Ripon College Parallax 2016

Pa r a l l a x 2 0 1 6

Cover Image:

Tembo

Photography Katherine Tredinnick

Parallax 2016 Ripon College Literary Magazine Parallax: The apparent displacement or the difference in apparent direction of an object as seen from two different angles

Mission Statement: The purpose of Parallax is to provide Ripon college students with an open forum for creativity in the form of a professional publication, and to expose the journal’s editorial staff to the rewards and challenges of the editorial and publication process.

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Parallax Staff Editor-in-Chief Amberlee Perry Managing Editor Kierstin Luedtke Editorial Staff Katelyn Van Swol Mackenzie Skumatz Lauren Butkiewicz Ryan Edquist Maddison Vega Valerie Pike Emma Lemke

(Left to Right) Back Row: Katelyn, Mackenzie, Lauren, Ryan, Maddy, Valerie Front Row: Kierstin, Amberlee Not Pictured: Emma Lemke

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Letter from the Editor

This year’s edition of Parallax is especially significant, as it is a reinvention of what Parallax once was. Parallax is a long-standing tradition at Ripon College that recently experienced hardship due to lack of resources. Last May, I was given the opportunity to pick up the remaining pieces and carry this organization forward. I can easily say that it was the best decision of my college career. Thanks to a passionate and dedicated staff and the creative input from the student body, Parallax 2016 was a solid success. We managed to produce a high-quality publication that is representative of our student body’s talent, all while also having a ridiculous amount of fun. I am confident that with renewed dedication and student support, Parallax will continue to be a long-standing literary tradition on this campus for years to come.

Thank you all for making this year so great.

Amberlee Perry Editor-in-Chief

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Table Of Contents Title Page ................................................................................................. page 1 Meet the Editors ...................................................................................... page 2-3 Table of Contents .................................................................................... page 4-7 Author Index ........................................................................................ page 96-99

Visual Art

Eyes to the Skies ...................................................................................... page 8 Brown-Eyed Girl ..................................................................................... page 10 Linked Fingers ..........................................................................................page 12 Spiky Flower .............................................................................................page 14 Sun Man ................................................................................................... page 21 Triangle Gloom ......................................................................................... page 23 Butterfly Moth ......................................................................................... page 24 James II ................................................................................................... page 27 Arrested ................................................................................................. page 28 Mismatch ................................................................................................ page 35 Melting Popsicle ....................................................................................... page 37 Driftwood Sunrise .................................................................................. page 38 4

Lighting the Past ................................................................................... page 40 Mushrooms of the South Woods ............................................................ page 43 Golden Orb in Folds ................................................................................ page 45 Les oiseaux qui mangent ........................................................................ page 46 The Wanderer ........................................................................................ page 49 Wamaasai ............................................................................................... page 50 “Chaos” .................................................................................................. page 55 En dehors du Musee d’Orsay ................................................................. page 59 Morning Spin .......................................................................................... page 60 Dispersed ............................................................................................... page 62 Purple Sat ............................................................................................... page 65 Voila, Praha ............................................................................................ page 66 Skull ...................................................................................................... page 69 Green Lake ............................................................................................ page 70 Reflection Series .................................................................................... page 75 Winter Wonderland .................................................................................. page 77 A Rose by Any Other Name........................................................................page 78 Knotty Nets .............................................................................................. page 80 The Pleasures of the Mouth ................................................................. page 87 Dusk ........................................................................................................ page 88 5

“If the City Never Sleeps then that Makes Two” .................................... page 91 Face Fragment ........................................................................................ page 92 Climbing Green ....................................................................................... page 95

Poetry Wings ...................................................................................................... page 9 Love ......................................................................................................... page 11 \X/ ............................................................................................................. page 13 Language of Loathing .............................................................................. page 22 Blank Sheet of Paper .............................................................................. page 25 Teen Talk ................................................................................................ page 26 TRICKSTER ............................................................................................. page 34 Shipwrecked ............................................................................................ page 36 Driftwood Dirge ..................................................................................... page 39 A Mom Called Judy ............................................................................... page 44 Outcaste ................................................................................................... page 47 “I Have a Crush on You” .................................................................. page 48 The Clock ................................................................................................ page 53 Fare Thee Well ........................................................................................ page 54 Blind Date ............................................................................................ page 56-58 Things to Remember When Mending a Broken Heart ......................... page 61 6

What You Think About When You’re Popping Pills at a Coffee Shop ..... page 67 The Killing Joke ..................................................................................... page 68 Like Sweet Rain from the Heavens ......................................................... page 76 Why a Rose? .......................................................................................... page 79 Menske .................................................................................................... page 81 10 Ways to Get Lost in Your Own Neighborhood .................................. page 86 “Ockham’s Orchid” ................................................................................ page 89 METALLIC CRIES ................................................................................... page 90 Honest Feedback ..................................................................................... page 93 Into the Woods ...................................................................................... page 94

Short Fiction

Obscenities ...................................................................................... page 15-20 The Ghosts of Christmas ................................................................. page 29-33 The Cliff ......................................................................................... page 41-42 Signs of Love ................................................................................ page 51-52 Cello Strings that Sing in the Rain ........................................... page 63-64 Love You, Miss You .......................................................................... page 71- 74 I Believe .............................................................................................. page 82 - 85 7

Eyes to the Skies Photography Katherine Tredinnick

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Wings Gabrielle Horstmeier I once would wince at the bird who fell in love with the window because she perceived opportunity.

You’ve led me to where my safety waivers — on this branch, its weakest bit; alone without my strength to resist the fall; you only stare at me, shining your eyes through the glass I had cloaked with thick, midnight feathers.

Your imperfection — this I know of, so suddenly I am the fearful fool, the bird who felt she were unable to fly.

I thought you were the one meant to fly, just ease right by, pay no mind to me.

I guess deep down you wanted to fall, too.

Your wings and mine, they are our wings to fly together now.

I give my flight to you; our wind whispers that we are one.

Weaving freely through an awakening rather than sleep — we finally favor reality over dreaming.

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Brown-Eyed Girl Photography Rebecca Bajt

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Love

Amberlee Perry

-- a thing I wanted so desperately to be tangible so I could hold it in my hands, run my fingers over its smooth, easy edges, examine its mechanics, uncover its darkest spots, understand how to experience it in a world full of false advertisements and shallow intentions. after all, I learned early to be wary of all things that I could not see, touch -- for how do you know that something exists without feeling its texture raw on your own skin? without being able to trap it, lock it in a box lacking holes for breathing? you feel it. yet I have felt so much -- that slow, dull caving of my chest; pure ugly, spitting rage; suffocating indifference -- I know those. I have locked them in their own boxes and they sit on a back shelf, watching me. but love? always an enigma; something I could never quite grasp, hold in the palms of my hands. instead, I visualized love as a solid, always dangling right above my head, held just out of reach by the one who ought to love me most, my fingertips never able to brush even its lowest parts. finally, I grew tired and simply stopped looking up. and there, looking back at me, I found you. broken beings speak their own language and you understood. gently, you lifted me as if I was weightless and explored each of my edges, and I yours, until finally -- together, we found something worth believing in without trapping it in breathless boxes.

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Linked Fingers Chalk Pastel and Charcoal on Paper Hannah Medina

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\X/

Emma Lemke

that smell *foul and acrid* sticks to my sweaty palms and cool fingertips decorating \my pale w/orks staining ivory\-pap/er and skinreleasing \those\ /toxic/ fumes

pleasan/tly s\trong. the result /produces a\ painted h!gh: a soiled/ masterpiece-it is\ created by “salted� spray cans and many tries

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Spiky Flower Photography Biff Floodstrand

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Obscenities DeLou Wilson

“Fuck,” thought Little Timmy as they beat the ever-living shit out of him; “ain’t this a goddamn travesty?” By now, the pain had reduced itself to a dull ache somewhere on the edge of his consciousness. Each blow they delivered, which at first had caused him to shriek and cuss in pain, now couldn’t be distinguished from the next. Instead, it felt rather like a series of waves washing over his body, or a soothing massage. The warm, wet drip down his face and the sharp metallic taste of blood in his mouth did, however, differentiate the brutality the boy was currently undergoing from a relaxing spa day.

Vaguely, Little Timmy felt his body give out and hit the ground. His eyes refocused and he saw Eugene’s hideously ugly face silhouetted against the blue sky.

He saw the bastard’s mouth moving, and thought it may be prudent to respond to what he was saying. Little Timmy forced himself to moan, which Eugene must have interpreted as “huh?” because he repeated what he said, his oafish face contorted by a sneer.

“I asked you, you stupid moron, to kindly repeat what you called us.”

Little Timmy had a vague inkling in the back of his mind that this could be a trap, but his mother had always told him to say what he thought.

“Well,” the boy said, his voice distorted by the rising lump on his cheek, “I told you that you are a dickhead, and that your friends are sons-of-bitches.”

A devilish grin spread across Eugene’s ruddy face. Horace, one of Eugene’s lackeys, started to wail and cry. While Little Timmy’s vision was a bit blurry, he at least heard the older boy run off through the overgrown little copse of trees where the beating had occurred. Little Timmy began to feel a sense of impending doom through his rather cloudy mind as Eustace, Eugene’s much bigger and much uglier twin, slapped Eugene across the face and spread dirt across his shirt. The ruffians then turned to Little Timmy and drug him to his feet. A rush of blood to his head caused an intense bout of nausea, and his feet nearly gave out right away, but he managed to stay standing. As Little Timmy found the trunk of a tree to steady himself against, he heard Horace in the distance piteously sobbing out a story to someone. He heard the cracking of branches as Horace lead the adult towards the clearing in the woods.

“Shit,” cursed Little Timmy as they came close enough for him to understand Horace’s blubbering.

“He was so mean… I was just trying to stop them from fighting… My friend 15

Eugene needed my help… You have to punish him, Sister Clarence, please.”

