Spring 2019: In Brief

NMC MAGAZINE

LETTER FROM

THE EDITOR

After much consideration, NMC Magazine staff chose a theme that wasn’t “Large Condiments” (though I still hope, one day, that theme will grace our publication). This semester, the theme is “In Brief,” in which the work of students, faculty, staff, and alumni have created minimalist works of art and literature. Whatever could have been said was stated briefly. Art came into being with the absence of color.

I’ve spent four years working on this staff, as a staff member, literary editor, and now editor-in-chief; part of me never wanted to leave. The rest of the staff and myself have spent hours working on each passing semester, but it feels bigger and greater every time I hold a new issue in my hands. It’s been a privilege to be part of the vehicle for the creative community NMC Magazine has to offer.

I implore you to discover great things married into small packages in this issue of NMC Magazine.

Thank you to the writers and artists who billow life into this magazine.

Please, always keep NMC Magazine unique. It can’t be any other way.

Editor-in-Chief Liam Strong

APPLESCHACH

by Hannah Strong

NMC MAGAZINE: SPRING 2019

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TABLE OF

CONTENTS APPLESCHACH 1 Hannah Strong IN BRIEF Kristy Tompkins

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OPEN 4 Sharon Angel BEES 5 Jessica Solem SCRAPED 6 Ali Moon MARGARET 7 Miranda Felty THE FUNNIEST THINGS William Walton

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WEAPONS CO. 1ST BATTALION 20 5TH MARINES Blake McDonald CONTAGION 21 Edward Glinski IV DEATH BRINGS US TOGETHER 22 Tamara Wiget MET SHADOWS James Russell

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LEGACY 25 Rachel Lynn Moore I AM NOT HUNGRY ANYMORE Roxanne Burrows

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MODERN MEDICINE Justina Hlavka

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APOLOGIES ON WINDSHIELDS Kendra Hoggard

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MOTHER, MAY I? Amanda Coddington

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SHAKTI 29 Ann Hosler

LITTLE GIRL IN A FACTORY Liza Hollenbeck

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SMALL HABITATS Miranda Felty

WINTER’S EDGE Olivia Schmitt

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RAVEN 32 Molly Eastman

A MOUNTAIN MAN NAMED CURTISS Andrew Veith

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WINTER BIRCH / ‘BEWISHING’ HOUR Kristy Tompkins

THE WOOLENS WORKMAN Matt Esckelson

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FALL 34 Carrie Beduhn

VANESSA VIRGINIENSIS 28 Anne-Marie Kabat

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PAPERTHIN 17 James Asava

WHITE PINE PRIDE Deanna Ray Luton

TAKBEER 18 Lujine Nasralla

CONSUMPTION 37 Deanna Ray Luton

‘WE’ IS LOST Edward Glinski IV

GRASP 38 Hannah Strong

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asexual dysphoria waltz 39 Liam Strong

FLUIDITY 40 Maya Grant

LIBRARY DRAGONS Hannah Carr

BLOOD PUMPER Jessica Solem

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MOTHER 52 Ann Hosler

WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR CHANGE? Spencer Norrod

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FISH 53 Ali Moon

SURPRISES OUTSIDE YOUR DOOR Kendra Hoggard

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FIGURE STUDY Kajetan Morman

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LUNCHBOXES WITH THERMOSES David Sears

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LIGHT IN HAND Liza Hollenbeck

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READ 49 Dorothy McGrath Grossman

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CHANGE 54 McKenzie Leishman NO RECEPTION Olivia Schmitt

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US CHILDREN Alissia J. R. Lingaur

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DOG DAYS OF A SMALL TOWN SUMMER Afton Reed

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ILLUMINATE 59 Shelby Bigelow FROM THE GRAVE Martha Falk

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TOUCH FINGER Caroline Schaefer-Hills

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THE ELEMENT OF LINE Hannah Krohn

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FINGER COUNTING Doc Guger

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ELEMENTAL 65 Breanna Geiger america.cpp 66 David Hosler ARTICHOKE STUDY Rachel Esckelson

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MAGAZINE STAFF

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INby Kristy BRIEF Tompkins NMC MAGAZINE: SPRING 2019

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O P E

You are so open, now, that I have to hold my breath or else, inhale that butterfly flitting between our noses.

Its loveliness is not ours, alone.

by Sharon Angel

EESBEESBEE

by Jessica Solem

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by Ali Moon

SCRAPED

MARGARET

by Miranda Felty

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THE FUNNIEST

THINGS by William Walton

The funniest thing happened on the way to work.

The train was closed because some rich prick from Goldman Sachs tripped on a bum and fell onto the tracks, but when I told Ellie that night she didn’t laugh.

She said that she needed to ask me something.

We were sitting at the kitchen table then, and she asked me where I saw us in ten years. I said that I couldn’t speak for her, but I saw myself snorting coke off a hooker’s tits in Juarez. She didn’t laugh then either.

“You should laugh more,” I told her. “It makes you stay young.”

She only shook her head and stood up to make herself a drink. The freezer was sweating from the heat, but the ice tray was empty so there was all the more room for Jameson in her glass.

She went into the living room to call her mother while I poured myself a drink and read the news.

