Oakwood 2014 South Dakota State University
OAKWOOD | 2014
THE OAKWOOD STAFF MANAGING EDITORS Dana Strong Nikki Mann EDITORIAL BOARD Dana Strong, Fiction
Nikki Mann, Creative Non-fiction Sheryl Kurylo, Poetry
Roberta Forman, Art READERS Cody Stotz
Cheryl Schaefer Matthew Alison JUNIOR STAFF Philip Johnson
Jessica Richters GRAPHIC DESIGNER Roberta Forman
LITERARY ADVISOR Steven Wingate, M.F.A.
ART CLUB ADVISOR Molly Wicks, M.F.A.
ENGLISH DEPARTMENT HEAD Dr. Jason McEntee
VISUAL ARTS DEPARTMENT HEAD M. Timothy Steele, M.F.A. COVER ARTIST Cole Behrends
BOOK DESIGN CREATOR Michael Mazourek
Š Copyright Oakwood/SDSU English Department. Rights revert to authors and artistis upon publication.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The Oakwood editorial board and staff would like to thank South Dakota State University Student’s Association for its continued support. We also wish to express our appreciation for the support of the SDSU English Department, particularly Dr. Jason McEntee, in addition to the College of Arts and Sciences. Finally, we would like to thank Anita (Sarkees) Bahr, a long-time supporter of Oakwood, who recently granted a significant donation for the continued publication of this work. We would especially like to express our gratitude to Steven Wingate, Oakwood’s literary advisor, without whom the continuation of Oakwood would not be possible. A sincere thanks to the SDSU Visual Arts Department for their involvement and support.
ANITA (SARKEES) BAHR AWARD FOR OUTSTANDING CONTRIBUTOR
HALEY WILSON Anita (Sarkees) Bahr has been a long-time supporter of South Dakota State University’s English Department, and especially Oakwood. Thanks to her contributions, Oakwood will continue to provide an excellent opportunity for young SDSU artists to publish their pieces in this journal.
OAKWOOD | 2014 TABLE OF CONTENTS 8 |
8 |
Midden
Zachary Ruiz
Nothing
Mark Brenden
16 |
Return to Sender
Haley Wilson
Family Circus
Dana Strong
Untitled
Joshua Fitzgerald
Transitions
Pamela Stilwell-Merchant
Cages
Amanda Boerger
Children of the Choir
Joe Schartz
A Stranger's Funeral
Alex Morlan
Lost at Sea
Shaina Harris
The Saddest Story
Leah Alsaker
35 |
Inland Sea
Roberta Forman
Crush
Bonnie Moxnes
42 |
Bitter Cold
Cody Blevins
44 |
Ponzi
Dana Strong
Pseudo Sonnet at the Carnival
Mark Brenden
45 |
Kites
Mark Brenden
Stay Curious
Mary Berg
47 |
The Warehouse
Alex Morlan
Strengths
Destiny Jorenby
The Watcher
Kyle Korthour
False Starlight
Leah Alsaker
Tumultuous Skies
Jena Bulock
Peculiar Fable
Carly Jackson
9 | 17 | 18 | 25 | 26 | 31 | 33 | 33 | 34 |
41 |
44 | 46 | 48 | 49 |
49 | 50 | 51 |
52 |
Port of Piraeus
Dana Strong
Life's Collections
Haley Bradshaw
54 |
The Interior of a Raindrop
Haley Bradshaw
Glory Days
Erin Beck
Midwestern Men
Madelin Mack
Sundogs
Susan Bassett
53 | 55 | 56 |
57 |
Goodbye Fall, Hello Winter
Kayla Peterson
59 |
The Smell of the Rain on the Wind
Mark Brenden
The World Is Bigger Than You
Mary Berg
All That You Can't Leave Behind
Haley Wilson
64 |
A Lone Leaf Falls
Matthew Harty
Campus
Madelin Mack
66 |
Detached Surroundings III
Cole Behrends
Casserole
Spenser Kavanaugh
69 |
Kitchen Table, 6 a.m.
Jacob Brown-Beach
Toast
Michelle Gleason
Pleasing the Crowd
Emily Meyer
73 |
These Hands
Haley Wilson
Fort Jack and Will
Haley Wilson
75 |
Who I Am
Ashley Plummer
The Zipper
Dana Strong
Colors Beneath the Brush
Megan Stuart
Memory Garden
Haley Bradshaw
58 | 60 | 64 | 65 |
68 | 70 |
72 | 74 | 76 | 77 | 78 | 79 |
You Painted A Cross On Our Bedroom Door Derek Skillingstad Auβenseiter
Cole Behrends
Practicing Ekphrasis
Jamie Nagy
Maggie
Shannon Hinrichs
87 |
Azure
Kayla Peterson
Three Minutes
Madelin Mack
Unwoven
Nikki Mann
90 |
Ethereal Snow
Jena Bulock
91 | 92 |
Deep Sea Dream
Ashley Plummer
Our Bodies Remember: Saudade
Jamie Nagy
97 |
Orchids
Emilee Graesser
The Paint on the Wall
Emily Meyer
All That Sparkles
Cassie Pospishil
Great Plains Writer's Conference Emerging Writer Award Winner
Christine Starr Davis
Great Plains Writer's Conference Emerging Tribal Award Winner
Marcus Bear Eagle
80 | 83 | 86 |
90 |
96 | 100 | 101 |
107 | 111 |
Contributor Biographies
8
Nothing Mark Brenden
Bottoms of bottles, the old western rag, fills you with a liminal nothingness, like the parabolas of sequoia tunnels. It furthers one to visit the empty: to light a smoke and breathe out frosted air, to open a great book and find nothing at all. Shock brings success, like you cross a traveling choir, and find your place in the harmony, and contribute your voice while a woman warmly looks, and you feel nothing at all. Startling does not bring misfortune, as you move across the country to see how the sun comes up in a place like Reno or Los Cruces, and find that its splendor brings no new light to anything. So you again throw the dimes, and build your fortress of meaning, and find the L端, and read that perseverance brings good fortune to the wanderer,
Midden
Zachery Ruiz
Pen and colored pencil
and you kneel, and focus on the stillness.
9
Return to Sender Haley Wilson
My grandfather is dead. That’s all that flits through my mind, over and over like a vinyl fact on a monotonous turntable, like a buzzing mosquito darting around my brain, sucking rational thoughts from me instead of blood. I never knew him. He never knew me. Never wanted to. Did I want to? I’m running, my heart pounding and hair whipping across my cheeks as the California morning sun bulldozes the last tendrils of fog. Enthusiastic jazz music blazes in my ears as I reach the shining dealership. I slow my pace and pause to sweat and gaze around the lot, then march over to a gorgeous navy blue Jeep. I sling open the door and slide into the sunbathed leather, breath hitching and hands shaking. A salesman with a quick grin and poppy seeds in his teeth sidles over and begins a quick pitch. “Well, hello there, miss. Looking for some wheels? Or maybe a runner like you wants to Flintstone it.” His face gives off a self-satisfied smile. My foreign lips cut him off mid-laugh: “I’ll take it.” I hand over the stiff inheritance check- it’s practically smoldering with guilt; I can’t rid myself of it fast enough. “W-Well, this is the perfect day for a drive with the top down and breeze in your hair,” he persists, as his eyes rapidly scan the check, probably wondering where I got it. “Mmhmm,” I agree, dragging the back of my hand across my forehead and stroking the grey leather seats nervously. “So, where will she take her maiden voyage?”
fault my world just caved in. “Big Sur,” Poppyseeds reflects. “Now that’s a nice community. Right on the water, good family area. Is this little beauty a gift from your grandpa, then?” “More or less,” I confirm as I scribble and initial as fast as I can. “You two must be close,” Poppyseeds continues, awkwardly checking his watch and filling time until the sale is complete. “All my grandpa gave me at that age was the occasional cigar,” he jokes. I hope. “Nothing quite like family.” I swoop through a final signature and slide the clipboard into his grasp. “That's what I hear.”
***
A few hours later, my eyes trace MapQuest directions as I hunt down the address of my mother’s estranged father. 17.6 miles. The distance is a slap in the face: that’s all that had separated me from him. Sort of like when kidnap victims who’d been missing for years are finally discovered within mere miles of their former homes and the public shakes their heads in wonder. Growing up, I’d always asked my parents where Grandpa lived. The answer was always the same: Your grandfather lives far away, and does not want to be bothered. Then, this morning, the words now on repeat: your grandfather passed away. My first thought, of course, was: I didn’t even say goodbye. Then my stomach plummeted as I realized: I didn’t even say hello. He and my mom had this huge falling out back when she was still a teenager, and I guess they never really recovered from it. Mom kept me well away from her father who, in her words, has “expectations higher than Mount Everest.” Had I ever made the acquaintance of the ridiculously wealthy Jeremiah
Poppyseeds asks as he hands me a neon clipboard
A. Blakelee? Not once. Yet here I was, on my way to
with mounds of forms.
agonize over the future homes of old-man suspend-
“My grandfather’s house,” I reply. “It’s over in Big Sur.” I finally offer him a polite smile. It’s not his
ers or whatever. But there was a tiny annoying voice in the back of my mind questioning, demanding,
10
why I hadn’t given him a chance. I tried, I tell the
as a pair of Jimmy Choos and push my way into the
voice. Why didn’t you try harder? the voice repri-
house. Holy crap. An entire normal home could fit
mands.
into this single foyer: shining white marble floors
I’d seen Jeremiah’s face in the newspapers
with swirls of stormy gray, a deep chandelier casting
throughout the years: almond-shaped brown eyes
off beams of light to the farthest corners of the
like mine, a too-small mouth prone to frowning, the
sienna walls, a mahogany clawed-foot coat rack
same unobtrusive nose. What I do not have in
lingering off to my right. The heavy door clangs
common with Jeremiah is an Einstein-esque brain.
shut behind me as I take in the layout of Jeremiah’s
While he’d spent his life on apparently profound
house. The foyer rambles on for a good thirty feet
neurological research and snagging prestigious
before forking off into what looks like a living room
awards, all I’ve managed to accomplish thus far in
on the right and a hallway delving deeper into the
life is to successfully paint my nails left-handed and
house resounding on the left. The house smelled like
scrape by in Calculus with a C minus.
a deluge of funeral casseroles. “Mom?” I call, my
As I pulled up to house number 173, my jaw
voice echoing piercingly through the extravagant
dropped and only six words fell into place: You’ve
room. Heart in my throat, I pull at the hem of my
got to be kidding me. Situated on the dangerous, sharp
classic “Give Bush a Wedgie” t-shirt and tuck my
curves of Big Sur, California in the highest-class
elbow-length chestnut hair behind my ears.
neighborhood, Jeremiah’s palace looked like a
“Mom? Hello? Sending out smoke signals here.”
guided tour might be necessary. Lowering my
I’m considering taking the lazy way out and going
turquoise sunglasses to settle on the bridge of my
back outside to ring the doorbell and summon her
nose, I shook my head incredulously as I took in the
to me when her level voice echoes from the hallway.
house that could probably serve as vacation home
“Aria, honey? There you are, you must have
for one of the Kennedy’s. Bushes of plumarias squat-
found the place alright.” Her words are normal, but
ted resolutely throughout the yard, watched over by
her tone seems forced. Mom paces into view, her
ostentatious willow trees. The three story pristine
mahogany hair piled unceremoniously into a messy
house donning snobby spotless white shudders and
knot. Her shoulders are tense, her hands cemented
sandy-brown siding was enveloped by an onyx
together, and her sea-grey eyes dart around the
5-foot tall elaborate gate encircling the property,
room with discontent.
with perfectly mown lawns, ideal landscaping, and
“It wasn’t hard to get here once I knew how close
a massive, in-ground pool. A pool? For Lord’s sake,
it was,” I comment, wondering if she’ll even
the man had been 73 years old and definitely in no
acknowledge the lie.
shape to be swimming laps or working on his tan!
“Yes, well. . .I see you dressed up for the occa-
Zeroing in on my mom’s red Honda Accord
sion,” she observes, taking in my cut-off shorts,
parked near the front door, I ease my Jeep forward
sunglasses resting atop my head, and my frayed
through the open gate and twist the volume knob of
t-shirt.
the stereo, tuning down my Florence and The Machine jam session. At the front door, my clammy fingers grip the warm, silver doorknob that probably cost the same
“Well, I live to please,” I remark, kicking off my shoes and moving further into the foyer. “How did you ever leave this place, Mom?” I blurt, thinking of the impressive tan I could get out by that pool.
11
Doubtful. How ‘bout I clean the pool instead? I’d settle
Mom purses her lips, then tilts her head towards the hallway near the living room and answers as she
for cleaning out the reject casseroles in the fridge.
strides away. “Come on, I’ll show you where to set
“As soon as your father shows up, we’re tackling
up. I want you sorting through your grandfather’s
the office and over fifty years of paperwork and
library. If you see anything you want to take, let me
receipts.” Mom’s hands tug nervously at her teal
know, but I doubt you’ll be snagging a copy of
skirt as she rattles off her duties, her eyes focused off
Proust. Your father and I think it’s best that we
on some aspect of the room I haven’t seen yet.
donate most of it.” I roll my eyes and follow after her, not forgetting
I swivel toward the direction of her gaze, and there on the far wall hangs a to-scale gilded portrait
my ignored question. We powerwalk through the
of Jeremiah and his wife, looking proud and serene.
living room and she leads me along a blur of plush
Standing between them in an uncomfortable-looking
ivory carpeting and accent lighting, stained glass
navy dress, with hair down her back and shoulders
windows and expensive paneling. I’ve counted nine
curved inward is what must be Mom. She looks
doors before we reach the library. Mom matter-of-
about 14 years old here.
factly pushes through the heavy oak French doors,
“Mom, why exactly haven’t I been here before?”
and all I can do is stare. The library is larger than
I’m not sure if I really expect an answer, but I don’t
any I’ve seen in the Big Sur community. Polished
find one. Mom’s voice is distant now, and her eyes
shelves tower to the ceiling, the final resting place of
seem defiant as she turns to me. “Just yell if you
bindings crinkled with time and use. Cream leather
need me. Dad should be here soon.” I could scream and you still wouldn’t answer me.
chaises are splayed like confetti throughout the room, with glass-top tables encroaching on them while a massive fireplace roars on the west wall.
***
About an hour later, I’ve abandoned the ritzy,
Despite the June heat, it’s still drafty in here with an
leather chaises after realizing how badly they stick to
air of abandonment hanging like an omnipresent
the backs of my shorts-clad thighs; it’s like ripping a
fog. I spot a pair of abandoned worn loafers laying
giant band-aid away every time I stand up. Instead,
discarded in front of the mantel, just waiting for
I’m cross-legged on the hardwood floors, with a
their owner to return; I can’t focus.
moat of dusty books encircling me and two massive
Shaking my head, I ask, “You want me to
boxes fondly dubbed “Keep” and “Good Will.”
organize. . .all this? Mom, Marco Polo couldn’t find
Really, it’s work I don’t mind: sifting through
his way in here.” I guess I’m still hung up on my
mounds of books and deciding if they’re worthy or
pool obsession. “Can’t we call that cleaning team
not. The “Keep” box is actually getting pretty hefty;
that always shows up on Hoarders?” I ask, meander-
Jeremiah has nearly every genre, although I’m guess-
ing along the shelves and trailing my fingertips
ing at least some of this belonged to his late wife,
along seemingly every book ever written. Every-
Corinne.
thing from Thoreau to Whitman to Ayn Rand to the Brönte sisters, all cling to the walls. Incredible. “Aria, just do what you can,” she instructs in her
I’ve just adapted Mom’s classy updo and I’m hefting a copy of The Collected Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle into the box destined for donation
edgy voice. “You definitely don’t have the worst of
(crime solving is cool, but olde English doth bore
it.”
me) when I realize for a massive hard-covered tome,
12
this book is light. I shake it speculatively, and hear
have everything you need to have a more successful life
things rattling around. I open the cover and
than mine. If you have an ounce of your mother’s spirit
discover the book has been gutted. What is this? My
in you, you’re probably rolling your eyes and wondering
fingers find aged, yellow envelopes, stacks of them.
if crazy old Blakelee was prone to dementia. Please, hear
All addressed to me. They’re rubber-banded together, and every one of them is emblazoned with the stern black font: “RETURN TO SENDER.” I tear into the bundle like a package of Oreos and rip open the topmost envelope to find a birthday card with a sappy picture of a canary flying out of a cage just to congratulate me on turning sixteen. Inside, a hand has penned the phrase, “Love always, Grandpa Blakelee.” I don’t understand. If “Grandpa Blakelee” cared so much, why have I never been here? Why did Mom leave him behind? All this time I spent wondering and wishing, and apparently I wasn’t the only one. I’m seized with a sudden urge to toss the hollow book, mysterious past and all, into the crackling fireplace. To unhinge my skullcap and pour bleach into my brain. To forget I ever saw that this man cared, and judging by the failed postage attempts, my mom never let him. Instead, I watch my shaking, chipped-blue-polished hand lift out the
me out. I have a cruel message for you, Aria: You don’t have time. Every day of your life spent waiting for good things to come your way makes you a little smaller. Every moment of hesitation makes you a fraction less capable of living your life. Not to worry- I’ve devised a plan for you to embrace everything life has to offer. To seek out every opportunity I never took. Your first task- and this one is so ever important- is to fall in love. Your mother did this once; she found a fierce love, the kind that alters the soul, the kind that entices our hearts and weakens our fears. I was stubborn, and cast her out for this; for having what I lost. I loved another once with all my being. How I wish I could say that I’m writing of your grandmother. However, she was not from the right circle in the world, and my pride let her go. Your mother, too, found someone unexpected. I, of course, would not settle for anything less than perfection. But here’s a secret, Aria: there’s no such thing. Your mother was never much for tantrums, but I
remaining envelopes and unearth a final manila
must admit I was partly proud of her the day she
packet with the loopy cursive: “For Aria: The Last
stalked out of my home to marry your father. I’ve
Will and Testament of Jeremiah Andrew Blakelee.”
replayed that moment countless times, and every time I
Before my mind can digest this or wonder if I’m
want to beg her to stay, to forgive. She left, and took
in a sketchy episode of The Twilight Zone, my
every trace of her life with her, including you. She loved
greedy fingers tear into the paper and my eyes are
us less for not seeing what she saw in Wyatt. I must
searing every word into memory: To My Dearest Aria: I suppose I must begin with the dramatic: if you’re reading this right now, you never got the chance to know me. No one regrets this more than I. I assume my possessions will be divided up as the Blakelee family sees fit; what I have in store for you, however, is something a bit off the beaten path. You see, I’ve arranged for you to
confess, he came to prove me wrong: I could not have chosen a better caregiver for my girls. Secondly, Aria, I want you to make mistakes. Your mother will vouch that I’m an expert on this. I’m not describing an error on a math test. Most people spend their lives running the opposite direction of mistakes: instead, run headfirst into them. No mugshots, please! Forgive my digressive mind, Aria. My body’s giving out, and my hourglass nearly reset. What I’m trying to tell
13
you is this: life is about wishing you’d made fewer mistakes; death’s about wishing you’d found a few more.
***
I slam the empty book filled with questions onto
To be flawed is to be human. What if you fail? Ah, but
Jeremiah’s desk in a cloud of rage, the sudden
that, my dear, is half the fun.
movement kicking up receipts and cornflower
Thirdly, there is a humble nobility in leading a good life, Aria. Simply living every day as you wish, doing things that scare you, and having the courage to reach out when life does; this is what it’s all about. I’m sorry to say that I learned this lesson the hard way. That leads me to this: choices can lead you anywhere. They define us—so, be your decisions right or wrong, execute them with your whole heart. There are things I want for you that can only be explained with experience. For me, Aria:
seeing me for the first time. Good. “Aria, what―” “What is this?” I spit, flicking the book with one polished finger for good measure. “Did you know about this? Is that why you sent me to the library? Is this some kind of twisted joke?” “Honey, what are you talking about?” Mom asks indignantly, eyebrows raised. “Open it, go ahead,” I insist, nudging the worn
Find hope.
Create something meaningful.
Chase a dream.
Stand for what matters.
Wake with the dawn.
See every spec this world has to offer.
tome towards her through the hills of paperwork. That’s all that’s left when you’re gone. Paper: bills, receipts, articles, sympathy cards, and one letter with words to shake the earth.
Perhaps you’ll find infallible truth in my words. Perhaps you’ll act as though they never existed. But I promise you, there’s something incredible waiting for you if you can do this. Live for me, Aria. Be extraordinary. Be more than yourself. Be the person who doesn’t destroy this letter; be the one who boldly follows it. When you’ve done all you can, contact: Landon Dunmire, attorney at law. He’ll be expecting you.
Post-Its in a whirl. Mom’s face is startled, like she’s
Mom’s eyes are a blur, her face unreadable as she sifts through the envelopes. I toss the final one onto the pile. “How could you do this? Make me think my grandfather didn’t care about me? You told me he never contacted me, or any of us!” I screech, my blood boiling and surging unsaid words to my lips like lava. “Maybe the one with the problem was you, Mom.” Mom’s spent my tirade reading with pursed lips.
Here’s to you, Aria.
How symbolic.
Love Always,
Grandpa Blakelee
Finally“Aria, I want you to listen carefully. Your father and I―”
The words turn laps in my head like Olympic swimmers on steroids, asking questions I couldn’t begin to answer. My cheeks are wet. The letter feels
“You mean the father Jeremiah hated? The one you ran off to marry?” I interrupt. “Yes, that’s the one,” Mom says drily. “Your
heavy as a block of wood, shooting splinters into my
father and I have steered clear of your grandfather
hands and heart. I stand, wearing a cement shirt,
for good reason. He was awful to us; he never
cinderblock shorts, my sunglasses an anvil resting
supported us. He mailed us annulment papers, Aria,
on my head. What the hell is this?
when he heard that we had gotten married. So when
14
you were born, we didn’t want you knowing a man
when all I want to do is fight? I want to stomp
capable of all that he did. Your grandfather did send
around like Godzilla and whine, but I’m torn with
birthday cards and a few letters, but he never did
the desire to wheedle more stories about Jeremiah
more than that. I knew if he got to you, he’d think he
from my mother.
had some sort of claim on how you should be raised.
“That doesn’t sound like a monster to keep away
Apparently, he thinks he has one now. But don’t be
from children,” I comment feebly, inching closer to
fooled: the man in this letter is a lie.”
the littered desk. My eyes land on the letter, held up
“Well, you’d know all about lies, wouldn’t you?”
in Mom’s hand as she searches its lines for the father
I snap. “He lived seventeen miles away, Mom. That's
she lost. I squint to see what’s scrawled in the top
it. You told me he was far away how many times
left corner on the back: Letter #1.
when I was growing up? How many times did I ask about him and you lied straight to my face?” “He was that close, Aria, and he never visited,”
“He gave me everything but time. . .Trust me, Aria, even if I had let him stay in contact, you wouldn't have heard more from Jeremiah. You want
she pleads, brushing wisps of her brunette hair out
to hear about the time he missed my fifth birthday?
of her face impatiently. “He never called, never came
Or the day after that, when he bought me a horse
to your recitals or programs, none of that! For how
and said it was the last time he’d let me down? Or
great of a grandfather he was, he may as well have
the empty chair where he should have been at my
been in Timbuktu.”
graduation? I didn’t want that for you; the only
“Did he come to yours?” I ask bitterly. “Jeremiah couldn’t be there, you wouldn’t let him!” “He was far too busy conquering the world to raise a daughter,” Mom murmurs. There’s silence now, as we marshal our next comebacks. “Why the book? Why Sherlock Holmes?” The question burbles up to my mind like the last pocket of air escaping a sinking ship. “It was my bedtime story,” she replies softly, swiveling her chair towards the window and staring at the flawless lawns. “He was always working late,
thing you missed out on was disappointment.” Her hands are knotted together, the tears gone and her mouth pressed tight after the outburst. I open my mouth, but find no words. “I'm sorry, but I can’t let you keep this,” Mom says finally, dropping the Will carefully into an open maple desk drawer like the bomb it is, and locking it tight. “What?!” I protest, my knees ramming into the desk as I lean angrily towards the confiscated letter. “It’s mine. He wanted me to have it!” “I’m sorry,” Mom repeats. She doesn't look it. The
with surgeries and research. But there were nights
face from the girl painted on the library mantel is
when he’d wake me up in the middle of the night
back: stubborn, and unmoving. My dad strolls in
and take me on adventures: to watch a meteor
just then, loosening his rather ugly olive tie and
shower, to catch fireflies, to ride horses, to look for
planting a kiss on Mom’s cheek and a “hello” in her
turtles’ nests on the beach. He’d whisper in my ear,
ear as she ruffles his bronze hair in greeting.
‘Wake up, Sutton, the game’s afoot.’ Just like Sherlock would do to Watson with a new case.” Tears are carving bitter trails of mascara on Mom’s pale cheeks now. How dare she show weakness
“Dad, what was Mom’s favorite book growing up?” I ask quickly. “The Great Gatsby,” Dad replies automatically as Mom swats warningly at his arm. “Why?”
15
“No reason,” I mutter and dodge quickly out of
stand keeping me from him if my parents thought
the room. I hear my parents voices call my name,
it was for the best. But I won’t condone it. And if
listen as Mom tells Dad about this joke of an
the answers were in this house, I’d search every
afternoon.
book and cranny until they were mine, starting
My stubborn feet pad down the hall past extrava-
with Mom’s favorite.
gant paintings and ritzy sculptures and a house full
Letter #2, here I come…I hope.
of tainted memories. I’m at a jog now, hair swinging
Jeremiah had one thing right. The game was
and brow furrowing as I stomp away. I can under-
most definitely afoot.