Little Timmy snuck a glance at Eugene, which confirmed his suspicions. His brother’s makeover made Eugene look like he had just been in a donnybrook.

“These little shits mean to frame me” he thought.

The fear that washed over Little Timmy was overwhelming. He began to shake and quiver. He thought about making a run for it, but he still couldn’t feel his legs, and Eustace’s dangerous leer told him that an attempted escape could only make things worse. Besides, Sister Clarence was more bloodhound than human, so he knew he would be found. So Little Timmy waited patiently as Sister Clarence approached, although he nearly fainted when he saw her habit bobbing into view.

Sister Clarence was one of the most terrifying nuns in the entire school: a tall, broad-shouldered woman with untamable coal black hair that perpetually attempted to escape the confines of her habit. She spoke with a zealous fury, as well as an accent that bespoke of her Inquisitorial lineage (an ancestry of which she often boasted). To top it off, her eyes tended to burn with a fibrous light. This made her a very effective disciplinarian.

As this angel of doom barged into the clearing, Horace peeked out from behind her skirts and stuck his tongue out at the broken Little Timmy. Eugene immediately began prattling.

“I’m so sorry for fighting, Sister Clarence, I know Jesus wouldn’t approve.

But he called me a b-word! And then he told me my momma was a b-word!”

Clarence, ever one to presume that the first person to tell her something was correct, turned immediately upon the battered Little Timmy.

“Timothy,” she growled in a dangerous tone, “did you call Eugene the b-word?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Little Timmy whimpered in the most regretful tone he could muster.

Unfortunately for him, Sister Clarence didn’t seem to notice his tone. “You know that cussing is a sin?” she demanded.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Then why on God’s green Earth did you call Eugene such a filthy word as that?”

“Because he is a little bitch, Sister Clarence,” Little Timmy responded, with the unadulterated logic of a child his age.

“TIMOTHY JOHN SAMSON!” cried Sister Clarence. “That’s it, all of you are coming to the office with me.”

With that, she grabbed Little Timmy by the arm and beckoned the other three to follow her as she waded back into the trees.

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By the time this retinue had made it to the Headmistress’s office, Little Timmy had at least stopped bleeding from the cut above his eye. His cheek was, in turn, puffing up to an alarming size, and soreness had set in across his body. He was limping. Sister Clarence ignored all this, and marched straight into the office of Headmistress Sister Adeline and, with more force than was strictly necessary, pushed Little Timmy into a chair. The other three boys filed into the office with the best illusion of obedience that they could muster.

Headmistress Adeline, a whiplash smart but overly bookish old woman, looked up from her leather bound biography of Benedict VII and raised her white eyebrows.

“What’s this all about?” she asked in a thin, watery voice.

“Well,” boomed Sister Clarence, an obvious counterpoint to the timid Adeline, “I found Eugene and Timothy having a little scuffle. I thought it would be wise to march them in here. Also, it has come to my attention that this rapscallion Timothy has a dirty mouth. Horace, tell Sister Adeline what you told me.”

Horace, accordingly, stepped forward and, with the proper amount of respect and hesitation, began his tale.

“Well, Headmistress Ma’am, me and my friends Eugene and Eustace were outside and we were looking for bugs by the sandbox and then Little Timmy come over and ask us what we were doing. I says to him ‘we’s looking for bugs’ and he said he knew where we could find extra cool bugs. He take us to the woods, but then he said he’d only show the bravest of us where the bugs were. We thought Eugene was awful brave so Eugene went, and then we heard fighting, and Eustace and I ran to see Little Timmy punching Eugene in the face. Eustace and me tried to make them stop, but Little Timmy called us both a-words and then I ran to find Sister Clarence.”

The Headmistress, whose eyebrows continued to climb incredulously up her forehead, tried to nod sagely, but ended up bobbing it awkwardly, like a chicken.

Sister Clarence opened her mouth to add on to Horace’s condemning tale, but Adeline cut her off with a shaky finger, saying in an uncertain voice “Let’s see what all of the boys have to say,” and then, turning to Eugene, asked “Well young man, is this correct?”

Eugene nodded.

“Well then, why were you fighting with young Timothy?”

“Well ma’am, after I went with Little Timmy into the forest, I was following him to where the bugs were, but then he turned around and pushed me to the ground and says ‘you have to prove you’re the bravest by beating me in a fight if you want to see the bugs,’ and so I say that Father Jonathan says fighting’s a sin and 17

I don’t want to fight him, then he called me a b-word and a chicken. Well, I just got so riled up that I forgot to turn the other cheek like Jesus always say. I’m awful sorry, Headmistress Adeline, I really am.”

Hereupon, Sister Clarence could no longer hold her tongue and burst out “he admits it too, Adeline, Timothy told me he cursed, and then he cursed in front of me. I say we suspend him!”

“Well,” said Headmistress Adeline, her eyebrows climbing even further up her forehead, as if they were sentient and sought to hide in her habit. “Well,” she repeated, befuddled by the suddenness of this entire encounter. “Well, I… I think we ought to get all of the stories out there, and then we’ll dole out punishment accordingly. Yes, I think that is Solomon’s path, we’ll figure this out yet. Timothy, what do you have to say? Now is your time to confess. What do you say happened, and why did you swear at Mr. Eugene?”

Little Timmy, who had been sitting in the looming shadow of Sister Clarence and seething at the lies that Eugene and company were bandying about, had had time to think about what he would say in response to this inevitable question. Unfortunately however, his young mind, not yet having the experience of a decade under its belt, did not take this opportunity to spill to the authorities the months of bullying he had endured at the hands of these three. Instead, he gave Headmistress Adeline only the immediate causality of his slanderous language towards Eugene.

“Headmistress Adeline, it wasn’t at all like the others are saying. They all knew I had a secret bug catching place, and they wanted me to show it to them. I lead them all there, but when I showed them where it was, and especially where my favorite bug Charlie lived, they squashed him! I was upset because they killed my friend, so I shoved Horace and then told Eugene that he was a dickhead. Then they laughed at me and I got so angry that I called the others sons-of-bitches, so they beat the tarnation out of me. If you ask me, ma’am, the story they just tried to feed you is a crock of horseshit, and all of them are dirty fucking liars.”

The two nuns stared in shock for a moment at Little Timmy’s grasp of the finer aspects of the English language. Headmistress Adeline began to cross herself and mutter prayers as Sister Clarence regained her voice. It sounded like the crack of a whip as she began her tirade, every consonant ringing out clearly as she scolded Little Timmy seven ways to Sunday.

Finally Headmistress Adeline found her voice, but had to wait for a break in Sister Clarence’s onslaught to speak her part (Clarence did eventually have to take a breath).

“Clarence,” she began “I believe we both know how we must act. Please take Eustace and Horace back to class as uninvolved parties. As for Eugene, he may wait 18

patiently for his punishment by the secretary’s desk. We do not, after all, condone fighting for any reason, Eugene,” the boy blushed and lowered his head. “As for Timothy, he stays here. I’ll have to have a nice long talk with his mother, and we will discuss his suspension.”

Sister Clarence obeyed, moving to take the three out of the office, but Little Timmy blurted “Oh come on, for Christ’s sake! They’re lying. They killed Charlie, goddamnit!”

“TIMOTHY JOHN SAMSON!” Headmistress Adeline shrieked, her weak voice cracked by the abnormal volume of the name. Sister Clarence, in the meantime, not at all willing to believe the story of a boy already so far indebted to Satan as to be invoking the Lord’s name in vain before puberty, quickly ushered the other boys out of the office. As they left, each of them made sure to stick their tongues out at Little Timmy. This added insult to the injury they had willingly provided. But that was nothing to the humiliation Little Timmy was forced to endure as the Headmistress had a conversation with his mother.

In the end, Little Timmy was suspended for the next three days for cursing and fighting. An irate mother awaited him in the car as he stamped his way out of the school. He climbed into the backseat as his mother started in on him.

She opened, of course, with the classic “just wait until your father gets home.”

Little Timmy’s entire body already ached from the beating of the older boys, so he was far from comforted by his mother’s opening salvo. And from what came next, a barrage of threats, punishments, and lectures all mixed together, Little Timmy’s situation didn’t seem to be improving. So he stared out the window and quickly stopped paying attention to the yelling.

In all honesty, Little Timmy’s assessment of Eugene and Eustace Ragg and their compatriot Horace Sloan was not so inaccurate- although it is perhaps not wise to use such strong language when describing fifth graders. The three trailer-trash boys were inseparable, and spent all of their free time burning ants and shooting bbguns at alley cats. Some time ago, Little Timmy had the ill luck to join their soccer team for a PE period. Little Timmy had been playing goalie, and had made a blunder in the championship round that cost them the game. Since that day, the trio, with such an altogether petty motive, had spent their waking moments pursuing the goal of making Little Timmy cry. They had used every dirty trick in the book: stuffing moldy cheese in his locker, tying his shoes together in class, stealing his lunch money, regular beatings, occasional swirlies, shoving him in the mud, and calling him every name from dunderhead to sissy. However, they had underestimated Little Timmy’s resilience, and their increasingly desperate quest had culminated in the shenanigans Little Timmy had implied in his above story. The three had followed 19

their quarry into the little grove of trees, where they murdered Little Timmy’s best friend Charlie, a Roly-Poly bug that called the underside of a fragment of quartz his domicile. And then they had ruthlessly beat Little Timmy.

All of this ran through Little Timmy’s mind as his mother drove him home and then dragged him into the bathroom, where she began to wash his mouth out with soap. In between gagging on the rancid tasting bar and trying not to retch, Little Timmy considered the previous couple months. As he kept turning the situation over in his mind, he became more and more sure of the justice of his actions, and the unfairness of the whole reaction to his actions.

After whittling away enough soap to keep Little Timmy burping up bubbles for a month, his mother finally released him.

“Well son,” she demanded, “what do you have to say for yourself?”

Little Timmy carefully considered his next words before responding. “I think I was wrong about those boys, momma,” he finally said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” his mother asked with narrowed eyes.

