up and continued to walk as if nothing had even happened.

Mrs. Hagen, the second grade teacher, then ran over and pulled me out of line walking to lunch, which I refused.

She quickly examined me. I was so embarrassed that I didn’t even know I succeeded in my plan to hurt myself. I scraped the entire area of skin between the tip of my nose and upper lip and underneath my chin. I was bleeding like crazy, but I didn’t even care, I just wanted to hold Mrs. Anderson’s hand. Instead, Mrs. Hagen sent me to walk back to the elementary school alone. Tears of embarrassment began to flow down my cheeks. I began my lonely walk of shame back to St. Lawrence Catholic School.

When I arrived, the secretary called my mom who was at work, so she couldn’t pick me up. The school then sent me to walk to my daycare without lunch and without getting to hold Mrs. Anderson’s hand.

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Emily Pillatzki is the third of nine children in her family. Faith, family, and friends are very important to Emily; they are often mentioned in her writings. She is currently attending Mount Marty College and is planning to transfer to Franciscan University of Steubenville in Ohio. In addition to writing, Emily keeps herself busy with travelling, cross-stitching, knitting, reading, and painting. “Babe” and “The Embarrassing Injury” are her first published pieces of writing.

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Your Secret James Luke Reeves

You think about it and you get scared. Your heart was beating normally before, but now it picks up the pace. You know you have to tell them, your parents. You love them and they love you, and you hope that’s enough.

You have already told your friends. You trust them because they don’t love your parents, they just know your parents are important to you. They won’t tell…you hope. You end up worrying if you did the right thing: telling your friends before your parents. It is good to have support but now you know you’re one step closer to the final goal.

You need someone else to know, someone other than your friends. Someone you don’t love but still respect. Someone that doesn’t love your parents enough to tell them when you are not looking. You need an adult. You tell your favorite teacher.

They listen to you and make you feel better, but then they remind you of what you have to do. Now your heart is beating so hard your hands begin to shake.

You see your brother, sister, aunt, or whichever relative you know as a middle man that loves you and your parents. You want to tell them so you strike up a conversation. They see that you’re nervous. They notice your shaking hands and your now shifty eyes. If they were to listen to your pulse, they would hear a rapid-paced thump-thump-thump of a fear infested heart. You realize you can’t tell them. It is wrong to make your relatives keep secrets from each other. You change the subject before you tell them. They worry about you and do just what you expect: tell your parents there is something going on with you.

The next day you don’t think of it until your parents bring it up. It all comes back like a tsunami! The shaking hands, the twitchy eyes, and now your brow has a cold sweat building on it. You try to give some excuse but stutter because suddenly the air has no oxygen and you have to clear your throat. With a false

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calm you tell them “that was just a bad day,” and they respond “you know you can tell us anything.”

Your body is now twitching, you occasionally have to go to the school restroom to dab at the cold sweat and rogue tears escaping your eyes. You look down to hide the redness on your eyelids. Your breathing is rapid, sweat is dripping from your head, and your heart is pounding so hard you fear it will burst from your chest.

Your friends notice and tell the teachers. The teachers call your parents and send you home sick. Your stomach is sick with this secret. You go to the bathroom to vomit or not, either way the secret is still there. You stare into the mirror. Your reflection gazes back angry, sad, or insane. It has to be said.

Your parents knock at the door. This is it. You grab the bathroom door handle. You pray your heart explodes so you can just die. The door opens. You can hear the blood pump in the tiny veins and arteries in your ears. You see your parents. You stop shaking, and for a moment the seconds feel like years of agony passing ever so slowly. You open your mouth, inhale and then you say it.

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“Burning Man” James Luke Reeves

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James Luke Reeves is someone who has a wide variety of interests, quirks and past experiences. To begin with, James usually goes by his middle name Luke and is terrified of frogs. He enjoys writing, drawing, painting, and running in his free time.

James Reeves is a student at Mount Marty College studying to achieve his dream of selling a book he has written.

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The Joker Zach Telles

It’s a calm and cool July night as we drive to the theater. Jay and Chris begin to argue. “Shit bro, we’re gonna be late.” “Don’t take forty-five minutes to get ready then, Chris.” “Hopefully Makayla didn’t lose the seats.” Makayla, our friend, is already waiting for us in Theater 10. We arrive, park, and begin to walk to the front doors. As we get closer, everything begins to change. People begin to pour out, sprinting away from the theater. We hear loud popping sounds, people screaming, kids and adults crying from tear gas. We see a heavy-set man stumble out, his striped brown shirt soaked red, saying, “This isn’t my blood on my shirt.” There are lots of voices—lots of screaming. “I can’t find my husband!”