The doomsday clock had just been moved to five to midnight cause some jerk-offs got the bomb. I counted out to Sixty-Mississippi five times and I laughed. Nobody knows anything about anything.

That night when we were lying in bed I tried to tell her about the bomb and me counting, but she just rolled over away from me. The clock on her nightstand was still blinking from the power outage three nights ago. She grabbed it and put it in the drawer, but that did nothing to stop the lights coming from the streets below.

A little while later she rolled back to look at me.

“We missed the gas bill this month.”

“Well, who ever needed to cook anything anyways?”

She sighed and then breathed shallow, the rhythm of her breath matching the flashing of the neon light from the bar across the street.

“Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it.”

“Not everything. Making sure we only buy name brand Fruity Pebbles is serious business.”

“Making sure we only buy name brand Fruity Pebbles is serious business.”

She looked up at the ceiling. “I’ve never seen you cry.”

“What’s there to cry about?”

Another sigh and a silence that lasted until our upstairs neighbor dropped a bowling ball.

“Do you love me?”

“I think so.”

“So what are we?”

“People who love each other.”

“So what are we going to do?” she asked.

“What is it that people who are in love do?”

“Get real jobs, plan to buy a house, start a family.”

“I don’t like to plan things out in advance.”

“You really don’t take anything seriously, do you?”

I shook my head. “No, I really don’t.”

“Do you take us seriously?”

“No.” “So what if I said I wanted to leave and go back to live with my mother?”

“I’d call you a cab.”

And so the next morning she said that and I did that. We both laughed as I opened the taxi door for her. When I stepped back inside, I saw that she had taken the Jameson with her. I stopped laughing.

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APOLOGIES ON

WINDSHIELDS

by Kendra Hoggard

MOTHER, MAY I? by Amanda Coddington

Mother, why couldn’t you absolve me of my sin?

Virginity stolen, by boys who masquerade as men. Terrified child, solidified to bedsheets, who’s been defiled of innocence and saturated in the stickiness of shame. Now, Mother, what penetrates my insides? Only hatred and blame. Mother, you speak as if you’re the one still burdened by that day, popping jelly beans with bourbon to make life go away. Mother, you chastised by tongue, said it was my transgression, integrity stolen from someone so young. You’ve berated me, brittle razors. I’m severing myself from you, this game.

Little girl, excuse her, absentee mother, concerned with manipulative reign. Fooling herself with infidelity, which one of us should be wrought with shame? Little girl who can’t forget, an adult now, pathetic fingers, still clutching her childhood shit. Never pardoned for the secrecy, cheeks blistered by her hand: Don’t you dare question me! Little girl, that savage time she left you, home, alone, sour bologna chunks dried to a dirty teddy bear. Little girl, know that you deserved more than this primitive life you got. A child, worthy of more than swaddled snot.

My child, I see myself in her. A crude mold, inescapable—the life I’d give you I’m sure. Unborn child, a mere thought, colored stain, could you forgive yourself, me, for all life’s pain? My sickened hands, writhed with anger, only to decorate your skin in vain. But my child, know that none of this will be your fault. I wouldn’t knowingly allow that monster into your bed, every forced assault.

I realize now, Mother, I was inconvenient from the start. And it was you, the true predator that shredded my sutured heart. Dear Mother, it was only ever reassurance I asked of you. And somewhere inside I knew abuse is all I’d cling to. A botched up adult, filling the void with casual sex and cheap booze.

Mother, I’ll even hate myself for you.

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LITTLE GIRL IN A FACTORY

by Liza Hollenbeck An artistic interpretation of Lewis Hine’s famous image, “Cotton Mill Girl.”

WINTER’S EDGE by Olivia Schmitt

Watercolor study of a photograph taken by the artist, painted in color, reverted digitally to black and white.

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A MOUNTAIN MAN

NAMED CURTISS Once there was a man named Curtiss. He was so sick of society and people that he decided to become a mountain man. He quit his job as a bond broker in New York City, sold most of his possessions, leased his apartment, and moved to Tennessee. The one aspect of modern life he retained was his computer. He found he just couldn’t give up Vine compilations, cat videos, and blogging. After becoming a mountain man, he changed the name of his weekly blog from “How to Succeed on the Stock Market without Really Trying” to “Musings of a 21st Century ‘Murican Mountain Man.” He built a log cabin with his bare hands and grew nearly a foot of chest He started living off the hair doing it. He started living land save for a few luxuries off the land save for a few lux(coffee and Swedish Fish)... uries (coffee and Swedish Fish) which he retrieved from the nearest town using a jetpack he built in his shed.

As he adapted to his new lifestyle, he felt happy and fulfilled, like he was living the best version of his life. His blog, populated with all sorts of outdoorsy and reflective “musings,” became an internet phenomenon almost overnight.

by Andrew Veith

Soon he started what would become an annual ritual for him. His “go-primitive survival challenge.”

He went full Daniel Boone for this, wearing buckskins on his hairy body, a bowie knife on his rawhide belt, a coonskin cap on his curly head, and hand-stitched moccasins on his calloused feet, accomplishing triumphs of Spartan living that would have put Bear Grylls to shame.