“Well, momma, I was wrong. I think that Eugene actually deserves the title of goatfucker and the other two are actually fugly asshats instead.”

With the speed and accuracy of a leopard, Little Timmy’s mother caught her son’s ear in one hand and a fresh cake of ill-tasting soap in the other.

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Sun Man Mixed Media Lauren Butkiewicz

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Language of Loathing Casey Girouard Look in the mirror--at that cracked face.

Those eyes--red, dripping crimson tears like the shattered, shivering shards crashing. Disgrace.

Are you sniffling? Grave-seeker, you have no right to cry.

Severed promises line your wrists. Where is that grace your mind possessed? Where did it wander? Did that muse depart from the smoke-like whispers crooning in your ear? Lacing around your neck like a noose?

One hand on the knife; one foot in your grave.

Bow your head and pray the smoke does not rise. Hush.

Let that whisper disappear into the ashes of the day. “Unloveable. Burden. Worthless.� This voice. It will-It is mining your brain like the centipede digging in your ear, it bites. Do you pull it out?

Your fingers are still. You worm, you wither in sunlight, the dried-out carcass of the dead-eyed girl.

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Triangle Gloom Photography Rebecca Bajt

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Butterfly Moth Photography Rebecca Bajt

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Blank Sheet of Paper

Elizabeth Swenson

A perfect sheet just waiting for the imperfect forms of a person’s letters is silent and still laying as it was hours ago.

A flawless thing created for flaws.

The bleached white is demanding color.

But 360 degrees of endless possibilities is intimidating.

Envious of the pages in the books shelved above that are creating entire worlds.

A mute object, with too many expectations.

The vivid white contrasting against the scratched, dark desk keeps eyes from diverting somewhere else.

It’s a screaming form of perfection who silently cries out only for the end of its purity.

And the edges, so slim and straight, have been known to slice.

Perhaps the thirst for color doesn’t exclude blood red stains.

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Teen Talk

Alexis Kristoffersen

Around our friends it is often common For teenagers to dumb down their words Make themselves less scholarly and more monotonous Easier to understand We personally stunt our own vocabulary in order to Fit into a social niche To hold our space in a status quo Forever stagnant by a lack of monumental changes In thought or action Teens never want to be so inconspicuous That they would rock the quote unquote proverbial boat of the Quote unquote average teen Especially not to throw about big words like Serendipity, magnanimous or gregarious For we believe the shorter in syllables and speaking time the greater Our chances become of staying Conspicuous and incognito In this way however we are ignorant Words are the momentous and glorious tools used to paint The mural of our awe inspiring world And limiting our tools Limits our painting

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James II Chalk Pastel on Paper Hannah Medina 27

Arrested Photography Katherine Tredinnick

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The Ghosts of Christmas Naomi Ferrel

Bare-boned trees stand outside the school and seventeen year old Ally runs through the doors. It’s cold outside and with her purple lightweight jacket, Ally is not ready for winter, despite the fact that it came almost two months ago. She scrambles through the bustling hallways and slips through her classroom door unnoticed. The bell rings as she slides into her seat. Ally’s black curls fall forward to cover her face and she hopes it lends her some sort of invisibility to keep Mrs. Schmidt from calling on her.

Mrs. Schmidt bounces up from her desk with her normal gusto, her sweater jingling, and makes an announcement to the students. “Break’s coming soon, so write an essay on what your favorite holiday is and why. Essays and presentations are due Friday.”

Ally shrinks further into her desk and groans inwardly to herself. With Ally’s dad laid off of work, homework this time of year is hard to concentrate on. *********

Stepping through the door, swirls of cold air push their way into the house.

Muffled yelling comes from one of the rooms upstairs and Ally quickly takes off her winter clothes. She leans against the doorframe that charted Ally and her younger siblings’ growth for the past thirteen years as she pulls off her winter boots. A door slams upstairs as her mother comes rushing down the stairs. Ally opens her mouth to say something but her mom just pushes past her for the car keys. Sounds of the upstair’s door opening and closing are followed by heavy stomping on the stairs before Ally’s dad comes into view.

“Where you’re going? Can’t just walk away!” Ally’s dad yells, his face crunched in on itself, his breathing heavy.

“I got to get Kaley and Jake from school.” Her mother keeps her back to him and puts on her coat. Ally backs into the corner, out of the way.

“You can’t leave, not done talking,” her dad slurs while pitching towards a door frame for support. He takes up most of the entryway, so Ally can’t slip by. She stays still, hoping not to be noticed.

“Kaley and Jake need to be picked up.” Ally’s mom walks out the door, clos29

ing the door behind her. Ally’s dad walks unsteadily away, squinting his eyes as if almost blinded by the low light. He nearly runs into the small Christmas tree that Ally had managed to erect the day before. He drops onto the couch and turns on the TV as he picks up his beer. Ally sucks in a breath and carefully makes her way to her room, as quickly as possible. *********

Ally, now six, barely managed to peek above the couch as she stood on her tippy toes. Her dad was looking under a blanket but then he moved on to look under the table. Her mother came in; her tummy was huge and she put a hand on the small of her back.

“Looking for something, hun?” She asked as Ally’s dad stood up with his hands on his hips.

“I can’t seem to find Ally anywhere,” he stated, looking around a pile of full boxes, yet to be unpacked. Ally ducked down behind the couch and put her hands over her mouth, but a giggle escaped anyway.

Suddenly her father picked her up and swung her over the couch, placing her gently on a chair. “I found you, you little monster.” He tapped her nose.

“I’m not a monster,” Ally giggled as he started to tickle her, but her mother cleared her throat and her dad stopped. He looked at her again and waggled his eyebrows expressively, “wouldn’t you like to play this with other kids?”

“But I don’t have friends yet”

“Not exactly,” Her dad looked towards her mom nervously. Ally’s dad was never nervous.

“Ally, you might be a sister by Christmas, a bit sooner than expected.”

Ally started bouncing. “I’m gonna have a sister for Christmas!”

“Or a brother,” her father reminded her.

She stopped bouncing. “What if I want a brother and a sister?”

Her father’s eyes crinkled and he looked at her mom whose hand came up to stifle her own giggles. *********

Ally’s mom scurries from kitchen, to dining room, to living room, to kitchen once more as she cleans. Ally’s eyes follow her mom’s movement as she folds laundry. It’s only eight in the morning but her mom is panicking about grandma visiting 30

later that day.

Ally took a deep breath. “So, about Christmas shopping...” Her mom’s flustered movements don’t slow but she looks over at Ally.

“There’s no time or money for that this year. I’ll buy a few things but that’s it.” She continues folding laundry, but the lines around her eyes seem to go a bit deeper.

Ally opens her mouth, but her dad loudly comes in the front door. Ally pulls her protests into herself and starts helping with the laundry.

Her mom looks up, her lips form a sneer as Ally’s dad comes into the dining room. “Where’ve you been all night.”

Her statement makes him wince, as if the words were daggers to his head.

“Would you be quiet?” he mutters as he makes his way into the kitchen. Ally’s nostrils widen as he passes and her mother doesn’t mistake the smell either. He opens the fridge and starts making a disgusting concoction.

“I can’t believe you spent the night in the bar. Or did you go off with someone else and stay there?” Her mother continues, honing in on him while he puts a hand to his forehead.

He drinks down the vile looking liquid in his mug and starts going up the stairs, not bothering to respond. Ally’s mother follows him up and soon there’s high-pitched angry yelling coming from their bedroom.

Ally picks up her dad’s mug and puts it in the sink before grabbing a book. *********

Whispering wafted up from downstairs. Six year old Ally sneaked out of the her unicorn themed blanket and tip-toed to the door. She leaned her body into the door frame and poked her head out; there was a muffled thump combined with jingle-bell noises. She looked around. The bathroom door was open and empty and her parent’s room was dark. Quiet laughter came up from the floor below.

Ally tried to leap from floorboard to floorboard, avoiding the squeaky ones until she came to the top of the stairs. She tried to make out what was happening in the living room, but it was off to the side. Ally started crawling down the stairs and peeked around the corner into the living room.

Tinsel was draped from the walls and a small Christmas tree laid on its side, decorated like an overfilled scrapbook with homemade ornaments. Partially crushed under the tree were presents from the family wrapped in an ugly paper sporting 31

lime green background with white santas wearing bubble gum pink scarves and hats. Grandma’s presents stood out with much prettier paper covered with christmassy dogs and cats. This was to be carefully taken off and saved for pretty birthday presents.

Ally’s dad pulled the tree up, and tried adjusting the stand. Her mom rubbed some tinsel into his hair. He stood up and pulled her back into him; he said something indistinguishable and she giggled. They kissed softly with their arms around each other until her mom pulled back slightly, her lips curving upward as her dad said something too quiet for Ally to make out. Ally tried to back away and go upstairs, but her mom eyes focused on the movement and saw her. She said something to her dad and he turned around and came toward Ally.

He knelt down right in front of her “So much for a surprise. What’re you doing up so late?” The yellow light glimmered into his eyes and he was smiling.

“I heard noise. Has Santa brought my sister and brother yet?” Ally’s eyes went to her mom whose shoulders slightly shook. She had a hand over her mouth, but Ally could tell by her crinkled eyes that she was smiling and realized that her mom still had a huge tummy. That meant Santa hadn’t brought them yet. Her shoulders sagged.

“Not yet. Now let’s get you back to bed, or you’re gonna be tired tomorrow.”

Ally was enveloped in warmth as her dad hugged her. He carried her up the stairs and tucked her into bed for the second time that night. *********

Ally watches as Jake flicks through Christmas movies on random channels and then looks towards Kaley who brushes her straight blonde hair. As twins, they look remarkably alike, but though Ally was related, she doesn’t share that resemblance. They look like Ally’s mom, and she looked more like Ally’s dad. And she’d never have the same bond as they had with each other.

A sudden yell vibrates the air around them and all three of them look up.