“What’s happening?” In the crowd, we see Makayla stumble out the doors and look at us. Her chin is dripping with blood.

She is covered in blood—all over her shirt and shorts. “There’s something in my chin.” It looks like she has a bullet in her face.

She is one of fifty-eight people injured. We see flashing lights— lots of cops. We are told to sit on an adjacent grassy lot outside the theater. We are told to wait. Waiting because we can’t leave.

Everything is a blur. We came to see a movie. We experienced things not meant for a theater and had somehow survived the show. My ticket is punched and so is my mind.

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Peace Zach Telles I don’t know what peace is.

Everyone prays for it but most never seem to find it.

Finding peace is a gift, because everyone knows it isn’t given.

Peace is said to be found while you are sleeping, calm, or relaxed.

But when I sleep, it is never steadily.

When I’m calm, I tend to think about things I can’t control.

And when I relax, I get nervous like something in my life is wrong.

Peace is when you feel free.

Free from all the pain, all the sadness, and all the fear.

Free from the liars, the back stabbers, and the users.

Peace has been buried with all the people who have fought for it.

It is no longer something we can find.

Only something we must fight for.

Peace is meant to create happiness.

But in most cases it only causes death.

One thing is true.

Everyone finds peace at one time.

The ironic thing is most people are scared for that time to arrive.

Those three words last forever, but who wouldn’t want to rest in peace?

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Zach Telles is a sophomore at Mount Marty College from Lakewood, Colorado. He is majoring in exercise wellness with a minor in English writing. He plays basketball for the school, too. This is his first published piece in his short writing career and hopes that it won’t be the last. He’s very dedicated to everything he does and has found a new passion in writing.

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If I Could Believe Jullie Weiland

I want to believe so badly… that I could tell my story and you wouldn’t walk away and whisper to your friend. that you could hear my story and separate religion from God and set aside judgment. that I could tell my story and there would be compassion and tears in your eyes. that you could hear my story and in the telling and the hearing you would share your own.

Let’s not talk of the weather, summer vacation, who’s dating whom, the blockbuster or the score from yesterday’s games.

Let’s talk about how my son betrayed me with lies and deceit, but I hurt my best friend by telling half-truths.

Let’s talk about your daughter with mental illness, and your dread every time your phone vibrates.

Let’s talk about how my mother smothers me, but in declining health I will be the one to care for her.

Let’s talk about how I don’t care about my reward in Heaven, Karma’s paybacks, or my next life; now is when I’m drowning.

I want so badly to believe.

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Jullie Weiland has returned to school as a much older, non-traditional student. She finds all human behaviors fascinating and has a particular interest in abnormal psychology, spirituality, energetic healing and oddly enough, how the sciences tie all the topics together. She enjoys writing because it can combine all her fields of interest, satisfies a need for creativity, and is useful in processing life’s interesting twists and turns. She is currently earning a degree in human services with minors in sociology, psychology and physician’s assistant preparatory classes.

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Book Reviews

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Review: Chris Kyle’s American Sniper

with Scott McEwen & Jim Defelice (William Morrow/Harper Collins, 2013) Lauren Janssen

An autobiographical recounting of Chris Kyle’s extensive military career, American Sniper pulls you into a gripping and thrilling ride of what Kyle underwent in Iraq. With frequent flashbacks and interjections from his wife Taya, a greater understanding and background is given to better appreciate Kyle and his firm belief in American pride and military service.

“The purpose of war, as Patton put it, is to make the other dumb bastard die,” writes Kyle, who wholeheartedly embraced this mentality during his tours. He set out with excitement and anticipation of what was to come. Desperately wanting to use his training, Kyle jumped at every opportunity to fight for his men and kill as many insurgents as he possibly could. Kyle is by no means bloodthirsty, but he understood the evil that these “savages,” as he calls them, could inflict if not dealt with promptly.

American Sniper is written in clear and simple vernacular, easy to follow and keeps the story moving. Kyle explains military acronyms and jargon that would otherwise go over a typical civilian’s head, keeping the reader interested and up to speed.