16
Family Circus Dana Strong
The first Thanksgiving after the divorce Dad brought the circus to dinner. His face a whitewashed ring surrounding a red, clotted beach ball nose. His former mass, muscle and magic—eroded. But dinner is on the table: The Show Must Go On. A three-ring event, hideous, brief— Soup, entrée, dessert. Wine was offered, but not to him. We could have used the barking seal and the unicycle: anything to break the tension. His rage was a garish silence, embarrassment fermented immediately into anger. He felt the foil now, and we were the peppy clowns beating him over the head with our intrusive concerns. All our lives we had taken his performance for granted, missed the sincere fun, arrived fashionably late to the realization—we were his circus, and he our beast of burden. He rose from his seat slowly, ancient skin drooping, looking at us—his handlers. This was the finale, the closing ceremony. When the elephant is trotted out, wrinkled, dangerous with pink-stained eyes and cracked tusks, we recognized only that it was an elephant.
17
Untitled
Joshua Fitzgerald Drawing
18
Transitions Pamela Stilwell-Merchant Hope in the Darkness My cot lay against the white wall of my mother’s hospital room as I sat there holding my breath. The bedding on both our beds was sans-color, stark, and painfully clean. This lack of hue made my mother appear as a forlorn angel with her wings tucked under her covers. Her eyes huge in her face, her complexion pallid, she beckoned me to come to her. I released my breath and went to her. Nurses had given her a sedative in order for her to rest well the night before her breast was to be removed. She had teased the nurses and visited with them in her ordinary friendly fashion, trying to put all of us at ease. We pretended all of this was normal somehow. Climbing into bed next to her, I felt like her little girl once more. The television gave us some comfort droning on in the background. “Do you want to touch it?” she asked. “The Tumor?” I hesitated for only a moment. “Yes” I answered. I really didn’t, but somehow knew I should for potential future reference. Breast cancer often runs in female family lines, even though mom was the first in our family to be struck with it. She placed my hand under hers and held them to the place at the top of her right breast, against her chest muscles. I felt a large lump, one that would not give under my fingers. How could she have missed this? My eyes opened wide and my thoughts were apparent on my face. I pulled my hand away, as though burned by fire. “I felt this quite awhile ago, but thought it was just another cyst. I had cysts a lot when I was younger. And, I had a clean mammogram two years ago. The doctors are telling us this tumor is about
eight years old. We all missed it.” She was overcome with guilt. “Mom, this is not your fault. You don’t deserve this. You are strong and we’ll get through it together.” I told her convincingly. Resolved to the next morning’s events, we settled into her hospital bed with the back inclined in order to watch reruns of the Carol Burnett Show. The sides of our bodies fully touching, I sent wave after wave of hope and prayer through to my mother’s distressed soul and damaged body. Terminal Pregnancy, during the time of my mother’s illness, was a blessing but also a curse. It gave me something, someone, to focus on other than myself, and my mother. Watching someone you love die over the course of many months makes you feel awfully sorry for yourself, especially when that person is your mom. How could my mother have terminal cancer? That was the type of thing that happened to other people’s mothers. This question remained unanswered as I walked the streets of Brookings each and every early morning in the month of May. Struggling with denial, I prayed for some kind of healing mind control. If I thought hard enough about it, and willed it to not be so, magically she would be healed. My life had been mostly good up to this point, so I continued to believe that this problem too would pass. There must be something that could be done, my mind screamed over and over again. My ego kept telling me that somehow, I could do something, even though cancer doctors could not. Sleep evaded me and anxiety enveloped my consciousness. Eating become a chore, and soon impossible. One dawn, after weeks of this behavior, I woke my husband after roaming around town for hours. “I need to go to the hospital,” I whispered
19
hoarsely. “I can’t swallow water.” He awoke,
older son still slept soundly. With a feeling of being
startled. Apparently he didn’t know what hell I’d
out of my own body, I left our apartment, my
been living in. I was really good at hiding it.
husband leading me down the stairs, out of the
“What do you mean you can’t swallow water?”
building, and into our car. I have little recollection of
“I’m also having contractions,” I gave him this
the ride to the hospital, but when we arrived at the
information trying not to sound worried. The
emergency room, medical personnel rushed me into
ringing in my ears threatened to overtake me.
a private room via wheelchair. Although I am
“But the baby isn’t due until September,” he
typically quite independent, this assisted ride was
mentioned, as if stating it would keep me from
very welcome. If my baby came, he would be over
having another contraction. At that moment it
four months premature. My regular doctor arrived,
dawned on me that if I delivered this baby today, he
thankfully, and seeing Dr. Deb’s face and feeling her
may be a casualty of the war that was raging
care calmed me somewhat. They started me on an
between my mind and body. Parker, our future son,
I.V. after some difficulty getting the needle into my
who we had named in utero so my mother could
dehydrated flesh, and began medication to help
refer to him, was only twenty one weeks into the
slow my contractions. The baby wanted out as my
Life Agreement we had made with him.
body had become inhospitable, and if improvements
As we waited for my mother-in-law to arrive in
didn’t occur, the team had plans in place in case they
order to watch our older son, I sat on the couch, my
needed to rush me to Sioux Falls, as there was no
mind shifted back to thoughts of my mother’s
neo-natal care at the Brookings hospital. Five
potential death. This, of course, could not happen. I
months didn’t seem like a fair shake for someone so
willed it not to be so. Was this prayer or despera-
tiny, and I began to sob as I imagined the worse
tion? Is there a difference?
happening to our unborn son.
The words had not been uttered; there’s nothing we
My body had betrayed me, and perhaps I had
can do for her, but I knew in my heart this was the
betrayed it. My blood pressure dropped, and
place we now found ourselves. The destination was
thankfully I was lying in a hospital bed, since I was
inevitable; she would journey beyond as she was
losing the ability to remain conscious. The medical
now terminal. This word made me think of a traveler
team continued to work on me as my husband
running through an enormous concourse trying to
hovered anxiously nearby.
find the gate for their plane or train; breathing hard,
After a couple I.V. bags of energy juice, I started
desperate, wondering if they’d make it. The parallel
to perk up, as though a miracle had been performed.
to my mother’s situation made my heart beat faster
The medication kicked in and my contractions
and faster. I wished I could—or would— cry; but for
slowed. Parker remained where he was supposed to
some reason, I didn’t. My being was locked in fear of
be, well within my body. We were safe for now.
the universe and of the great unknown. My body
Remnants of my worry and sharp anxiety over my
worked to turn against me, with my mind my
mother were not enough to keep me from drifting
greatest enemy. They were partners in crime and
off to sleep.
what was being committed felt dangerously criminal. My mother-in-law arrived, and thankfully my
When I woke many hours later to a nurse needing to poke and prod at me, I felt undeniably much better. My face and arms were filling out after
20
starving myself of fluids, and I even found I needed
pickup, with the seatbelt below my extruding
to go to the bathroom. And, I was so hungry.
abdomen. After the turmoil of spring, Parker and I
Institutional food never tasted so good. Bread and
had come full term. The contractions had subsided
butter, potatoes and roast beef. Ice cold milk. I will
and I felt like I may be pregnant forever. My sister
never forget that meal, as it was the one that may
had gone home to Winnipeg and would meet us
have saved my baby’s life. And, in order to prove all
with her kids and husband later that evening. My
was well, the baby danced within me. I felt a sense
brother had gone back to Fargo as he had to work.
of peace and an inkling of acceptance.
My husband had taken Lucas back to South Dakota
The hardest phone call I’ve ever been a part of came later that day. My mother was in the hospital in Grand Forks, after having a setback and needing
the day before. I had mom and dad totally to myself, a rare occurrence. My mom sat shotgun, and seemed pretty
some extra care for a few days. Her chemotherapy
comfortable. She had brought a small single serve
had taken a toll and they had decided to stop
carton of milk with her and she carefully drank from
treatment, allowing things to take their course. She
it and replaced it in the cup holder between sips. It
and I were unable to speak much but simply
was hard to believe she was dying since she could
listened to each other’s breathing and felt the love
handle the milk carton so expertly. She kept telling
pouring through our shared tears. I visualized both
us how good it tasted.
of us lying in identical hospital beds, in sync but
When we arrived at the farm, there were an
also in stark contrast to one another; I would live
overwhelming number of cars in the driveway. I
and bring new life into the world a few months later,
expected there would be casseroles and buns made
but she would be slipping away from us. My mind
of Norwegian love waiting in our kitchen. Our
did not have the power to will her from dying. I
friends and neighbors lived simply, and simply
knew that now, and I began to mourn my mother’s
loved my parents. The decision to come home was
lost life. Deep fear still remained, but for her sake,
the right one.
and for my baby’s, I would try to accept it. I would
The wheelchair came with mom now, and we
love her during her remaining days, filling up with
brought her into the house. She was very pleased to
her so I could keep her memory close to me when
see everyone, but she was also excruciatingly tired.
she was gone.
Her pain was now a devil walking ever present
“You can’t do this to yourself, babe,” my mom
beside her. If only she could get a moment’s rest
had told me when we started our conversation. “I’m
from what the cancer made her body feel. In
okay with this.”
through the kitchen we went, through the dining
This, was of course, her cancer, and the terminality of it.
room, and into my parent’s comfy bed. My mom’s cousin Beverly, our first local hospice volunteer, helicoptered over us. She helped get mom into the
Room by Room The drive to the farm from the Grand Forks hospital was blessedly uneventful. I sat in the backseat of my dad’s red Chevy
bed and had prepared everything to help make my mom more comfortable. We were grateful that our hospice volunteer was now a cousin that lived eight miles away.
21
With mom settled, and sleeping, I went out to
non-existent dishcloth and “washed” the counter!
visit with our numerous guests. Everyone had been
She talked a little to those around her, and others
given the news of mom’s impending death, but
that weren’t there at all, and we just let her be. She
many questions remained unanswerable.
was in her kitchen, her place by right. We enjoyed
“How long does she have?”
having her there during a normal daily occurrence
“How much pain is she feeling?”
of meal preparation.
“More than is bearable,” I said. This, I knew, was
My mother would only take food from me at this
a good reason that my mom could not continue to
point. She knew exactly who I was and wanted me
live. Her suffering was too much for any of us to
with her when dad wasn’t around. She especially
bear, least of all her. How could such a weakened
liked potatoes and milk, and I gave her as much as
illusion of my mother continue to feel all this pain?
she would eat, trying to fend off the darkness that
It was a cruel joke that cancer played.
was fast approaching. I stuck to her like glue, taking
Many people, over and over, made kind comments about my state of expecting.
her to the bathroom when needed. During one of these trips, she sat on the com-
I told them the baby was due in three weeks.
mode and I on the edge of the bathtub. She began
“Yes, we know it is a boy,” I told them. “This way
taking off her top and I asked what she was doing.
mom knows our baby a little. She even knows his
Her mastectomy scar looked like a battle wound
name is Parker.” This made so many of them sad,
across her chest. Seeing it once again made me have
but it gave me a sense of promise. Even though he
to catch my breath.
was on the inside of me, and my mother on the
“I’m going to take a bath. I stink,” she stated. She
outside, they were here together. She would never
got done with her business and stood up, turned on
hold my son, I knew that, but by her knowing about
the bathtub faucet, and started climbing in. She
him, they would be connected.
could move quickly for someone who was dying.
Later, as my sister and I and all the helpful ladies
“Mom,” I said, “please. You can’t take a bath.
were making supper, my mother wanted to join us.
Look at you and look at me. You are really sick and
Beverly helped me get her out of the bed and into
I’m really pregnant.”
her wheelchair.
She sat there looking so forlorn, for she wanted
“I hate this thing,” she said. “I think I can walk.”
the simplest of things—to be clean. I took my socks
“Ah, mom, just save your strength.” I replied,
and shoes off, and hers as well, rolled up our pant
already pushing her down the hallway so she’d stay
legs, and we sat on the edge of the tub with our feet
put.
in the water.
Once in the kitchen, this being her domain, she
“That feels nice,” she said. I gave her a sponge
insisted on getting out of the chair. I would have had
bath with some of her favorite soap, Caress, the
to hold her down, and I was not willing to do that to
scent of my mother. She got cold quickly, so I
my mother, whether she was dying or not. I stayed
moved fast, drying her off and getting her redressed.
near her, making sure she did not fall. She began
In a role reversal, I laid her down for a nap.
“helping” in the kitchen, and to my sister’s and my darkly humorous amazement, she wrung out a
When she awoke, and throughout the day, I took her around the house, room by room, where she
22
could see her home and all the things that made it
I packed my things and was sadly certain this
so. She especially loved looking at the vegetable
was the last time I’d be in my childhood home with
garden through the window in our living room. She
my mother. We went into my parent’s room, and she
didn’t ask to go outside, but was content to press her
was propped up, encased in pillows. She was lucid.
face to the glass, like we were looking out at another
Her voice, eyes, everything was clear.
person’s life. The garden was lush, ripe, and
We spent a moment not speaking but I found
beautiful. It was her creation, and had also been one
strength that simply should not have existed inside
of my duties when I lived at home. It signified so
of me to say, “Mom, we are going back to Brookings
much of our history together. Between our house
to check on this baby. And Lucas is starting kinder-
and the oak grove wooded area, there is a natural
garten, too.”
greenhouse effect. Our garden was perfect. I looked
“Parker will be here soon,” she smiled and said,
at her for so long as she stared out, taking in the
with such love. “And, Lucas, you are going to love
splendor that was our little piece of heaven.
school. I’m so proud of you.” I was so proud of her.
Dad came in from farming and stayed close to
Lucas held his grandma one last time. He was
mom the rest of Saturday evening. The house settled
sadder than I knew because I hadn’t had the time to
down and company left us to fend for ourselves.
notice. I could see this now. I looked deep into my
Only Beverly was left to stand diligently over us
mother’s eyes, willing myself to remember their
through the night. She was heartbroken, but
color and how she looked at me as no one else ever
remained strong and reassuring. I wondered how
had. There would never be a right moment to leave
she kept going, but knew she dozed in the armchair
her, so after while while, we turned and simply left
we had brought into the bedroom. My dad was able
the room.
to get some rest, and so did mom. She would see at
We said brief goodbyes to everyone else on the
least another day. I was so relieved and so tired that I
way out, got mutely into our car, and my husband
slept soundly.
drove down the driveway and onto the gravel road
The next morning, mom was significantly worse
leading away from the farm. Dusk had settled into
and slowing down. When it had been hard to keep
the countryside. I held my hand against the glass,
her in her wheelchair the day before, she now didn’t
staring at my parents’ window, now glowing from
want to get up to be wheeled out to the living areas
the light within. I kept looking back as long as I
of the house. I tried to get her to eat, but she couldn’t
could, stretching my neck and body around,
swallow. I cried hot, bitter tears over this latest
wishing with all my heart that I had the power to
cruelty.
stop time.
My husband arrived later that Sunday afternoon to drive me back to South Dakota, as I had a scheduled doctor’s appointment the next day. Our
Premonition II Thankfully, the day was done. The celebration of
older son was also to start kindergarten on Wednes-
my grandmother’s birthday and Mother’s Day over,
day of that week, and I had promised my mom that
my loud drunk uncles and aunts had gone back into
Lucas would go to his first day of school. We wanted
town. They had cried and made a spectacle of
to keep something normal in our lives, and I felt we
themselves by over-expressing to my father the loss
owed this to my mother. It was what she wanted.
of my mom. They had not seen him since her funeral
23
over a year earlier, and although they meant well,
but still feminine form with me. I did not inherit her
their presence ripped the bandage off a barely healed
beautiful grey eyes, but my father’s deep brown
wound. Exhausted, physically and mentally, we all
ones. Of course my father needed me and I hurried
made our way to the far corners of the house. Winter
to him.
weather was gone, but the spirit of the season
My feet hardly touched the carpet in the hallway,
remained caught within, holding its breath. The
and I was next to him as he sat on the edge of their
effort to accept it was a personal struggle for each of
lonely bed. I reached for him and pulled him close.
us and wore us down like prairie wind over old barn
He was surprised, but held tightly onto me. He
wood.
could not speak so I told him “we miss her so much,
The house was dead quiet as I left my toddler
too, but I know not like you do.” Never before had I
son’s side after coaxing him to sleep, and slipped
held my dad like this, with me in charge of the
quietly into the bathroom. I ran the tap and began to
soothing. A loving man, he was still a stoic north-
wash my face. As I removed the traces of the day, I
erner and not one to give frivolous hugs. His
overheard an unfamiliar sound through the rush of
embraces meant something.
water. Immediately it registered as my father
He gained control over himself as I simply sat
weeping. It paralyzed me with fear and a sadness
next to him, with my cold feet and warm heart. We
that placed my dead mother in the room. I could feel
were sitting, just being. Not many words were
her presence and the overwhelming love we held for
exchanged. We had said most of them already before
her, even though she had been gone for a year and a
and after she died. I caught a glimpse of us in my
half. Her belongings were still in the very drawer I
mother’s mirror, my dad looking so very small and
had just taken toothpaste from. Hairbrushes, combs,
me looking somehow larger than him. It bothered
facial creams and beauty supplies all pleaded with
me as I felt like he was slipping away.
me from their stationary places. Everything had been
The room encased the memory of my mother. Her
taken from my mother at the end. Her femininity
clothes still hung in the right-hand closet. She
vanished with her hair. Not one to overdo anything,
owned a barebones, but effective wardrobe, in sets
my mother had a simple beauty that she had
of three. Three slacks and three blouses all sewn by
tweaked with a little blush and mascara. Now those
her master seamstress hands were all she needed.
vestiges lay motionless just as she did in the
Navy, brown, black. Never tan. White, light blue,
gravesite two miles from our farm. She was claustro-
and one patterned blouse rounded out her style. A
phobic and I had to force myself to stop thinking of
couple suit jackets that fit her like a glove because
her being trapped somewhere she could not escape
she had also designed them. A few sweaters were
from.
neatly stacked on the shelf above the hangers. She
For a moment, I thought of ignoring the sounds coming from down the hall. My dad had spent countless days alone. What would be one more sad moment?
had not been a skirt wearer. In life, my mother had needed to move quickly as she had so much to accomplish. We had buried her in her one favorite, unlikely ensemble, a black jumpsuit with a split
I looked at myself in the mirror and could see
skirt. Her wedding and mother’s rings adorned her
something of my mother in the visage. I owned her
fingers and a nice turban covered her bare head. My
facial structure and hair color. She shared her sturdy
mother died before her hair grew back from chemo-
24
therapy, and this injustice deeply angered me. In every room of the house, I knew what each
hood belongings, impacting her decision to not put too much of her emotional energy into objects.
closet and drawer contained, my parents’ room
Her dresser still contained her farmer’s wife
being no exception. Growing up, we all cooked,
sweatshirts, t-shirts and jeans. Practical underwear
cleaned, sorted, put away, scrubbed, planted,
and bras, made of cotton, lined her upper left
weeded, mowed, hauled, and more, and we felt
drawer. Jewelry, mostly of silver-plate, could be
good about keeping a well-run house, garden and
found in the felt-lined box on the top of her dresser.
farm. My mother was the mistress of organization
None of this had been touched, or been allowed to
and owned only what we needed plus treasured
be as of yet, by my dad. He knew she wasn’t coming
family heirlooms, including useful furniture
back. Did he also know something of himself?
refurbished by her own hands. When my mother was eighteen, the house she lived in with her older sister had burned down. Family legend told that the
“Just enjoy your family,” he said. “Just enjoy your family.” We parted, strong enough to see the night
fire had been set by her sister’s husband for insur-
through, but I felt a deep sadness settling into the
ance money. My mom had lost most of her child-
recesses of my heart.
25
Cages
Amanda Boerger Ink, watercolor, and charcoal
26
Children of the Choir Joseph Schartz
The elderly bus driver of Route 17, the one that begins at the edge of Crown Point and reaches its furthermost destination at St. Peter’s square on the other end of Brooklyn, swung the door shut with a creak and began to carefully accelerate. No new commuters had made their way on board, for Elm Street was nearly deserted at that time of morning, and only a handful of passengers sat quietly as the vehicle rumbled along. In the front, an older Irish woman worked diligently on her knitting patterns, and a few rows behind her, a portly, balding man was trying to spit polish his pair of black dress shoes. He looked quite peculiar sitting in his socks as he used a handkerchief in an attempt to disguise various nicks and discolorations. Neither of them would have warranted the attention of a wandering eye, but near the back of the bus sat a fair and delicate woman whose features might give cause for a second look. Although not particularly stunning, Miss Mabel, age 28, was indeed beautiful. Beneath a scarlet Maud Payne hat her blonde hair fell in slight curls just halfway down her neck, and her green eyes seemed to reflect a type of buoyancy and life. Without noticing her fellow
cutting programs to keep their doors open, and musical education was having its head placed on a guillotine. The writer began listing specific districts that were gutting their music programs, but to Miss Mabel’s dismay the story continued on page 11A, a page that had long been discarded. She panicked slightly, and fears of what might be on that lost page pulsed through her veins. The front page headline, reading “Roosevelt Vows to Enact Bank Reform,” caught her eye, but she could not bring herself to read it. She had never been very good with economics, and after the sky had fallen on that dark October day, she knew it was better for her health not to look at the numbers. The crash had driven her poor brother to drinking and, even with the hope of three young children, he had staggered to the edge of the Westport bridge and ended it all. Headfirst, witnesses said. Daylight began to creep across the city, throwing hues of bright orange across the steel and glass. The bus groaned to a stop at Pierce Avenue, and as Miss Mabel stepped down, the driver mumbled, “G’day m’am.” She smiled faintly at the man and set off down the street at a brisk pace. New York yawned. Scowling businessmen flagged down taxi drivers, and the tired, hungry vagrants who had lain on the bone-chilling sidewalks all through the night tossed on their backs. In days past, they too had sent for taxis, had
passengers, she poured over the tattered Times copy
spent leisurely nights at cocktail bars trading casual
that had been lying on the seat next to her, reading
business advice, had looked through glass windows
and re-reading the heading of a small story on the
at glimmering cigarette cases and mink furs. Miss
bottom of the front page: “Arts Education to Suffer
Mabel walked on.
Budgetary Setbacks.” Miss Mabel’s eyebrows began to do a dance on
She walked until she met her destination, William McKinley Grammar School, whereupon
her forehead, as they always did when she was
she ascended the cracked stone steps and made her
slightly agitated. She read each line carefully
way to the choir room. Once at her desk, which sat
for context and clarity, and what she discovered
oddly upon the floor due to one leg being shorter
alarmed her. School districts across the state were
than the other three, she tossed her scarlet hat aside
27
and observed the dilapidated state of the classroom;
last words and notes of a particular song the class
leaky ceiling, mold in the corners, and the carpet
was learning, for the final page was missing. As
worn practically bare. The chairs the students had
creatively as possible, she transcribed an ending
once sat in had already been sold for mere pennies
and methodically inked in the notes of newly
in order to provide for a new pitch pipe, and thus
constructed harmonies.
the pupils stood for the entirety of each practice. A
Hours later, her dedicated pupils marched
chipped and lonely LaRochelle piano that had been
through the door, and before the piano an
commissioned in 1896 rested its ivory bones in the
impoverished and mismatched choir aligned
center of the room, and the ornate wooden bench
themselves in the order of soprano, alto, tenor, and
that once accompanied it had also been sold, forcing
bass. There was Damian, the baritone who spoke
Miss Mabel to stand while she played.
with an Irish accent that made the girls giggle, and
Each morning she brought herself to this shabby
Gus, the tenor who stood more than six feet tall with
choir room hours before the first classes began
bright red hair and freckles to match, and Sandra,
in order to make up for the lack of attention the
the pious minister’s daughter. Next to her stood
program received from an anxious administration
Violet, with her long eyelashes and simple facial
and a withering budget. Her meager salary,
expressions. Muddy Agnes in her overalls, and Neil,
which was already small in comparison to other
the young boy soprano whose crooning could bring
instructors, had been cut, and the school hadn’t
fresh tears. Then there was Joshua, with his deep
purchased new choral music for years. Each week
bass tone, and Melhouse, whose father worked in
Miss Mabel would trek eight blocks out of the way
the glass factory, and Robbie, wearing a dirty white
of her normal route to stop at Schillman’s and Son,
shirt that he had far outgrown, and conversely, jeans
a quaint musical store filled with instruments,
so baggy that he held them around his scrawny
manuals and sheet music. The older, more tattered
waist with a piece of baling twine.
choral pieces that had been donated were placed in
Miss Mabel greeted them in good spirits, played
a box outside the door, and Miss Mabel would bring
them their starting pitches, and while she half-stood
them to school for her students to learn.
half-crouched at the piano, they sang out with the
The pages were often yellow and moth-eaten,
unbridled bravado that only these youth could
sometimes disintegrating, but Miss Mabel treated
muster. She quickly noticed a voice missing from
them with the tender care a nurse would provide
the ensemble.
for an invalid. Because they had been given away, they were usually peculiar in nature, or even rude or mediocre in their content. During Christmas of the previous year, she could not obtain any of the
“Where is Julian this morning?” she asked her choir. “He’s not coming back,” Melhouse answered gloomily.
rich and noble hymns of praise the season required,
“What do you mean?”
so the students welcomed Christ to the world with
“He’s working in the factory to help his family.”
songs of neighborly gossip and cousins marrying
“I don’t want to have to work in the factory,”
each other and so forth. They caused quite a stir in the community, but they were all she could secure. She worked that morning away arranging the
Violet offered quietly as she bit her cheeks. Just then, Superintendent Weckler strolled into the room dabbing his shiny forehead with a
28
handkerchief. His protruding waistline did not
a shopping pamphlet. The pages, filled with
reflect the deficiencies of the students at William
black and white photos of produce and bread and
McKinley Grammar School.
clothing, all things that few could afford, needed
“Miss Mabel, may I escort you to my office for a moment?” “Of course, of course,” she replied. “Keep
editing. Once and a while essays or short stories were published to try to gain reader interest, and each morning Miss Mabel would screen the
practicing children,” she told her choir as she
paragraphs, circling errors and finding synonyms
followed Mr. Weckler into the corridor.
for monotonous words. She began to find a type of
“I’m glad you came this morning sir, I’ve been
rhythm in the sentences that reminded her of music,
meaning to talk to you about a project I had in mind.
a type of cadence that made her tap her foot on the
We haven’t had new music for several years now,
floor. Each comma became a quarter rest, each semi-
and I thought that perhaps we could look for just
colon a half rest, each short word an eighth note,
one new piece―”
each long one a whole note. In this way she kept
“Miss Mabel―” “Now hear me out Mr. Weckler, just a plain one won’t cost―”
herself connected with the world she loved. Problems began to arise, however, as she tried to maintain this state of limbo between music and
“Miss Mabel listen to me.”
survival. She began to find work very stressing,
“―it won’t cost much, if we could just have the
and sometimes she would find after many hours of
least amount of funding―”
hovering over a desk that her neck had grown stiff,
“Miss Mabel!”
even swollen, and the warmth of the room made her
“Because it really isn’t fair the way the students
dizzy. At night, while having nightmares of seeing
are neglected!” “Enough Miss Mabel!” the man barked as they reached the door to his office. “Step inside,” he
the children lying hungry in the street, she would wake up in a cold sweat. But yes, the music still came. Even though this
ordered sharply. Taken aback, she stood before his
part-time employment barely fulfilled her needs, she
desk, but he didn’t sit down. He rubbed his weary
traveled each night to St. Cecelia’s church where she
eyes and opened them again, revealing bloodshot
could find peace of mind and heart, and a piano of
pupils.
course. The children came too, still disheveled and
“Miss Mabel. . .I’m very sorry. It’s got to go.” The old relic, with its worn keys and stiff strings,
unkempt, but eager as ever to learn. But it seemed that fewer came each week.
was removed from the room first. Miss Mabel’s
“Good evening everyone, I hope you’re all well.
crooked desk was sent to another classroom, and
Tonight we have a beautiful Latin piece called, ‘Jesu
even the pitch pipe was sold. The children of
Dulcis Memoria.’”
the choir walked home glumly, some with tears crawling down their young noses, hoping that the
“Miss Mabel,” little Neil piped up with concern, “you look very pale. Are you all right?”
music might find a way to remain in their lives.