Their dad comes down the stairs reeking of alcohol and stumbles toward the living room. Their mom comes in from the kitchen after hearing all noise.

“I’m gonna kill them,” he sneers and starts towards one of the cats curled in the corner of the sofa. This isn’t the first time the cats got into trouble, peeing or scratching on something.

“No!” Jake stands in front of their dad, but he just takes hold of Jake’s wrist to move him out of the way. The cat realizes the danger and bolts from the room. Their 32

dad tries to follow but Ally moves in front of the doorway. He grabs her wrist and yanks her along, banging her head in the process.

“Hank! No!” their mom tries to stop the scene but ends up trailing uselessly behind while Kaley starts crying, immobile on the couch.

He realizes that he’s not gonna get to the cat and lets go of Ally’s wrist before he drops unsteadily on the couch. Kaley jumps up and moves by Jake, wheezing.

“I’m gonna kill all of them. Every dang cat in this house” he mutters as he squints at them. “Dang cats. Pee everywhere.”

Ally’s shoulders relax. Her father wasn’t going to move after sitting down on the couch. Her mother sinks back onto the living room chair, while Jake grabs Kaley’s hand and they go upstairs to grab her inhaler. Kaley won’t calm down for another hour after this. Ally quietly grabs her book from the end of the couch while watching her father carefully. He doesn’t move, just keeps muttering. Ally’s shoulders sink in and she follows her siblings upstairs. *********

Ally stands in front of class. Her shaking hands are making the paper almost unreadable, but she memorized the beginning line. She focuses on the teacher on the back of the room. “My favorite holiday was Christmas.”

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TRICKSTER

Grant Myers

a Reminder Running up the hill behind you I stumbled and rolled helterskelter up and onto the spinning earth and you turned to pull me up again before setting off and remember the time in the woods we spent beside ourselves with joy and rage in equal parts and it made you tired and I held you then and again later in the highest points of high buildings the morning after we found the lowest parts and you held me. a Confession I fear the peace They tell me I am fighting for

once it arrives and you are again without me then what

will we have been?

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an Appeal I think you remember. It’s what made you run in the first place and I did a shit job of reminding you of the beginning but now it’s too late – it’s 10:09 PM – and I wonder if we can find a new beginning

Mismatch Photography Zachary Peterson

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Shipwrecked

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Ryan Edquist

The people that mean the most Are starting to sound like ghosts Because I am a shipwreck Flotsam strewn about Parts of me I thought attached but then I found stormy seas And recumbent rocks lay prone beneath waves Which had smashed me to bits Not enough warning for any jetsam So I marked what sunk with a single buoy That reads “Gather me” and now My ligan at the bottom of the sea Seems to cry wait for me

The occasional seagull passes And seems to shout I know you’re there But nobody else comes And I still lie at the bottom Of the ocean With a single string Of life support that reads In weathered letters “Gather me”

I am a derelict ship At the bottom of the ocean With my cargo waiting beside me A bouy attached to myself Like a balloon to a child’s wrist But now the hopes are that someone, Anyone finds me here Because I found myself here Due to stormy seas And I no longer Know who means the most Because everyone sounds like ghosts

New life grows within me The ghosts are gone and, I’m not sure I want to be found anymore For if I were dredged to the surface A home would be ruined For all these nautical creatures But a marker, sun bleached, Barely reads “Gather me”

…. …. ….

Melting Popsicle Oil Painting on Masonite Board Hannah Medina

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Driftwood Sunrise Photography Katherine Tredinnick

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Driftwood Dirge Casey Girouard I am the severed finger, of the skeletal hand.

Rended from the cadaver with a twist and snap.

At the end of curling bone, sandpapersmooth. Thanks to the water’s woodworker, there’s a scar.

Jagged, running the length of me.

The teeth marks remain. Sometimes, I hear the tossing waves, whittling the corpse with a white whir, and the carver slipped.

Did they try to see what’s inside? I will disappoint-only wood.

In the cemetery of trees, asleep in underwater graves, hollow driftwood hands wash away.

After all, They always say driftwood fingers are the lightest of-limbs.

The incision slit by needle-thin teeth of a fish who thought I was a sacrifice.

From there I rose and greeted the surface.

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Lighting the Past Photography Zachary Peterson

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The Cliff Emily Janssen

She gripped the ledge and prayed the suns would rise soon. Sharp stones dug into her bare fingers, but her hands were so numb she couldn’t feel the pain. Her feet were braced on a two small outcroppings. Stones dug into her chest every time she breathed, but she ignored them. Cold, bitter wind whipped across the cliff face pulling at her body, threatening to send her hurtling back down into the canyon. If she fell now she would die, but that was preferable to being caught.

A hysterical laugh caught in her throat. She smothered it and wondered when death had become preferable to returning to the colony, but she knew the answer.

Charlie was gone. Koro had left him to die. She was alone.

The wind was pulling at the bandana that was tied over her nose and mouth.

It had been Charlie’s. He’d brought two with him to this planet and given her one to ward off the dust that was constantly blowing into the colony’s canyon. He’d been wearing the other one when…

The sky was pitch black; there was no moon. Now useless night vision goggles hung around her neck. They were powered by energy transferred from batteries in the colony, but she was now outside the batteries’ range. Charlie had been working on a way to bypass that, but he hadn’t had the chance to finish. She hadn’t been able to force herself to stay long enough to figure it out for herself. Her only hope was that by the time the people of the colony awoke and noticed she was gone, the suns would be high enough she could finish her climb and have a head start.

She rested her forehead against the cliff face and squeezed her eyes closed.

She tried to imagine what she would look like from the valley if it was light enough to see. Would she be the clearly visible form of a raven-haired fifteen-year-old trying to escape the colony? Or would she be a barely visible black speck, one too small to identify? She hoped it was the latter.

She and Charlie had been planning this escape for months. Charlie had been the first to ask if Koro was actually doing what was best for them. No one had taken him seriously, of course, because he was just a thirteen-year-old kid, but he’d still been miles ahead of everyone else. When he’d proposed the idea of leaving, she’d agreed to come along. She couldn’t let him strike out on his own and leave her with the rest of colony. Charlie had been more than her friend, he’d been like her little brother.

Twisting around carefully, she stared down at the blackness. The colony was down there. Even though the electricity was off for the night, she could imagine the 41

squat prefabricated buildings they’d set up after landing. Everyone was supposed to be asleep aside from the five guards she’d slipped by on her way to the way to the cliff, but she wondered if Koro was awake. He had taken over one of the largest rooms in the colony as his personal lair. There were rumors about how he rarely slept and spent nights in his office working on the strange projects he never let anyone see.

After what he’d done with Charlie, she believed the rumors.

A group of them had left the canyon to find food that day. They’d been hunting in a place where the sand formed a hard film over the looser sand beneath when a pack of predators had attacked them. They’d run for their truck, but Charlie had broken through the surface and gotten stuck in the sand below. She’d tried to go back for him, but Koro had grabbed her and thrown her into the truck. Then he’d climbed into the truck himself and driven away. He’d left Charlie to die.

That was why she couldn’t stay. She had watched the colony’s leader basically murder the only person in the universe who really cared about her. She couldn’t understand why no one else was angry, everyone seemed content to believe Koro when he said there was nothing that could have been done. She wouldn’t stay and follow him, not even long enough to plan. She was going to make it, though. The alternative was life under the leadership of the man who had taken Charlie’s life and she refused to do that. So she clung to the ledge and hoped the suns would rise soon so she could finish her climb and escape.

Her resolve had never been stronger.

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Mushrooms of the South Woods Photography Aafreen Vohra

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A Mom Called Judy Gabrielle Horstmeier

July 18th, 1962 A new invention you’ve got to try, they say.

It will prevent this sort of thing, they tell me— it was a fool’s gold I bit right through.

Your little body wasn’t ready.

The baby’s lip and mouth, they are these — clefts.

You needed more folic acid.

Judy, have you heard of the Pill?

My little body wasn’t ready for another.

Or even for the first three; they pity me. I was eighteen when he, having his way, first stole more than a few moments of my time.

My little body wasn’t ready; neither was hers.

Look: a picture perfect. Twenty-three— two toddlers and one younger; now another will come today.

Earlier than planned—not planned at all— she comes today.

Just one more time was fine — he would win whether I forfeit or not, and I’m again alone. Coming home with number four.

Wait — she must stay.

My baby number four, “perfected” by their needles and thread; she was not meant for my kind of mending.

Still, my fault she is — not his.

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Golden Orb in Folds Oil on Board Alexandria Wilber

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Les oiseaux qui mangent Photography 46

Emilie Katona

Outcaste Dillon Guelich Voices from cot-lined alleyways of the shelterless home, drove me back to my concrete bedsheets.

Frozen teardrops on my cheeks, product of a homeless man’s one eye opened dreams.

Pocket change won’t change famine amongst abundance.

The shadow-gaze of shame won’t put food on my plate, Winter in America.

My penance due for falling through this broken ladder, your box full of short straws.

A mother hides her child’s eyes.

Sauntering through a neighborhood watched, I come across sanctuary.

White picket fence full of holes, held up by four-closed walls, the boards, rejecting their nails, broken glass shivering— Hardwood tundra, tonight’s bed.

Abandoned. Together.

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“I Have a Crush on You”

Joseph Galbreath

My feet falling-with wet clops hands in pockets chin to chest I make my way up this steep hill in thoughtful silence.

I remember-his short, light blond hair the soft crystals in his blue eyes how soft his lips look I can’t help but smile.

I think of-how he isn’t gay how he could never feel the same way about me if he ever knew how I felt He’d hate me.

I don’t feel-like smiling anymore it hurts to feel like this I just want it to stop I know that if I want this pain to leave me-I have to tell him I need to be honest I remember all the times before I’ve thought of this.

I have yet-to follow through 48

I don’t want this pain the silence engulfs me only the occasional car to keep me company.

Tip, tap-a new sound comes out of the silence Tip, tap-I remove my chin-from my chest to see him walking down the hill razor wings fill my stomach He waves. I blush.