He slept in gnarly trees and drank from raw mountain streams and went on a pine bark cleanse. He had never felt so alive. “This was how people were meant to live!” he thought ecstatically, taking a deep breath of sharp mountain air.

When he finally got back to his cabin after months in the wilderness, he opened the door to his cabin and was astonished.

His computer was in pieces, and his small collection of earthly possessions, a few cooking utensils and an old briefcase had been violently strewn about the hardwood floor. Then he checked the shed.

Light spilled in from a suspiciously gaping hole in the roof, which perfectly illuminated tell tale scorch marks on the ground where his jetpack should have been. Curtiss never figured out this mystery, but since I’m sure you’re dying to know (and since I wish to tell you), his cabin had been ransacked by a gang of marauding squirrels. A particularly unfortunate one happened to strap on the jetpack at the encouragement of his peers, lost control, and ended up somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean.

Even though he never uncovered the mystery behind the raid and theft, he did discover something inside himself. His last connections to the outside world were gone, but he found he didn’t mind. He had gotten so used to eating pine bark and drinking fresh alpine water, that he no longer craved Swedish Fish and coffee. So thoroughly enjoying the beauty and so...he no longer felt the need lace of nature, he no longer felt to be connected with the the need to be connected with the rest of the world (Vine com- rest of the world (Vine compilations and all). pilations and all).

So he cleaned out his cabin and repaired the roof on his shed, and if you ever go for a walk through the mountains of Tennessee you might just find some old busted computer parts and an old briefcase scattered across the rocks.

Nobody has ever seen the mountain man named Curtiss since he went off the grid for good, but I think that’s just the way he would have wanted it.

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THE WOOLENS WORKMAN by Matt Esckelson

PAPERTHIN

by James Asava Once, my body was a plum, a purpled bruise from my umbilical cord. Broken from stairs I’ve fallen down, my cousin shattered me like a vase in my deceased grandmother’s house.

I knew how to get a concussion before I knew how to tie my shoes.

We are not born a clean canvas.

There is always something on us, like a dent on a car, a scalloped cup unable to hold.

How am I supposed to wash these shrunken clothes without any water?

How am I supposed to wash my head when I can’t see what’s dirty?

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TAKBEER

by Lujine Nasralla

Eid: a prayer before dawn the sun rises with Allahu akbar I kiss my mother’s hand, her head her face wet when I ask for her ridā.

I hug my father hug my siblings with reluctance —this is a day of joy Allahu akbar Allahu akbar Allahu akbar La ilaha illa Allah— family tensions dissolve for now Brother hugs Sister

May Allah accept your supplication.

‘WE’ IS LOST

by Edward Glinski IV

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WEAPONS CO.

1 S T B AT TA L I O N 5TH MARINES

by Blake McDonald

CONTAGION

by Edward Glinski IV

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DEATH BRINGS

US TOGETHER

by Tamara Wiget

I had never been near death, save for when Franklin mysteriously floated belly up in his fish bowl, but the creaky, weathered books I read in the library— the kind I only read when Mother left me there alone while she went to haggle with the butcher—taught me what it was.

I recognized the crate in the middle of the parlour was a casket. Aunt Mary’s eyes never left it, and an endless haunting wail rose from her mouth. I knew before I tiptoed up beside it who lay inside. The grandfather clock in the study chimed once, twice, three times, daring me to look.

I would later learn, from eavesdropping on the conversations of aggrieved adults, that the telegram meant to inform our family of the massive heart attack Grandfather suffered while away on business in Prague had been misaddressed and therefore not delivered, leaving in its absent wake the sort of horror and tragedy I had only read about in those forbidden library books.

He looked the best I’d ever seen him. I understood why Aunt Mary couldn’t pull her gaze away. Grandfather was always a proper gentleman, with his hair and mustache neatly combed, his tie straight and his suit unwrinkled. Brow furrowed, skin sallow—his face often had the look of a man carrying a heavy weight.

I knew he didn’t sleep often. When the cry of the grandfather clock woke me in the night, I would creep down the hall to watch him through the keyhole as he spent the dark hours curing his insomniatic boredom with cherrywood cigars and Kafka.

In this moment, all of that seemed to have vanished. His grooming was still impeccable, and his suit looked freshly pressed, but his face was free of the worried lines I had come to know so well. He looked happy, refreshed, peaceful. Free of the burden that comes from being alive. In that moment, I hated Aunt Mary for the banshee shrieks that wracked her body. As far as I could see, death was reward, not punishment.

The scent of his last cigar still clung to his clothing. I reached out my small, pale hand to touch his face. I would have never been allowed to do so in life. Grandfather did not like to be touched. He never hugged me, or Mother. Only once, when my father died in the war, did he show any physical affection by squeezing her hand. He would have been embarrassed to know that I had seen it, but the prize for being a well-behaved child was often being forgotten. My invisibility allowed me to learn many adult things.

As far as I could see, death was reward, not punishment.

Enraptured, I stroked Grandfather’s beautiful face, until Mother’s white gloved hands wrestled me away.

The grandfather clock protested once, twice, three, four, five times. Pulled from my holy trance, I fought, spat, and hissed like an angry cat, but she had already called the doctor. I saw the glint of a needle; he managed to stick me even as I struggled. I bit his hand as he pulled it away, but already my mind clouded. I tried to push Mother away again, but my limbs became sluggish and weak. My body refused to obey. I grew sleepy. Mother finally got a hold on me.