“She does look thinner,” Violet accused honestly.
And even in the midst of depression, it did.
“Yes, I feel fine. Damian, please take your feet off
Miss Mabel, who had become even more destitute, found work with a rather poor shop that published
the hymn holder.” “Yes Miss Mabel,” Damian replied. “But don’t
29
change the so’bject. I’m worried aboutchoo.”
posture and her lively green eyes, sat in a rather
“There’s nothing to worry about, I’ve never been
rigid wooden chair in the white room, staring at an
better,” Miss Mabel lied. “Now where’s Joshua? He
eye examination chart on the opposite wall. When
was here last week.”
this bored her, she next examined a diagram of the
“He went to Florida to live with his uncle ‘cause
human intestine, watching the twisted and winding
his momma and poppa can’t pay for things no
path of our insides, marveling at how many things
more,” answered Robbie.
could possibly go wrong with them.
“I don’t ever want to go to Florida,” whispered Violet. “Well, we’ll miss him very dearly won’t we
The doctor with the dark black mustache that made him look like Clark Gable re-entered the room, clipboard in hand, his face betraying nothing. He
children?” Miss Mabel said with melancholy. They
took a seat across from Miss Mabel and cleared his
all nodded dismally.
throat to bring her attention from the diagram to
“Singing will cheer me up,” Agnes offered.
himself.
“What are we singing about? What does ‘Jesu
“Well sir?”
Dulcis Memoria’ mean Miss Mabel?”
“Ma’m, I wish I didn’t have to tell you this.”
Some color returned to Miss Mabel’s face.
“But you do, doctor, you do. I understand that.”
“Memories. It’s a song about better times.”
“Yes. I’m very sorry ma’m. The tests were
Joshua wasn’t the last child to leave the choir.
conclusive. You have stage four Hodgkin’s
Melhouse, too, ended up working in the glass
Lymphoma.” He swallowed. “This explains the
factory, Agnes was sent to North Carolina to live
symptoms you were describing, everything from the
with her godparents, and even little Neil’s crooning
weight loss, to the night sweats and back pain.”
was heard no more when his family migrated to
“Oh. I thought that was just from playing piano
Virginia to find work. Damian began laboring at
without a bench for so many hours.” She almost
the docks until he lost three fingers when they were
laughed for a second, but she coughed instead.
caught in a chain lifting a two-ton crate of mining
The doctor hesitated, so she prompted him.
equipment destined for the Philippines. St. Cecelia’s
“How long do I have?”
grew quieter each week until the devoted teacher
He shook his head.
herself no longer made the walk.
***
The sun still rose on New York, but it had lost
The full moon and its legion of stars shined
some of the little humanity left in it. A universal
through the window, casting an eerie glow on
expression of life had slipped away, and no longer
an oddly serene night. The room seemed to lack
could the troubled Souls of the Depression find
adequate air, and Miss Mabel sat up in her hospital
solace through the open windows of St. Cecelia’s.
bed, gazing out the window at the beautiful New
Music, a combination of the lungs, heart, voice, and
York tapestry.
soul, a manifesto of beliefs and emotions, makes us
“I must walk,” she told herself.
human, and here it died.
She tossed her sheets aside, swung her legs over
Very white. White walls, white uniforms, and
the side of the bed, and although wobbly at first, she
white snow falling outside the window. Miss
made her way out the door and down the corridor
Mabel, her haggard appearance hidden by a resolute
to the hospital entrance. When she opened the door,
30
she inhaled with excitement, and knew she had
her saintly husband on the other. Exquisite glass of
done the right thing. Clean air filled her tired lungs,
vibrant yellows, greens and blues lined the walls.
and the winter beckoned her further. Snowflakes fell gently, like kisses from heaven,
The music, more than anything, enchanted her, and when she realized why, she felt compelled
evaporating on the warmth of her soft blonde hair.
to sit. It was the children, all of them, just as she
She felt the cold in between her toes, and in nothing
remembered them, standing at the front of the
but her night gown she set off down the street, the
church, singing in beautiful unison a Latin hymn
moon and the dim streetlights guiding her onward.
she had never heard before. They sounded angelic,
She could feel it in the air that it was Christmas,
singing to the heavens, their hearts ablaze with fire
or at least nearly. This filled her with a certain joy as
but their minds cool as ice, whispering the most
she walked, and she wondered how far she would
precious notes that had ever been composed.
have to travel. The answer was given her once she heard it. Notes of sweetest purity, coming from faintly
Miss Mabel didn’t dare disturb the choir, and thus she discreetly took her place in a middle pew where she could still let the music surround her. She
lit stained glass. She made her way up the steps,
looked at the vigil candles, their flames dancing in
grasped the brass handle, and entered the church,
red glasses, looking like holy orbs of eternal faith.
feeling warmth and peace wrap their childlike arms
They looked warm and inviting as the children sang.
around her. And what a beautiful church it was, with the Holy Virgin greeting her on one side and
She closed her eyes.
31
A Stranger's Funeral Alex Morlan
and people I’ve never seen who knew me, more strangers. I said my hellos and tried to make my way to the chapel. When the funeral finally started, I sat down next to my dad, we both sat silently,
An elderly man laid in the casket ahead of me. He had a familiar face, the kind you recognize only from old photographs. I am told he is my
straight-faced. I remember my dad’s reaction when he found out about the funeral.
grandfather, the father of my father. I, at the age of
“Do I really have to go?” He asked my mom.
eighteen, only remember seeing him one other time
“Kevin! You know you do. If you didn’t, your
in person. I’ve never liked funerals, I can remember my grandmother’s funeral, my father’s mother,
sister would be crushed.” “I know. I don’t want to, though.” My father
when I was ten. She looked so unnatural, pale, like
didn’t like funerals, either; I guess that’s another
a wax figure in a museum. I wanted to reach out
way we are alike. I wondered if his father felt the
and touch her, to prove to myself that she wasn’t
same way. My father didn’t cry as the funeral was
real, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it; I knew the
in progress; he didn’t cry when he found out his
truth, even at that age. I looked back down at my
father had died. He told me once that he didn’t feel
grandfather; he was a thin man with a long nose
the same way about death as most other people. My
and big ears. “I wonder if he’s heavy,” I thought to
grandfather had been sick with cancer so it wasn’t
myself. I was invited to a stranger’s funeral to carry
much of a surprise that he finally died. I adopted
him into the ground. You see, my aunt tricked me
that principle in my mind; I knew I wouldn’t cry
into it. My mother was in on the deception. I know
anyway; you don’t usually cry when a stranger
for a fact that I was asked to attend the funeral,
dies. My father and I sat silently together on the
something that I didn’t really want to do, but I
bench while the pastor spoke. He talked about how
was told it would mean a lot to my aunt. After I
my grandfather is in Heaven smiling down on us
agreed, a few minutes later I was told through a
and shared my grandfather’s favorite bible verse.
text message that, “Your aunt really appreciates
I wondered if any of it was true, if Lloyd had even
you being a pall-bearer.” I couldn’t back out now.
picked up a Bible during his final days. I tried to
I remember driving through Des Moines with my
convince myself it was; I had no reason to believe
parents, my older sister got to stay home with the
it wasn’t. The cynical part of me said it wasn’t true;
excuse that she “had to watch the rest of the kids.”
that pastors lie at funerals to make death a little
She was lucky.
easier to swallow. I tried to shake the thought from
It rained hard that day, the kind of rain that only
my mind. I looked down at my silver tie, tied too
happens at a funeral in the movies; lightning lit up
short in the back so it would reach my belt in the
the sky. We drove through as the rain kept getting
front. “For us taller guys,” my dad had told me, “it’s
stronger; lightning hit a transformer just a few feet
hard to find ties that are long enough. They make
in front of our car. It burst, leaving sparks along
them, but they’re hard to find.” I wondered where
the road in front of us. We arrived at the funeral
my father had learned to tie a tie. I looked around
home; the rain let up a little as we walked inside.
the room trying to find people I knew, most were
The building was full of people I barely knew
from the third side of the family my grandfather
32
had remarried into. I have never actually thought of
technique I’ve used almost my entire life to locate
them as family, only groups of people who attend
my father in busy stores.
the same weddings and funerals. Growing up, I never found it strange that I only
It was a long drive to Jefferson, Iowa. The funeral was closer to home, but the burial was in his
had one grandfather. There were my grandparents
hometown, bringing him back to where he started.
on my mother’s side and my Grandma Morlan, my
My dad had hoped we wouldn’t have to drive
father’s mother. That was it, I never thought about
the two hours to Jefferson; so had I. I was tired of
how my classmates all had a spare grandfather.
funerals. I almost got away with leaving until my
When I was older, I asked my dad about this. My
parents remembered that I had to be there to carry
father has always been honest with me, answering
my grandfather. It stopped raining by the time we
my questions to the best of his ability. When I asked
got there; the women were sinking into the soft
him why I never see his father he didn’t say much.
cemetery grass in their high heels. I met the hearse
“When I was growing up, my parents got divorced.
a few minutes later, reuniting with the strangers
Something happened and I didn’t feel like my father
they had enlisted to carry the casket. We carried
was my friend like I had believed before.” I knew
him to the hole in the ground, rolling him over the
not to ask any more questions. I knew that there was
ropes so he could be peacefully lowered down. The
a moment in his life where lightning had hit and all
ceremony started. Two soldiers folded an American
I could do was watch the sparks extinguish in the
flag into a tight triangle and handed it to my aunt.
rain.
Lloyd must have been in the military.
The service was finally over; people stood up,
I remember a few weeks before the funeral; I
greeted each other, comforted the crying, and
was talking with my older sister. We were talking
shuffled out of the room. I stood up with my father
about the last time I saw Lloyd alive. “I think it was
and stuck close to him, not saying a word. My aunt
Abby’s wedding, he said hi to me.”
came and hugged me, thanking me for carrying her father, and told me to stand in a small room
“Do you know what he said to me that day?” She asked me.
and wait for the rest of the pall-bearers. That was
“No, what?”
when I realized that I had been tricked again. As the
“He said that he was happy that Dad called him
pall-bearers came in to the room I couldn’t find a
dad. I don’t think he even remembered why they
single familiar face; everyone else had been from the
were mad at each other.” The burial ceremony
obscure part of the family that didn’t feel like family
finally ended and we were allowed to drive home.
at all. No one said a word to me, the strange young man seemingly unrelated to the deceased. After the funeral director told us where to stand, I did my best to stand straight and not think about what was inside the casket. We paraded the body through the crowd of people and into the back of a black hearse. I immediately scanned the room over the tops of people’s heads, looking for my father who usually stood slightly taller than other people in public. A
33
The Saddest Story Leah Alsaker
The saddest story doesn’t end with an ocean of blood, see a long friendship dissolve in bitter hatred, or leave a young maiden gasping her lover’s name with her last breath. In fact, it doesn’t exist at all. Or rather, it does, but only for one. The one who envisions the story in its fullest potential— knows the hearts of each character, gives the character control, loses control in turn, and loves every second of it. Although it becomes a much-needed oasis, if not shared, its location is forgotten, washed away by the gentle tide of time. The sweet perfume of almost every great story is fleeting. Its light, once so bright, extinguishes, and it passes into an accidental sort of extinction. The life of a story depends on those who know it.
Lost At Sea
Shaina Harris
Intaglio, multiple plates
with à la poupée
34
Inland Sea
Roberta Forman
Black and White Photograph
35
Crush
Bonnie Moxnes She licks her cracked lips eagerly and remains motionless beside the dumpster in the back lot of Flickie's. She bided her time for hours, smelling stale popcorn and warming the concrete under her. It will be worth the wait. It always is. The shaded alleyway is dark enough for her to move freely among the rats, stray animals, and various smoking employees or homeless without being seen. Normally, she would help herself to any of the furry scavengers around the dumpsters, but tonight, she isn't on the prowl for a plump meal. This is a different kind of hunt entirely. The crunch of his worn sneakers against the pavement sends a quiver of eagerness into her heart. He's finally here! A rock shoots past her hiding spot and she bites her breath short. She shifts her back flush against the cool metal of the dumpster while she hears the familiar sounds of his gloomy routine. There's the crinkle of the plastic bags filled with concession stand waste and the sugary, salty scent that comes
saw him in uniform—faded black vest lined in red and off-white shirt. The sleeves wrap tightly around his biceps, the cloth taut against them with his simple motions. She feels the simple joy of thinking he improves his body just for her. She creeps along the side of the dumpster, reaching out her gnarled, busted fingernails for his leg. Just a touch. Her teeth scrape her lower lip like a line of fishhooks. The phone in his back pocket bellows an alarm before she can brush his pant leg. "Jesus." He says, sounding as frightened as she felt. He turns his back to her and puts the phone to his ear. "Thank you for calling Flickie’s. This is David. How can I—Oh, hey." Her body silently whips back behind the sanctuary of the dumpster. David. His name is David. She smiles so wide her two rows of teeth set perfectly together in a long crescent of pointed enamel. She laces her thick fingers together over her heart with a yearning sigh. She hears the smile in his voice when his fear melts away. "No, I must have forgot it at home. You scared the hell out of me." She keeps her back pressed against the side of the
with it. He sighs through his teeth, flings the
dumpster while her mind dances with possibilities
dumpster lid up, and tosses a bag in. She knows
over her David.
how he lingers with this simple task, but it gives her
How will my name sound coming from his lips? Will
enough time to spend with him. She peeks around
he like it or think it's funny? She snags a hangnail free
the corner while he starts to hum off-key.
with her chipped nail, then dares to glimpse at him
Even after dozens of stolen, loving glances, she
from the corner again. She won't waste an opportu-
still considers him an Adonis among teenage boys.
nity to saturate her senses with him before he
The grease from working beside the popcorn
disappears back into the movie theater again.
machine makes his russet hair luminesce in the
David—oh, what a perfect name!—presses the
limited light. A quick sniff of the air and she detects
phone between his shoulder and ear, then hefts
the oil, butter, and salt on his skin. His arms are tan
another trash bag up and into the dumpster.
and dotted with small oil burns. She longs to kiss
"Oh, shut up." He flashes a smile, his eyes
each salty scar with a tenderness he's never known.
bashfully direct toward the trash bags at his feet. Her
His shirt fits him more snugly since the last time she
extended smile makes her cheeks ache with a
36
wondrous joy. His smile is an infrequent treasure,
hesitant step toward the dumpster's corner. "I
one that she wishes she could lock away and cherish
dunno. I guess it didn't really sound like one. Maybe
forever. Usually when he makes his appearance in
it was three cats all at once? It’s all quiet now
the alleyway, he’s brooding and morose. She wants
though.”
to cuddle away whatever plagues his mind. Though,
She carefully shifts her weight on her hands,
he could be thinking of dark poetry to recite, or a
trying to creep away without making a sound. She
grim painting to expose his soul to the world. He’s
wants to respond to him, but he can't see her like she
perfect whatever he wears on his face, but this
is now. She isn't presentable or, even remotely ready
smiling expression lights up the whole alleyway
to confront him.
with warmth. She swoons, dizzy with her affections for David. "You have no idea how creepy this back lot is. It's like, the perfect spot for anyone to get stabbed or mugged.” He pauses, listening to a tinny voice on
“Yeah, but rats don't make that kind of noise. I know the rats are kinda big back here, but they don’t sound like that.” He tells the phone, placing his hand on the lid of the dumpster. Not like this. She pleads silently as she looks over
the other end of the phone. The silence is a waste;
her tattered shirt and pants caked in grime and
his low, sweet voice could be warming the air.
dried blood. This isn't the perfect moment that she
“Yeah, I know I don’t have anything, but just watch.
wants to reveal herself in. She wants a grand,
You'll feel bad if anything happens to me."
romantic moment between them and not this abrupt
Nothing bad will happen to you, David. The thought
meeting beside the dumpster.
of cradling him in her arms and protecting him from
He can't see me like this. Not now!
the cold night air makes her skin dimple with
He's close enough that she can hear the faint,
delight. He slams the top of the dumpster shut. The
feminine voice on the phone with him. "You should
sudden clang snaps her out of her fantasy of
go look for it." The voice says, teasing and playful.
combing her fingers through his auburn hair and
“What’s that creepy clown in It say? ‘We all float
makes her caterwaul in surprise.
down here’? David. David, I bet it’s Pennywise
David shushes the voice on the phone. "Hold on, I heard something." She clasps her hands over her maw, but the damage is already done. Oh, how could I be so stupid? He would surely come and find me. What will he say to me spying and sneaking around? She’s sure he can hear her rapid heartbeat.
wanting you to come float with him.” Jealousy pulls down her anxiety into the depths of her subconscious, and holds it under. Who is that girl, David? She grips the leg of the dumpster and her nails scratch the metal while her face twists into an expression of malice. David scoffs, his voice wavering. “Shut up, it is
A small part of her wants him to uncover her, so she
not. I should have never told you about that stupid
can profess her love to him. The other part is
clown. It’s probably just a bunch of rabid alley-cats,
petrified of discovery, along with the rejection that
but I’m not going to go looking around for rabies.”
may come with their first meeting.
He backs away from the dumpster, then darts
What if he is like the others? She hears David breathing fast on the other side. “Hello?" He calls out into the darkness, taking a
toward the door. She releases her breath and peeks her head around the dumpster into the light as the door to
37
Flickie's clicks shut behind David. Guilt washes over
her feet echo in the quiet depths. She pauses to
her jealousy and it ebbs back her affection and
check her hair in a murky puddle. She spots a
warmth. David wouldn't hurt her like that. The girl
cow-licked wad of spindly black hair and shakes her
he was speaking with is probably just a friend. She
head. It’s a good thing David didn’t see her after all.
is only jumping to conclusions.
She licks the palm of her hand and smooths out the
I love you, David. She mouths the words to the
rebellious lock back into place. She looks into her
empty space. She smiles toward the closed door
own eyes— a murky brown, swollen out of her
before ducking back into the shadows. The possibil-
head. No one looked like her either. Her own smile
ity of confronting David with her thoughts and
lights up the reflection, all her teeth interlocking in
dreams sparks in her brain like a series of fireworks.
an ivory arch. How could David resist her (hair out
Of course, he would return her affections. David
of place or not)?
would throw his arms around her, and lean up to
She moves on from the puddle and where the
sweetly kiss her cheek. In return for his love, she
wall breaks, she enters her hovel through an
would take him away from the stress of the world,
entrance chiseled into the concrete. Tonight was a
and keep him in the sanctuary of her home. No, it
success. Just thinking about the capture of David’s
would be their home.
name and his radiant smile fills her stomach with
Because of all the excitement, she hardly focuses
excitement. She pitches the cat into the corner. It
on her usual routine on her way home. She pays
clatters with the remnants of old meals before
little attention to food or supplies, which results in
coming to sprawling rest.
only coming across a single stray cat. The cat is
She plops into her nest of papers, clothes, and
friendly enough to approach her and rub its body
metal rebar. After so many nights of sleeping alone,
against her leg, its mangy fur catching on her
she can situate herself into her indentation. She
patchy, chapped skin. She reaches down and runs a
leans her cheek against a metal bar. There’s a small
hand across its back, feeling the purr rumbling
collection of books by her bedside, discarded
through its skinny frame. She grips it by the scruff,
romance novels and women’s magazines. She’s read
her nails breaking its skin. It starts to yowl, but she
them all over a dozen times, but none of the men
snaps its neck and flings it across her shoulder
compared to David. None of the relationships—fa-
before it draws any attention. Cats never agreed
mous or otherwise—touched on the love story they
with her, even if they are easy to come by. She hates
share together. And now, she could replace all the
the sounds they make and the fur always gets
flawed male characters with David’s name. She
caught in her throat.
could envision herself falling in love with David in
With her meal across her shoulders, she heads back home. She pries a manhole cover off, descends
every one of her books. Her hand hovers over The Notebook, but instead
into the depths of the sewers, then secures the lid
settles on her other collection. She leans over to
back in place. The damp, rotting smell wafts up to
inspect all the items she has from David. Most of the
greet her as she climbs down. The stench is a
collection she has is gum, but she was lucky enough
welcoming comfort and a sign she's home. She sets
to get a candy wrapper or two he tossed away. She
down on the walkway, and follows the concrete wall
prefers the gum because each piece has been inside
for a short walk, listening to the quiet padding of
him at one point or another.
38
The wad of multicolored, chewed gum rests beside
tightly and her nails stick into her palms. It isn't
her nest. A swell of adoration in her chest makes her
David. It's his curly haired girl co-worker. This other
sigh, then she peels the collection off the ground and
girl always showed up whenever David isn't
holds it in the palm of her hand. The gum will stick,
working.
but the scales and skin flakes will be easy to pick off
Where is David? How could he leave me alone with
later. The thoughts in her head race to catch up with
this girl? The other girl goes about her routine,
her heart. She looks over her serrated, uneven nails
tossing the garbage into the dumpster and wiping
and her milky skin dotted with mossy scales like
her hands on her pants after each throw.
over-sized green freckles. She smiles and picks one of her scales.
Why would he leave on our special day? Her nails cut jagged lines into her palm, but she hardly pays it
He loves me; she muses and tosses the scale aside like a petal.
any mind with the thought of David's absence and possible infidelities. What if he is like the others; cruel
***
Once David comes back, I’ll tell him how I feel about him. The night prior, she plucked her arm clean of
and uncaring? The thought makes her innards squirm like a knot of rats. Her boiling anger simmers into a gelatinous
scales and it came down to "he loves me" on the last
depression. She releases her nails from the prison of
mossy flake. She saw this as a definite sign. Her arm
her palm. The curly haired girl finishes with the
would itch for the next few days while the scales
trash quicker than David ever does, and heads back
grew back, but it would be worth it when David
indoors. It takes everything she has not to follow
would be there with her. She could face anything
that stupid girl and get some answers to David's
with him by her side.
whereabouts.