When he’s close enough to touch-the tip, tap stop he talks, I don’t remember what he says When there’s a pause, I tell him.

We stand there-in the silence of passing cars minutes pass the quiet hum engulfs me.

He places his hand on my shoulder, Pulls me in-for a tight hug my nose buried in his sweet smelling neck I inhale and hold my breath.

We stand in-our embrace until he guides me out of his way He says “I know” before walking away.

The Wanderer Oil on Canvas

Hannah Medina

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Wamaasai Photography Katherine Tredinnick

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Signs of Love Lauren Butkiewicz

The human hand had taught me the first words I ever spoke. The reading of mouths moving in rapid succession, lips pursing, tongues acting as conductors for the auditory, all a second nature. If ever there was one thing taught to me, it was that love was auditory. Hands had the power to say so much, but “I love you” was meant to be heard. Love at first sight was for those who could utter such romantic sentiments. Now near the end of my life, I can recall one afternoon in which love at first sight found me, my mallet poised to win me the game.

My shoes had been stained terribly from the dew covered grass, but with one more arch to go, I was going to win. The beauty of not hearing all the ideal chatter was lost on everyone but me, or so I thought. Striking the red ball through the arch, my ball knocked my opponent’s out of position, gaining me the win. Mallet raised in triumph, my opponent, also my friend, signed one of many mock “insults” that really meant fruit names. I mock scowled at being called a “orange” and turned toward my satchel. It was then I saw him clad in black and blue tweed. Did I stare?

Yes, and quite longingly but more often than not, the look of disappointment hurt the most. Furthermore, to my amazement, he stared at me too. We did not stare like star-crossed lovers but we knew we had found something in each other that was deeper and more misunderstood than love, more tangible than love. He signed hello and I learned his name for the first time, Sir Henry Walter. My eyes followed his hands, a slow smile creeping over my lips. His frown faded as I signed back.

“Do you know where Natasha’s satchel is? She forgot her mallet cover,” he signed cautiously.

Nodding, I pointed toward the satchel next to mine, hiding my disappointment. If this was supposed to be fate showing its generous side, I really hoped its humor was kinder. He touched my shoulder and turning around I found him, hat in hand looking bashful.

“You make a lovely orange” he signed, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Natasha hadn’t mentioned a brother, but it pleased me to no end that he wasn’t hers. His eyes locked with mine once more and the emotion behind them was stunning. He looked at me with such wonder, I felt my soul stir, I never left his eyes and he never left mine. It was not love per say but something akin to a missing puzzle piece just 51

discovering its long sought out home. He was a mystery all on his own with nothing but a past unknown and a future uncertain. But he wasn’t just a man; he had something extra that drew me to him like no other had before. Taking my hand, he pressed a letter into my palm. Looking away, I glanced at it and smiled with the greatest of joy. I held it close to my heart and nodded and the relief on his face was worth every penny.

“Everyday” I said.

“Promise?” he asked. I nodded.

Natasha approached smile lighting up her face. Winking at me, she gathered her stuff and took Henry’s arm. I watched the pair walk off the green into the crowded sidewalk, hope rising in my chest. Though we had parted ways, that day we were bonded by a force that neither of us understood but neither of us could deny. I would never forget him and I knew he would never forget me. The best was yet to come.

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The Clock

Michaellena Ambrowiak

Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock.

The only sound that rang out to the near empty room.

Dust covered the top of the oak frame untouched and unnoticed. The glass, curved outward like a shiny contact lens, mirrored the objects and faces that came to pass. The numbers, strategically placed around the outer edge, were faded with time. The hands crawled outward from it’s center to the numbers that boarder it.

When they finally climbed up to the number twelve, a sound sang out, bringing it one step closer to its final breath. The brass pendulum swung from side to side of the small coffin it rested in.

Then one day the pendulum stopped.

The hands frozen in a final grasp.

Long ago it stopped singing it’s special tune, now it stopped singing all together.

Funny how the thing it knew best became its own destruction.

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Fare Thee Well

Dillon Guelich

(For Jerry, 7/3/15) Caught the 11:15.

Down Madison, ‘cross Millennium.

LSD was the quickest way to drop out and transcend history. Voluntarily misplacing our potions, we marched up to Soldier’s gates, souls of the unacquainted, gliding in mass exodus.

Parking lot PBR’s, like communion at the Fountain of Aging Rainbows.

Red white and blue collars making conversation without hesitation, “Hello!”

“Good day!”

“How do you do?”

“Can I interest you in some...”

“Thanks for the offer, man, but I don’t eat toadstools.”

Into the colosseum, with the drummer boy at my side. No rear­view mirror to slow this autopilot cruise control, just a rose, a monument to the long strange trip, the journey, the pilgrimage realized under starlight by 70,000 links in the unbroken chain.

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Tonight, in the city by the lake, dancin’ in the streets will be our epitaph.

Those good vibrations locked within us cry lightning when the songbird sings.

“Chaos” Ballpoint Pen on Paper Alexandria Wilber

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Blind Date

Joseph Galbreath

6:12 She’s late.

Ask a waiter for some water.

Stop tapping your fingers.

Sit up straight.

She stood me up.

Breathe. Be patient.

Check phone.

No missed calls or messages.

Wait a few minutes.

Five more minutes. Tops.

Maybe she’ll show.

6:14 Dammit, I’m late.

There’s the diner. Park the car.

Check makeup.

Fix lipstick.

He better be there.

Calm down.

If he waited, he’s a sweet guy.

Maybe he’s nice and patient.

It’d be a pleasant change.

Not gonna think about ex.

6:17 “Hi, I’m Sarah.” He’s wearing a tie in a diner.

“Hi, I’m Peter.” She has a beautiful smile.

At least it looks cute on him.

Pull her chair out.

Smile and take a seat.

Sit and fold my hands on the table.

Cross my legs and fix my bangs.

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6:19 Make eye contact. She has stunning Blue eyes. “How was your day?”

“You know, the normal stuff.”

Question.

Words stumble out of my mouth, While hers dance along.

The waiter asks our order.

“You can go first.”

Ask another question.

Continue the conversation.

Run out of questions.

6:32 Tell a lame joke.

“It was good.” His brown eyes are kind And gentle. “What do you do for fun?”

Answer.

Repeat.

Sweat slicks across my hand, While his stay steady.

6:26 Reach for the menu, browse, and order my usual.

Provide another response.

At least until our food arrives.

The silence starts to become uncomHe’s cute, so I laugh.

Our food arrives.

Remember how hungry I am.

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Bite into grilled cheese. Chew, chew, swallow.

“It’s better than I thought.”

6:54 Ask a waiter for the check. ...

“Together.”

“How so?”

In between bites I look up.

“Are you enjoying your dinner?”

Smile. Take another bite Of cheeseburger.

Asks together or separate. …

“That’s always the most awkward part of the meal.”

“Just never know what to say.”

“I understand the feeling, I will say I really enjoyed how you ate that cheeseburger.”

“Thanks, the have the best burgers here.

Ready to go?”

“I am.”

Hold the door for Sarah.

“Thanks for dinner.” It was a good date.

“It was my pleasure.” I hope we can do it again.

“Next time I’m choosing the restaurant.”

“And I won’t be late.”

My cheeks go hot.

Next time.

7:08 Stand on my toes, lean forward, kiss his blushing cheek. “Goodnight Peter.”

“Goodnight Sarah, until next time.”

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En dehors du Musee d’Orsay Photography Emilie Katona

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Morning Spin Photography Katherine Tredinnick

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Things to Remember When Mending a Broken Heart

Michaellena Ambrowiak

1. Everyone lies.

2. Love can be shown in many ways.

3. “Tired” is a state that once you enter you can never leave.

4. Randomly breaking into song and dance numbers should be reality, not just pretend.

5. You hate him.

6. Make a pun every chance you get.

7. PMS jokes aren’t funny. Period.

8. Some will see you walk on water and say it’s because you can’t swim.

9. You are the human embodiment of a cat.

10. You wish number 5 was true.

11. It’s okay to be selectively social.

12. Everyone wants to go to heaven, but no one wants to die.

13. No one likes the taste of coffee, but it is the only thing that will get you through the day.

14. Everyone deserves a second chance, but that chance doesn’t have to be with you.

15. Why you got out of bed this morning.

16. Don’t do Drugs, be Drugs.

17. Listen, smile, agree. Then do whatever the fuck you were going to do anyway.

18. Turtles are just humans in turtle form.

19. If you cancel a date, you have to.

20. If he cancels a date, he has two.

21. Disney movies are acceptable at any age at any time.

22. Listen with the intent to understand.

23. Squirrels are easily offended and will throw nuts at you.

24. Tomorrow is another chance.

25. There is strength is breaking down.

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Dispersed Photography Khun Maung

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Cello Strings that Sing in the Rain

Eve Green

The rain pelts down, thundering against the windscreen of the beat-up old Chevy, ricocheting as it collides with the pavement outside. He sits for a second in the comfort of his car, sheltered from the torrent outside, thinking. After a few moments, courage fortified and nerves settled slightly, he opens his door and steps out into the rain. Immediately his old black coat, the lining and edges worn and frayed, absorbs the water, becoming heavier with every passing second. He opens the back door and pulls out the battered black case, half his own height, and closing the door he walks languidly toward the gazebo.

Once again sheltered from the rain, he takes the solitary chair, its wood deeply weathered from many years of use, and pulls it to the centre of the floor. With heavy and aching movements he lowers himself down, settling himself on the sparse wood before bending over to open the beaten case. The strain visible in his back and upper arms, the man removes his cello. The deep brown of the wood having lost its glossy coating, but otherwise in perfect condition - the one thing in his life that he has successfully maintained, his only lasting friend.