The flow of the story keeps events transitioning smoothly and in a riveting way. Kyle’s voice is very evident in the story, upbeat and alive. His personality makes him likable and respectable. He sought good times, but as Taya repeatedly states of her husband, “he is the most dependable guy.” Strong in his convictions, he was a man of faith, love, and sense of duty.

“People say you have to distance yourself from your enemy to kill them. If that’s true, in Iraq, the insurgents made it really easy.” Brutally honest, Kyle doesn’t hold back on his thoughts concerning the enemy. He referred to the insurgents as “savages” because of the atrocities he had seen them do: pull the pin on a grenade a child was holding, hide behind children

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in order to protect themselves, and exploit safe havens such as mosques and hospitals. Kyle unapologetically explains how he fought for America in Iraq and no one else. This statement kind of takes the reader off guard, but his stout opinions and thorough belief in patriotism keeps him true to himself, unashamed and proud.

Another aspect of his life that was difficult was his duty to his family. Kyle tended to put the SEALs first. Taya became accustomed to his priority list: “God, country, family.” But she, like most military spouses, wanted to compromise a bit when their family expanded: “God, family, country.” They argued and talked about his absence from their son’s life and eventually his daughter’s too. Kyle and Taya expose some of the hardest moments of their lives to show just how challenging a military career can be on a family, new or old. They don’t sugarcoat their problems, but bring light to them because they survived and solidified their marriage. Kyle bonded with his kids and balanced that with helping veterans live with and control their PostTraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

This autobiography reveals the life of a modern-day sniper and his unwavering loyalty and pride in America and his fellow soldiers. Blatant and unapologetic, Kyle unfolds his journey for those who may have never dealt with the military, whether directly or indirectly, or even war itself. He offers a new perspective to a concept already implanted in minds nationwide.

Kyle wasn’t perfect, but he was one hell of a countryman, dedicating his life to the service of the nation and all those who served with him. “My regrets are about the people I couldn’t save –Marines, soldiers, my buddies,” he finishes. He doesn’t distort war as anything less than painful, much less romanticize it. He understands the horror and pain that it brings, but he gained a newfound appreciation and perspective for having to deal with the little things in life. “There are bigger and worse things that could happen…I’ve seen them. More: I’ve lived them.” American Sniper is a must read.

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Review: Clint Eastwood’s American Sniper (2015)

Cast: Bradley Cooper, Sienna Miller, Kyle Gallner

Lauren Janssen

American Sniper depicts the life of Chris Kyle, America’s deadliest sniper. With over 160 confirmed kills, Kyle embodies patriotism through his love of country and the men and women who serve it. He struggles to leave the war behind him, however, as he attempts to readjust to civilian life.

Clint Eastwood never fails to give everything he’s got when directing a film. From Gran Torino to Million Dollar Baby, we undergo a huge emotional roller coaster. American Sniper is no exception. Although unlike some of his previous films, American Sniper hits its audience in a new and much needed way.

Following 9/11, the need to strike back against the Taliban was evident, even to me as a second grader. As the war continued, the country divided down the middle: whether prowar or anti-war. There were mixed feelings about who the enemy was and what the reasons were for going to war. While the verdict is still out—I’m not here to pick sides—this movie isn’t about the justification of the war. This is the journey of a Texas man, who fights for his country and his brothers-in-arms, and his battle to readjust to civilian life.

Kyle’s American pride is a bit much for some people to swallow, he comes off as naïve or arrogant at points. I’ll admit, I was taken aback as well, but in all honesty I think that attitude is a breath of fresh air. Not that any recent movies have been antiAmerican, but no one’s been brave enough to proudly proclaim American pride. Not everything we do as Americans is praiseworthy, but trying to downplay the entire nation isn’t the right thing to do either. Kyle sticks by the notion that freedom isn’t free. We have to fight for it, for ourselves and for others. And people, whether good or bad, will die, there is no arguing that.

Bradley Cooper embodies the persona of Chris Kyle

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exceptionally. Watching his performance, you can’t help but like Chris. He’s personable and easy-going. He holds in a lot of what he underwent in Iraq, both publically and privately, which Cooper pulls off well. The moments when the dam breaks way to the flood of emotion, we’re there with him, feeling the heaviness that he drags around with him. Pain for the loss of friends, for the lives not saved, and those caught in the crossfire.

In a recent article in The Week, Mitch Leestma, commented on the mind-set a sniper must put himself in in order to do his job successfully, “The only way to keep myself sane was to turn off the emotion that would come from actually killing another human being.” When your job consists of keeping your people alive, you must not hesitate to do what it takes.