She waits for David in her usual spot behind the dumpster, ready and dressed up just for him. She can't remember name of the girl she got it off of, but
She isn't worth my time. David wouldn't like me starting up trouble, would he? She cowers back to her home after Flickie’s closes
the sundress fit her well enough after a few split
for the night with a heavy misery weighing down
seams. The black skirt flares out at her thighs and
her mood. She can't help but think David would
the white polka dots are small enough that the
walk through the back door and call out for her. He
bloodstains are only really noticeable if she looked
never does. The walk home seems longer and the
for them. If only he would show up, she could
sewers feel darker than they usually do. She settles
follow through with her plan.
into her nest and chews on the cat she left to fester
The back door creaks open. She breathes in
overnight. The last boy who broke her heart wasn't
sharply, feeling her heartbeat throb in her ears. She's
anything like DavidHe was boisterous and jovial,
pined for this moment all her life: a profession of
while David is quite shy and modest.
love just like from her books. She and David could
David is different from the last boy, and all the others.
finally be happy together. Just as she's about to turn
He's different. Besides, all the best love stories have some
the corner of the dumpster and reveal herself, she
kind of obstacle. She finds a smile on her lips and tears
listens to the sound of the footsteps. They're lighter
in her eyes. She plucks the wad of gum from the
than David's morose shuffle. She clenches her teeth,
ground while she gnaws on the cat’s vertebrae.
holding back a growl. Her hands knot together
Within moments, she has the gum molded into a
39
crude shape of a heart. She swallows the remnants
Patrons and employees scurry along without a
of the cat, and holds David's heart next to hers. She
single glance upward. She watches the curly haired
falls asleep, dreaming of holding David in her arms
girl come in early with a smile across her freckled
and whispering sweet nothings into his hair.
face. She monitors the entrance for hours, watching
***
She awakens the next day from her dreams of
moviegoers come and go, and the shift change. David is never among them. She rests her head on
David and the anxious euphoria they brought with
the brick, ducking her face into the crook of her arm
them. She’s disappointed to wake up alone. Her
and sobs.
chest feels heavy, but that’s how the old saying goes.
Why, David? She directs her bleary vision back
Absence makes the heart grow fonder… but it might
down to the street, hoping to see him wandering by,
also be the cat not agreeing with her. She treads out
or even looking up with his beautiful smile in her
to the manhole and peeks her head out. The sun is
direction. Why would you do this to me?
rising over the horizon and warming the crisp air.
When she doesn't spot his handsome face, her
It's unusual for her to go out so early; she runs the
heart plummets and she returns her head to her arm
risk of being discovered. The threat of being caught
and continues to weep.
is something she's willing to chance, just to catch an early glimpse of David. She heads toward her usual position and sits in
***
The next day of David's absence, she's nearly given up hope. Each day he doesn't show, the more
the cool morning air. She mulls over what they will
her contained passion erodes at her heart. She waits
name their children but cannot decide on any. With
with her back to the side of the dumpster, anticipat-
the thought of a family, she knows she'll have to
ing crushing disappointment.
expand the nest and even find a bigger place for them all. He has to love me back. She sighs to herself as her
He isn't coming. She tells herself for the fifth time since she rested against the dumpster. She smooths out her skirt with a trembling hand. There are new
nervous butterflies come back to roost in her
splotches of cat blood on it. She picks at dried flecks.
stomach. I'll die if he doesn't.
Of course, he wouldn't come. What was I thinking?
With her fantasy waning with anxiety, she
The door creaks open, the hinges make the
realizes that Flickie's doesn't even open for another
familiar whine that she used to look forward to. She
few hours. With a quick glance toward the door, she
expects to hear the petite steps of the other girl, but
scurries over to the maintenance ladder to the left of
instead, she recognizes the shuffle of David's feet
it. She climbs to the top of Flickie's and crouches
against the ground. David walks out into the cool
down low. She crawls on her hands and knees, not
night air, looking bored and distant with four full
wanting to muss up her dress. She huddles up tight
garbage bags in his hands. She ogles him with a
against the brick outcropping and peers down at
giddy smile stretching her face. He went about his
street below her.
normal routine, opening the dumpster lid and
It’s several hours before people gradually trickle in for matinee showings, which is mostly the elderly
hucking each bag into it one by one. He came back! Her heart soars back up to its
and those working the morning shift. Her depres-
rightful place in her chest and pummels her ribs
sion drags her down deeper with each passing hour.
with its longing. Somehow, she manages to contain
40
her bliss rather than rushing out to grapple David
his phone. He backs away from her, not taking his
and squeezing the breath from his lungs with her
eyes away from her grinning maw. He’s just too shy
embrace. She waits, listening to the movements of
to speak, stunned by her beauty. She tries to speak to
his routine and dedicating each motion, each rustle
him, but her voice stutters out in guttural growls.
of fabric, and each breath to memory. She can't bear
She’s too nervous.
the thought of losing him again. It has to be now that she makes her move. Once he is finished. She smoothes her stringy, dark
David screams, but she scrambles to scoop him up in her arms. In a fit of panic, she presses her mouth against his, kissing away his shrieks. Her
hair back with her fingers, scratching her scalp and
nails brush through his hair like she dreamed about
catching hairs in her busted, tapered nails. She turns
for so many nights. David's hands thump against
the corner of the dumpster when David has his back
her, then grip her shoulders. She trembles and curls
turned. Her eagerness is about to burst forth in a
an arm behind his back. She removes her lips from
profession of her affection, then she spies he's on the
his and leans her forehead to his head so they can
phone.
look into each other's eyes like reunited lovers. His
His cellphone is to his ear. His head is lowered and she watches the side of his neck pulse with the beating of his heart. She suddenly can't help but feel
eyes are like the depths of the ocean, seemingly bottomless and shimmering, pure azure. She pulls back to look down at David as his head
foolish for coming out of the shadows so gallantly.
sags back. His face is a bloody crater. Her jagged
He should appreciate such boldness, but what if he
nails tore small ribbons of flesh from his scalp and
didn’t?
slicked his hair with blood. Her kiss bit into the
Of course, he won't be interested. What am I doing? What was I thinking? "Hey." He murmurs, which made her heart ricochet to her throat. His tone is soft and affectionate. He knew! Oh, David, he knew just what to say. "I just wanted to call and say I really miss you. I
lower part of his face, pulverizing his beautiful smile into a smear of exposed teeth and gore. She left half his face looking like ground meat with only pretty blue eyes remaining, staring blankly up at her bloody lips and sinew-strewn teeth. Oh, David! Oh, David, I didn't mean it. Fat, oily
know I haven't been able to see you in a little while,
tears streak down her pale face. They dot David's
babe. I just wanted to hear your voice, even if it is
forehead as they abandon her cheeks.
just your voicemail, and say I love you." She clasps her hands together and rests them over
She cradles him in her arms as she leads him behind the dumpsters. She sinks into her usual spot
her heart. She stands upright, which makes her taller
and gazes down into his wide, dead eyes. She can't
than David by a few feet. But, height doesn't matter.
leave him here to the rats or that other girl to find.
Nothing matters but the love that they shared
She knows that no one would understand her
between them. David is engulfed in her shadow. He
mistake if he is found like this.
snaps the phone shut and whirls around to see her for the very first time. She smiles wide for him to show off the first row of her pointed teeth. She watches his blue eyes—they are such a beautiful shade of blue!—widen. He drops
I'm sorry, David, I really am. She unhinges her jaw. It's better this way.
***
She places her head against the brick and watches him from above. This boy will be different from
41
David. . .and the rest of them. He will understand
She smells the hint of grease and cooked meat on his
her. He won't fight her like the others did. She is
skin. He is a dreamer and a boy that wishes on stars.
sure of it. This boy with the chocolate eyes and
You're not alone, Stargazer. She thinks with a
golden wheat hair is her soul mate. She sees the
toothy, wistful smile. She pets the air in front of her
connection in his eyes when he looks up at the stars
eye and pretends like she is stroking his face. You're
while he was on break from cooking at The Diner.
not.
Bitter Cold
Cody Blevins
Ink-wash with willow charcoal
42
Ponzi Dana Strong
The reply arrived on Monday, May 20. By post. Arthur ripped open the envelope, but there was no check. Just a form letter: Dear Mr. Schurz We thank you for your inquiry into the current state of your investment with Ex.com! At this time, due to the multitude of technical complications associated with the re-launching of our website, access to individual financial information is not available. All of our investors may be assured that
exited the house. “Hi Dad,” she smiled. “Hi Hun,” Arthur returned, heading for his car. “Um, you didn’t forget that I asked to use the car tonight, right?” “What?” Arthur paused by the passenger door and turned around. “With who?” “Remember, Jackie, Raff and I are going to that movie theater in Winchester?” He promised to be home by 6:30, then he drove to the police station. “I need to talk to someone,” Arthur fumbled at the front desk. “Um, an investigator, I mean. A detective, please.” The officer behind the desk, his badge read
their investments are safe and insured
Dawkins, looked at Arthur non-plussed, then he
under all the relevant FDIC guidelines.
glanced up at the clock. It buzzed like a fluorescent
Please visit ex.com/member.html for more information.
Humbly Yours,
Arnold George CEO Ex.com, MLM
Arnold George
Arthur crumpled the letter slowly in one hand, wishing intensely that it was Arnold George’s head. Then he wished it had been someone else who greeted the man when he entered the Cadillac dealership that day last year. He threw the wad of paper as hard as he could, but it feebly floated and hit the doorframe to the living room. His rotator cuff burned fiercely. He took a deep breath, then walked over and picked up the paper. He soaked it in warm water from the sink until it was nearly disintegrated, then he destroyed it in the garbage disposal. He was losing control. Maybe he had already lost it completely. At this point, the only wrong move was to do nothing. Hannah was pulling up on her bicycle as Arthur
light. It read 5:15. “Detective Neff is in his office.” Arthur groaned. “Is there anyone else?” “Nope,” said Dawkins. “What if I wait until tomorrow?” Arthur asked. Dawkins leaned back and considered this. “Well, that’s the age-old question isn’t it? I find that I ask myself that question more and more as I—” “Okay, shut up already. I’ll see Neff,” Arthur snapped. Dawkins smirked as he paged the detective. The police station was an old building, with tight hallways and small rooms. Everything was separated, segmented, with thick brick walls between. Arthur noticed the sound of heavy footfalls, the click of heeled boots on linoleum tile. The clicks got louder until a huge man came around the corner. The cramped hallway made him look even larger. This was Warren Neff. “Arthur Schurz, I’ve been waiting on you for some time now,” Neff said flatly. “Come back to my office.” Arthur nearly had to trot to keep up with
43
the long legs of the lawman, which he refused to do.
"What time is it?”
He was fifteen yards behind Neff by the time they
“Five-forty,” Neff said automatically, without
reached the cramped office. The detective squeezed in behind his tiny desk, which was completely bare. Arthur sat across from him, on a squeaky metal stool. “Ex.com, right?” Neff crossed his impressive arms
checking his watch. “Who are you investigating?” “I can’t tell you that. All I can tell you is that you are no longer under investigation,” Neff said. He leaned forward, opened a drawer on his desk and
over his massive chest. Is it the uniform that makes
pulled out a blank sheet of paper. “Write the names
cops look so big? Arthur wondered. Clearly not in this
of everyone you know that are involved.”
case. Neff was a physical specimen. “Uh, Jesus, yeah,” Arthur fumbled. “How’d you know that?” “Shit Art. I’ve—.” “Arthur.” “Excuse me?” “You can call me Arthur, or Mr. Schurz,” Arthur
This sounded annoyingly like an order to Arthur. But he hadn’t played his ace yet. “Well, as it happens, I know the top guy,” Arthur said smugly, satisfied to see Neff’s eyes light up. “Who? Thomsen? You know Wallace Thomsen?” Neff leaned forward again. “What? No, who the hell is that? I’m talking about
said. He hated when people shortened his name.
Arnold George,” Arthur said. Neff’s lips twisted in
Especially if they were a self-satisfied cop that used
annoyance.
to date his wife. He’d be damned if he was going to
“Yeah, we know George. He’s just the point man.
let this man continue to talk down to him, no matter
He’s nothing.” Neff sighed. Arthur was fuming.
the size difference. Neff smiled humorlessly.
He felt like a fool, all this time imagining dragging
“Right. Mr. Schurz,” Neff said slowly. “I’ve been
Arnold George into an alley and beating his twenty
getting complaints about Ex.com for over a year.
grand out of the man. Twenty minutes later Arthur
What took you so long?”
was sitting in his Cadillac in the Department
“How did you know I had invested?” Arthur asked. “I’ve got a pretty good picture of the whole
parking lot. The digital clock read six fifteen. The police weren’t going to get his money back. Arthur could see that plainly. But Neff had let a little
pyramid by now,” Neff said, gesturing to the filing
something slip. “Who the hell is Wallace Thomsen?”
cabinet.
Arthur asked himself.
“Well, why the hell didn’t you contact me? I’ve been feeding this guy money for over a year,” Arthur snapped. “C’mon Art-thur—Mr. Schurz. The people on my list that haven’t filed reports are all under investigation. In a pyramid scheme there are wolves, and there are sheep,” Neff put on his little smile again. It was the only small thing about the man. “So, now I can add you to the flock.” Arthur looked around the room for a clock.
44
Pseudo-Sonnet at the Carnival Mark Brenden
Do not do that. . .not yet, my dear; Let us try, for once, to be godly; perhaps let me your regard your face in this wheel— let me read what they wrote on your body. Let me stand here, behind your neck, and reveal your perspective on the carnival from here. Does it rouse you? When I tell you to feel? In darkness, darling, all is a mirror. Into this vile air (seen through the curls of your hair) a birthed and bloody lamb has stepped and has knelt. Look below, how the dancers have slaughtered the bear, tearing flesh with the blade, dripping flesh on the felt. Do not tell me these carnies cause you to weep, for they are who wed us when our bodies do sleep.
Kites
Mark Brendan Here in February’s embrace, when the air has sent all the kites to the cupboards, you will not benefit, my dear, from a midnight cigarette. Its release will bring no grace to your longing. It will not quell your stomach’s fever. Now is not the time for running or even walking. It is the time to look for a while at the torn cloth of an old sweater, and to grow to realize that now is not the time for anything more than there is time for. Sure you will miss the summer’s dusty love, but your love for her, or for this, or for that is not something that reacts to a whistle or RSVPs to your howling invitations. It is an old acquaintance who shows up for dinner when all the food is gone and the dishes are stacked high in the sink. But there will be new loves, more dinner guests than you could ever prepare for. So, don’t prepare. Just you make sure your doorbell is functional. And, as everyone will tell you, the winter has no choice but to end, and the kites will again trade places with February, and they will glide and tug under the authority of the wind, and that will be the time to look up and try to learn something.
45
Stay Curious Mary Berg
Photograph
46
The Warehouse Alex Morlan
My favorite place in the world growing up was an office building. My dad would take my older sister and me to his job on the weekends when he needed to work late. My dad, being more of a night owl anyway, would always end up working at night. We would drive the forty five minutes to Omaha, in the dark, and go to his office. It was a huge building with offices in the front and a giant warehouse in the back. My dad, an IT professional, would spend most of his time in front of his computer or inside the server room, leaving us with a few dollars for the vending machine and free to do what we wanted. Since we would often be there overnight, no one was in the building but us. My sister and I would spend hours in cubicles, careful not to touch anyone’s personal belongings, spinning in the barstools at the parts counter. The time my dad taught us how to use the phones, we spent hours calling each other from across the room. We would creep through dark rooms between cubicles careful not to be caught by the bad guys trying to kill us. Most importantly though, we would go to the warehouse. The warehouse was huge, possibly endless. We never made it all the way back, it was too dark, too scary. My dad’s company dealt with heating and cooling, air conditioners and furnaces mostly. The warehouse was a huge cement room with shelves of air conditioners stacked to the ceiling, but at times it was a city. The shelves turned to skyscrapers, impossible to see over. Sometimes it was a jungle. The catwalks leading to shelves of small parts turned to canopies, or catwalks in a theatre. Sometimes it was just a warehouse, but it was full of criminals. We were police, bubble wrap pops turned to gunshots echoing off of the cement walls. Sometimes we were still just children, but on the run. We were the boxcar
children or ourselves being chased by the kidnappers coming to catch us. Every corner, every aisle in the shelves needed to be watched as we tried to escape in the dark. Pallet jacks were our get-away cars. We would run to one end of the warehouse with a sun painted on the wall like a Sublime album. This was the safe side, well-lit, comfortable. The other side was just the opposite, the Elephant Graveyard, the danger zone. There was only one time where we ventured into the darkness. We walked slowly past the familiar shelves, our own boundaries. We walked into a second room lined with loading bays. It was dark, the only part of the warehouse that wasn’t lit at night. We walked in slowly, side by side, afraid of what might be inside. It was surprisingly empty, except for a semi parked into a bay. As we ventured farther in, everything got dark. The light was slowly fading behind us. We walked in until we could barely see our hands in front of our faces. The back of the truck was open. Being the only thing in the room, the truck invited us over to it. We got to the mouth of the truck, already open, showing its hollow interior. We cautiously took a few steps in. A loud clang came from outside. We ran. We ran as fast as we could towards the light, unable to see very far in front of us. We were sure there was something right behind us, a monster with a thousand teeth, a murderer with a knife, a lion free from the zoo. We ran as fast as we could past the familiar shelves, under the catwalk, a left at the sun. We burst through the large double doors leading to the offices, comforted by the carpet, like land to a shipwrecked sailor. We were safe, our hands and knees colored black from the dirty floor. We decided it was not safe to go into the warehouse again that night. My sister spent the rest of the night doing, what was to her, the second best thing in the building. Writing stories at an old typewriter in a back corner. Creating worlds on paper what we would later live in the warehouse.
47
Strengths Destiny Jorenby We live. We observe everything come to pass, heads in the clouds, thoughtless. Why does the world expect us to be so strong? Who is strong? So many clouds, swallowing us. I don't understand strengths. Everyone is weak somehow. Everyone's got their head in the clouds. Strength and weakness— both will be obtained. We learn strengths from the weak, and, somehow, we become stronger in more perfect ways.
48
The Watcher Kyle Korthour Digital Art
49
False Starlight
Tumultuous Skies
I gaze up at the night sky, and see the stars—
Bright cracks etched
Leah Alsaker
sparkling snowflakes in the black, velvet sky. I wonder if that star, the one with the silvery sheen, still exists, or if it’s gone, leaving only an echo,
Jena Bulock
in the ebony horizon— lightning stretches its fingers, exposing tributaries, glowing and flashing
light reaching Earth, eons after its source perished.
bright in turbulent skies,
When a child cries with no water to fuel his tears,
leaving darkness.
when a duckling dies, lungs laden with oil, when a woman has no job, nothing but love to stand on as strangers take her child, do we hear it? Do we see it? Do we notice at all? Or, do we walk through the darkness, content with the echoes, the shadows, that insist all is right? Do we listen to false starlight?
Flashes vanish in seconds,
50
Peculiar Fable
Carly Jackson Acrylic paint on canvas
51
Port of Piraeus Dana Strong
Leaving the acrid tang of the fish markets behind us, we departed Piraeus bound for Santorini by sea. Fleets of trehantiri were returning to port against the rising sun, salty nets and gaffes safely stowed in the bow. In the stern: squid, sea bass, smelt, tuna. It was two days after you said, “I want something more.” We stood on the deck of the cruise liner inching out of port, tiny fishing vessels scurrying like bait fish in the path of a shark. The sun’s reflection off the brass railing gave your face a golden hue, studded with amber freckles, a Greek fresco, eyes scanning the horizon. Back in Athens, I had gotten sick from calamari and too much ouzo, and you said, “I want something more.” A porter came around and handed us individually packaged pills, for motion sickness. In Greek, nausea translates to ship-sickness. “Naus means ship in Greek,” I said. You stared intently at the sea. I swallowed the pill; the metallic taste pierced like a fishhook.
52
Life's Collections Haley Bradshaw
When I opened the nightstand drawer, I did not expect to find colored sand— periwinkle plum, ravishing red, and blossoming blue—stored in an oblong jar; my grandmother’s bracelet of pearls worn fifty years, its small peach globes shining, scratched up; a pure white feather, plucked and taken home on one’s long travels, one who left not too long ago; a snow globe with a wind-up music box. My fingers curl around the cold, golden metal, twisting it once, then twice; my eyes following the snow that falls as goose bumps arise. Musky-sweet scent of collectibles embraces me as I sit on my knees, anticipating the song’s end.
53
Interior of a Raindrop Haley Bradshaw
He grabs the wooden cutting board, scuffed from many nights of high-stress dinners, and he reaches for a knife. I think of the inside of a raindrop as just water, trapped water that has no ending but the looming ground before it.
If I asked him to capture a raindrop and slice it open, he would do it. Hell, he would capture a million of them if it took him all damn day. I can see him now, as he walks over to the metal counter, slowly motioning for the empty Mason jar. He looks at me once before he heads for the door, the same cocky smile he always wore when he knew he could outsmart me as if to say, “Watch me.” The rain pounds harder on the roof as I sit on the maroon, leather armchair stationed by the back window. I stick my fingers through the cream, crochet blanket, feeling the smooth yarn catch on my dry, cracked hands. The raindrops catch on the screen as they slither their way down to the puddle awaiting them at the bottom. My obscured vision only allows me to see a blurred version of the man I have grown to love more than I had first imagined. He stands there in the rain as if the biting wind has no effect on his drenched clothing. I gently knock on the window to tell him to stop being silly and come inside where it’s warm. He slightly turns, his once gelled-back, black hair plastered to his forehead. A smirk he is too damn proud of takes the place of his smile. His blue Henley soaks through and clings to his skin as the Mason jar fills with raindrops. His arm muscles tighten under his warm skin as he brings the Mason jar from above his head to his chest, careful not to spill even one. I wait at the door for him, dry towel in tow. “Now look here,” he says, “I’ll show you what the inside of a raindrop looks like.” His eyes glow with adventure, the sunflower encompassing his pupil embraces what little light the windows allow in, dancing with each glance.
“No, my love,” he says, “It encapsulates the world.” If he was to cut the raindrops he has captured, it would leave but a mere stain of water on the cutting board, nothing more. To him, however, these raindrops have seen love and war from distant places unknown to anyone but themselves. I find myself reaching inside the Mason jar, imagining myself grabbing just one raindrop he has captured. My fingers hit the water. My tired eyes open, finding myself with my bare arm hovering over the metal, kitchen counter. My pale, blue eyes stare in front of me, quickly taking in the scene alone. Goosebumps find their way upon my skin as I draw my cold arm inward, the oversized sweater embracing me. I turn and hear the wooden floor creak beneath my warm slippers. Turning the plastered corner, I lean my shoulder against its rough edge. A smile makes its way upon my low-lit face, shadows cast upon it from the dim lamp he sits beneath reading. The maroon armchair hugs his figure, warmth emitting. I can feel it from here. His head lifts slightly so that his dark eyes peer around the corner, catching the edge of mine. The smirk from before is replaced with a gentle smile inviting me into his arms. The rapid drumming of my heart from before tells me, “Just a dream.”
54
Glory Days Erin Beck
Photograph
55
Midwestern Men Madelin Mack
Maybe you work for one and he's finally retiring ten or twelve years after he should have, and you give him a card with boats, or mountains, or geese on it, and you thank him for taking a chance on hiring you, and he just nods and reminds you to submit your time sheet so you get paid for the month. You see the card propped up on his office desk when you leave. Maybe your older brother is one and he finds a lighter in your car, and he tosses it onto your legs while you're reading and just stares at you, and it might not be yours, but you don’t say that because it doesn’t matter to him, and his jaw is a little off center because he's trying not to grind his teeth, and he all he says is "I don't want to see this again." You know he smokes sometimes, but you nod and give it back to him, hands shaking. Maybe your dad is one and it's your senior prom, and you're wearing a dress he paid for, posing on the stairs so your mom can take pictures, and your sisters are talking about your hair and your flowers, and your mom says you look beautiful and looks at your dad, and he's standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, and he takes his hat off, puts it back on, blinks a lot, and nods. His eyes are a little red, and so are yours.
56
Sundogs Susan Bassett
The eyes are caught and held by the rainbow that lasts all day. Though a phenomenon, it has been seen before and will be again— here, in winter, on the high plains, during the coldest of days. Cast against a sky of unreplicated blue, it beckons, surrounding a sun that has no warmth. The scene is beauty and fear; life, and death. All who witness seek shelter in places of human design. Smoke and steam accompany the rainbow. Testaments to endurance, and perseverance; delusion and arrogance.
57
Goodbye Fall, Hello Winter
Kayla Peterson Photograph
58
The Smell of the Rain on the Wind Mark Brenden
He’s an old man, the kind what there ain’t much use for now, save for rocking in chairs and sighing and asking for more coffee. His old wife cooks him corn and pork for supper and pours him cornflakes in the recurring miracles of the morning. She tells their grandson with a wry grin that she ain’t heard more’n a dozen words out of the old man’s mouth save for yep and eezus since they sold the farm and moved into town. Here he is now on the deck their son built for them, rocking in his chair, watching the wind, sighing, and asking for more coffee. She brings it to him and pats his shoulder with a maternal grace. At their age, she figures, what else is she but his mother? Their last kiss on the mouth was last September at their fiftieth wedding anniversary at the Lion’s Club here in town. They were the last on the floor for the married couple’s dance marathon and their daughters requested a smooch for their picture. Roxy must have it, she figures. Well let her keep it. Lord knows Larry wouldn’t want it around anyhow. He was distant and mean that night. Reckon he was embarrassed. Slept in his chair. Said the ballgame went late and he just zonked it right there. But the television weren’t on and she heard the men at the store talking about an early doubleheader that next day on. Mom, he hollers at her. I’m right here behind you, her response. Well it’s Danny’s birthday this Wednesday. Yep. I’ve got the cards in the drawer. Junior and Jane are getting him a tablet. A what?