He adjusts himself, moving into position, the cello so natural in his hands that it feels like a mere extension of his own limbs. The wind blows forcefully, the biting rain brutal against his exposed skin. The waves from the beach crash, creating a cacophony that resonates and hounds the player’s ears. Yet he does not turn away and retreat to the safety of his car, for the only true relief will come from the conclusion of his composition.

With the age-old movements of a time long since lost the man lifts his bow, and begins to play. At first the few subtle notes blow away soundlessly on the howling wind, seeming lost in the myriad of confusion that surrounds the gazebo. Yet as the man continues, and his playing becomes more deliberate, each note begins to have a certain resonance, maintaining itself as it is carried by the storm, and thus his melody truly starts to begin. Every new note expresses what the lonely player has so long been unable to articulate in words: a pain so deep, so enduring and debilitating that it can only truly be conveyed by music.

As he continues to play the melody forms, becoming stronger with each passing note, and with this too the man himself regains a small part of his strength, pursuing the end of his symphony with increasing courage. The melancholy sorrow carried by his song fills the surrounding trees and washes over the sea. All of nature is becoming infused with an inherent understanding and empathy for the man’s

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story. Yet similarly there is not one person who can truly understand, who can know all of what has scarred and tortured this man, for his plight was unique.

Without warning the melody falls; silence descending upon the gazebo. The player remains in the chair, though now he is slumped, fallen over his cello, the weight of his memories too heavy. For several moments the man stays this way, collapsed in his seat. The howling winds continue to surround him, the sounds of the crashing waves reverberating off the gazebo rooftop. Then, very slowly, as though urged on by something unseen, the man straightens himself in his chair, and once again takes up his bow.

With a tenderness not yet shown the player continues, yet now the melody has acquired a raw emotional authenticity. As though lost to himself, the space within the gazebo becomes filled only with the notes of his despondent song.

Though the wails of the wind and sea continue to surround him, the man, alone in his own heavy thoughts, cannot hear them. The only sounds that caress his ears are the notes his cello creates.

As the melody swells and falls, with every passing moment becoming stronger and more confident, the player begins to feel a sense of release, something he has so long craved but constantly been denied, an alien feeling equally strong to the love he bears his cello. Finally, after years of constant pain, the grief of his past begins to fade, though the memories themselves remain. Slowly the composition comes to a close, the last few notes lingering on the wind. With the eventual fall of these notes, so too does the player feel his great and heavy burden lift from his shoulders, and he is released. Posture straight but almost effortless, slowly the player’s face changes, moulding to fit his new awareness. Something plays at the corners of his lips. Not a smile. Not so much as that, but rather, something simpler: contentment.

It is not yet time for joy or happiness. He is not ready for that. For now, it is enough for him to simply be at peace in his own mind, without the pain he has so long endured, to finally truly experience tranquility and serenity. After the many years of suffering, there can be no greater comfort than a sense of pure, but not isolating, contentment.

The player slowly, though without the ache and laboured appearance or feel of his previous movements, packs up his cello and closes its case, returning the chair to its previous position against the rail of the gazebo. And for the first time he can remember, he feels that it is finally time to begin again.

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Purple Sat Photography Rebecca Bajt

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Voila, Praha Photography Emilie Katona

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What You Think About When You’re Popping Pills at a Coffee Shop

Maddison Vega

I would like to forget the taste

of citrus after cinnamon & of water

after Prozac, blood after pavement,

& also, if I may, of fingernails laced

with dead dry skin and dirt I would like as well to forget the way

that a person looks sleeping in thin stained

sheets on the living room floor, the hardwood

the color of ancient pottery & also the sound

that flat bare feet make on kitchen tiles at night I would like to forget about how many

times I’ve seen dust & sunlight in

flat angled layers through the streetbound window in the study & how those two walls

of my old bedroom used to hold me with stone hands & how everything & everyone lives until they don’t

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The Killing Joke

Paul Ninneman

I awake to a wayward chuckle and sweat on my brow Letting the mind find its way back to my dreary gag.

Eyes adjusting to the demented prank, Reaching up as to strangle the specter that makes me an ass.

I stretch and tolerate my human shackles another day, And concede perfection is the enemy of good.

Hands shaking and mind foggy, I choke The apparition, only to find My arms numb and palms embraced. I rise From my bed in shock and contempt, To fill an empty glass with purity and happiness.

Swishing in my mouth, the mixture tastes of chalk My laughter fades and I clutch fast to my throat.

Swallowing hard and hoping for the best, I prepare for the worst by a written note taped to my desk.

I leave my home with a hollow cheerfulness From the fishhooks forcing my cheeks to a grin.

It is this daily ritual of the sane made hysterical The punchline.

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Skull Soot on Paper Alexandria Wilber

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Green Lake Photography Hannah Medina

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Love You, Miss You Emily Janssen July 18th, 2032 Dear Holly and Ivy,

I’m not sure why I’m doing this. It’s not like either of you are ever going to read this. In fact, I’m not sure I want you to, because if you do it probably means you’re not safe. The chance that you’re okay is the only thing that’s keeping me going. That and the fact that Reagan wouldn’t let me give up even if I was an inch from death.

Stacy (was there really a time when I would have gotten in trouble for calling her anything but Lieutenant Peterson? It feels like the rag-tag group of people I’m with couldn’t have once been an army platoon) was the one who came up with the idea of all of us writing letters, either to family and friends or to God or to our past selves. Williams didn’t like the idea much, but Stacy convinced him.

Williams is the only member of our group who I can’t quite get on a firstname basis with. That’s because he’s still lying to himself by thinking that he’s still a general and that we’re still part of an army. (I don’t know how he keeps that fantasy going, it’s kinda hard to be a member of the United States Army when there’s no U.S.)

Back to the letters. I thought about writing to God, but if things keep up the way they’ve been going I’m going to meet Him much sooner than anticipated. So I decided to write to you two, because I’ve realized recently that you never knew me as well as I wanted you too. With the different foster homes and everything, I guess that’s to be expected, but it still hurts.

I was really angry when the social worker told us they were going to separate us. You were only five so I’m not sure if you remember how I yelled. Actually, I hope you don’t because I said some pretty nasty stuff…I was mad. It wasn’t until years later that I realized if one of us had to be sent somewhere else, it was best if it was me. You two always needed each other more than anyone else. Mom would have said it was because you’re twins. She believed twins formed connections that others couldn’t even fathom; I believe she was right. I wish she was still alive today to take care of you, to keep you safe, but Nancy and John will do the same even though you’re not actually theirs.

When we were seperated, you stayed in Pittsburgh with Nancy and John, and I bounced between foster homes until I ended up with another Pittsburgh couple and met Reagan. The last time I saw you both before shipping out to basic training, 71

you realized he’d enlisted with me. Holly, you asked me if he was my boyfriend. At the time I vehemently denied it, but now I’m not so sure. I feel like the entire time I’ve known Reagan we’ve been walking this fine line between “just friends” and “something more,” and I can never quite tell which one we really are.

Don’t take that the wrong way. Reagan’s only kissed me twice. Once was when we were thirteen and one of our foster siblings dared him to. The other time was just a couple weeks ago. He kissed me when we were hiding with our platoon in the lowest level of a parking garage while atom bombs rained down on the buildings, absolutely certain we were going to die.

We haven’t talked about that kiss yet. Reagan’s not usually the kind of person to avoid topics so I think he’s as confused by the whole “friends or more” dilemma as I am. Still, it hasn’t escaped my notice that I’m the only member of the group he’s involved in his crazy survival plan, so that has to count for something. He’s been pushing the plan on me ever since the bombs. At first I thought it was a joke, but then I realized he was dead serious. He really thinks he can keep the two of us alive for the duration of this fallout.

He’s either deluding himself or completely insane. I kinda hope it’s the former because the latter would be just too much. The last thing I need is to be emotionally tied to a madman. (I can almost picture the look you’re giving me. I can care about him without being in love with him. He’s my best friend.) A couple nights ago, I got frustrated and actually told him what I thought of his plans. I told him that I thought this was crazy, that we were all going to die from radiation poisoning anyway, so he shouldn’t bother planning for anything. For the longest time he just stared at me, and I realized that for the first time ever, I’d actually managed to hurt him. After what felt like forever, he smiled quietly and said, “You know, Kaelyn, you should really try to be more positive.” Then he went back to the notebook he keeps his plans in like nothing had happened.

Sometimes I do not understand that boy. How he can go from utterly wounded to totally in control within seconds has fascinated me for years. Scared me too, but you’ll be the first I’ve admitted that too. I figure it’s probably a defense mechanism he built up at some point in his childhood, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish he’d just freak out like a normal person every once in awhile.

We’re somewhere in Maryland, right now. We’re trying to find our way to Baltimore where the nearest major fallout shelter is. We’re hoping that there will be a list of the people who made it to shelters there, like politicians were talking about in the months right before the bombs. Even if that initiative came to anything, I’m not convinced the internet held out long enough for a complete list. However, as right as I fear I may be, I’m not giving up if there’s even a slight chance that I can put my 72

mind to rest about your safety.

So we walk and try to find our way. It’s not easy; so many bombs hit the east coast that lot of cities and well-known landmarks were destroyed. Stacy thinks we’re going the right way, though, and Reagan agrees, so I guess I’ll have to try to take their word for it.

I think Baltimore and the shelter are the only things keeping Reagan with the group. He doesn’t want to stay with the rest. He thinks that he and I have a better chance alone. I don’t think we have a chance at all, so I let him dream. However, as much as he’s been going on about leaving, he hasn’t pushed to leave before we get to Baltimore. I think he understands how important figuring out what happened to you is to me, so he’s waiting.

So we walk and walk and walk. We try to keep ourselves going with thoughts of the loved ones we hope are safe. I think of you two. Stacy about her sister. Williams hopes for the president. (Remember what I said about him?) Elizabeth thinks about a boyfriend in Chicago at art school. Tom about a pregnant wife and a twoyear-old.