So Kyle takes on a more than ugly perception of the enemy, dehumanizing them. While the movie downplays Kyle’s real opinion of the enemy, this mindset is true for most snipers and soldiers in wartime.

“Untitled” Karlee Kozak

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Review: Michael Skau’s Me & God (WSC Press, 2014) Lauren Janssen Winner of the Kloefkorn Book Prize, Michael Skau’s Me & God delivers a new take on the God we all grew up hearing about one way or another: through Bible school, weekend services, or the important holidays that the masses seem to show up to, meagerly convincing others, as well as themselves, that they are indeed good Christians. Skau’s God is that frat boy you knew in college; He’s that sloppy roommate that never cleans up after himself; He’s an advocate for gender equality and electing women into positions of power; He’s everything and more.

Skau’s depiction of God is one that is completely unique. His take on the all-powerful, benevolent God that created all things has readers laughing or contemplating how they perceive God. I think that this book is something beautiful because everyone should have this kind of relationship with God, whoever they think He really is. Betting at the race track, knocking back beers, taking beginner’s pottery, avoiding the topic of politics, stealing his friend’s mail, God isn’t your average deity—although maybe He would have fared well with a few of the Greek gods.

In “Alone”, God is focused on Call of Duty, while Skau opens up ‘I don’t / know whether I want to love or if I want / to be loved.’ God in turn, replies ‘If you truly loved, / you wouldn’t feel any need to be loved.’ Skau blushes and compares God to a ‘tawdry Dr. Phil.’

God has the answers; they just may not be the ones we want to hear or face. However, God reassures him, ‘But you know / that I am always here for you.’

Skau addresses serious topics of justice, pollution, and death with light-heartedness meant to deal a heavy impact as well as entertain.

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The banter between the Skau and God is believable and authentic.

We can envision these two strolling downtown or lounging in lazy-boy recliners. God even reminds Skau to behave courteously.

While dealing with road rage in “Goodness”, Skau plays leapfrog with an insolent driver. God tells him to ‘behave yourself ’ and Skau is reminded of his mother and the morals he was raised on.

“Entropy” serves as a reminder of who God is. Skau complains about a cold, vandalism to his car, a stolen sound system, and all the other awful things that happen to him. God bellows back about how he’s suffered all the pain of humanity. Skau argues, ‘It’s not the punches that break / a man; it’s accumulated pinches.’ God replies, ‘Earth is neither / Elysian Fields, the gardens of Jannah / or Eden, Nirvana, nor Heaven. Nothing / here is perfect, not even me.’ God serves as a jack of all characters, but he also puts things in perspective—in such a way that it requires the reader to step back and contemplate his or her own worldview.

In the forward, Skau fully addresses the issue some may have with his book: that God isn’t the holy deity we’ve all been taught he is.

Skau simply responds that all are free to create their own personas of God—this is just his artistic and personal depiction that intends no offense. God is different to everyone and I believe that Skau captures that phenomenally, holding nothing back.

Skau’s Me & God is a must read for all book lovers. Whether poetry is your forte or not, Skau’s style invokes an easy to read pace and still effectively gets the point across without breaking a sweat. Their banter brings a smile to your face and leaves you with a satisfying read.

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Review: Matthew Inman’s The Terrible & Wonderful Reasons Why I Run Long Distances (Andrews McMeel Publishing, 2014) Karen Mayfield In his latest book, Matthew Inman writes about a very relatable subject: long distance running and all it entails. Inman reveals, in his typical kooky, well-illustrated fashion, that he runs for many reasons. This graphic novel will make you smile, sympathize with Inman, and maybe even lace up some running shoes.

Inman begins by explaining why he runs—why he puts his body through sweaty twenty milers and many lost black toenails. He does have a serious reason to run, but he illustrates it in such a comical manner that it comes across as anything but serious. Matthew used to be severely overweight, playing a part in the growing obesity problem, before he began running; this aided in his overall lifestyle change: achieving a healthier mindset and body. The book itself takes only an hour to read, but you’ll want to reread it immediately and laugh at his outrageous illustrations.

“The Blerch” plays a key role in Inman’s life, and is implemented on almost every other page. Represented by numerous comical faces, “The Blerch” is every evil, horrible, pathetic reason to not get off the couch, put down the Cheetos bag, and turn off Netflix.