As she carried me out of the room, I watched Grandfather over her shoulder, unmoved by my devotion.

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MET SHADOWS

by James Russell

L E G A C Y b y R a c e l L y n n M o o r e

NMC MAGAZINE: SPRING 2019

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I have not killed yet I may butcher a swan, only to steal its feathers, dip quill tips in epoxy and plant them under my skin. I am a regal beast dressed in the white coat of conquerors. I am my father’s people. Thieves born in shining towers that we did not build. Blood wells rise from resin fillings to saturate the stolen in cruelty’s crimson.

My skin itches when I try to sleep.

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I AM NOT LINK TO SONG

HUNGRY ANYMORE Lyrics by Roxanne Burrows

Ask me what I’ve been doing Ask me who I’ve been seeing She moves like an animal She lives in the reflection pool I see her when I close my eyes All I am is swallowed shards And choking on bits of stars How can a heart beat full of disregard?

What part of me is holding back my arms?

Guess I can’t have my cake and eat it too These old dreams are hanging pretty loose The things I do to myself are nothing new I watch myself wither I watch myself wane Wondering if all I do is lose, is it really so bad to gain?

I’m fed up I’m full I am not hungry anymore

MODERN MEDICINE

by Justina Hlavka

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VANESSA VIRGINIENSIS

by Anne-Marie Kabat

She forgets how easy it is to become pinned to the crowded corkboard, another reticent butterfly destined to be gawked at instead of listened to, attempts to amend her voice result in an unworthy follow-up to 1920, which is 1,920 more words than she used to speak out under the confines of the suffocating title, American Lady, and she wishes she were a Monarch instead.

NMC MAGAZINE: SPRING 2019

by Ann Hosler

SHAKTI

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SMALL

HABITATS My home was built by my parents. Mom had a lot cleared in the forest, and I watched from Dad’s shoulders as the house was formed from the very trees that stood before it. Mom wanted something fresh, something secluded. With the thick barrier of wood I might as well have not had neighbors—at least not the people kind.

I thought it would be ours forever. I didn’t know our home could be passed on like an outgrown sweater, but we moved, and moved again, and again. To save money, to live closer to my grandparents, for my parents to seperate. With each new house, I longed for everything to be like it was in the beginning. All the places after were just walls and a roof, too-tight spaces, and husks made of drywall and musty carpet.

“It’s only a house,” Mom would say. She didn’t know what I was mourning. She didn’t know what happens when a girl gets uprooted, that there were pieces of me still under the floorboards, buried in the backyard, that my name was still carved on the tall birch tree in the forest. “The Green Place,” I had called it. My old home had branches that crept through my bedroom window, tucked me in with leafy hands, shut off the lights, and danced their crooked shadows on my ceiling.

My home was a grassy yard, golden light passing through the canopy, the dark soil where we planted our first pine trees, the crickets and spring peepers at dusk which weaved the forest hum that lulled me through my open windows. Home began

by Miranda Felty

the moment I stepped off the bus from school, up our long gravel driveway, through the rainy-blue painted house and into the backwoods where everything was tangled and thorny, just how it should be, as it kept passers from breaching into our secret world.

There, my brothers and I pretended we were explorers. They wore high-crowned fedoras and felt vests, a look inspired by watching Indiana Jones one too many times. We’d create hideouts made of old bedsheets, hang them off the tree limbs and camp at our posts for hours (with snacks, of course). We carried out assigned missions that required us to be on the run from unseen enemies. We followed the trails of the forest. We made our own, but— We got older. We grew out of pretending. No more secret missions; Mom didn’t want us climbing over the fence anymore, anyway. I still hopped over the rusty wires, read at the top of an old tree in a blind for deer spotting until I heard the call for dinner.

I became very protective of the woods and everything in it. I created small habitats ...the map of every nook, for inchworms, hundreds spinning their silk threads at a time corner, and hollow is on in boxes, cocooning and then the back of my eyelids. leaving as moths. Sometimes, they would attack each other, and I’d find them dismembered or oozing yellow. I’d cry. The forest was sharing its pain with me. It taught me not to take creatures out of their native environment, even if I thought I knew what’s best for them.

When you spend enough time somewhere, it becomes part of you. I close my eyes, and the map of every nook, corner, and hollow is on the back of my eyelids. I remember the deep, earthy smell as if this place had been untouched for ages, of dust, of moss, and overgrowth. My home was borrowed land. It wasn’t built. It always was.

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RAVEN

by Molly Eastman

Molly Eastman is a talented student in our Visual Communications program at NMC. This March, she was in a serious car accident and is having a long recovery in Grand Rapids. Donations are welcomes to help with her progress. Please follow the QR code for more information.

by Kristy Tompkins

Winter Birch Linocut print

‘Bewishing’ Hour Intaglio etched print

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FALL

by Carrie Beduhn

“Ready!” I cried while perched precariously on the curved portion of a branch. The tree’s roots had taken hold beside the rushing river causing many branches to be cast at an angle over the murky, brown-red water. The small decrease in elevation caused a small waterfall to form, possibly the start of a third, as this was between the Lower and Upper of the Tahquamenon.