We try to keep each other’s spirits up by saying meaningless things like, “It’ll be okay. I’m sure they’re safe” but there’s an edge to it. We might not have any contact with anyone important or any internet, but we know the death toll was catastrophic. We all know that someone’s loved ones aren’t going to be safe, and no matter how many nice things we say we all hope that we aren’t that unlucky person.

But we keep walking. I’m tired, more so than I have ever been in my life. And hungry. And cold. We have to slog through snow that in some places is up to our knees, and our ragged army uniforms were meant for summertime not frigid nuclear winter.

To make matters even worse, my head is bare. A couple girls and I shaved our heads a while back. We decided it would be better to just get rid of our hair all at once rather than watch it fall out in clumps as radiation poisoning gets to us.

Still, it’s more painful than I thought it would be. I don’t know if you remember, but Mom had the most beautiful hair. My hair is like hers and as weird as it sounds, keeping my hair long like hers had felt like a way to keep her close to me. The thought of dying bald torments me, but it’s too late now. What’s done is done.

And now I’ve hit a dead end. This letter was supposed to be me saying goodbye, but it’s turned into me whining about my imminent death and my problems with Reagan. I’ll try to wrap it up in a somewhat decent way with something kind of happy.

You remember the day after I graduated from high school when we went out for ice cream, just the three of us? I think that was the last truly happy day in my 73

life. Ivy, you asked me what I was doing showing up at Nancy and John’s at two in the afternoon when I should have been flipping burgers at my McDonald’s job. I told you I’d asked for the day off but didn’t say why. You see, that was the day Reagan and I had enlisted. I knew I’d have to tell you eventually, and I wasn’t looking forward to having to explain the whole “I enlisted in the military because they’ll pay for college even though the world’s on the brink of a full-scale nuclear war” issue.

Looking back I probably should have brought it up—it would have saved a lot of screaming later on—but I’m glad that we had that one perfect afternoon together before the world fell apart.

I hope that’s how you’ll remember me—as the sister who bought you ice cream and laughed at your jokes even when you were the only ones who actually understood them, not as the sister who went and joined the army right before the country practically got blown off the face of the Earth. That would be the one thing that you could do to give me some peace. That and be safe in a fallout shelter. If you could just do those two things, I think I could face my fate with some semblance of dignity.

So, please, be safe and remember me as the sister who loves you and wouldn’t leave you. That’s all I ask.

Holly and Ivy...Love you, miss you, hope you’re safe and have a chance at a wonderful, long future.

Your loving sister,

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Kaelyn

Reflection Series Photography Biff Floodstrand

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Like Sweet Rain From the Heavens

Joseph Galbreath

The second flood of bombs dropped, that is how I lost my Rose.

A broken violin worked its bow, poured mute pollution.

The spot where a lone shoe stopped wore its burned promise. Soiled.

My wounded moth wings sowing the scorched ground. Shift without sound.

Her cloth doll, bruised with burnt mud.

Dropped. Rolled. Stopped and lay. Noiseless.

His dog, dragged its fore-paw, looked for anyone to rest with.

The clouds cover the drowned sky.

Purple. Black. Thick. Breathe and wheeze.

The doctor, occupied on the last form. Sigh. Date. Stamp. Leave.

The torn omen goes out but always comes up short.

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Winter Wonderland Photography Aafreen Vohra

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A Rose by Any Other Name Photography Emma Lemke

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Why A Rose?

Lillian Lenk

Because when I was four, Because freshman year,

my mom and I plucked

I wasn’t clear to a friend,

petals, pressed the irresistible silk I probably led him on,

to our mouths and made outlandish

and he too carefully placed red roses

shapely lips.

all over my room, to show what he felt,

on a day that I happened Because when I was six,

to feel like a Flapper

I was in love with Belle

and to be wearing red nail polish,

and her Beast. I was in love

all of which made me think

with the perfect red rose

of my mouth,

that was the clock to his love

and that kiss

and curse.

and the boy that ran away, so this time- I shoved him.

Because one day in middle school,

a boy gave me a red carnation,

that made me think of roses,

and my mouth and my huge rose-petal lips,

so I kissed him- and he ran away.

Because in high school,

roses are for Valentine’s Day,

and love, and passion and blood,

so days I wanted to feel powerful

I painted my nails red, to remind me

of my mouth.

Because in my senior year musical

I was happy to have only a 7-line part,

because I learned to cupid-bow

my lips with deep scarlet, and wear a Flapper dress fringed, in blood red.

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Knotty Nets Photography Katherine Tredinnick

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Menske

Emma Lemke

He fellNot from sanguinary But from grace; Not blood but laceAn ironic twist When he should fall from An iron fistBut alas!

The surreptitiousness Taste of a lover’s haste That has beguiled minds To think that he’s not biased.

Thank the lot who Disgorged his secret.

Now never alone; no, Not truly- He has his mind, and these rumors, To keep him company.

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I Believe

Anonymous

“We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen” (Nicene Creed). Every week like clockwork my family will stand with the rest of St. Boniface parish and chant those words, and I stand too, marveling at the cult of Catholics as they intone their faith in eerie unison. I do not take the hands offered to me on either side; I remain isolated and simply listen.

The irrational part of me feels that the simple act of taking those hands and speaking those words I do not feel would be like surrendering my soul. Not to the devil -this is supposed to be a house of God after all- but to something equally traitorous: falsehood. As they speak of their belief in one God I think “I don’t,” as they proclaim their faith in Jesus I think “I don’t,” as they announce their trust in the Holy Spirit I think “I don’t,” and when they assert their certainty in the Catholic Church I think “I don’t belong here.”

My family knows how the Church makes my skin tingle uncomfortably, how it’s just too hot, too tight, too constrained in that house of worship. Yet they still put me through CCD (religious education) classes in addition to the weekly masses.

They think the classes will “strengthen my faith.” What they don’t realize is that every Sunday night I spend two plus hours with insanely religious people spouting these outrageous stories, preaching of saints, and views that contradict each other, all while their captive audience of completely disinterested high school student pretend to agree with their every thought. Those hours do strengthen my faith, just not towards the Church.

Which is exactly what I write in the required letter to the bishop. Each candidate for confirmation (the sacrament which initiates one as a full member of the Church) has to write a letter explaining why they want to join the Church, and what they do to spread and express their faith daily. I have no desire to join the Church, not for myself at least. Essentially I tell a major religious figure that the Church is focusing on the wrong things and that I won’t find enlightenment with their congregation. That letter is the final requirement to be Confirmed. I have gone to every class, taken the test to see if I knew all the proper chants and commandments, and I have never outright insulted Christianity or anyone associated with it. Even in that letter I am very polite. But it seems manners don’t make a difference.

A week from my Confirmation date, my dad gets a phone call. My mom is crying and looks at me as if I’ve just punched her in the gut; I can sympathize.

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Dad just looks tired, removing his glasses and rubbing at his temples. Most people would have missed the subtle grinding of his jaw, the only allusion to his anger. I don’t.

“Did I do something?” My voice sounds small, even to me.

“Apparently,” he says. Mom hiccups and leaves the room in tears. I can still hear her blowing her nose after she’s retreated upstairs.

Shame and confusion swirl in a mass within my gut. “What’s going on?”

Maybe I’d rather not know.

“Todd called.” Todd, my Confirmation leader, is the most ludicrous of the weekly preachers I have to endure; at least the others genuinely believe what they’re saying. Todd’s there, I think, because he’s under the impression it’s his duty or something. Plus, his mustache looks like a squirrel died on his face.

If Squirrel-face has phoned this close to Confirmation it can only mean trouble. I wait for Dad to elaborate. He doesn’t. All he says is that we’re going to a meeting on Sunday and I better be able to defend myself. Dismissed, I wonder whether I’m defending my poor test results (chanting and spitting back scripture verbatim isn’t exactly my strong suit) or what I said in the letter.

Since I can’t really defend not being able to remember the Ten Commandments in order, I decide my time would best be spent explaining the letter. Reading it over, I note the parts the Catholic Church would be most likely to take issue with; it’s quite the list. One by one I analyze my words, trying to see them from the mindset of the Church, and defend my opinions in terms they would understand, if not accept.

Part of me resents having to justify myself in what I thought was a private letter; the other part can’t forget the look of betrayal in my mom’s eyes. So I write.

I defend my claim to being Pagan, and explain it in terms so light and Catholic that the Pope himself couldn’t call me a devil worshipper. I try to put words to what I believe.

I hand the result to my dad and walk away before he even unfolds the page.

He doesn’t mention it and I don’t bring it up. He spends a lot of time yelling at people over the phone for the next couple days. Forget understanding, did he even read my words? I can’t be sure.

We meet in the Franciscan Room, a tiny oval room right next to the gym St. Boniface holds masses in. A single table is set up in the center of the room, three chairs around it. The one closest to the window is already occupied; I take a moment 83

to thank whatever higher power cares to listen that it is Rob, not Squirrel-face, that waits for us. I’m not entirely sure how, but I know he’s involved with organizing Confirmation somehow.

Mostly I’m indifferent to Rob. On one hand a couple weeks before he gave this long-winded speech about how “good Christians” are obligated to protect human rights and therefore must be against abortion and must be against homosexual relations. Call me crazy, but I don’t think being part of a collective automatically means you must adopt every one of their opinions. But still, Rob’s a decent guy; I know his family and he’s nice enough. Plus he actually appreciates sarcasm (to a certain extent) nowhere near as gratingly judgmental as Squirrel-face.

Though I suppose it doesn’t matter, the Phelps twins could be waiting in that chair and my feet would still feel like blocks of ice. Dad has to push me into a seat; thankfully he takes the one closest to Rob.

They start talking. Rob says something about “my journey to the Catholic faith” not being complete and that I shouldn’t be Confirmed. Dad goes through all the logical arguments, about how I went through all the classes and completed the requirements, fees all squared away and everything. He says I shouldn’t be penalized for being honest. I say nothing.