Oh, I don’t know. Eezus. Well you better get that card in the mail. Don’t your fangers work? And he goes by just Dan now. Not like yours can, and he takes a sip of his coffee and stares off at the hydrangea leaves flapping in the wind like a thousand flags. She returns to the counter and pulls from a stack of cards and their checkbook and writes twenty five and 00/100 dollars on the check and this on the inside of the card: Happy birthday, Dan. Windy here. Larry expects rain, but you know Larry. I’ll make lefsa for Easter. You’re such a nice boy. Love, Grandma & Grandpa You want to sign it, dad? She hollers in the deck’s direction. A loud snore comprises his retort. She goes out and takes the coffee from his chest and covers it with the afghan she knitted for him when he lost his leg to a grain auger must’ve been, oh, forty years back now. He right near gave up on it all after that. Used to play kittenball in town, even coached Larry Jr’s team two summers. Drank whiskey with the other men some weekends. Swung her round and round on the nights they’d jitterbug at the dancehall. When his leg went so did his fire. His wildness and passion for being a man. Hell, on their wedding night he dipped her low and laid a tongue to her throat, right there in front of the congregation. Her daddy didn’t take to it much but if she’d been happier, well, she’d forgotten the time. The bell rings for the oven and before she attends to it she stands there behind the old man awhile, hand on his shoulder, looking out at the clouds greying and growing heavy. Yep, she breathes low.
59
The World Is Bigger Than You Mary Berg Photograph
60
All That You Can't Leave Behind Haley Wilson
entire school’s eyes on me as I join the line of the unlucky few who must speak today. I feel like I’m tiptoeing on a tightrope, and the whole world is about to see me fall. Or vomit. I hike up my ironed khaki pants and shuffle along
“He pledged allegiance to the flag. He boarded a plane for broad stripes and bright stars. He fought our country’s battles on the air, on land, and sea. He kept his honor clean, and was proud to claim the title of United States Marine. He dived into the perilous fight and was handed a 30-06 Springfield rifle, which fast became his best companion. He donned crisp army greens, and flew home with a medal, an old canteen, and memories exploding in his head like gunfire. Twenty-five years later, he clutched his oldest son in a solemn airport, watched him cross a crowded tarmac and enter the fray decreed by Lyndon Johnson. And he was never the same again.” At least, that’s what I should have said.
***
I almost drop the flag. How could I? Any third grader ought to know better. What if I’d had to burn my flag on today of all days? My stomach, brimming with free muffins, feels like it’s packed with soggy sand. I tug on my red shirt, the one speckled with tiny glinting stars, the one with the scratchy tag, the one Mom only has me wear on special days. I steel my clammy fingers around the small wooden pole of the canvas flag, identical to the others in the crowded, murmuring gymnasium. The warm air is thick with the scent of buttered pastries, brewing coffee, and old people. “Ready to go?” my teacher, Miss Amert, whispers in
the line. I am third. I wonder if I have time to run to hide in the bathroom before― no, it’s starting. Sierra explains that her dad was in Vietnam. She is passed a glowing candle, like a tiny spark spewing from her palm. The crowd smatters applause and sips their coffee. Alex chimes in that his grandfather was a pilot. He accepts the candle and the meager claps. And all too soon, it is my turn. Miss Amert presses the sleek microphone into my hand and a tiny, white, lit candle into the other. The flickering flame winks on 200 sets of curious eyes peering back at me from the stands. I take a deep breath, and my exhale roars over the mic, echoing loud enough to make me wince and a few of the old ladies simper. “My grandpa fought in World War II and. . .” I start. “And he was a marine.” Silence echoes back at me and I try to stumble my way back. “Um, my grandpa got a medal and it’s blue and hanging in our hallway.” Crickets chirp as the crowd stares blankly. “Happy Veterans Day,” I squeak, then march over to the bleachers, my face ablaze with humiliation. I will never know what my grandfather’s laugh sounded like, but I know he was laughing that day.
***
In the closet on soft, chocolate brown carpet of my grandparents home was a chest overflowing with toys and knickknacks. Among the musty stuffed
my ear. “Make sure to smile,” she commands, tucking
animals, the vintage model cars, the doodled-in
her chestnut locks behind her ears and illuminating her
coloring books, was an olive green canteen, complete
cheeks with a 1,000 watt grin as an example.
with strap and a neon orange ever-sealed cap. The
I can only nod, the flag in my hand feeling heavy as steel and slick from my sweaty palms. I feel the
front bore a logo of a word I didn’t then know: Marines. It served years ago as a makeshift purse as
61
I pushed around a toy, cherry-red shopping cart,
Judgment Throne, ‘Well done, Marine, well done!’”
and selected from plastic foods. I shuffle into the living room with my shopping
***
My sixth-grade class has been learning about
cart, adding necessities like coasters, the TV remote,
World War II. That one was with Japan. We’ve been
a half-empty bottle of water. I swing the canteen-
talking about that in Social Studies all week. On
purse over my narrow shoulder and pretend to pull
Monday, I’d murmured to Mrs. McGrane as I tugged
money out of it. “Grandma, what is this?” I ask,
on my winter boots, “My grandpa was in that,”
looking over to her as she knits lime-green Easter
pointing to the whiteboard dotted with notes. “He
decorations in the recliner with a keen eye.
had a medal, and it’s at my house now.”
She looks up at my token and answers, “You put
Mrs. McGrane had asked if I’d like to share it
drinks in it. Like water,” she explains.
with the class. I decided I would; it was a pretty cool
“Can I put my grape pop in here?” I wonder,
medal. My arms reached high onto the tan walls of
shaking the empty container. The chain holding the
my hallway at home and I’d carefully unlatched the
cap rattles noisily.
framed medal and photo from the wall. The medal
“No, Haley, Grandpa got that when he was a
had blue straps and a bronze face, just a few shades
Marine,” Grandma tells me, peering around the
lighter than a penny. Above it was a black and white
corduroy arms of the recliner for the remote I’ve
framed photo of Grandpa and Grandma’s wedding
taken hostage.
day. That certainly didn’t look like Grandma.
“A Maureen?” I ask. Maureen is my momma’s real name.
Grandma wore blue polyester jumpsuits and pulled her false teeth out to scare me. Grandma had light
“Yes, a soldier,” she answers. Soldier. I automati-
grey/brown hair and a wrinkly face. The lady in the
cally pictured the tiny, olive-green men residing in
picture had a very nice smile, and dark ringlets of
the dusty toy box upstairs, grasping one-inch plastic
hair with a floor-length wedding gown. She stood
guns, their narrow boots frozen on flat green spaces.
next to a man, tall in a suit with untidy hair and
Grandpa was that?
broad-framed glasses. He didn’t look like the
***
Now, I wonder what ever became of that old
pictures I’d seen of Grandpa, either. In my book bag, the whole glass frame is
canteen. Which family member had claimed it when
squished as I wait for class to begin. When the time
the house was auctioned off and the residents
comes, I slide it out of the blue JanSport bag and
slumbered in a nearby cemetery? What disasters had
sidle up to the front of the classroom, the rust-col-
this relic seen? What country, what soldiers, what
ored floorboards groaning under my feet. My
jungle, what battle? What had he seen? For me, and
classmates are curious and flushed from the outdoor
the rest of the world, the canteen was just a canteen.
chill. I hold the heavy frame up with wobbly arms
The flag was just a flag. But for him, the flag was a
until Mrs. McGrane helps me set it down. “This is
reminder of old mistakes, of old days, of old greens.
my grandpa and grandma,” I explain, wringing my
Had that empty canteen squatted next to him in a
hands as I nod towards their black and white figures
muddy bunker somewhere as he slung these words
on the page.
on the page? “And I hope he’ll say on that final day when my sands of life are run, and I stand alone at the
As my gaze lingers over the man in the photo’s face, the teacher compliments, “He’s very handsome.”
62
I found it strange to look at the man in the photo.
gled end table at my mother. Her glasses perch low
He wasn’t old. He wasn’t playing cribbage or driving
on her nose as she gazes down at the paper in her
an Oldsmobile. He wasn’t the grandpa I knew—or,
hand. Mine. Mom and Dad don’t know I’ve been
had heard about. I power through: “And this is his
writing about him, my grandfather; I wanted to
medal he got for being a soldier in World War II. He
surprise them. But these days, Grandpa and I spent
has a canteen, but that’s at my grandma’s house.”
a lot of late nights together. In a library, in a book, in
“Cool,” my friends murmur.
my head. I am nervous for Mom to read it, for her
“Where did he fight?” Alex chimes in, leaning
eyes to imbibe all the research I’ve done. Finally, I
closer over the edge of the battered desk we cluster
know him—Grandpa’s life, his war, his words. I
around.
stare blankly at the Dr. Oz show as my stomach
“In World War II,” I answer him like the war was a place. Obviously.
gambols its way into my throat. My hands lace together and apart, together and apart. What page is
“Yeah, but what country?” he insists. “Oh. . .I’m not sure,” I fudge as my stare burns a hole in the floor. “It was a long time ago.” “My guess would be Japan,” Mrs. McGrane rescues me. “That was common of the time.” We all admire the portrait in silence then, and I like the way the lights gleam back at me, like Grandpa is winking. I wonder why he didn’t wear the medal in the wedding picture. “Did he kill any enemies?” Alex suddenly interrogates.
she on? What’s taking so“Hmm. . .” Mom states, resting my essay onto her lap. “What did you think?” I ask, tucking my overlong bangs behind my ears. “Haley,” she begins then stops. “Where did you get this?” “The idea came from Grandpa’s book,” I reply. I’d already told her that. “The one with all his memoirs and poems and things.” The one I’d scoured for days.
“No,” I snap. “He was a good guy.” Idiot. “How long was he a soldier?” Shelby steps in, on my side.
“But where did you get this bit about Iwo Jima and World War II?” she persists, raising her eyebrows. “Hon, Grandpa never went to Japan. He
“I don’t know,” I answer softly. I don’t know.
never left the United States.” My stomach begins its swift descent back to my
The next day, we watch a boring documentary on
torso, dropping like lead. Dr. Oz reminds us to cut
the war, and I am riveted. I watch as pixelated black
down on snacking between meals. “Wh- What do
and white figures board ships, planes, and trains to
you mean?” I falter. “It’s there, it’s in his poems. Why
the great unknown of war. I search their faces as
would he write something that didn’t happen?”
they wave goodbye.
“It wasn’t a lie,” Mom explains. “He really was a
His stories are a train I can’t fully board, with one
Marine in the war, he just never shipped out.
foot on the platform and the other in the train-car as
Grandpa did things here at home- building railroads
I refuse to mind the gap.
and such. But he was always trained and prepared
***
I curl up on our mocha-brown couch and hug my knees to my chest, peering across the coaster-span-
for shipping out.” But he never did. His medal mocks me in the hallway as I walk past to my bedroom, to my
63
bookshelf. I pick up the familiar binding of poems
embarrassing speech made from a nervous seven-
and sink to the floor. I trace my fingers lightly over
year-old that didn’t know the man behind her
the yellowed pages. Everything seems untrue.
words. A book of memoirs about a war that fol-
I flip through the pages in a whirl, searching,
lowed him like a shadow. But there was one thing
searching. Page 96 greets me, enshrouds me in a fog.
that had always been clear: he was more than just a
Before, it read like certainty, billowing like a flag.
soldier or a writer or a father or a husband or any of
Now it reads like a hangnail- picked at and chewed
his various jobs. He was brown-framed glasses and
over. “And though all I have to show for it are a white
a gleaming gold pocket watch. He was one half of a
card that has a purple triangle in the center that says
his-and-hers gray, marble headstone. He was an
‘Service Connected Priority’ and a monthly Disability
enigma that I couldn’t quite grasp, a song I didn’t
Compensation check, I still like to look sometimes at the
have lyrics for, an essay full of guesses.
piece of paper that says ‘United States Marine Corps Honorable Discharge’ and feel in my heart that I will always be one of the Few, the Proud, the Marines.” His words. My words. They will never connect.
***
I learned about him through relics. A white, wooden cross resting next to his headstone. A gleaming medal. An olive-green canteen. An
He is out of reach.
64
A Lone Leaf Falls Matthew Harty Photograph
Campus Madelin Mack Weekdays: we wear cattle trails into the green space because they taught us the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. They told us to stay in school. We made ourselves fit into the small boxes with bunk beds like the kind we always wanted as kids. Now, we nod to the cement snaking aimlessly around the dorms—residence halls— eroding the grass under foot, single-minded.
Weekends: we stumble-snake on sidewalks because they give us a track to follow back to our boxes. They told us to get involved in the community. We let ourselves spill outside our borders and backpacks, like our cattle trails will fill out overnight. Now, we laugh at the cement moving in waves—staying still— and breathe on the stars, multi-minded.
65
Detached Surroundings III Cole Behrends
Acrylic paint on panel
66
Casserole Spenser Kavanaugh
some kind of goulash all over my hand. Damn it. The sink proves to be a larger problem than I thought. I can’t turn on the faucet with my goulash covered hand but my other hand still has the pickles
Pies. Cakes. Casseroles in every flavor. Green bean, tater-tot, tuna, chicken, macaroni, and sweet potato. A myriad of pasta dishes. Three different kinds of chili. And they are everywhere, literally. They dominate the small kitchen, the table, the counter tops, the top of the fridge, and the end tables in the adjacent living room. I pick up a jar of homemade pickles, perfectly preserved like everything in this house. The pies, the cakes, the casseroles, all wrapped in plastic or encased in Tupperware. Food for days, or months, or no time at all. I want to throw it all away, to burn it, to shove it down the garbage disposal and watch it blend into a lumpy gray puree. I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask for sympathy, or for food, or for this expensive suit and tie, or the black that everyone is wearing. I didn’t ask for her to die. The only thing I do ask for? For her to live. To not be dead. It all reminds me of her. It reminds me of this morning, of burying her, putting that box in the ground for some stupid, pointless ceremony. I remember the casket, so fancy and decorated and ironclad to prevent nature from getting to her. All so it can sit for an eternity in the ground. I open the refrigerator which is, unsurprisingly, filled to bursting with more food. A pile of deer jerky falls out when I open the door. I stare down at it. I’m not going to pick it up. And of course, there’s no room for the pickles. There’s no room in the fridge or on the table. I try to balance them on a plate of cookies, then between
in it. It’s awkward to say the least. And when I do curl my pickle-bearing hand under the lever and push it upwards, my elbow knocks a casserole to the floor. They are seriously everywhere. I’m surprised one isn’t sitting inside the sink. But at least I manage to wash my hand. I turn around and face the kitchen again. The food. The casseroles. Each one has its own face hidden in the toppings. The tater-tots all look like the old ladies from church. The yams look like Bruce’s grandmother. It’s like they’re staring at me, like they keep repeating their I’m-sorry-for-your-loss’s or their I-understand-what-you’re-going-through’s. Oh, and contrary to popular belief, saying “I can’t imagine what you’re going through” is in no way better than saying “I understand what you’re going through.” They both suck. They both make me want to punch people. Yet, for all the mushy, pseudo-faces staring back at me, the kitchen is empty. The living room and bedroom and house are all empty. The pickle juice sloshes when I move my hand a little. I’m still holding the stupid pickle jar. I don’t even like sweet pickles. Hell, I don’t even like most of this stuff. I hate yams and I hate tater-tots. And I hate casserole. And goulash. Why do I have all of these things? Whoever decided that you are supposed to shower people with food when they lose someone? I don’t want any of this food. I move away from the sink to sit, but of course I can’t. Of course there is a plate of chicken on the stool by the little breakfast bar. Of course there is
some premade spaghetti and a tray of brownies. It
some kind of strange barley stew sitting on my
threatens to roll off the table and crash to the ground
kitchen chair. And why wouldn’t there be most of a
before I shoot my hand out, catching it and smearing
turkey on the small swivel computer chair? I can’t
67
even go into the living room without the mountain
around for a few seconds, making an oscillating
of staring food assaulting my peripherals.
metallic sound as it spins. I look down and find my
And Jesus Christ, this is stupid. All of this. All of this… stuff, this food. It’s in my way, consuming
hand free of the pickle jar. Free of the pickles. The table behind me. It’s full of more pickles. Pies,
my life. I can’t think about anything else. Just these
cakes, casseroles, pastas. I upturn a large bowl of
endless casseroles that I’ll never eat and mystery
chili onto small tray of pastries. The tin of a pie flies
pasta salads that I won’t even open. I walk past
through the air, dumping apple slices as it flies. Tuna
the bar towards the front door and catch my elbow
erupts from the counter like a geyser of mashed fish.
on the tinfoil wrapping of something. Some kind
I’m breathing hard, standing amidst a scene of
of fruit and Cool Whip salad crashes to the floor,
carnage. The table and counters and other horizontal
scattering a bloody pink foam across the tiles. The
spaces are mostly cleared of the offending foods
sudden breach of silence startles me, and I jump,
now. Minus the floor of course. It’s filled with
grabbing the table next to me. My hand sinks into
the broken shards of other people’s careless good
another casserole.
intentions. The cupboards and cabinets are stained
I can’t. I just can’t do this right now, deal with this food and this clutter and this weird inability to focus
with them as well. And I don’t want to clean this up. I don’t want
on anything but the food. And these stupid pickles
to smash or throw anything anymore. And I don’t
are still in my stupid hand because there is no room
want to cry. I just want Liz to be here. With me or
in the whole freaking house to put them. I raise
not with me, just alive. Living. Breathing. Laughing.
the jar up towards my face, looking into the pale
Or even crying. Anything other than the horrible,
liquid. It’s vibrating a lot, drawing air bubbles down
stone cold, collagen-filled, pasty white face that was
toward the submerged vegetables. I’m confused for
displayed in her coffin.
just a moment as to what’s going on. I’m the one shaking.
But she’s gone. That’s it. No context, no greater meaning, no reasoning or plan or purpose. She just
Nothing in this kitchen is right. It’s all where
isn’t here anymore. I can’t change it. And I’m not
it’s not supposed to be. There’s supposed to be a
going to clean up this mess. I peel off my shirt as I
stack of newspapers on this end of the table, not a
walk down the short hallway to the stairs, heading
goulash. This counter space is for the stream of local
up for a shower. I don’t know what to do or think.
coupon books that we never use. It’s not where we
I just want a hot shower. Like, inferno levels of hot.
put sympathy cake. And the top of the refrigerator is
Steam on the mirror and windows kind of hot. And
absolutely not the place for three cheese and cracker
I should get cleaned up and looking nice because I
platters. What kind of pity food is that anyway? Like
know Matt or Ryan is going to call and force me into
who gives that to someone? Who thinks, “Man if my
having a bro night that I certainly don’t want. I’ll
best friend died I could sure use some cheese and
just deal with the mess downstairs. . .later.
crackers”? A loud cracking sound pierces the air. I snap my neck to the fridge in front of me. Pickle juice streams lazily down the front of the white door while small glass shards tinkle onto the ground. The tin lid rolls
68
Kitchen Table, 6:00 a.m. Jacob Brown-Beach
Sit down, friend, to discuss, over burned toast, the depravity of hope. Charred bread is a disgrace to wheat. The fields weep and sway in mourning to see the farmer’s scars patented with such disregard. One hand caught in the toaster — black coffee grounds and grits litter the table at dawn. Daughter hovers, on watch, sons in town, the missus gone. Another round for the grizzled duo. Without work, purpose, they decompose, wither away with the harvest
69
Toast
Michelle Gleason
Compressed charcoal
70
Pleasing the Crowd Emily Meyer
I pulled out the bench and slid my body under the cold wood of the piano. I reached for the book sitting on the piano’s ledge. Some of the pages had come out of the binding after so many years of being shoved around from one drawer to another. But even after all the abuse, the book still fell open to my favorite songs. I fanned through the pages, stopping at an ear-tagged page. Scribbles of lead laced the lines. My fingers curled in anticipation. If you asked her, I’m sure my mother would say she enrolled me in piano lessons to make me a more creative, intellectual individual. But if you ask me, I think she just wanted me to experience the same agonizing ritual of piano lessons that she had to endure in her youth. Dad and I searched the entire state for a piano. We drove from one town to the next, following wherever the classifieds led us. They all looked fine to me, and they all sounded the same as well. But Dad had more specific stipulations I guess. He always found a reason to turn down one piano after another, until he finally found the perfect one. “You can’t beat free,” he explained to me when I asked what made this particular box of wood and keys so special. It was only twenty minutes from home, and unlike all the other pianos, this one didn’t come with a price tag. My breath billowed in front of me the day we went to pick it up. The pickup seat sent shivers all the way to my lips as I waited to leave the parking lot. Dad turned the key in the old pickup’s ignition, but it refused to shudder to life. He turned it again— nothing. I whispered a prayer, making sure Dad couldn’t hear. I watched nearly in tears from inside the truck as Dad climbed out of his seat and lifted
the hood of the pickup for examination. He didn’t seem to share my alarm from our predicament. He didn’t understand the seriousness of the situation. Without a pickup that started, I just knew we had little chance of ever making it home with my piano. My five-year-old mind bounced from the pickup walls as I imagined our fate. Maybe if we left the piano behind, someone would pick us up and bring us home. Or maybe we’d have to live there forever, in that strange little town. I screeched with excitement when Dad opened the pickup door to tell me he almost had the engine running. A miracle. Once we made it home and moved the piano inside, I realized no one thought as highly of it as I. It didn’t have much to offer, having spent many years of neglect in the back of a grocery store before we agreed to take it. I knew nothing about the piano, so I didn’t mind that it played horribly out of tune. I also overlooked its several keys which sat bare, missing their ivory tops, or the keys looking as though someone had taken a bite out of the ends of them. The rigid edges felt like teeth to me. They gave the piano a face, a smile. My mother complained, wishing we had found something a little more attractive to sit in our home. I disagreed completely. I benefited from the flaws, learning the notes by the appearance and feel of the keys. High A sat next to the brown paper-like key, while low G had two bites taken out of it. I couldn’t imagine how anyone had learned to play the piano any other way. The first time I played on a smooth keyboard, I panicked. My fingers slid so easily over the keys! How would I recognize the notes without the bumps to guide me? I held my breath and scanned the shiny keys, trying to pick out something familiar–Middle C, anything. I centered myself on the bench and placed my hands where they seemed to fit, and suddenly my fingers took over. As I started the top line of my piece, it all came so easily; my hands had
71
it memorized. But even then, I still preferred my
for an excuse. “No, let’s play a game instead!” or “I
warn keys at home.
don’t know any songs today, Grandpa.” He didn’t
I played my first recitals to a very private
argue. Later, Mom explained why he cried, how I
audience. Grandpa sat in the chair behind me,
reminded him of his wife, my grandma. Mom said
listening intently to my rigid playing.
Grandma played the piano too, and when I played,
“Can you play me another one?” He’d always ask. One day, I decided it was not enough to merely have him sit and listen. “I’ll teach you to play, Grandpa!” I suggested. He took a seat on the rickety bench. I wrapped my arms around his trunk, landing my hands on top of his. I can’t quite remember the way they felt, but I can still remember the way they looked—darkened with age
he thought of her. Mom said I kind of even look like Grandma. “So when you play, it’s like he gets a piece of her back. Just keep playing. He loves it when you do. He only cries because he’s happy,” she explained. I kept playing. Even when Grandpa no longer sat in the audience to hear me, I played. The day I got my Beatles song book, I played for
and stained with oil from his decades of collecting
twelve hours straight. I went through song by song,
and repairing his old John Deere tractors. I used to
playing the notes I knew and faking the notes I didn’t.
take him to the sink and wash his hands, scrubbing
“‘Norwegian Wood.’ That’s my favorite,” Dad told
them until they were covered in suds. He’d laugh in response saying, “That’s just how
me once during one of my Beatles playing crazes. I reveled in the information. He’d never admitted to
they look, sweet pea.” After a few more repetitions
enjoying any Beatles song before then. So I decided to
of the scrubbing and rinsing, I’d believe him. Turns
learn it for him, secretly. Whenever he left the house I
out there are some things soapy water just can’t
would run to the piano to pick out one line at a time,
clean. I thought of this as I stood there behind him at
playing it repeatedly until I somewhat succeeded
the piano. He’d already done so much in his life, but
at getting the melody in place. After a few weeks of
why not add this one more achievement? I picked
hiding my practicing, I presented him with the Beatles
up his fingers one at a time and placed them on the
incarnate.
keys. I pressed on them gently, trying to help him
“Just listen to this, Dad,” I said. As he stood and
form a rhythm. He smiled, but didn’t move. The
listened I worked my way through the lines I had
man who seemed to know everything couldn’t learn
managed to learn. My one man audience had returned.
to play the piano.
I looked at the book now as it sat there, lying open.
Instead of trying to teach him again, I gave up
“Norwegian Wood” stared at me. I stared back. I saw
and let him remain in the audience. I performed a
the lines I never conquered and the ending he never
concert every day he came, and I didn’t realize until
heard. I hit the first chord, missing all the sharps and
later that each day while I tapped at the keys, he
flats so that it came out in a jumbled fit of notes. I tried
cried; soft droplets of salt with each note fell from
it again, striking the right pitch this time. I played the
his eyes. When I finally noticed his tears one day, I
rest of the first line. And then the second line, and then
boycotted the piano. I didn’t understand.
the entire first page of music. I kept playing until the
“Why don’t you play for me, sweet pea?” he asked the next time he came to visit. I pictured his tears at my last recital and searched
final chord hit with a thundering crash. No one heard. But the audience roared.
72
These Hands Haley Wilson
These hands were young once; now wrinkles fall like the tides of time, over weathered skin and wedding bands that fit better when she wore a 1945 modest, green wedding gown. These hands gesture to Denmark as home and wave persuasively in the air, conducting conversation and carving lines
These hands closed a coffin lid on her youngest son, after only fifteen years of being his own. They place petunias on a grave once a year while she wonders what might have been. These hands form a clasped steeple and thank God over daily bread and liberally-sugared coffee, They tune in to The Young and the Restless religiously
to make her point.
and scan the paper for garage sales.