Once my torso was submerged, my lungs tensed and felt compressed by the icy water. A thundering Henry snapped a few photos of me echoed in my ears due to the vein a black long-sleeve, jeans and locity of the water and the blood brown boots, with water foaming pounding behind behind me. Before them.

I felt bubbles Henry could take From my position I float from my mouth a step forward to tumbled backwards, across my face. I offer his hand in asmy feet following me didn’t know if the sistance, I lost my into the frigid water. strange repeating balance, and subfeeling of being upsequent grip. From side down and right side up was my position I tumbled backwards, normal, but assumed it was the glamy feet following me into the frigid cial water affecting my senses. water. Before my head went under, Henry called my name as he rushed toward me.

The amount of time elapsed began to induce panic. Bubbles, and what I assumed to be foam, filled the vicinity around me as far as I could see in the darkly, leaf-dyed water.

Air continued to escape past my

lips despite my attempts to hold my breath. Closing my eyes I continued to endure the sensation of being upside down and upright. Eager to catch or touch something, my limbs, stretched to their limits only to take hold of nothing. I felt emptiness as my arms flailed.

An amount of dread never felt before filled my being, my core wailing for me to escape. I screamed, but only tasted dirty, detritus-filled water.

my face, but could only see enough to decipher the earthen river bank.

My surprisingly dexterous fingers grasped a sapling rooted enough to withstand my body weight.

My foot abruptly touched someMy clothing dripped heavily. The thing solid. I maneuvered my body sky had become many shades as fast as possible to push off darker in the mowhatever it was in ments I had been hopes of surfacing.

I screamed, but in the water, but By this time, my only tasted dirty, the depressingly lungs felt as if they detritus-filled water. dismal cloud cover didn’t exist. My remained. head and upper torso breached the foaming water, and my burning lungs filled with air.

I attempted to open my eyes with my long, wet hair plastered across

When I spoke, nothing came out.

My fingers touched my trembling lips. A slouched form, face buried in his hands, sat several feet away.

As I moved forward, I realized it was Henry and quickened my pace. I put my arm around him, but his posture didn’t change, nor did his sobbing stop. I couldn’t feel his bodily warmth. In that moment, I knew.

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WHITE

IN BRIEF

PINE

by Deanna Ray Luton

PRIDE

ONSUMPTIO

by Deanna Ray Luton you build a borrowed home of my bones, test my skin’s surface for mineral deposits. like a scout sent ahead to harvest resources, a pioneer intent to settle my virgin wilderness. you bulldoze my bedrock, carve my core’s iron ore, extract precious metals to mold into shiny diamond rings, shackles, chains, and prison bars, erect monuments to yourself from my marrow. you devour, sink teeth into flesh until you hit paydirt. soil upturned, devastation in your wake, left disturbed. fool—you forgot who birthed you, fed you, bathed you, sustained your fragile body from inevitable mortality. you gnaw meat from my ribs until there is nothing left to dig teeth into, to consume. you string them up like wind chimes, let them sing for your fickle praise like a bird caged.

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by Hannah Strong

GRASP 38 IN BRIEF

asexual dysphoria waltz

by Liam Strong

i wanted to be a slow dancer. then i wanted not to move my body at all. not even a ghost in upbeat funeral dirge should come this close. once, when i ascertained the formula, i danced with arced & straight body. i blessed god for allowing my tongue to skirt along ridges of anonymity. you are told how to jive at an age when being a man is more than holding a spear of skin, to marry hand to waist. more than to unknow myself, unlearn my name. what god can fuck the unfuck out of me? what azĂşcar or solvent builds a mecca in the genitals when no song separates you from being held? the church of a navel chimes with some lonesome moonlight. the grease of memory bore a child i yearned in me. she would be able to love fruit, taste the peels of bedsheets, keep tempo with eyes. i want to wrench out the womb i was not given, drape it over the dance hall lights, & leave again.

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by Maya Grant

she didn’t know then but she wasn’t she wasn’t he either, but something in between maybe they maybe them maybe it wasn’t the hem of the dress holding back identity but the world shutting the door on who they were not meant for closed spaces instead meant to run free

by Jessica Solem

BLOOD PUMPER

WOULD YOU

by Spencer Norrod You leave ten dollars on the grave of your old friend—you owed him money.

You pause and recall you specifically asked for gas money. He needed that money more than you could ever think.

Cause of death: vehicular manslaughter.

Thinking about it only fuels your guilt.

Would you stop driving altogether? Would you reconsider riding a bike, or walking every now and then?

Whenever you pass a convenience store, you feel a twinge in your gut. You know better. You used that ten dollars for cigarettes.

They lasted you a day.

That gas was to last him a week.

Was the rush of nicotine worth it? Smoking won’t help you relax now. Not anymore.

Your car idles at green lights longer than need be. You never fill the tank completely. You burn your registration. You don’t check your mirrors. Textbooks curdle in the backseat.

Bottles and cans pile up in the passenger seat. Dead bees gather at the rear window.

Night brings sour feelings. You drive one hand on the wheel, because oddly enough, if you drive 10-2, your arms shake violently.