But, Inman overcomes this “Blerch” daily, and gives great advice on how the reader can overcome , it as well. All in all this book is a definite must read. It’ll make you laugh out loud and maybe respect those crazy people who love to run just a smidge more.

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Review: Natalie Richards’ Six Months Later (Sourcebooks Fire, 2013) Maggie Jo McMahon

I opened up Natalie D. Richards’ book, Six Months Later, with high anticipation and the hope that my nine-hour bus ride would be less mundane with an interesting book. Within the first few lines I was hooked.

I’m sitting next to a fire alarm, and my best friend is going down in flames. Irony or divine intervention?

While there may be better introductions, I was caught by the play on words in the first line—which Richards kept doing throughout the book. As the next few pages progressed, I began to get an idea of who the main character was. Chloe. She’s loyal to a fault—the impulsive pulling of fire alarms to save her stuttering friend, talk of her jumping off the Third Street Bridge for a dare, and the streaking done “just that one time.” She’s a witty girl who feels the pressure to get her life and schoolwork on track, but lacks the proper concern and motivation to really do anything about it. However, her best friend convinces her to join an SAT study group—a group that appears normal enough.

Suddenly waking up with no memory of the last six months is a very terrifying premise. One that had me completely stupefied, and thus absolutely engrossed as the book progressed. I found that reading Six Months Later was like watching an episode from a crime or police show, with that heavy feeling on your shoulder that something is up and something big is going down at the end of the episode, or book in this case. Chloe’s narrative was written with all the disorientation, annoyance, and anxiety of someone who may or may not be going crazy. As you can expect, no one believed the “nonsense” she seemed to be spouting: ideas such as her study group being the center of her problems, or that her perfect boyfriend was actually out to get her, or that her psychiatrist was somehow involved.

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She was an easy character to like with a fierce determination to get to the bottom of things. She knew something just wasn’t right, and I liked that about her. The more I read, the more Chloe found out about and discovered things that deepened the mystery, in turn increasing the anticipation. I know I got frustrated in the process, as certain parts seemed to move along really slowly, but I still needed to know what the deal was with the memory loss and the drastic increase of Chloe’s IQ and popularity. Natalie D. Richards narrated it in a way that didn’t give anything away, so I was left to make up theories about what was actually happening…and no, I wasn’t able to guess it, at all.

The characters were all very mysterious in a successful attempt to keep them suspicious, so I didn’t get much more than that; still, they all felt like they had a legitimate backstory and history that was being purposefully kept away from me.

I thoroughly enjoyed all the suspense and buildup to the book’s shocking ending. However, the book faltered in its lack of detail and explanation regarding the how and why. In the end, I was left to infer and make my own decisions on how many of the events actually occurred. I would have preferred to have a lengthier explanation on exactly what happened in the study group. Too much was glossed over, and it caused the story to lose some of its credibility. There was also a whole story line involving a character, Julien, who suffered symptoms similar to those of Chloe, but was then sent away to hide what happened to her.

She was in dire trouble, and then her story line abruptly ended without further explanation on what exactly took place. While I enjoyed parts of her storyline, I thought there were a few parts that were weak as well.

All in all, this really was a great read, regardless of the few plot holes mentioned. The excitement and suspense from the rest of the story kept me anxious to turn the next page, eager to get to the next chapter. The development and voice of each character really appealed to my sympathy, leaving me invested in their ending. You should definitely add this to your list of books to read if you’re into mysteries and suspense. Six Months Later is an absolute delight.

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Review: Jay Asher’s 13 Reasons Why (Penguin Books, 2011) Maggie Jo McMahon The story that Jay Asher has been able to create with his characters and their ideologies is absolutely spectacular. His book is beautiful and honest and true on so many levels. He touched on an abundance of significant issues—tragic themes such as suicide and rape, but also minor ideas such as making tough choices and dealing with guilt and regret.

Asher’s book centers on the life, and consequent suicide, of Hannah Baker by telling her story through a series of cassette tapes, which we hear through the ears of Clay Jensen. This was an ingenious way to describe the events that led to Hannah’s death, as we are able to see the situations through her eyes and get a better understanding of what brought about her end. It makes the story more relatable and personal this way; really allowing us to connect to the emotions littered throughout the words Asher gives us. I loved how the book was written in both Hannah’s voice, through the tapes as she told her story, and through Clay’s reactions and thoughts and wanderings around his town.