These hands
These hands
grasped another’s over sixty years ago while they said, “I do,� then taught five little birdlings to fly, waving goodbye as pages withered from the calendar, years swept on, and her five birds left the nest.
spread out the weekly prints of deaths. An index finger traces tentatively seeking familiar names, dreading and praying, all at once.
73
Fort Jack and Will Haley Wilson
I trod through the house while 5-year-old ankles prod, dig into my hips. An abused horse, I turn laps after a sticky blur screeches, “Ride!”
where eternities tick by as I ram my hands, against locked doors and hear tsunamis of water, escaping from the tub. I glance out the window, where the heathens
and leaps on my back.
tower over and harass cats
In the kitchen, exploded pancakes
ascend the stairs past the too-innocent bedroom,
decorate the walls like a Rorschach test. Around the fridge, where the mouse was found, where I screamed, and jumped onto the stool, while Will plunged the rodent,
like Godzilla over the Japanese, where a glass piggy bank sits in peril, of being pulverized by a sledgehammer of unknown origin.
trap and all, inches from my face;
Reaching my destination, I answer the phone,
past the busted corn burner,
with the stamina of the Energizer Bunny,
where one of them shimmied under, refusing to surrender the severed rodent; near the once-pristine couch, now inlaid with forbidden, ground-up Oreos sprinkled by guilty, little-boy hands. I trip over the corner of the chair that was robbed of its maroon cushions, to better make “Fort Jack and Will.” Trotting by the hallway to the bathroom,
as Jack hops up and down on the furniture and Will demands that the horse gallop faster. “Everything’s going great, Think you’ll be home soon?”
74
Who I Am
Ashley Plummer Charcoal
75
The Zipper Dana Strong
After we quarreled intensely, I heard you closing your coat against the chill autumn wind. The sharp sonic slash of the zipper followed you out. The words hang, still in the empty room. They are the right words, said in the wrong order, spoken in the wrong tongue—mangled. The words are my desire for you. And when I heard the zipper sigh again, it was late in the day. I saw your coat fall to the floor. You looked at the words, hanging, and saw something I could not see. How much we have to mend, when you and I come together. So much to yield, surrender. We each fill the empty space of the other, mingled essence, teeth of a zipper, thoughts of half-lives left behind. And when the animals fatten up to spend a dark winter in hibernation, they leave the gusts of autumn’s argument to sleep. We, too, have filled our longing for harmony.
76
Colors Beneath the Brush Megan Stuart Oil painting
77
Memory Garden Haley Bradshaw
Your garden was my playground. Vines embraced the light pole with their sleek, green limbs, casting a reflection of an octopuses’ tentacles in the calm water. Conifers scratched the sky with their needles, housing the occasional stinging hornet. Honeysuckle blooms absorbed summer, provided sweet juices that quenched the dryness of a kid’s sun-burned lips. Your garden contained more petals than both my small hands could ever hold; pansy petals, taunting me with their complex veins and tie-dyed faces, marigold petals questioning my paleness compared to their golden-grazed flesh, and geranium petals putting my red, chapped lips to shame. Vibrant, passionate, the bright orange roses blushed in pink, emitting a sweet, luscious peach scent. My nose, covered with yellow dust, would sniff the sweet scent of home. Your garden held eager stems reaching maturity with each passing rainfall. You nurtured seedlings, peeking through the dirt. Leaves of monstrous trees and sculpted bushes aged alongside your girl with the changing seasons. The little buds, bloomed with each given day. Your garden holding plants and flowers swaying to the heart beat of a curious little girl.
78
You Painted A Cross On Our Bedroom Door Derek Skillingstad
1. Saint Paul contemplates suicide as it funnels the cold Mississippi into my gagging lungs.
I’m standing on a terrarium, staring at grey skies and a tugboat,
waiting to carry my body to the meeting of the rivers—Okizu Wakpa.
The seven fires and the stars of the Pleiades remain
from the war of 1862, when the Dakota found themselves held hostage at
Wita Tanka.
My eyes follow a rounded white staircase down to a cemetery.
The dam cracks. The bridge begins to rise. Exactly 3 weeks from today,
I will meet a girl with cigarette burns on her chest.
I will buy her a house on a hillside,
overlooking the ancient father of waters,
with a screen-closed porch and leaky sinks. Here, we will wander.
2. I’m a good boy, and I always kiss with my eyes closed.
I’m sorry that you hate the smell of my cigarettes.
I’m sorry that I drink too much and sometimes fall asleep
on the couch without taking my shoes off.
In the morning, I’ll still lie by your side before you wake up,
listening to your chest rise and fall,
while sunlight peeks through a crack in
those burgundy blinds you bought last summer
with your sister at a yard sale.
I’ll still climb to the top of your favorite tree—
the one you used to climb after Sunday school,
still made-up in that sunflower dress—the one that cut
too deeply into your shoulders.
Your mother insisted you looked beautiful. You’ve found my smile.
79
Auβenseiter
Cole Behrends Oil painting
80
Practicing Ekphrasis Jamie Nagy
always felt connected to you because as a young girl I believed that my love for dance came from you. I mean, that’s what the sheet of paper told me. That’s pretty much all I had to go on until I found a yearbook picture of you
Reading My Birth Mom For thirty-seven years of my life, I could only read
when I was thirty-eight.
who my birth mom was from a piece of paper with
Reading “Dancing Lessons #2”
“Non-Identifying Information” on it.
This woman. This print. This representation. She is
Birthmom Hair: Light Brown Eyes: Blue Height: 5’3” Weight: 120 Nationality: Polish Hobby: Dancing I’ve been trying to define her, describe her, to find her essence, her form, to bring her to life. My whole life. As an adoptee from the era of closed records, I practiced ekphrasis (way before I knew what “ekphrasis” was) from this 8 ½ x 11 yellowed sheet of paper. A representation of her. In print. Its edges and creases worn with years of wonder. Memorized. I hold on to her hobby. I carry it on, still. “My birthmom’s hobby was dancing,” I tell everyone. Ballet (my favorite), tap, jazz, modern. I earned toned and defined legs over my years of dance instruction. Tendues, pirouettes, and pliés. Pink ballet tights, pointe shoes. My daughter dances too. She carries it on. “Dancing is in your blood,” I tell her. Ballet, tap (her favorite) and modern. She too, at age eleven has toned shapely legs. She dances on stage, eyebrows lifted and engaged. Easy grace. Beautiful placement. A natural turn out. Dear birth mom, did you take dance lessons? Did you walk to dance class or did your mom take you? I’ve
not you. She is Joanne Seltzer—daughter of Leo M. Seltzer, M.D. She did take dance lessons and piano lessons in 1954. I can follow the paper trail. Check #1582 on 2/20/1954 for $90 to Mr. John Hiersoux for piano lessons. Check #1846 on 10/26/1954 for $24 to the American Academy of Ballet for shoes. Check #1914 on 12/14/1954 for $32 to the American Academy of Ballet. Joanne Seltzer. Pink parfait tutu—probably a poodle skirt. Loose long and feminine hair. But no sign of ballet in this print, no grande battements, arabesques, or pas de chats. Instead, Joanne’s ghostly girly figure reaches see-through arms up, towards a partner’s neck, as if to hold on. Did she learn ballroom instead of ballet? Did she practice with her dad, Dr. Leo Seltzer, M.D.? Dear birth mom, did you sometimes practice with your dad? Did you dance with my birth dad? I don’t like ballroom much, do you?
Reading the Backdrop Dance lessons in 1954. I imagine money for dance lessons was hard to come by in 1954. But Joanne’s daddy was a doctor, and I (perhaps naively) assume the Seltzer family could afford dance and piano
81
for their sweet daughter. Still, in Joanne’s print—I
under soft blue light, light blue sashes made of
read the backdrop of sacrifice in the backdrop of the
see-through taffeta float from the girls’ wrists. On
checks her daddy wrote.
stage, her hair pulled up in a bun, held in by bobby pins, my daughter wears a little blue eye shadow,
You sacrificed for me, didn’t you, birth mom?
a little blush, mascara, and a little red lipstick—just to keep her from getting washed out by the stage
In fact, that’s kind of the standard definition of
lights. I read Natalie as a leader on the stage. She
adoption, isn’t it—the birth mom sacrifices raising
tells me she is nervous, but she knows what she is
her child to give the child a better opportunity in
doing. And without trying or forcing or faking, she
life. My adoption story tells me my birth parents
expresses the message of the composition to the
didn’t feel financially prepared to get married and
audience. I can tell and I know—she feels a fullness
raise a family. They were both seniors in college
in her heart when she dances. Gentle grace in her
at the University of Illinois—my birth mom in
eyes, her legs—curves of muscle that match mine
accounting and my birth dad in geography (going
and match the dancing training she has taken so
on to be a pilot). They got pregnant in October 1969
far, her arms and fingers extended. . .soft billowy
of their senior year, and my birth mom dropped
poise. She communicates with her eyes to the other
out of college. Her parents were befuddled and
dancers on stage, her friends, and she shares herself
dismayed, I’ve learned; they never knew why and
as she dances.
they took the mystery to their graves. My birth parents never told anyone—not their parents, their
Natalie and I read each other well. She sometimes
siblings, no one in their family that I know of. I
says exactly what I’m thinking, and vice versa. I
can read the sacrifices. My birth mom sacrificed
wonder about my mom. When she saw me on stage
finishing her college degree. She sacrificed her body
at dance recitals, what did she see? My biological
for nine months and then more. She sacrificed the
daughter gives me moments of self-recognition
joy of keeping and nurturing and nursing her first
and self-awareness I never knew I was missing. I
born child. She sacrificed living in freedom and
recognize my hands when I see Natalie’s hands. I
truth.
recognize the shape of my legs and arms when I see Natalie’s figure. I recognize the hugs I give and
I know this print is about Joanne, but I can’t stop
like to receive when I hug Natalie. And I recognize
thinking about you.
the many personality traits of hers that are also mine. She writes. She talks. (My dad always called
I would read every letter of every paper trail of yours
me “windy” growing up.) She likes to learn. She
1000 times.
likes to read. She likes to dance. She likes music. I recognize what I see.
Reading Natalie The Doner auditorium goes dark, and I light up the
Dear birth mom, do you give good long hugs? Do you
paper program with my iPhone. My daughter’s
like to learn? What else do my daughter and I have that
ballet routine is next. Budding 5th grade girls,
is also yours?
budding ballerinas in light pink leotards and tights
82
Reading my Birth Mom’s Picture
And so I research who you are, I find images of who you
I found a picture of her in my thirty-eighth year of
are, but I can really only imagine who you are. I found
life. It wasn’t easy. I chased a paper trail which
you, but I still can’t make you surface.
began with my adoption file: her upside-down, written in cursive, complicated long Polish name on the folder of a file (which I am not supposed to see), to a computer that tracks births and deaths in
Stuck in ekphrasis. Wiki on Ekphrasis:
the state of Illinois, to a Polish obituary that lists
“Socrates and Phaedrus:
my birth mom as a survivor, to searching on the
The painter's products stand before us as though
internet for recent addresses and such, to digs into the archives of libraries for yearbooks, to finally a friend’s mom who still had her yearbook from the University of Illinois and found your picture in a sorority composite photo from 1968. Dear birth mom, you were beautiful. Simple, stylish dark hair. Petite young woman. A beautiful smile. I tried to see myself in you. Everyone who knew me tried. We compared smiles and hair color and eyes and cheekbones and ears and eyebrows and noses and chins and expression. We poured over your photo. The joy of seeing you in print. The joy of imagining you as a sweet, full-of-aspiration sophomore at the University of Illinois recently pledged to a sorority. When I look at your picture, I see the hope of your future and the terror of an unplanned pregnancy around your corner. I feel like I want to say sorry, but I don’t want to apologize for my life, really. I love my life. Could I say thank you? Dear birth mom, did shame make you a pink ghost? Were you vibrant and visible before you gave me up? Did your dancing attract my birth dad’s attention in college? Your dancer’s figure? And now, do you regret it? Because now, you hide. You hide from me. I found you. I wanted to know you. But you say you don’t want to know me.
they were alive, but if you question them, they maintain a most majestic silence.” Your majestic silence breaks my heart.
83
Maggie Shannon Hinrichs
have his diapers changed for the rest of his life. My wife didn’t always look before she leapt, and taking on more work with an additional child that would need intensive caretaking would be difficult. What is the
It started with a llama named Abraham. As often
process for the adoption, how much will it cost? All of
happens, I had conceded to my wife’s whims, and
these things went through my mind without a word
had bought a llama. Her intention was to have
said out loud. Yet, seeing the pleading in my wife’s
something our son Hawken, who was three years
eyes, and the haunting image of the little girl, the
old and unable to walk or talk, could have as a pet.
only thing I could utter was, “Of course.”
In the process of researching llamas and special
A few months later, after many answered prayers
needs children, my wife had begun emailing a
for financing, home studies, and babysitting
woman in Montana who had gone through these
arrangements, my wife and I were on an airplane
issues herself. Apparently, as they discussed llamas,
bound for Bulgaria to meet the little girl with the
they also discussed the prospect of adoption of
haunting eyes. According to Bulgarian Adoption
special needs children, because one day soon after
Law at the time, we weren’t in any way bound by
we had our llama, my wife asked to me sit down
law to take her if, when we met her face-to-face, we
and watch a video tape of a child that was eligible
didn’t like what we saw. Arriving in Sofia, Bulgaria,
for adoption.
we met our intermediary, a young Bulgarian lawyer
The video was of a little girl named Magdalena,
named Polina. Polina explained that she had been
who lived in a Bulgarian orphanage. She was a tiny,
surprised when we had requested to adopt
quiet little girl with impossibly huge brown eyes.
Magdalena. She and her family had set up a
Magdalena had been abandoned at the hospital by
foundation to assist with adoptions of orphans, and
her mother, and was described as having both
she had struggled to get orphanages to list available
physical and developmental problems. The instant I
children. She had the hardest time with the
saw her on the video, my heart broke. My wife
orphanage in Blagoevgrad. The director of the
stared at me as I watched the video.
orphanage had denied her several times. Polina
“Can we get her?” she asked. She asked in the
explained that the only reason that Magdalena was
same voice she always did, the same way she had
eventually listed was that in Bulgarian culture, the
asked for the llama, but this time her heart was on
physically handicapped were complete pariahs.
full display in both her face and her voice.
Polina’s own mother-in-law had been paralyzed
What could I say at that point? Of course I
from the waist down in a car accident ten years
wanted to help this little one. Of course I wanted to
before and had not left her apartment since. By
do something to change the fate of a child in this
allowing Polina to list Magdalena, the director of the
circumstance. My mind started racing through all
orphanage had in effect said, “If you can find a home
the reasons I should say no. We were barely getting
for this broken child, I will consider allowing more;
by, financially. We have three young children at home,
until then, leave me alone.”
with the youngest being severely disabled. Hawken’s
As we walked up to the orphanage, all the things
seizure condition is incurable, and we will always
that could go wrong were running through my head.
have to care for him. He will have to be carried, fed and
Would we be able to communicate with Magdalena? Not
84
only did we not speak Bulgarian, Magdalena had
wife is a beautiful, vivacious woman who is
never spoken to anyone, and even cried silently
extremely outgoing; she immediately ran to the
according to Polina. Polina herself was reticent,
bedside. I am not what you’d call beautiful. I am
unsure if she could emotionally deal with seeing a
taller than most, with large hands and a huge
disabled child. Knowing the attitude of the director of
handlebar mustache. I can bull my way through
the orphanage, would we be received well, or dismissed
most situations that require brute strength, but I am
when he met us? Were we doing the right thing for our
helpless around fragile creatures like children.
family, or were we committing to the care of another child
Maggie glanced at my wife, then pinned me to the
that would be beyond what we could stand?
wall with her eyes.
We were only going to be allowed to spend a few
In the corner of the room was a small box of toys,
hours a day with Magdalena, for four days. The
most of them for very young children. There was an
orphanage staff did not want to disrupt the routine
old-fashioned Fisher Price toy, one of the plastic
of the orphanage for our visit. My wife and I were
columns with various different sized colorful rings
escorted into a small room, with the kind of clinical
around it. I picked it up and held it out to Maggie.
pale green tile that would be found in 1950s
She stared. I showed her how to put the rings on the
hospitals on the walls, a small bed and two chairs.
toy. She stared. I looked through the rings at her,
There were no decorations, no colors, there was no
played peek-a-boo behind my hands. She stared.
warmth in the room at all. This does not feel like a
Then slowly, like a sunrise, I started to see a hint of a
child’s room at all. The sterile environment was
smile come into her eyes. Her face was still
depressing and clinical. We were told to wait in the
emotionless, but her eyes started to twinkle. I
room as they shut the door behind us.
continued to ape for her, doing everything I could to
Ten minutes later a round Bulgarian woman
keep that look in her eyes. Suddenly, she started to
carried in a tiny little creature. She told us through
shake her hands vigorously, palms facing me. It took
our interpreter that Magdalena was called “Meggi”
me a while to realize that she was laughing. Her
by the staff. Maggie sat on the woman’s hip, staring
hands were her voice. Eventually, a tiny close-lipped
at me with no fear and no acceptance. Her huge
smile joined her hands and eyes.
brown eyes seemed to fill her whole face. She was
The time was up. We were allowed to accompany
so, so, so skinny; there was almost no muscle, her
Maggie back up to her crib. Although she was two
elbows and knees jutted out from a skeletal frame.
years old, she was kept with the infants because she
Her tiny neck barely held up her head. Closely
couldn’t walk. The nursery staff was very fond of
cropped hair framed her heart-shaped face and elfin
Maggie, the nurse told us. Maggie did not ever
chin. Dark eyebrows and thick long lashes circled
make any noise. She could use her hands and scoot
her eyes. Skinny twig legs stuck out at ninety degree
on her bottom around the crib that she was kept in
angles from her body. Her skin, which should have
24 hours a day. Maggie had a soft heart for the other
been an olive color, was a pale, sickly gray.
children. Since she was kept in the nursery because
I fell hopelessly and painfully in love.
she couldn’t walk, the other children she had contact
The worker laid Maggie on the bed and left my
with were very young. The cribs were end to end,
wife and I alone with her in the room. Maggie lay
touching each other. The nurse said that when the
back on the pillow and stared, expressionless. My
child in the next crib, a little blond boy named
85
Stoyan with Down’s Syndrome, would cry, Maggie
wrong. We took her back to her stainless steel crib,
would scoot over and reach through the bars and
hugging each other and pretending we would be
hold his hand until he stopped.
back the next day. But somehow, Maggie knew. As
My wife and I spent every moment we could
we walked away that day, my heart was ripped out
with Maggie. She continued to laugh with her
of my chest as I heard a soul-wrenching cry coming
hands, and smile when she saw us, holding her
from Maggie’s crib, a scream that tore me apart. It
arms out to be held. The day for our last visit came
took all my strength to keep walking, to leave that
way too soon. We were told emphatically not to
piece of me behind and walk out the door. I knew I
show any emotion, not to let Maggie see us cry, so
would come back for her, that she would never have
that she would not get upset. We laughed and
to be without me again when I returned, but her cry
smiled and played, and acted as if nothing was
that day is seared into my memory forever.
86
Azure
Kayla Peterson Watercolor and technical pens
87
Three Minutes Madelin Mack
who is not at all used to looking disheveled. Her sweatshirt seems like it probably belongs to someone else and there’s an elastic headband hanging off her highlighted ponytail instead of neatly holding her
It’s only twenty minutes before I have to leave Matt’s room for the sanctuary of the bathroom. I
hair back. She squirms. I notice a white plastic stick in her hand, an object
cannot stand to be around him for another second.
I recognize only from commercials and Lifetime
It’s not that I don’t like Matt—there’s just nothing
movies. She flips it through her fingers like it’s a
about Matt that warrants a strong opinion. Matt
pencil, which is a little awkward because she clearly
is not soaked in controversy. He is the first thing
just peed on it, if Lifetime and commercials have led
you think of when you think ’nice college boy’—an
me to the correct assumptions about how one uses
inch or two under six feet tall, mildly athletic build,
such things.
sandy blonde hair, brown eyes. He wears lots of
When she grabs my shoulder, I can feel how
t-shirts and has plaid sheets on his bed. His favorite
freezing her hands are even though my t-shirt. She’s
movies are The Dark Knight trilogy and Caddyshack.
one of those girls who is always complaining about
I’m pretty sure his mom’s name is Karen. He rarely
how she’s cold. I can tell. She clears her throat and
speaks up in class, but when he’s called on he
says, “I’m sorry I just kidnapped you or whatever,
always knows the right answer.
but I can’t be alone right now, and I can’t ask any
He always asks if I want to study with him when
of the girls who actually live here because I would
there’s an exam coming up in biology, and I always
seriously die. They’d tell everyone. Even if I’m not,
do, just because I want him to surprise me—tell me
you know, whatever. You know what I mean.”
he blew up mailboxes in middle school, he has a
I am extremely disturbed by her ability to
birthmark shaped like Homer Simpson, he’s really
maintain normal vocal patterns while crying that
into Japanese chicks, anything. The closest I’ve
heavily. Her eyeliner, which was already smudged
gotten is when I pressured him into admitting that
before she starting talking, starts to bleed like a
his first kiss was during a game of truth or dare at a
calligraphy pen.
birthday party. Scandalous. I’m pressing the hand dryer button for the second
“Three minutes,” she says, wiggling the stick a little. She sets it on the little bench thing—we’re
time, delaying the inevitable return to Matt’s
in the handicapped shower—and sinks to the
perfectly generic dorm room, considering just
miraculously dry floor, tugging on my pants to
digging through his desk drawers with reckless
indicate I should do the same. Her socks don’t
abandon—I’m positive he wouldn’t stop me—and
match. “I’m just going to leave it there and we’ll
I’m grabbed by the sleeve and dragged into a
wait until we are absolutely positive it’s been three
shower stall. I make some kind of noise that sounds
minutes, and then I’ll look at it.”
like ‘Ohp.’ “Hi,” my cheerleader-esque captor says, unaffected by my surprise, teary eyes slightly manic
The silence isn’t long enough to become any more awkward than the situation already is before she jumps in again.
as she locks the stall behind us. She manages to
“God, what am I going to tell Ethan?” she groans.
look very disheveled while still looking like a girl
I really hope she’s not going to wait for me to
88
answer because I still have no idea what she’s
the hallway without being dragged into a stranger’s
talking about. She closes her eyes and continues,
personal hell. The door creaks open and slams shut
“Ethan’s my—well, we dated for two years. We met
again.
in study hall—high school sweethearts. One day we
My captor picks up without missing a beat. “I
went for a walk, and he bought me ice cream and
didn’t even text him,” she swears. “Ethan, I mean.
told me I was pretty, and that was it. We were us.
Not even when I was drunk, and I was drunk a lot,
I feel like my life hadn’t even started before that.
trust me, but I saw him at Christmas.”
Before—” She scoots closer to me and I feel like scooting
Her eyes flick over to where the pee stick is aging. “It just felt so normal. It was like nothing changed.
away would be the absolutely rudest thing I’ve
I saw him at the gas station, of all places, and I just
ever done. She’s wearing the same Coach perfume
walked toward him and we held onto each other like
as my friend Jess from high school, which is both
we’d been waiting there for years. It had just started
comforting and disorienting. I let her hold my hand.
to snow, too, can you imagine?” I could. I could even
I was right. Hers are absolutely freezing.
imagine the soundtrack behind it.
The girl’s breath catches in her throat. “He gave
“It was so beautiful. That whole break—
me a promise ring for my seventeenth birthday,
everything was just beautiful, and we didn’t talk
and I seriously melted. How dumb is that? Promise
about anything important. We just fell back into old
rings mean nothing. It’s just something you can
patterns, you know? I won’t go into graphic detail,
throw at a guy if he ever cheats on you. That’s not
but obviously. . .”
what happened, by the way. Ethan wouldn’t do that.
She looks at the stick again and swallows.
He just wanted to stay close to home, though, and
“He hasn’t spoken to me since. We didn’t even say
I didn’t. I needed a fresh start, you know? So we
goodbye. I was too afraid that he’d say no if I asked.
decided it was best if we just broke it off when we
That seems so stupid now. He wouldn’t have said
left for college. I have never cried that much—every
no if I wanted to say goodbye. He would have done
day, at least once. I swore everything would be fine,
anything for me, just like always.”
though, and it’s not like there weren’t other guys. There were other guys.” She sniffs. I stare. Someone comes in the bathroom
We wait. At some point she tipped her head onto my shoulder without me noticing. After a few moments she whispers almost to herself, “Two
and slams a stall shut. The girl covers my mouth
months. Has it really been less than two months?
with the ice cube hand that isn’t holding mine—like
How is that possible?”
she’s worried I would suddenly start contributing loudly to her monologue. It’s beginning to feel more and more like a hostage situation. The person on the toilet does her business, and I am embarrassed at how much attention I am forced to pay to the sounds of their private time. Whoever it
She runs her chipped purple fingernails over the tile and takes a shaky breath. “What will Matt say?” My mouth drops open with an obnoxious ‘pop.’ Matt? My Matt? There’s no way. Matt’s a common name. She’s talking about someone else. “I was out to get Matt last semester, ever since I
is takes way too long washing her hands. I imagine
found out we lived on the same floor.” Definitely my
myself in her place—fixing my hair in the mirror,
Matt. He’s the only Matt on this floor. She continues,
taking a fortifying breath and going back out into
“I’d show up at his door in the middle of the night,
89
just plastered, and get in his bed. Can you believe
She lets go of my hand and scoots over, just barely
that? I just got in bed with this kid. He was so nice
close enough to the reach the incriminating, pee-
about it, though. He didn’t make me feel like some
soaked rectangle. Her face is unreadable as she looks
cheap you-know-what, even though I was acting
at it. My mouth tastes like metal. She closes her eyes,
like one, and he didn’t take advantage of me. He just
“Do you want to know?”
helped me over to the futon and covered me up with
I don’t. I do not want to know at all. I speak my
his extra blankets and sat on his bed to wait until I
first words of the experience: “No. I hope everything
fell asleep.
works out for you.”