You want only remembrance. The hunch in your throat just mold waiting to turn mildew. Your sleep a monotony. Your car, the parkway, Point A to Point B to a Point C you’ll never reach. It’s so blissful, isn’t it, the numbness of unfeeling? Is this what he felt? In the watershed of Cass and Keystone, buried in the cudgel of his own metal.

Is this the dream folded into the crease of your wallet? What does a tongue do when sleeping except question how to breathe? A wallet only breathes when opened.

He was wide open. You could have watched. You should have.

You remember to breathe. You realize the Wendy’s cashier has been asking you to pay at the drive-thru window for a few minutes to no success. You reach into the maw of your wallet to pull out a ten. The cashier, concerned, takes the crumpled bill from your unclean fist. You don’t bother with the change; you never gave any.

What does a tongue do when sleeping except question how to breathe?

Dinner is unsatisfying. What is satisfaction? Sleep never is. Never could be.

The car, little low pedestal it is, heaves forward. It smells like you, like a marshmallow, unburnt. Skins of wrappers shake under the air conditioning. It’s so cold, the air like dirt. You can’t walk without colliding into people.

Underneath the fluorescent haze of the Speedway, you struggle to stand still while pumping gas. Inside, the cashier smells menthol on your jacket. She asks if you need anything else, but you ask her why. She stares at you, confused.

You gaze at the cigarette display. Your mouth hangs open; words aren’t an option. You leave without change.

Your driveway is too far from home. You smash your head against the wheel, but all you get is a bruise. A purple mewling for regret. You won’t bleed. You will chew, step, drive until whatever comes your way does, ostracized in blank light. You will feel what you deserve.

Nothing.

The cycle continues, but one day, it hits you head-on.

You didn’t leave flowers.

You just left yourself a cold reminder.

What happened happened.

The graveyard is barren. A presence holds a wilted offering in its shaking hand. You glide toward his grave, and notice the bill you left is gone. Flowers from others lay gently on the earth, contrasting the harsh gray block towering before you.

There can be no change.

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IN BRIEF

SURPRISES

OUTSIDE YOUR DOOR

by Kendra Hoggard

FIGU-

RE STUDY

by Kajetan Morman

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IN BRIEF

LUNCHBOXES WITH THERMOSES

by David Sears

John and I spent many summers together, getting into trouble as some young boys are apt to do. One time we happened upon a putrid, origin-of-life sort of goo in the swamp we were passing on the way to school. This was in the late eighties and during that time, lunchboxes came with thermoses. I had the Simpsons’ pail, which was very bright. We talked about it and decided to empty our thermoses and fill them with the goo.

We came up with a plan: first we would wait for recess; next we would ask to go inside to go to the bathroom. Once inside, we would vandalize a fellow student’s desk.

All those things ended up working. We dumped the goo into Mary Elizabeth Muller’s desk out of some sort of revenge. That is what it felt like anyway. Considering what I know now I can see that (for me), it was a way of dealing with sexual frustration.

Mary Elizabeth Muller Mary Elizabeth Muller was the was rejected for being most physically mature female

exactly as God made her.

in class. We boys were hormonal, but the girls held just as much resentment toward her as the boys felt discomfort. Mary Elizabeth Muller was rejected for being exactly as God made her.

Fifteen minutes later, recess ended, and we went back to class. Within minutes of the teacher telling us to take our seats, Mary Elizabeth Muller screamed at an incredibly high pitch. Chaos broke out, and I looked over to John. His face said it: unexpected fear mixed with surprised guilt. Without words, we agreed to never speak of it to anyone. Luckily, none of the school staff directly suspected us.

At the end of that year, my dad got a job about two hundred miles south of Kalkaska. We moved to a suburb outside Detroit, so my dad could easily commute back and forth for his job. I made many friends over the course of my life, some brief while others were long-term, but nothing is like the friendships of youth. There is no judgment, no concerns over money or acting appropriate, just the pure and elating sense of freedom without direction.

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IN BRIEF 48

LIGHT IN HAND

by Liza Hollenbeck

READ READ READ

by Dorothy McGrath Grossman

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Lizzy double-checks the library door lock before pulling the curtains closed. After making some green tea, she settles at the desk surrounded by boxes for inventory.

“How rude!” he exclaims. “I was just enjoying your tea. You make a very good cup, much better than mine.”

by Hannah Carr

Hours later, Lizzy jolts awake as her head hits the desk. There next to her is a tiny dragon, drinking her tea, just as casual as can be. She pinches herself once, then again when nothing changes. She grabs a pencil and carefully works to separate the dragon’s grip from her mug.

LIBRARY

IN BRIEF

DRAGONS

50

“You talk?”

“Of course we can!” cries an indignant voice from the nearby shelving units.

The shadow of the second voice creeps forward and Lizzy strains to keep it in her sights.

Startled, Lizzy spins her chair away from the desk, hands braced in front of her. “What are you doing in the library?” she shrieks.

“I believe the question—wouldn’t you agree, George—is, what are you doing in the library this late?”

YRA RBIL

S N O GA R D

His words muffled by the rim of her cup, George says, “Exactly. You work the day shift, and Regita and I work the night.”

Lizzy marvels at how he manages to look reproachful. She sputters, “What do you mean—there is no night shift.”