Initially, I wasn’t sure if I would enjoy reading this because I wasn’t sure how it would work, but Jay Asher did an amazing job at making me care about both Hannah and Clay, and even understanding both of them. I could relate to both of them and could see why each thought the way they did. The concept of how even the littlest of things can play a huge impact on another person is very realistic. Hearing her tapes makes us realize that our actions, however small, can have a whirlwind of effects on others. Yes, sending those tapes may have been a little mean, and being told how you played a part in someone’s last, drastic decision, that’s heartbreaking, but also a huge dose of reality.

However, Hannah was obviously dealing with a lot of personal issues and the only way she could communicate her pent up

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feelings was through these tapes. I don’t condone her for it, but I can understand why she thought it necessary.

The book may be about Clay finding the tapes and listening to Hannah’s story, but for some strange reason I loved Hannah more than Clay. There were times that I was so enthralled with Hannah’s story that I didn’t even care what Clay was doing. She was real and her voice was morbidly funny at times. And yet, I loved Clay. I felt his pain and wanted to help save Hannah with him, even though we both knew it was too late. I loved Hannah Baker, and I loved Clay Jensen—for their emotional vulnerability and honesty, for the way the story is told in pieces that all weave together in the end, for the fact there is no pandering to the reader, or condescension. They were developed perfectly for this story, and I could easily see this all happening.

As for the other characters that played a part in Hannah’s life?

I could see people I knew or have come across in my own life in them. A part of me, a part that tends to take fiction way too seriously at times, hopes that the other characters develop fitting punishments for their roles in Hannah’s end. But I won’t go into details because I don’t want to give away any spoilers.

One of the most compelling books I’ve ever read, I was forced to look and reflect back on the way I treat people and how fragile we are as humans. I especially love it because it is one of those extremely powerful books that needs to be shared with others. I cried, I laughed, I felt. It leaves you feeling both hopeless and hopeful, just like in life.

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Review: Jodi Angel’s You Only Get Letters from Jail (Tin House Books, 2013) Jullie Weiland

Jodi Angel’s collection of short stories, You Only Get Letters from Jail, brings to mind the fact that although I have a sixteen year old son, there is probably very little I really know about what is going on in his head. While I know he struggles with some of the same issues teenage boys in the book deal with like sex, alcohol, and the human fallibility of their parents, I wonder if my son is as emotionally aware as the characters that live out their lives in this collection. I wonder if my son’s interpretation of events is as descriptively vocal as the characters in Angel’s stories. It would be encouraging to know that he is observing what is going on around him in the same rich detail that Angel portrays in these stories.

The unifying themes are characters caught in that noman’s land of being not quite adults but no longer just children.

They have enough maturity and autonomy to start making important decisions but not quite enough wisdom to make good decisions when they encounter difficult situations. The young characters are beginning to become aware that the humanity and faults of their parents are hard, even gut-wrenching to watch while they, themselves, are powerless to influence or change the course of events. While they are old enough to have some independence, they have no real say, or sway, over many aspects of their lives like where they live or their parent’s decisions.

They must stand by, quietly observing, as their parents practice various forms of self-abuse like drinking, drugs or entering into unhealthy and toxic relationships that not only affect them but their children, as well. These soon-to-be young adults must face these complicated circumstances without the emotional maturity, vocabulary or escape routes afforded most adults.

Each story seems to carry sadness and oftentimes death.

The graphic and sickening deaths were of those not yet ready to die: parents with children still dependent upon them for care; a

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buck hunting uncle on a mission; and newly born rabbits. Each had their future taken from them with shocking events: drugs, a misaimed rifle and a carnivorous mother. While there seems to be sporadic bursts of hope for better times, there is a sense of hopeless resignation that runs throughout the stories.

The emotional poignancy and fascinating, yet disturbing, details captured my interest in the first story, “A Good Deuce.”

Teenage Roy’s mother had just over-dosed on OxyContin. After his sister had found her lifeless, he had taken the bottle out of his mother’s stiff and cold hands. Watching a parent’s decline due to addiction forces children to take on parental responsibilities.