“I still remember what he said every time. I
“Thank you for sitting with me,” she says,
thought about getting it tattooed. Crazy, right?
removing her cellphone from the kangaroo pocket
That’s how sweet it is. ‘You’re worth more.’ That’s
of her sweatshirt with one hand, waving a little with
what he said every single time, and when I called
the other. As I leave the bathroom, I hear a tiny voice
him crying, he’d say ‘you’re worth more’ and come
from the handicapped shower: “Ethan?”
pick me up from whatever floor or yard or futon I was lying on.” I can see it so clearly I feel like I should have known. Of course Matt would go pick up a very drunk girl. Of course he’d tuck her in on his futon
Matt’s just exactly where I left him, sitting at his desk with the lamp illuminating his carefully highlighted textbook. He smiles softly, “Ready to hit chapter eight?” My backpack is sitting on his futon—the same
and probably make her coffee in the morning. He
futon where he’d tuck in a sad, brokenhearted
always has coffee made when I come over to study.
drunk girl when she needed him. I feel the sudden
He even started buying the creamer that I like after
tightness of incoming tears behind my eyes,
I vaguely mentioned it once at the beginning of the
surprising myself, “Sure.”
semester. How did I not notice? “He knows all about Ethan, but I told him I was
He hands me a copy of the study guide without bothering to ask if I had already printed it out. Even
doing better these past few weeks. I didn’t drink
if I had, I would keep this copy instead. I thank him.
when I thought of him too much anymore, and I
“Anytime,” he smiles, and I see a dimple on the
actually went on a date with a guy from work last week. After Christmas, everything was twice as bad as it had been before, having Ethan back for that short time and then leaving again, but Matt helped me. Matt was so proud of me. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had and now. . ." She peeks over at the stick, biting her lip. She has a birthmark on her neck. It doesn’t look like Homer Simpson, but it’s one of those birthmarks where I’m sure Matt and Ethan and probably everyone else who knows her has an opinion on what it does look like. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and says, “Now it’s been three minutes. I’m sure it has.”
right side of his face. I’d never noticed.
90
Unwoven Nikki Mann
This womb so empty, yearning to carry one so small, so helpless. A blanket he needs, so he can keep warm. Pink fades into purple, which surges into cerulean; These colors connected, like a flowing stream. Every ball of yarn rests in the basket, in the corner where the sun shines in. Half-crocheted blanket lies among a diaper bag, without a strap, holding skeins of yarn that don’t move. The hope that drove me to wish for miracles faded. Years passed with them only in thoughts, dreams. The basket, unmoved, holds the thread that, with love and tenderness, could be useful. It is instead bleached and dusty. Perhaps the variegated yarn will remain unwoven. As I stare at the heap, I know the motley threads will warm no one.
Ethereal Snow Jena Bullock
Heaven must be filled with snow, rapture, sparkling and beautiful, white and fluffy, like puffy clouds, curvaceous and round. Many twinkling stars crowding around vast, frozen ground, light, innocent airy angels, drifting. Frosted heavy branches crackling, a glistening paradise, frozen forever.
91
Deep Sea Dream Ashley Plummer Oil pastel
92
Our Bodies Remember Saudade Jamie Nagy
In our split-level home around our kitchen table that seats our family of six, we pray for Naika; bringing Naika to us from her orphanage in Portau-Prince, Haiti will make us seven. We labor to send Three Angel’s Orphanage support money each month, gather paperwork to prove our financial stability, our mental stability, the healthy tone of our home and family, that we have no criminal records attached to our fingerprints. We are pregnant with the anticipation of bringing Naika to our home, and after ten months, she arrives on U.S. pavement at the Miami airport. We wait, our unblinking eyes and our cameras fixated on double-doors with double-paned glass windows—limiting our vision. In a slow moment, we see our little two-and-a-half year old daughter delivered out of customs; she rides in a cart toting her “luggage”—a candy apple red backpack with one change of clothes in it, and the name “Rosaline” written in black marker across the top. We smile and speak softly to her, and she (with no smile written on her face) lifts her arms up to me—a request to be lifted out of the cart. I place her on my hip, the hip accustomed to carrying our other four children. Photos of our daughter this first night together
she must be hungry and the ice cream cone she hesitatingly accepts. Our expressions of joy in the pictures clearly miss her expressions of fear in the moment. Little do we know, she falls asleep quickly and easily that night in the Miami airport hotel not because we love her and she feels safe, but because her two-and-a-half year old brain is shut down and fear chemicals race through her bloodstream. We awake the next morning in Miami, and the three of us get on a plane. We put Finding Nemo in my husband’s computer to entertain her, and a couple hours later, we land in Minneapolis. Naika on my hip, we maneuver ourselves and our luggage to our big black Yukon XL with one car seat in it—for her. My ignorance haunts me still. In my eyes, it’s our family vehicle with the car seat we have used for years. Through her eyes? A strange tangle of belts and buckles, bright colored fabric, in the back of a hollow black vehicle she has never seen. I would like to think she trusts us enough to get in the car and allow me to buckle her into this car seat apparatus. But most likely, she simply senses she has no power and no choice but to follow our lead. Stripped of everything familiar in one night, survival now requires compliance with us—her parent strangers. I buckle her in lovingly, but still—I buckle her in. Eight years later, Naika does not remember this trip—only the story we tell her. As the years go on, well-meaning friends and acquaintances ask me, “How is Naika doing?” They smile expectantly and wait for a good report. I walk down a narrow path to answer them honestly,
in the airport hotel in Miami prove Dr. Bryan Post’s
sharing Naika’s early days of living in an orphanage,
theories on attachment. No matter my soothing
of abandonment, of brain development that occurred
tones and gentle rubbing of anti-fungal lotion on her
apart from us, of experiences Naika had that we
skin. No matter the first warm bath for her and her
missed for two-and-a-half years.
little Haitian friend who came over on the airplane,
“Well, she was so young. She doesn’t remember
too. No matter the My Little Pony new jammies and
any of that, does she?” No, she cannot verbalize her
the Pooh Bear sticker book. No matter our concern
memories. But her experiences and memories shape
93
her—just like they do you, I want to say. And, they
English. And so, her screams and her hot, terrified
surface, like a beach ball pressed under water.
tears press on my cheek my singing lips press on
In the orphanage, she experiences hunger in a
her ear, until she finally exhausts herself and sleeps.
country where food is life-threateningly scarce. Our
Night after night we go through this process, until
videos and pictures of Naika eating at the orphanage
she finally copes better with going to sleep. We
table teach the memory of eating with one hand and
create new memories about bedtime at our house;
protecting her food with the other—her arm circled
and eventually, I can simply sit on the floor in her
around her plate. By the time Naika arrives in our
line of sight until she feels secure enough to fall
home, she experiences abandonment. Her birth mom,
asleep.
Mama Marie, visits Naika in the orphanage—each
Naika’s sadness, her fear, her trauma, her loss,
visit surely ending with a newly pricked wound
and her confusion show up in her behavior. I walk
of separation between mom and daughter. Naika
down the narrow hall between the bedrooms of
does not remember the visits, but pictures teach the
our home behind my new brown daughter. She
memory of Naika on her birth mom’s lap, Naika’s
bounces, jumps, and tiptoes oddly, pounding her
dark brown eyes—darkened by wondering and
feet into our carpet—all in the short hallway walk
vacancy. Naika learns competition and scarcity in the
to my bedroom on the end right. I am losing it and
orphanage. Visitors and relief workers bring gifts
I don’t know why. Why does she bother me? She
(sunglasses, fruit treats, and such). Naika and the
is adorable. Everyone says so. She bounces and
other children clamor to get theirs—shoving toward
moves with jerks and abruptness unfamiliar to
the front, afraid they might not get any. By age two-
me. I sense disorder, imbalance. I sense her anger.
and-a-half, my daughter’s experiences and memory
Subconsciously, my observations of Naika’s terror
train her to protect her food, to fear being left by her
in her new home awaken the adoptee in me, and I
mother, to push to the front. Two plane flights (Port
begin to unravel.
au Prince to Miami, Miami to Minneapolis) and one
My twenty-two year old birth mom and birth
car ride to our home in Brookings, SD does not erase
dad were both in the delivery room (unusual for
who Naika became before she came to us.
1970, I’ve been told). My birth mom held me—my
Bedtime in our home her first night, and my new
mom told me as part of my adoption story. But then
daughter screams in my right ear while I press my
what? Who did she hand me to when she let me go?
body over hers and sing loud lullabies into her right
Who fed me? Did I scream terror and cry hot tears
ear. She cannot tell me this, but her orphanage
while a stranger tried to comfort me? I recognize
director explains to me over the phone what bedtime
Naika’s grief and fear more than I realize at the time,
looks like there. I imagine Naika missing all things
and my grief, my loss, and my memories begin to
familiar at bedtime each night—her friends, where
surface.
she slept, a favorite spot in the room, maybe a
I know the story well because my parents have
favorite set of sheets or blanket. She gains us—her
told it to me since the beginning—every day since
new family—and loses absolutely everything else.
they brought me home. I am chosen. I am special. I
I try comforting Naika as I have my other children
am adopted. And I never remember not knowing.
and get nowhere. She cannot tell me anything.
A few months before my birth, my mom and dad
She is two-and-a-half years old and doesn’t speak
receive a phone call from the adoption agency. My
94
mom rushes in with an outfit she picked for this
“I am the oldest in our family,” and “Someday I’ll
very occasion—the day they will take me home as
be the tallest.” It is scary to be small and weak in
their daughter—a one week old little baby girl. She
an orphanage. At home, Naika’s eyes follow her
dresses me anew. I am their baby now. They hold
favorites—sour cream and cheddar cheese chips,
me, cuddle me, breathe in my smell, as I breathe
watermelon, knock-off Uggs, gum, refried beans to
in theirs. They smell differently than the foster
make bean burritos. She trusts herself to find and
mom who cared for me from day three to day
get what she needs most. I fix her favorites, and
seven. Who was she? And, she smells differently
she eats heartily—to the point of being too full and
from the nurses who held me in the nursery at the
uncomfortable, just in case. We stand in the grocery
hospital. Who were they? And they smell and
aisle at Hy-Vee checking out groceries; the clerk
sound differently (each one of them) than my birth
offers her a choice of maybe eight different flavors of
mom who carried me in her tummy for forty weeks.
suckers. It takes her an abnormally long time to pick
Where did she go? I would ask these questions, but
because when choosing one flavor, she then loses
I am seven days old. And so my parents hold me,
all the others forever. She does not like the feeling
their baby, as I wonder and adjust to yet another change. Do they look into my baby face and see the “blank slate” the social worker tells them I am, or do they see the grief, loss, and confusion I cannot express? Why does writing about this make me tired and make my head float? I want gum, ice to chomp, coffee, chocolate, ibuprofen, a drink, chips, something. Early on (for the first few years), Naika hoards trash, wrappers, remainders of candy bars she discovers she doesn’t like after one bite, a hard-boiled egg yolk because she only likes the whites, broken crayons, Barbies with jagged cut hair she must now hide, crumpled paper with scribbles, gum she took when we weren’t looking, chewed and hidden, and more. Here, under her bed and tucked in corners
of losing—even if she cannot narrate a memory to explain why. Naika is a fourth grader now, and she has been in our family for eight years. This day, I drive to pick her up from school. She sees both me and my car, but I have to go around the block and come back to get her in that same spot. She watches my car begin to leave—without her. She panics. I see it in her face. Mostly, I don’t like that the adoptee in me recognizes that feeling—the panic of not being noticed, not being seen, and being left behind. On a Sunday morning flurry of our family getting ready for church, I (the 40 year old adoptee, married into this family for 20 years) experience the same. My husband detests being late for anything—especially for church. I rush around the house, offering
of her bedroom, lies my daughter’s pre-verbal
breakfast to the children, tidying up everywhere,
memories of loss, of chaos—and evidence of how she
showering and trying to meet the expectation of
feels about it. Angry. Ashamed. Frightened.
all of us going together on time. My husband gets
About six years since coming to us from Haiti, on
himself ready, expresses frustration that we are
a sun-filled spring Friday for her first track meet,
already late, and leaves our bathroom. I rush to pull
Naika sprints at the sound of the track gun. She
myself together, grab mascara that I can put on in
runs to win. She must win. It is scary to be slow
the car, run down the stairs to the door leading to the
and last in an orphanage. In our kitchen, Naika
garage, and find my husband and children gone. He
says things to me like, “I am almost taller than you,”
took them all. Deep in my gut, I ache.
95
Bringing Naika into our home stirs the adoptee
our behaviors, not in our narrative. Naika carries
in me. I see her brown little body running around
some of my memory for me. I do not remember
our house and realize: I am her. She is my memory.
my experiences as a little baby growing in my birth
Strange awakenings begin happening in me, and
mom’s womb, separated from her shortly after
inconvenient awakenings: a panic attack in Sam’s
delivery, held by nurses, sent to a foster home, and
Club while pushing my cart, three trips into the
then arriving to my parents’ gentle loving care; but,
emergency room for fear I have a brain tumor and
I get a glimpse of the effects of such disruptions as I
want to be checked over, sleeplessness, anxiety
watch my daughter. Our bodies carry our memories.
driving me, and an awakening to know whose
Our bodies carry saudade.
genes I carry. One middle of the night, I startle out
Saudade: “a deep emotional state of nostalgic or deeply
of sleep with a “ping” released deep in the middle
melancholic longing for an absent something or someone
of my brain. I grab my husband. I am frightened, I
that one loves . . . a repressed knowledge that the object of
feel lost and abandoned, panicked, and I am being
longing will never return . . . the love that remains after
separated from my birth mother in that moment.
someone is gone . . . It can be described as an emptiness,
This night, a memory buried deep under, now
like someone or something that should be there in a
surfaces. I seek help for this new me by visiting
particular moment is missing and the individual feels this
my doctor. He listens carefully, and suggests I am
absence.”
experiencing the effects of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. “Isn’t that for soldiers who deal with bombs going off?” He replies, “You had a bomb go off in your house.” Naika and I carry memory in our bodies, not always in our words. We carry early memories in
96
Orchids
Emilee Graesser Oil on canvas
97
The Paint on the Wall Emily Meyer
“Sit there. Yes, there. Now stay still, love. Still!” August ordered. Rose quivered as the cold scratched her skin, causing her body to fidget from its mannequin-like position. “Don’t move I said!” August reprimanded. “Yes, yes. There it is. But now, your arm. Bring it up for me dear, just a little. Yes, rest your head on the—not that way! Not that way! Damn it, woman!” August sold his last painting months ago to a frail Mr. Wallace, who had money to waste. Of course, August didn’t consider his work anything close to a waste of funds. His paintings remained some of the finest this far west of the coast. If only he could persuade some of the men in town to think the same. Mr. Neely agreed to keep August’s paintings on his store shelves if they sold well enough, but the pieces of canvas now sat under a layer of dust. “I need variety. They want something young and revitalizing. Something they can relate to and appreciate. Something that can excite them simply by hanging on the wall. Something such as, well… women,” Mr. Neely explained to August earlier that day. “Women?” gasped August. “Well, the streets are full of them. These customers are married, and I’m certain most of them hire maids. They have women in every room of their house! Women!? A waste of talent. A waste of my abilities!” August scanned the shelf displaying his work,
have to paint what they wished to buy. August let out a sigh. “Where do I find these women they want?” “August, I may stand corrected, but you are married, are you not? I’m sure I’ve seen your wife, sir, and she’s a fine woman. You should not need to look far for your next subject.” “My wife. You think I should use my wife as a muse?” August muttered, turning to the store wall. “My wife. Ha! He thinks I should use my wife…” “I’m closing now, August. I’m sorry to cause such a stir with you, but I think you can manage. And if not, well, I’m sorry, but there would be no point in your return. My shelves are full.”
***
Rose tried to hide when she heard him slam the door. She knew better than to stand there idle in front of an enraged August. But the house just wasn’t big enough for that. He found her anyway. “Rosie! I need you! Now please! Rose? Where on Earth has the damn. . .Oh, there you are.” Then without warning he grabbed her arm with a locked grip and pulled her into the parlor. “Please, August!” Rose exclaimed as her bones began to ache under his hand. “This is why I didn’t want to do this. Always complaining. I told him. I told him it wouldn’t work!” August picked up his paints from his bench and swirled the colors with the twitch of his hand. Rose stood still, holding her arms tightly around her waist. “Just sit there. On the sofa,” August instructed. Rose moved to the worn couch and sat, suddenly feeling every spring. August threw his arms wildly into the air. “This!?
and counted the paintings. Twelve. The stagnant
This is what he wants!? This isn’t art! Who wants to
twelve he had slaved over for months. August
stare at a picture of such a. . .”
reconsidered his position. His tattered shoes, thin
Rose closed her eyes, hoping to close her mind
coat. He noticed again the holes in his gloves. If they
as well. August wasn’t always this way. At least
wouldn’t buy what he wished to paint, he would
that’s what she hoped. She had the sense to marry
98
a good man, hadn’t she? She just didn’t anticipate
***
how awful he could become. It wasn’t her fault.
Mr. Neely eyed the painting without a word. He
Although the fault didn’t entirely belong to him
wanted to pretend August had done alright. But he
either, did it? Maybe if his family had made more
found himself mute with disappointment. August
of a name for themselves, selling his work wouldn’t
had painted a woman, as requested of him, but it
be so hard. But Rose didn’t care about the fame.
appeared far from enticing. Nothing like August’s
She didn’t marry August for his prospects. And she
wife, who Mr. Neely had so often seen strolling by
certainly didn’t marry him for his wealth. But he
his shop.
knew that, didn’t he? “Yes, I see it! A woman. Not overly beautiful, but
“August, when I said paint your wife, I had imagined an accurate representation of her.
openly wanting. What did Neely say? Something
Something that shows us her curves, her tenderness.
that can excite them. . . Yes. Oh yes, indeed there
Someone you want to take home at night. But here,
it is!” August leaped to Rose and pushed her
well I’m afraid you’ve turned her into a statue. She
shoulders into the sofa. Rose stiffened from his touch
doesn’t even wear a smile! You’ve got a beautiful
and shot back into the seat, the air whooshing out
subject there, August. But I don’t think you
of her. For three hours she lay there, holding still as
represented her in a way others might enjoy.”
August painted. With each subtle breath she thought
August hit his foot against the floor and tried to
of ways to escape from him. Maybe someone would
hold himself in. “That’s what I told you, Neely! It’s a
come to the door. August had always been hard
waste of my talent! She’s not art! She’s not meant to
of hearing. Perhaps she could just tell him she
hang on a wall!”
heard water running or the sound of the chilled air blowing through a window left ajar. Then she thought of reasons to stay. She always sought out the good in life. At least this way she received some sort of attention from August. Even though it came in
“I understand. Because she’s too dear to you, not someone for sharing.” “Because she’s too worn! Too foul a sight for a wall!” Mr. Neely’s jaw tightened. When he spoke the
such a crude form, she still favored it over his usual
words came starkly. “On that matter I refuse to
disregard for her presence.
comment, August, being that it’s your business. But I
If she thought about it long enough, she could remember a charming August. The way he wooed
don’t want to hear it in my store.” August didn’t stay to hear the rest of his
her in the beginning, back when he still had a sense
comments. He grabbed his canvas and slapped it
of confidence about him. Maybe a successful series
against the shop’s outer wall, leaving pieces of dried
of paintings would bring him back. He said all he
paint—pieces of Rose—scattered on the ground.
needed was a good review and they could go to Chicago. He’d heard of an upcoming show there.
***
With a sigh Rose unlaced her bodice. The corset
But before Rose came to a third reason to stay,
had started to dig into her ribs. Maybe if August
August threw his paints to the floor.
found success with this painting they could manage
“You should see it darling! He can’t turn me down
to buy another, or at least pay for alterations to this
this time. Old Neely needs this one. It’s just what he
one. Rose didn’t hear August enter the room as she
wants!”
stood there tugging at her laces. She thought she had
99
fallen into a dream when he tucked his hand under
hit the sofa Rose tried to push herself up with her
her gown.
feet, but August had too firm a hold on her corset.
“August, you’re home,” she whispered, barely letting the words escape her lips. His hand felt so foreign to her bare skin. She tried to remember the
He fought with it until finally he ripped it and her chemise apart, exposing her skin. “This is what they want, Rose. This!” He reached
last time he felt her waist or touched her breasts,
for the gown which hung haphazardly from
but she couldn’t think of it, for it had been so long.
her hips and with a sudden jerk tore it off her.
For a moment Rose saw August. And for a moment,
August loosened his grip as he noticed her naked
August saw Rose. He felt her warmth beneath his
body. Some of his paints dripped down her chest,
hands and the breath lifting her chest. He felt the
caressing her the way he once did. Their eyes met for
soft wood of the paintbrush between his fingers and
a moment. Just one moment, locked into that time
the swelling of pride in his chest as he imagined his
and space. Rose’s eyes drifted off. Her chest fell flat.
work hanging in homes from here to Chicago.
The paints pooled above her heart.
Rose let out her breath, relaxing into his arms. But when she tried to inhale, she couldn’t. August’s grip had become so tight around her waist that the air couldn’t budge past her throat. Her breath came in short gasps as August dragged her toward the sofa. “You can do better than that, Rose! That’s what Neely said! Better than that!” August exclaimed with his arm still clenching her bodice. When she
“Something to excite them, Rose! That’s what men want. . . Something to. . .” But all Rose heard was the sound of chilled air blowing through a window left ajar. She blew away.
100
All That Sparkles Cassie Pospishil Charcoal pencil
101
Great Plains Writer's Conference
2014 Emerging Writer Award - Christine Starr Davis Christine Starr Davis has been named the recipient of the Emerging Writer Award for the 2014 Great Plains Writers’ Conference. The Great Plains Writers’ Conference, which was founded in 1976 at SDSU, initiated its Emerging Writer Prize in 2013 to support and showcase up-and-coming literary talent in the Upper Great Plains region. Starr Davis is an adjunct professor at Doane College in Crete, Neb., and mentors gifted writers for the Lincoln Public Schools. She has had work published in more than a dozen journals, as well as in anthologies and e-zines and has several anthologies in progress. She was nominated for a 2009 Best New Poets honor and a 2010 Pushcart Prize in addition to being a finalist for the Washington Prize in 2009. Photo by Chelsea Krafka
Jamie Nagy, an English graduate student, had the opportunity to interview Starr Davis about her writing process and select pieces Starr Davis authored.
JN: [“Then, Bend to Enter”] takes the form of three
CSD: I feel badly telling you that this poem is set in
stanzas with three lines each describing a foreboding
four completely different locales (a local carnival,
carnival scene (book-ended by both the ritual of
yes, my daughters’ handmade “haunted house,”
prayer, and prayer). Then, the fourth stanza turns,
Mammoth Cave State Park and the block on which
still with three lines, but we no longer see a carnival
I live. It arose from a prompt a follower of the 30/30
scene; instead, we “get” the kind of prayer the
Project offered me. She wrote: “You know how you
poem wants us to consider here. What other forms
sometimes have to duck under trees when you are
have held this poem’s content before you arrived
walking down the sidewalk. Yea, that.” To which
at the four stanzas, white space, and then the final
I responded: “That's got potential. . .Overhang,
line? And how did you arrive at this final form?
maybe, Bend to Enter. . .I'm noodling.” It was her
And what inspired you to approach ritual through
property that had the overhanging limbs and I
carnival?
wondered for a moment if it was her way of asking
102
wanted her to trim the tree, but as I have very little interest in writing poems of irritation, I became interested in the act of bending as something worth exploring. When, where, why do we bend I wondered? And, what does bending express? A series of images came to mind, the first of which was the brief dignity afforded the carnival worker who raises the bar of a ride under which we pass. We bow before him and I liked imagining that perhaps seeing all those people bow was part of what made his job bearable. There is a tenderness and dignity to bowing, an acknowledgement of something valuable. It seemed natural that I remembered my daughters’ request to bend entering their not very scary haunted house years ago when they were small and in need of my affirmation of their creation. My family had recently traveled to Mammoth Cave and I thought next of the frequency with which that experience demanded we bend to enter (the next little warren, the next cavern) to see the next
CSD: Frankly, I would rather see a comma on that first line in place of the semi-colon before the word “advance”. With that change, I’d say that I tend to use a semi-colon in poetry to show a longer pause than a comma would provide (which, as I think about it, isn’t how I use them in prose at all). In the final stanza, I wanted to show the rush of invitations that overgrowing branch provided – so many options besides irritation! Thus, the commas. JN: And, what significance do various punctuation marks carry for you, in general? Do you play with them during revision? And, what do you think you communicate when you do not use them at all? CSD: I do play with punctuation during revision. In a spare form, punctuation looms large, doesn’t it? So, like many poets, I agonize about including much punctuation because the line break can accomplish quite a lot, and sometimes is even all that is needed.
wonder! By the end of these stanzas, it felt to me like
JN: How do you know when you have found a turn
I recognized what was happening when I bent…a
for your poem? Do your poems have to have a turn?
moment of attention, of honoring something (even the right of a tree to overgrow a sidewalk). No other forms have held this poem’s content. It arrived in this form.