“No night shift my arse,” Regita declares as she jumps on the desk.

Lizzy glances to the bookends on the back counter. One would be heavy enough. But the little dinosaur bookends that keep the children’s story-time books in place are gone, the books waylaid atop each other in a jumble.

George sets down the teacup and Lizzy moves it up on the raised counter. He paces in front of her. “You’ve calmed down quite a bit.”

“Thank heavens. Shrieking is not proper library etiquette,” Regita grins.

Lizzy straightens. “I think shrieking is proper etiquette for the discovery of intruders.”

“Oh, but we aren’t intruders,” George states, as he clambers to where Lizzy has moved the tea.

“We were here long before you. You shouldn’t be so rude to your elders, Lizzy,” Regita censures.

Lizzy tightens her grip on the armrests. She hadn’t told them her name.

George sips from the tea and peers over the rim. “I remember when you were just a wee one.

Came in every Wednesday.”

s i g n ik e ir h S “ r e p o r p ton y rarbil ”.etteuqite

It dawns on Lizzy that the bookends aren’t missing. They’re right in front of her. The ridged backs that have always reminded her of dinosaurs. The scales more grainy wood than hide. Even the tiny ear holes are in the same spot, right below the curve of the horns “And do the readings!” Regita protests. encircling their foreheads.

“But organizing notes and re“So you two are why we hardly have anything to do during our shifts.”

“You get to work with the patrons,” George sniffs.

“Shrieking is not proper library etiquette.”

shelving are our jobs.”

“Ours too!”

“We are librarians,” George huffs.

Lizzy chuckles at the thought of these two rascals working the ‘night shift.’ “I suppose I should thank you, then,” she says.

Regita preens. “Yes, you should.”

“You could make us tea,” George suggests.

“Or pay us,” Regita adds.

“What would we do with that?”

Lizzy resists the urge to laugh at their concentrated expressions. “Would cucumber lime tea be acceptable?”

They nod. “Tea is good.”

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IN BRIEF

MOTHER

by Ann Hosler

I shucked a pistachio yesterday the husk a cocoon protecting a fragile life within

I nudged the shell across my desk testing the extent of its tolerance for gravity

In my rebellion it plunged over the edge and rolled beneath the trundling wheel of my chair

The shell fragmented splintering crumbs and dust across the laminate floor

Kneeling beside the mess I swept it into my hands and hovered over the trash and exhaled

by Ali Moon

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IN BRIEF

po w er

to

de

sli

HUMANITY HUMANITY>TECHNOLOGY

TO

off

CONNECT

CHANGE

by McKenzie Leishman

NO RECEPTION

by Olivia Schmitt

I was never given the chance to know how much I actually lost.

The sweet smell of Grandma’s fresh baked cookies, the mighty crack of Grandpa’s bat, tender hugs and words.

I will call them, I think, yet, their phone does not ring anymore.

Dressed in black, pearls around my neck, no warm hand to hold.

Stories I will no longer hear, from voices rich of earthy honey.

I turn toward the flower-painted vase atop the bookshelf, their faces staring back through mine.

I walk away, shattered by our reflection.

The clock’s gnarled arms move, brushing away my thoughts like dust on a steamer chest, reminding me that it is time to leave, and say goodbye.

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S N U D RE IN BRIEF

by

L I H C

.R ia J

ss Ali

ur

ga

n . Li

S URILED H D U C L N I S N E H N E D U R N C E L D R SE DR I IL Mother told us we must kiss Patsy goodbye though we haven’t the faintest where she’s goin. She’s in the side bedroom where our parents sleep. They converted that closet when baby Stanley appeared, so that only us children bunked upstairs while Mother and Dad and Stanley squeezed into that narrow space, their bodies like suckers at the bottom of the pond, fin to fin in the double bed.

Patsy’s under the quilt, her head on Mother’s pillow, her face ashen and pinched as if she’s tasted too much salt on her potatoes.

L ILDCHIURSENSCC S C HUS ILDENU URESN D R H U L CILDN CHI ILD HREUSENS CHRERNE D LDNR U ILIDLDILD I HDRE S SCHCSHRCEHNS CC D U U U S U N L I U N D E RDSRCE H HEINLUS LU ENRENUSDCRRENLD L N I D I D R E L DI LSDRCCHHILS CHDRED L I L U I U I N S H E HN H Mother’s actin all fidgety. Her hands flutterin the same as before Stanley showed up when she’d cooked the lunch for Uncle but then went upstairs and didn’t return to see all the folks come visitin to tell us how sorry they were about Uncle. Of course, where he went, we never did hear.

Mother leads us into the room one at a time— she doesn’t want us to vex Patsy though the tot must’ve been sleepin good after the doctor gave her that shot. She doesn’t wake up even when we place our chapped lips to her clammy forehead and even when we giggle, worried that her tummy will be squished from the Ford’s tire, hopin it might be—oh what that would look like!—but cross that she’ll have to live her entire Patsy life as the girl with the flattened stomach, all because Bernice drove Dad’s ’28 Ford to the neighbor’s for ice, her tushie on a cherry lug so she could peek over the dashboard, but not far enough to spot our Patsy, scurryin along beside. In the kitchen, Bernice whispers that she thought she’d run over a fence post Dad rolled out from the pile by the barn. Dad’s always jokin us kids.