When his friend, Phillip, finds out, he takes Roy to have some drinks in a bar where difficult questions wouldn’t be asked. The care offered by two women in the bar that night seemed to be an oxymoron, disgustingly beautiful and sweetly sad. Maybe this is really how it happens; humans are funny creatures. Maybe I’m idealistic, but I want to believe this isn’t how young men faced with similar circumstances processes the drug overdose death of their mother. A part of me is grateful for the kindness and moments of relief a woman named Candy in the bar presented to him that night. The reprieve she offered the night when his own mother, too selfishly wrapped up and caught in her own misery and addictions, failed to relieve her son of the burdens he carried due to her illness. Now, with her death, he would see increased responsibilities. The decisions she made, of which he had no say in, would see him carrying those responsibilities alone.

Although the author is female and her biography says she grew up in a family of girls, she has a depth of understanding about what it is like to be a young man growing up a world where little is what we wish it could be for children trying to find their way to adulthood. Her writing from the young male’s perspective reminds me of Twisted by Laure Halse Anderson. Since females tend to be more emotionally aware and verbal, I wonder if Angel’s writing will help young men be able to put words to their experiences. While I am fairly certain there are aspects of these stories that my own son deals with, I am hesitant to share this book with him. Maybe it is because I am still holding on to the idyllic, possibly unrealistic, hope that he can reach adulthood without facing such disturbing and disheartening circumstances himself.

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Review: Brian Spears’ A Witness in Exile (Louisiana Literature Press, 2011) Jullie Weiland I was first introduced to Mr. Spears when my professor read “There are days” from his book A Witness in Exile during our first day of class. I cried and had to leave for a tissue. I have this urge to call him up for a sit down, a chat. Mr. Spears’ poems put words to my history in a way I haven’t been able to…yet. I am still working on eliminating what remains of the anger and bitterness when I consider my past. I lost my whole child and adulthood up to about the age of 35 to the cultish religion of my youth. I finally was able to walk away with the theological knowledge I wouldn’t go to hell if I cut my hair, but emotionally I wasn’t so sure and the nightmares and doubt storms took longer to process. Occasionally, I still have them almost ten years later.

Mr. Spears’ work brings out the conflicting emotions that come with maturing and learning that our parents are fallible, how our unconditional love for them as small children changes and is mixed with embarrassment, need for their approval, fear of disappointing them and yet realizing we must, as adults, find our own personal set of belief systems that may be diametrically opposed to theirs. When strict religious beliefs are involved, the outcomes are often heartbreaking. Rejection due to religious difference by those with whom we have the most history, leaves families broken and hurting.

I read “Jubilate Patro” with my own mixed emotions towards my father. He was unreasonable, quick to swear and discipline, but he also taught me how to drive everything from a field harvesting combine to a manual transmission 1950-something International pickup, change tires and the oil, fix fence, and I developed competence and a fierce sense of independence. In addition to being a farmer, my dad sold life insurance and religiously involved himself in every Amway-type

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pyramid scheme company that came along and as a result, I also learned to be very leery of the hard sell. Just because you are trying to get me to drink the Kool-aid, doesn’t mean I will.

In “Tell it slant,” Spears describes how his parents dance around the living room with his “mother’s right hand curled around [his] father’s withered left…” and his feelings of embarrassment when they jitterbugged at a party. He demonstrates how belief systems can literally be a matter of life or death as he tells of a kindergarten aged girl who died because her parents would not allow a blood transfusion due to their belief system. Allowing a blood transfusion would have meant their faith was weak.

“Tell how you deserted faith and church and with it family, how now you revel in uncertainty, recoil from absolute” illustrates how once a person has walked away from a belief system they must find peace with uncertainty. One thing faith and the church can offer is a degree of certainty and stability that often cannot be found outside of an organized set of religious tenets. Leaving a belief system is often only for those who can live with unknowns and even take a certain amount of pleasure in the fact that their questions are unanswerable. The final line, the title of the poem, “Tell it slant, but tell it. Tell it.” is an affirmation that our conflicting feelings and experiences are significant. They need to be told; they are our history, the essence of who we are, who we have been and they give the foundation to who we will be.

As a much older, non-traditional student, the first line of “Orientation” struck close to home. “[O]ur children’s castoff vinyl binders, cardboard corners blooming” caused me to wonder if it was obvious to everyone around me I’d gathered the discarded folders, pencils and cases, erasers, wire-smashed notebooks my own children had decided weren’t cool enough for them to carry to school. As I join my younger classmates whose only responsibilities seem to be making it to class, practices and maybe a part-time job, most days I feel I am “too old for this shit” but dancing to this particular song is the only way to reaching my particular goal. Often I have sat and watched student tour guides leading prospective upcoming freshman and their parents around campus. I wonder what they see when they walk past this

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particular college student, sitting in a chair, studying at a vacant table, trying to finish my homework before I must hurry off to pick up my own soon to be college freshman from high school.