CSD: The truth is I try not to notice. I hope if they are meant to turn, they will just do it without consulting me! When I first began writing poetry, I was very focused on the turn and it made for some
JN: Tell me about your choice to italicize “show”
awful poems that really didn’t exhibit much trust at
and “please.”
all in the reader. You know the sort of poem where
CSD: In both cases (the girls’ creation and the cave) the demand at that point was imperative (in the first case for protecting their illusion and in the second, for protecting bats from certain death) so he italics seemed warranted. JN: In this poem, you connect the first three stanzas within themselves using semi-colons throughout
you can almost hear the fanfare: and here’s the big finish. I’m not prone to do that now. My poems don’t have to have a turn, but I think they often do find one. JN: What are some of your favorite revision strategies? Do you have “go-to” ones, or do you seek new ones regularly? Or both?
each stanza and then finish with a period. In the
CSD: Of course the best revision strategy is “step
fourth stanza, you connect using commas only, and
away from the desk” Hah. But seriously, when
then finish with a period. Why?
I get very tangled, especially with line breaks, I
103
sometimes drag the whole poem into a block of
have a “word trap” notebook? Do you just grab a
prose and start over. That has led to some interesting
Thesaurus?
experiments too, including something I call “perfect squares” in which I try to see what happens if I confine myself to a particular line length resulting in a square poem. One of my mentors at Vermont, Domenic Stansberry, who actually writes these sort of hard-boiled detective novels, gave an amazing lecture on constriction and how imposing constraints can be a source of great creativity. We go down little alleys that would otherwise be missed and we are forced to do things we wouldn’t have done (wait. . .that sounds creepy, but you know what I mean right?). JN: What role does research play in your poetry? For example, did you research ants and ant colonies for this poem? Or did you watch them? CSD: I have always read a great deal, both fiction and nonfiction, and of course poetry. So, I am part of a generation that knows many things without having to Google them. I also have degrees in biology, museum studies, information systems and creative writing (both poetry and prose) so there is a rather vast storehouse in my head, as well as a passion for learning. I know about ants through many means, including close observation and reading and family stories (my sister loved to eat ants because they were salty like peanuts).
CSD: I have always loved playing with sound. Thank my mother, others. Mom used to sing these very silly songs to me that were all built on sound play. I taught them to my daughters. During the Tupelo Project, I wrote a poem called “Loving Sound Young” in which I just cut loose and had a ball with sound and rhythm. . .careless and free like a child. It was such a pleasure. Elfin? Just a word I already knew. I’m fortunate to have grown up at a time when reading was considered desirable, pleasurable, etc. And, I read difficult works. All this affords a large, resident vocabulary. The only time I use a thesaurus is for precision – I often want to find the “perfect” word that conveys my meaning and I’m not at all averse to checking on the subtle differences among “synonyms” to see what each conveys. JN: Sometimes I read another’s work, investigate what they have “done,” and then try to do that myself; for example, here I could take a word that matters to me and work to write a poem to communicate its definition in a new way. Do you do such things as a prompt, or as a revision strategy, ever? CSD: I am sometimes inspired to mimic or model work after another writer’s work too. That is the
Sometimes, there is something particular that I want
highest compliment as far as I’m concerned. Writing
to allude to and I have to go hunting. In one poem,
work that makes a reader want to write is the very
I wanted to mention geosmin, which is the chemical
best endorsement. There’s plenty of outstanding
that makes rain smell so good. I had to find out
work that I don’t feel I can build from of course
more about that, so yes, I looked it up on the web.
when that connection does happen it feels like the
JN: In [“This is How I Move”] I find repeated phrases, and assonance. Do you play with sound?
poet has handed off something to you, one of Marge Piercy’s “bags” being passed.
Meter? And how did you find the word “elfin?”
JN: Lastly, your line breaks seem as if they could be
I looked it up and it fits perfectly here. Do you
no other way. What kind of revision strategies do
104
you practice/did you practice for this poem that led
On the second line of this selection, “The whole
you to such important breaks?
world” carries the meaning that not only are
CSD: I’m so glad you mentioned this because I used to feel so intimidated by line breaks. My use of them was unnatural and uncertain. I took up a study of line breaks during my MFA work and that helped me gain some comfort. By that I mean reading volumes and volumes of poetry and noting what I saw, what I liked, what I understood, what confused me. Another mentor, Leslie Ullman, such a
prisoners taken, but the whole world is taken. However, when the phrase connects to the next line, “The whole world” knows something – how to punish land. The break has accomplished this dual meaning, and creates a reversal from the world as victim (the world as the planet) to aggressor (the world as all humanity). I watch for such opportunities.
generous poet, told me that I would begin to know
Kory Martin-Damon, an amazing Cuban-American
when to break the line. I came to believe her in time.
poet, taught me to read my poems aloud as they
The line is so powerful. I love to notice places where
are broken and that helps me see when a break is
two meanings can be created by a break – one on the
unnatural or especially powerful. I have students
line ending that is chosen and how it interacts with
who tend to read poems like prose as though there
the words on that line and a second one on the line
are no line breaks at all. In my view that is a lost
that follows when a different relationship is formed
opportunity with an oral tradition like poetry. For
between the ending line and the line that follows.
one thing, you entirely miss those double meanings
That sounds confusing. Let me use the poem,
that sometimes arise.
“Mother Land” as an example, specifically these three lines: or their predilection for forced entry, for the taking of prisoners? The whole world knows how to punish land.
105
Selected poems by Christine Starr Davis
Then, Bend to Enter If you are this high (note the clown arm, there, stand under it, heels on the ground); advance in the line, present your ticket, shift, move slowly, approach the cage, the raised bar, the man with torn hands, blackened teeth; you’ll never see him again. Four chairs of any sort, a ratty blanket, clothes pins, cracker jacks, a flashlight; mind the hand-written invitation, the crayoned vampire, the arrow at the flap door, the promise of fear; above all do not find the offer cute; be afraid, show you’re afraid. Step on the foamy, soaked mat, especially if you can’t remember whether or not you have visited a cave within the last five years, whether or not your shoes are new or leather or expose bare toes; just please step on the mat before you go in and after. Twelve blocks to a mile, choose the route, make it last, leave your cell phone behind, take your time, palm rocks, bend to the scent of roses, to grieve the fallen robin, to recall your knees, to pass gladly under the lowest branch of the neighbor’s tree. There are many ways to pray.
Mother Land
for my mom
The uterus, let’s face it, even in its latency, stirs envy. Think what can be built within it. And who. Does this advantage alone account for the rapacity of many landlords, or their predilection for forced entry, for the taking of prisoners? The whole world knows how to punish land. Too many men do. Mother, grow them gentle yet.
106
Early, I Knew Money Might Kill Me Clouds between my heels. Chicken drums on the grill. The summer yard scented with that fat. Mosquitoes. To my left, the rattle of a climber on the chain link fence. Was it Dad who saw me blue around the lips, reel, fall to my knees? I had a penny, and licked Lincoln’s temple, expecting butterscotch, or root beer, but found its copper tang, its failure to dissolve. Come on. Come on. A piston in his grip, Dad’s sweat dropping in coronas below me, did I shut my eyes to the blur, oxygen a thin strand for us both? Come on. Dammit. Feet bare? Sandled? Sneakered? I remember the violence, the novelty of my sundress falling up to cover my mouth. His power. Did I suck the penny Dammit.
Did I vacuum it in, minted to fit my windpipe? Please, did an angel at any time part and darken the humid sky? It did grow dark, and the pillars of my brothers and sisters engulfed me. I like to think their fortunes rose for that choked moment, with my shock of damp, dark hair. I like to believe, without me, he’d have treated them like days off work he didn’t earn. I was ready to go. Dad’s strong and useless motions promised them I would, but the coin Godammit and Hallelujah, struck the pavement, spun and spun and spun heads up, and Mom, dimmed by the screen, faucet-deaf, appeared with a towel in her hands, calling all of us to the table.
Come on. Dammit. with delight, or in terror of a brother chasing me on all fours?
"Then, Bend to Enter" and "Mother Land" were both published by Tupelo Press as part of the 30/30 Project in May 2013.
107
Great Plains Writer's Conference
2014 Emerging Tribal Writer Award - Marcus Bear Eagle
Marcus Bear Eagle, Oglala Lakota and member of the Oglala Sioux Tribe, is a full-time student at
Oglala Lakota College majoring in Lakota Studies with an emphasis on the Lakota language.
Oakwood: How long have you been writing? When/How did you discover your desire to write? Marcus Bear Eagle: This is the first story I have written, but even since I was a kid I felt like I have always wanted to tell a story. Years ago, I was watching a Japanese animation when I thought to myself that something special happens when a story truly reached you. You will carry that story and those characters around with you in your everyday life. Those emotions still resonate from how they made you feel; a character that was brave or carried some other inspiring
emotion will inspire you to also carry that with you. In the story I watched, I saw characters with humility, kindness, and honor. This story came from Japan. I thought it will be great if Lakota youth could learn from characters that inspired those kind of emotions. Then I remembered we do have those. Our Lakota oral stories have always been filled with those Lakota lessons of humility, compassion, bravery, and honor. I felt I would really love to involve myself with helping these stories to be carried on and told to our youth.
108
With that renewed love for storytelling, I decided I want to try to also write my own stories,
MBE: I wanted to portray a couple of common
and hopefully something I write can echo an
positions in life that our young Lakota people might
encouraging emotion into someone’s life.
find themselves in as we are moving into adulthood. I’m a college student in my 20s just like Wanbli,
OW: What can you tell Oakwood readers about your
so with this character I started off by picturing back
writing process? Where do you find inspiration for
when I first started college. I thought of many of my
your stories?
own doubts and fears I had about adult life and the
MBE: The process of writing this story was me looking around and telling about the world I see every day. I liked that the encouragement that this story tells is not just me imagining what could be; the story is actually our people hearing about what they are already doing. They are hearing about the kind of healing that happens within us naturally. OW: Where and when do you write?
question of why I am even in school. When Wanbli is being pushed by Levon about the identity issues he had since his teenage years, I even drew a lot of that from myself. It’s easy to bury those things and be embarrassed. But I thought it will be good to share them instead. It even helps me to face myself in my own way. But even though I drew those things from myself, the character Wanbli as a whole is not meant to just be me. He represents the young Lakota man
MBE: This one is a bit tough to answer, because I
who wants to reflect on himself and appreciate that
have never written a story before this and I do not
gentle attitude of his grandparents. Also, I think he’s
really have a pattern for writing yet. Usually I’m
not me because he’s probably cooler than me; I bet
drinking tea and not writing. I drink a lot of tea. To
he talks to people easily and does well in archery.
anyone reading this right now - it is very likely that
I’m not even that cool!
I’m drinking tea at the same moment that you are reading this. Anyway, I can’t say for sure where and when I write. Maybe Tuesdays at 3:42 PM, while somewhere over by that road between Wounded Knee and Manderson, or something. OW: How have people responded so far to your work? MBE: I guess I could tell you that my mom read the story. She thinks it’s great, but I don’t know, she might also just be saying that because she’s my mom. OW: In your play, ‘Ake Kagli’, hope and positive thinking are strong themes, especially in the character of Wanbli. What inspired you to create such a protagonist?
109
An excerpt from:
Ake Kagli A One-Act Story written by Marcus Bear Eagle (2013)
SCENE 5: Liana’s father Vince is standing on stage. Liana’s sister Tia and her mother Donna are sitting off to the side. Liana walks right past her dad and gets right to sorting through things, seemingly searching for something. Vince: How was school, my girl? How come you’re leaving again already? Liana: It was good, dad. Alyssa is about to pick me up. …Where’s my phone’s car charger? Vince: You should’ve invited Wanbli to come in. It’d be nice to wotapi together. Your mom made taniǧa. Liana: She’s here now. Love you, dad! Tia, hecun šni ye! I said I’ll help you finish all those earrings tomorrow OK? No working on them! … No doing that either! Tia: (laughs) What? I’m just sorting beads. Liana’s voice becomes distant as she is exiting. Liana: We’ll do that together too! Tokša, tomorrow! Liana exits the scene. Tia walks up to her father, Vince. Tia: Dad? Tia: You knew she’s going out drinking. Why don’t you ever get after her about it and tell her why it’s bad? Tia’s mother Donna walks in right behind Tia and jumps right into the conversation. Donna: My girl, your sister knows it’s bad. We taught her what she needs to know about it. You asked your dad this, but the important thing is that he always taught her good values. Tia: Mom, it feels like she’ll just keep doing this every weekend. Donna: Even if she will go through this now, the love you gave your children influences them greater than when you scolded and punished them.
110
Vince: When she decides that life isn’t for her, it’ll be from her remembering and knowing who she is. That’s more important than not drinking just because we forced her to stay home and told her she’s bad. Tia: You’re saying it’s more important that she learns and feels that for herself? Vince: Han. & you know, ehanni, I had my crazy days too. How can I tell her she’s bad and wrong when I was even worse? Donna: Gee, your dad’s reputation was JUST bad. Your auntie told me he’s a no good boot-legger and I didn’t believe her. Tia: She made that up? Donna: No, he really was a boot-legger (laughs) … and he really was no good. (laughs again) no, she was wrong about him being no good. I could tell he was a good man. It was only a matter of time before I straightened him out. The three of them laugh. Tia: Straightened him out? Like.. a shiner on each eye? They all laugh again. Vince: Ši! You don’t mess with Lakota women. Donna: He has to talk like this because he ended up with all girls. Donna and Tia laugh, while Vince chuckles too. Tia: I’m glad you guys told me all this. I didn’t know this when I was little, but now I see a lot of the people I respect and look to for wisdom usually had that phase of being wild in their younger days. Vince: That’s why they always say... we don’t throw our people away. Ounkihipi šni. Even if they made a bad mistake and fell. Be there for them and help them back up. ========
END SCENE
=========
111
Contributor Biographies LEAH ALSAKER Leah is from Rosholt, SD and is studying English Education at SDSU. She is honored to have Oakwood publish my poems. She has always enjoyed writing, but her passion for it grew in her AP English classes because her teacher pushed her and encouraged her to continue writing. She is still considering different career options, but would like to become either an English teacher or a pastor.
SUSAN BASSETT Susan is an instructor in the College of Nursing, Department of undergraduate Nursing, Brookings campus, at SDSU. Her home is on acreage near Volga South Dakota, where she lives with her husband Kurt and where they raised their three grown sons. Writing, poetry in particular, has been an interest/hobby off and on throughout much of her life. In the last few years she has been moved to write more poetry, with main themes being nature, spirituality, and the human condition. Her future plans are to continue in her attempt at savoring everything and everyone that surrounds her journey on this river of life. . .and continuing to write as the spirit calls.
ERIN BECK Erin is a junior Animal Science and Agricultural Communications major at SDSU. She grew up on a small ranch in southwest Iowa and has always had a love for writing and art of any kind. She picked up an interest in photography during high school. She plans on graduating from SDSU and pursuing a career in ag communications while maintaining her interest in beef production.
COLE BEHRENDS Cole is from Lakefield MN. He is a senior Studio Arts major at SDSU. He chose his major to refine his habits of always drawing in the margins of his school books. This habit led me to his major, and with it, he would like to attend grad school to become an art professor.
MARY BERG Mary is a sophomore student majoring in Psychology at SDSU. She is from De Smet, SD and she takes pictures for fun. Her future plans include going on to graduate school to get her master's degree.
CODY BLEVINS Cody is an Architecture major at SDSU.
AMANDA BOERGER Amanda is a non-traditional senior majoring in Visual Arts, minoring in French studies with a certificate in Modern Contemporary Art History in the works. She became interested in creating during her childhood which she spent in Watertown, SD. As an adult, she continues to be fascinated by the endless possibilities creation allows, which originally enchanted her as a child. She considers art to be very close to magic. Ultimately, she would like to find herself teaching art at a college level where fresh ideas are plentiful.
HALEY BRADSHAW Haley is in her third year at SDSU, majoring in English. She has been calling Sioux Falls, SD home for five years now. Her passion for writing stories stemmed from her love of reading when she was a little girl. She plans to share these passions with middle and high school students while pursuing her dream of writing a novel.
MARK BRENDEN Mark is an English graduate student at SDSU.
JACOB BROWN-BEACH Jacob began graduate studies in Linguistics at SDSU this semester. An alumnus of Puget Sound University, he lived in Tacoma and Seattle for many years. Born in Custer, he respectfully claims the space between the Black Hills and the Pacific Northwest as his homeland. Art influences and informs every part of his life, and writing poetry acknowledges and appreciates that fact. While pursuing his Master's degree in English, he also plans to release a new album with his Seattle-based rock band, The Willow Collective, in the year 2014.
112
JENA BULOCK
filled with hardcover Little Golden Books, and weekly
Jena is a student at South Dakota State University. She
visits to the cinema. He feels a need to fulfill his sensory
grew up and lives in Sioux Falls. She loves writing because she read many books, and enjoys drawing different worlds. Writing poetry and short stories allows her to express herself freely and utilize her imagination. Her future plans include graduating with a major in English, working as a
needs with visual aspects be it film, a static image, or moving literature. As for the future, he plans on teaching high school Spanish.
SHANNON HINRICHS
librarian or editor, and traveling around the world.
Shannon is currently a non-traditional online student at
JOSHUA FITZGERALD
lives in Blunt, South Dakota and works for the Division
SDSU pursuing a degree in Interdisciplinary Studies. He
Joshua is a Graphic Design major at SDSU.
of Criminal Investigation as a Law Enforcement Training
ROBERTA FORMAN
and through an English course with Professor Madsen, had
Roberta is a junior Graphic Design student. She is from Pierre, SD. She became interested in art at a young age,
Instructor. Shannon has always been interested in writing, a chance to renew his desire to express himself through writing. His goal is to become certified as a history teacher.
from drawing and painting. Then she became very interested in photography and it is one of her favorite pastimes. She hopes to get a job in graphic design with freelance photography on the side.
MICHELLE GLEASON Michelle is a sophomore Dietetics student from Claire City, South Dakota. She has always had an interest in drawing, whether it be watching someone else, or making her own. She enjoys adding depth to her pieces, especially with charcoal, and making they look as real as possible. She will definitely continue making art as a hobby.
SHAINA HARRIS Shaina is from Las Vegas, Nevada and since childhood, has been drawn to art, and intrigued by artists’ ability to redefine the spaces we live in, both the physical spaces and the human relationships that occur within them. Her goal as an artist is to encourage all viewers’ imaginations to be awakened. She is a Studio Arts and Graphic Design double major, also pursuing certificates in Printmaking Animation, and Art History. She draws her content largely from nature and human expression, using abstract expressionism, specifically Minimalism and Surrealism to compose her pieces.
MATTHEW HARTY Matt is a well-seasoned student of SDSU (currently studying early education) who hails from Pierre, South Dakota. His fascination with arts stemmed from a healthy/ unhealthy childhood of Looney Tunes marathons, shelves
CARLY JACKSON Carly is a senior Art Education major at SDSU, and is from Brandon, South Dakota. She has always enjoyed making art since she was very little, and has just never given up on it, so is still making art today. For her future plans, she hopes that to simply find a career in which she feels most at home and welcomed, and hopefully that is a career which involves art.
DESTINY JORENBY Destiny is a freshman Biochemistry major. She has always lived in Brookings. She is undecided about her plans after college. Her mother got her Bachelor’s in Art Education/ German at SDSU, so art was always a part of their home. She started writing just a few years ago. She loves anything having to do with poetry, especially reading other people’s work.
SPENSER KAVANAUGH Spenser is an English major at SDSU. He is originally from Groton, SD, but his family has since moved to Rapid City. He has always loved writing and language in general so he thought he should submit some of his work. For future goals, he hopes to have an internship this summer and possibly go to graduate school.
KYLE KORTHOUR Kyle is a Graphic Design student at SDSU. He is originally from Watertown, SD. He has been interested in art since he
113
was young but really grew to love design in high school.
in English. Her first novel is due out in mid-2014, and will
In his future, he would love to work as a graphic design
be the first of many.
artist.
MADELIN MACK
JAMIE NAGY Jamie currently studies at SDSU pursuing her Master's
Madelin is a sophomore English Education major from
Degree in English; also, she serves as a GTA, teaching two
Redfield, SD. She started writing because she has been
sections of English. She grew up in Decatur, Illinois, and
reading for long enough and it just felt like it was time.
still calls that home. However, she and her husband have
Someday, she’d like to write for an interesting magazine
raised their five children in Brookings for many years and
or for television, or teach high school kids the difference
it feels like home also. Her interest in writing developed
between “your” and “you’re.”
out of a need to make sense of her own experience as
NIKKI MANN
an adoptee and an adoptive mom. Through writing about these topics, she became convinced others could
As an SDSU graduate student, editor of Oakwood, and
benefit from her reaching out through writing. Her future
instructor in the English department, Nikki finds joy in
includes a thesis centering on adoption toward her goal of
being busy with reading, writing, and editing. She grew up
publishing an adoptee/adoptive mom memoir.
in the suburbs of Chicago, but now calls Brookings home. When she’s not professionally teaching or learning, she’s a wife and mom, both positions she finds to be the best and highest calling. In the future, she hopes to be directing a recovery-based non-profit organization in our community,
KAYLA PETERSON Kayla is a junior Graphic Design student. She is from Tea, SD. She originally became interested in art through digital forms rather than traditionally – she spent many years
editing and writing, and being a full-time mom.
working with programs such as Photoshop, Paint Shop
EMILY MEYER
job in which she can build websites and also do freelance
Emily is a sophomore at SDSU studying Spanish Education and English. She grew up in White, South Dakota. As soon as she was able to put her thoughts down on paper, she started loving to write. She enjoys writing creative nonfiction and short fiction. She plans to continue her writing endeavors and hopes to begin a teaching career
Pro, and working with HTML/CSS. She hopes to get a photography on the side.
ASHLEY PLUMMER Ashley is a student at SDSU studying Art Education. She grew up in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. She became interested in art the moment she was introduced to
upon graduation.
coloring books and finger painting. All through school,
ALEX MORLAN
painting or drawing. Her family supported my artistic
Alex is a student and English major at SDSU from Weeping Water, Nebraska. He became interested in writing when his older sister, with a passion for writing, showed him spoken word poetry. He decided he wanted to write poetry and found a love for all sorts of different writing styles. He plans to continue writing in the future and someday hopes to do evangelical mission work across the world.
BONNIE MOXNES Born among the bikers in the badlands near Sturgis, Bonnie realized at a young age it was probably a good idea to lock the doors and just write. . .it's much safer. To this day, she is still inside, writing and reading with a Bachelor’s degree
she took every art class she could, and spent many hours ideas and ability, and for that she is grateful. She hopes to graduate with a degree in art education, find a career as a middle or high school teacher, and continue to spend her summers teaching horse-back riding.
CASSIE POSPISHIL Cassie is a freshman student at SDSU. Her hometown is Yankton, South Dakota. Her drawing career started the
moment she could pick up a pencil. Drawing pictures was her favorite past time as a kid, and she’s never stopped drawing. Over the years, she’s accumulated piles of
sketchbooks, and gone through thousands of drawing utensils. She loves sketching in her free time. She is
very much looking forward to her college career here at
114
SDSU; but, most of all, she plans on filling dozens more
DANA STRONG
sketchbooks while here at SDSU.
Dana is a second-year Graduate student and instructor.
ZACHARY RUIZ
and rhetoric. In 2009, he received his bachelor's degree
It is Zachary’s first year here at SDSU after transferring from his hometown of Green Bay, Wisconsin. He’s been interested in art as a form of creation since he was a kid building with Legos. Since then he realized he could turn that impulse into a job and as such decided to become an art teacher.
JOE SCHARTZ Joe is a sophomore journalism student from Humboldt, SD. He has been writing most of his life, and hopes to finish
He teaches composition and studies creative writing in English from Hamline University in St. Paul, MN. From January-August of 2009, he completed internships in publishing and editing at Graywolf Press, now of Minneapolis. He is married and has two young daughters.
MEGAN STUART Megan Stuart is a junior Biology Pre-Medicine major at SDSU. She is a member of the Women’s Basketball team and is originally from Roseville, Minnesota. Her passion for painting began in high school. With the guidance of a
several projects while at SDSU.
great art teacher, she began producing artwork she never
DEREK SKILLINGSTAD
a Studio Arts minor and she hopes to go on to Medical
Derek is an English major at SDSU.
PAMELA STILWELL-MERCHANT Pamela is a student of history, non-profit management, and German and lives in Brookings. She worked as a graphic designer for 20 years, and most recently as a grant writer. She started the Brookings Community Theatre in 2002, and serves as the Regional Advisor for the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI). She is a strong supporter of education and has served two terms on the Brookings Board of Education. She hopes to create a non-profit or work for a museum, and to write books in her spare time.
knew she was capable of creating! Now she is adding School and pursue a career that can use both her passions of Biology and art.
HALEY WILSON Haley is a junior at SDSU majoring in English and minoring in French. With a hometown of Rutland, South Dakota― a small town largely unheard of― her interest in writing stemmed from her avid love for reading, she first mastered Dr. Suess’ “Green Eggs and Ham” and the rest was history. In the future, she hopes to work in the writing field and gain a position in publishing.
Oakwood 2014 South Dakota State University