Rob says that I “expressed doubts” in my letter, and I shouldn’t have any going into Confirmation, as its “such an important commitment.” Dad says that’s bull, doubts are natural; if doubts were a deal-breaker there wouldn’t be any Christians left. I say nothing, though in my head I disagree with them both. When I wrote that letter I had no doubts, I knew what I believed, and it wasn’t in the Church. I knew it then and I know it now. Yet I don’t speak.

Across the room a plain faced clock ticks off the minutes; I focus in on that, tracking the seconds hand as it twitches rhythmically in circles. I hear Dad and Rob arguing. Dad says the letter was supposed to be private; Rob says something about “screening”. I hardly hear them; the ticking of the clock is drumming out their voices.

I could say I don’t know how long they talked without me saying a word, but I do: exactly twenty-two minutes, seventeen seconds pass between the time I start looking at the clock, and when my Dad says something that manages to catch my attention: “She wrote this for me.” Instantly the clock fades away and I hone in on the single sheet of paper my dad is offering Rob. Mere days ago it was crisp and clean but now it’s creased and worn in a way that suggests numerous rereadings.

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Rob glances it over, then looks at me (I try not to fidget under his gaze) then

reads my words again, more slowly this time. “It appears that your daughter’s spiritual journey is leading her in a different path. Perhaps she can reconsider Confirmation once this journey has passed.”

I’m not entirely sure how to take that but Dad seems to take it as a signal the meeting is over. He rises and snatches the paper from Rob. I follow him out the door, wondering what just happened.

Silence follows us to the car and he doesn’t speak until we’re parked in the garage and the engine has gone quiet. “I’m sorry,” he says.

I say nothing, just look at him confused. Seems like that’s all I do lately.

“You were right,” he elaborates, “religion has nothing to do with spirituality.”

My lip twitches into a half smile, I wrote that, even if he is misq uoting me. “Don’t worry about the Confirmation.” My expression falls and he knows why. “Mom will come around.” I’m not sure I believe his assurance but I nod anyway. Silence seems to have served me pretty well so far today. As we head into the house I notice he’s still holding my words. I smile. At least someone has understood.

I believe, in something more than what is, In the spirit of the individual, regardless of religion I believe in the ability to shape one’s own path, Each person their own salvation, Possessing their own will and freedom of spirit I believe in morality separate from the Church, In the unique beliefs of each creature of the world I believe in me.

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10 Ways to Get Lost in Your Own Neighborhood Maddison Vega 1. Spend hours eating grapes because you like peeling each one like an old woman cleaning dirt off her favorite brooch

8. Try three times between the ages of 12 & 16 to be anorexic but always run out of excuses by noon the next day

2. Lay awake at night giving names to everything your eye touches: the ceiling fan, the ceiling, the dead spider hanging from it like a trapeze swinger

9. Never grow tired of playing at someone else, like an astronaut, a painter, a landscaper, a pet shop owner, a jewel thief, a boy, a girl

3. Point at every telephone pole you pass and think, “tree”, and do this until you feel like you don’t know the difference anymore

10. Know this and remember, that everything — stories, footfall, red vans pulling out of the driveway & rolling off into the night — it all ends at some single point.

4. Imagine your mind is like an ocean, all wind & white noise & it only makes sense that the boats get lost sometimes 5. Wonder if that older girl that bullied you on the bus has ever thought about asking you what your name is or if you wanted to go on a dat 6. Know that if you ever did it, you would use the scarf with the silver threads, long thin silver threads like veins or like ridges on a log 7. Repeat everything. Words. Words.

Words — Eye contact. Eye contact.

Stop. Again.

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The Pleasures of the Mouth Charcoal on Paper Alexandria Wilber

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Dusk Photography Biff Floodstrand

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“Ockham’s Orchid” Jorge Gutierrez Once an orchid blossoms, it’s best to cut the spike and feed the empty garden bed.

Instead, we stretch the meadow sheets across a hollow pit where you and I get lost.

Regardless of the season, we are found blooming sighs between the sounds of breathing, beneath the thatch God built for mulch and sin-Garden work is nothing close to righteous.

The light creeps up on crooked plants and counts on clumsy eyes to misconstrue the hues.

Lets hide and seek for an excuse to keep from pruning shriveled truth and make-believe.

Make me believe how red your cheeks would blush before my fingertips would fumble with a hook that kept its wits about itself.

Your only virtue: lying on my bed.

You said that “what you seed is what you get.”

Just my compost left, but then your parched hands leach away the rest. Every summer now, I try to weed out what we left behind.

There is no use in trying to hold on to something that will keep on withering.

Know that once an orchid dries, you’re better off buying a whole new fucking flower.

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METALLIC CRIES

Jacob Thompson

I have been eroded to my cores.

My circuits have blown, all my NANDs and XNORs. And my internal clock has slown.

I am but a tangled mesh of bits, the fragments of a corrupt CPU. condemned by a slot that nothing fits, and an argument returned TRUE. With serotonin pushing romantic inclinations, processors flooding with dopamine, forming schizophrenic hallucinations, and sanity turning to smithereen, With adrenaline in my silicon, and oxytocin in my chipset, I act on this carcinogen, preparing for regret.

How I wish to live in a binary state, to shut down this emotion, to remove this unyielding weight, and to set my mind in motion.

How I wish to leave you be, to regain form and function, set my logic gates free, and clear this mental obstruction I’m begging, for god’s sake, make these feelings die, force my heart to break, and listen to my metallic cries.

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“If the City Never Sleeps then that Makes Two” Photography Biff Floodstrand

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Face Fragment Oil Pastel on Paper Hannah Medina 92

Honest Feedback

Amberlee Perry

During my last summer home, my little sister asked me: Why are you the only brown person in our family? I only laughed. Yes, I suppose I never felt much of an outsider until four years ago, after arriving Here. This teeny school in a tiny town nearly identical to the place I call home--plains and cornfields surrounding a midwestern white sea (if that was too blunt, I find myself caring less).

Yet here I am made to be foreign--my raven black eyes, my smooth ebony skin, this wondrous mass of coiled curls (that I tried to hide for years) --all of it such a sharp contrast to my peers’ many shades of white.

The most pitiful part? I blamed myself. My personality. My innate uneasiness with other human beings. My crude, sarcastic sense of humor.

I could see no other reason for my alienation. No other explanation for that blank, downward stare--how has it not yet burned holes into the concrete sidewalks? I so often wondered if they’d ever look up--please just look up.

No other cause for the paralyzing tension that gusts through the door as I open it--I must remember how to move my legs--where is a seat farthest from that dreadful stench of intimidation? Only recently did I ask out loud: What is it about me? What am I doing wrong? They look at each other, then shake their heads at me, sorry that I have not yet understood.

Don’t you see? It’s your skin. That is what they will always see first.

How could I be so oblivious to an answer that stared back at me in the mirror each morning? How could I not have seen it?

There is nothing more. I get it. I will leave my empty memories lying on the stone steps of our graduation stage.

Yet, Ripon, I must express thanks-Without all of you,

I may have never found me.

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Into the Woods Amy Fels If I could disappear, it wouldn’t be immediate.

I wouldn’t want to wrap a cloak around my shoulders and cease to exist.

Instead, I’d walk down to the forest and keep walking.

Step by step, wandering until my shoes wore out And my feet became part of the ground.

Tree bark soles and mud-mottled skin, Padding softly across the composting quilt of leaves.

Thin tendrils of vines would wrap about my body, Dangling as tender extensions of my deft and nimble fingertips.

My hair perfectly woven with ferns and flowers, Until its thick brown curtain is a camouflage masterpiece.

Little by little, the woods would claim me as I walked, Enveloping me in its shadows and brilliant sunlit meadows.

Slowly I’d become part of the mysterious place and Disappear from view.

Seen only as the movement out of the corner of an eye, A memory On the old dirt path I’ve long since left behind.

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Climbing Green Photography Rebecca Bajt

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Author Index Aafreen Vohra

Mushrooms of the South Woods Winter Wonderland

Alexandria Wilber Chaos Golden Orb in Folds The Pleasures of the Mouth Skull

Alexis Kristoffersen Teen Talk

Amberlee Perry Honest Feedback Love

Amy Fels

Into the Woods

Biff Floodstrand

Dusk “If the City Never Sleeps then that Makes Two” Reflection Series Spiky Flower

Casey Girouard Driftwood Dirge Language of Loathing

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DeLou Wilson Obscenities

Dillon Guelich Fare Thee Well Outcaste

Elizabeth Swenson Blank Sheet of Paper

Emilie Katona

En dehors du Musee d’Orsay Les oiseaux qui mangent Voila, Praha

Emily Janssen The Cliff Love You, Miss You

Emma Lemke

A Rose by Any Other Name Menske \X/

Eve Green

Cello Strings that Sing in the Rain

Gabrielle Horstmeier

A Mom Called Judy Wings

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Grant Myers TRICKSTER

Hannah Medina Face Fragment Green Lake James II Linked Fingers Melting Popsicle Wanderer

Jacob Thompson METALLIC CRIES

Jorge Gutierrez “Ockham’s Orchid”

Joseph Galbreath

Blind Date “I Have a Crush on You” Sweet Rain from the Heavens

Katherine Tredinnick Arrested Driftwood Sunrise Eyes to the Skies Knotty Nets Morning Spin Tembo Wamaasai

Khun Maung Dispersed

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Lauren Butkiewicz Signs of Love Sun Man

Lillian Lenk Why a Rose?

Maddison Vega

10 Ways to Get Lost in Your Own Neighborhood What You Think About When You’re Popping Pills at a Coffee Shop

Michaellena Ambrowiak

The Clock Things to Remember when Mending a Broken Heart

Naomi Ferrel Ghosts of Christmas

Paul Ninneman The Killing Joke

Rebecca Bajt Brown-Eyed Girl Butterfly Moth Climbing Green Forget Me Not Purple Sat Triangle Gloom

Ryan Edquist Shipwrecked

Zachary Peterson Lighting the Past Mismatch

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Back Cover Image:

Forget Me Not

Pencil Drawing Rebecca Bajt