I wonder if this scene, the scene with me in it, is one that will help them make their decision; will they lean towards or away from leaving their young adult here, unattended by their watchful parental eyes?

Although I am a late college returner, I have been the clichéd “life-long learner.” When I read “According to Studies” I laughed but felt a pang as I recalled all the times I quoted “studies” to justify everything from child-raising techniques to dietary decisions. “I will die. I may lose my mind first.”

Alzheimer’s is a devastating disease and I’d rather not think about living for years with a debilitating illness, but when I am frantically scrambling to find my lost keys or the right word, I wonder, is that my fate? I read that crossword puzzles or other activities that stimulate the mind help delay the progression of the disease, but there are many days “I do not know if the crossword puzzles are helping much anymore.”

“Because I Didn’t Teach Her How to Drive” speaks of the complex set of dynamics that are played out when children are raised by parents that do not reside in the same household. Since my divorce four years ago, this has become a painful reality in my life.

I’ll sit with my ex-wife, her lover, a step-son I haven’t seen in ten years, his wife, their kids, neighbors, a brotherin-law-; a life I left behind in search of somewhere I belonged.

Needing to belong, can drive us to face very difficult decisions, decisions that can tear families apart and bring a complexity to life that cannot be understood by those who have not experienced the search first-hand.

Walking away from the religion of the first 35 years of my life was an emotionally devastating, complicated process. Looking back or recounting the progression from living in the debilitating fear to finding the peace lived in grace, it is easy to gloss over the pain, summarize the journey by referencing the outcome.

The following poem, “Lament” illustrates how the ending of

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an all-encompassing way of life can close with an anti-climax rather than flourish. It can leave one feeling surprised there wasn’t a more dramatic display, a battle of words, a validation of catalogued hurts, some acknowledgment of how difficult the whole process has been, but then you are also relieved. Relieved but disappointed. Disappointed and wishing we had had words to make clear how and why we had arrived at this place of nonbelief in their doctrine. Maybe, just maybe the elders would be able to hear…but no, we know…they cannot hear, we cannot speak. It is not because either of us are meaning to hurt the other, it is, sadly, what often happens when diametrically opposing belief systems meet, head on.

Sadly, the casualty is human emotional hurts and the loss of relationships with people we had, at one time admired, respected, loved and spent many pleasant hours building up those bonds. The eroding of these relationships causes painful interactions as each side slowly withdraws. There comes a point that you know it is better to just sit and listen until they go. But this is our lament, the place we may be the most powerless, the ending of one belief while sitting in the face of the judgment of those who are still believers. We have no common frame of reference and to speak would be like “throwing pearls before swine.” So we sit, in silence, with no reply, defenseless, allowing their words to rain on us, while we wait for them to leave, and eventually they do leave. While it is a relief, it is also one of the loneliest feelings I have ever experienced. It is a hollow victory, the day we realize we will no longer be pressured to consider repentance, the day we realize we won’t need to worry because our past will no longer come knocking.

Lament It does not end the way you plan, with dramatic flourish, firestorm of curses as you denounce church, deny belief in what was always central.

It is not poetic, your leaving of church and family; it is pathetic the way you slip away, dodge former brothers at Wal-Mart, duck into the game room at the mall,

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avoid eyes. To new friends you boast how you threw off the chains of ignorance, the bonds of certain, earthbound, eternal life, how you left behind the blind, ordered “truth” from chaos, but the end is really like this: Sunday morning door-knock, two elders you haven’t seen for three years say they’ve heard you’re smoking again, ask to talk about repentance, and you just let them finish.

For anyone who has changed a belief system, especially a change in religious beliefs that might have a basis in shunning, I recommend “I Sing of Brian, born of God,” “The Elder’s Son,” “An Experience of Blood,” “The Signs of a Carpenter,” “There are days,” and” Jubilate Patro.” In these works, Mr. Spears puts words to experiences and feelings I thought I had left behind me when I left the church. It’s a relief to have someone express eloquently and powerfully what I could not express myself. At Spears’ urging in “Tell it slant” I know I too have stories to tell and it is my turn to try and capture them on paper. Thank you, Mr. Spears.

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PADDLEFISH II

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