By the time we’d all planted our kisses, Patsy looked so peaceful and calm and the doctor’d left long before, so we’re just waitin for her to wake up whole and happy, beggin Mother for a lolly or something extravagant that none of us expect, but maybe Mother’s been savin one for just an occasion like this.

...she’ll have to live her entire Patsy life as the girl with the flattened stomach...

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IN BRIEF

DOG DAYS OF A SMALL TOWN SUMMER

by Afton Reed

ILLUMINATE

by Shelby Bigelow

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FROM THE

GRAVE by Martha Falk

As you are probably expecting, and if it were fiction, my story would begin with the rosy line of “Once upon a time...” But my story is not fiction, and it is not a rosy one. Countless folk tales end with the line, “And they lived happily ever after.”

Doubtless, no author will ever write that ending for my story.

Expecting and trusting that my doctor knew what was best for me, I took the prescribed pain medication. From within me, a monster stirred. Gradually, I needed more and more medication and the monster increasingly stole more of my attention.

Helplessly, I watched as the monster stole, pieceby-piece, my life from me. In an attempt to shut the barn door after the horses have escaped, the doctor stopped all my painkiller prescriptions. “Junkie” or “drug addict” were not terms I associated with myself since I knew I was not one. Kicking a drug addiction was a laughable idea since people like me could not be addicted to prescribed medication if we strictly followed our doctor’s orders.

Like many people, I believed that if a certified doctor prescribes a medication, it is for your own good.

Many years later, I, and many others, could testify that our blind faith in doctor’s prescriptions was a tragic, and for many of us, a fatal mistake. Now I know better, but it is too late for me. Opioid addictions have directly contributed to mine and the United States’ heroin epidemic. Please tell my story to everyone you know, because I can’t.

Quitting by mandatory cold turkey in a jail or prison cell never worked for me since as soon as I was released my addiction overpowered me. Resisting its siren call was near impossible with the ease and availability of heroin. So the last time I left prison, I promised myself that I would quit drugs after I had taken one final dose...

There will be no family, no mourners, and no service for me. Under the tall evergreen, the only people to witness my departure will be the cemetery workers. Viciously, drugs stole my life. Weeds will now grow up over my unmarked grave, as I fade away from everyone’s memory. Xyleborus may be an invasive beetle species in the United States that destroys wood by boring through trees, but the innocent narcotic drug prescriptions doctors write are just as invasively boring through innocent victims’ lives—like mine.

Years ago, in the land of youthful hopes, dreams, and desires, I walked into a doctor’s office and he wrote me a prescription. “Zohydro is a painkiller...”

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TOUCH FINGER

62

by Caroline Schaefer-Hills

THE ELEMENT OF LINE by Hannah Krohn

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IN BRIEF

FINGER COUNTING

by Doc Guger

A leper and a preacher were holding court on existence when the leper proclaims “A sermon is more effective if bodies are there to ignore questions.

A preacher, by extension, is an entertainer whose house falls down without collections.”

She looks down at her blackened fingers trying to fathom this deep disconnection between what is said and what is done.

She looks up and asks the preacher if he has paid his dues And he replies—“I haven’t got a clue because when I wrote this sermon in the key of lasting impressions it was between you and me and god to listen to confessions.

Though between us, I believe a sermon is better if there are bodies present to ask questions.”

And he looks down and says, “I’m sorry, miss, I think you dropped this, would you like your thumb back?”

ELEMENTAL

by Breanna Geiger

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IN BRIEF

america.cpp

by David Hosler

int main() { while( toddler.inOffice() ) { if( population.Poll() < 40 && population.isNauseous() ) { if( toddler.WantsBorderControl() && toddler.isVain() ) { if( children.InCages() ) { population.Enrages(); } while( population.isPissed() ) { WhatTranspired(); PeopleGetFired(); } } population.Resist(); } } return 0; }

ARTICHOKE STUDY

by Rachel Esckelson

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STAFF

NMC MAGAZINE LIAM STRONG editor-in-chief

ANN HOSLER production manager MCKENZIE LEISHMAN design editor JAMES RUSSELL design co-editor RACHEL LYNN MOORE literary editor

HANNAH CARR literary staff AMANDA CODDINGTON literary staff MIRANDA FELTY literary staff DEANNA RAY LUTON literary staff

OLIVIA SCHMITT literary staff TAMARA WIGET literary staff MATT ESCKELSON design staff RACHEL ESCKELSON design staff KAJETAN MORMAN design staff HANNAH STRONG design staff KRISTY TOMPKINS design staff ALISSIA J. R. LINGAUR literary adviser CAROLINE SCHAEFER-HILLS design adviser NICHOLE HARTLEY web admin PAPER Cover: Mohawk, Carnival + Via, pure white, hopsack 130C Inside: Mohawk, Carnival + Via, pure white, linen 80T

FONTS Headlines: Proxima Nova (black, extra bold, condensed bold) Body text: Proxima Nova (regular)

PRINTING

Volume 41 issue 2 spring 2019 printed two-color offset by: Allegra, Traverse City, Michigan NMC MAGAZINE: SPRING 2019

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