Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Arts Magazine Fall 2011 Shiver & Sigh

Editors' Note: Shiver and Sigh - · This semester's edition of Folio has been shaped primarily by a sharp division in the many wonderful submissions we received. On the one hand we had numerous literary pieces of a darker slant, ranging in tone from simply sad to downright tragic; on the other there were those poems and art pieces which shone like beacons in that darkness.

When we tried to approach the concept of this contrast directly we found ourselves bogged down in a mire of cliches and ennui. When the title first came to us it was barely heard, a soft sigh in a din of flashing light and looming shadow. In the end the duality of these two interwoven words captivated us and drew us in.

So it is that we ask you, do the works in this edition make you shiver with pleasure or fear? Sigh with contentment or sadness? Do you have to choose? We think not. Choose instead to embrace the entwined meanings and emotional states implicit in shivering and sighing.

- Fall 2011 Folio Staff

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Racing the Sun By Leslie Hall Foot Fall By Lindsey Ayres Beauty of Nature By Jerron James Case Number 491 By Angela Rawling Time We Lost Our Way By Tyler Alexander Fly By Crystal Ashton Laying Stone on the Castle, Another Day at Work

By Steve Shell A Hipster Conversation About A Recently Deceased Author

By Brian Walker Ginny By Nean Michael Hawe Humping, Biting, Pooping Wonders By Polly Bringhurst Haiku #7 & #9 By Jim Anderson Port 1 By Ryan Thomas Peterson Untitled By Alice Nelson Enjoy The Darkness By Lucia McKeag The Cougar By Lindsey Ayres The Stalker By Lindsey Ayres Blue By Erin McGuire Icarus By Taylor Anderson Fallen Friend By Brian Bo Port 1-2 By Ryan Thomas Peterson The Grave That Is Like The Womb By Gary Howard Nightingale By Myra Karine Three Titans By Alexander Hofstetter Angel By Sarah Gison Loves Sweet Pain By Jacob Mark Meyers While Observing in the Grass By Stacey Barnett Micro Burst Aftermath By Allie Mohr 3

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Red Castle By Christian Paul Enchanted Forest By William Campbell Bridge By Brittney Condie Tree Of Life By Tamara Brown Death Under A Tree By Jeannie Miller Averly By Nean Michael Hawe Image By Valerie Valencia Lucid By Sarah Jacobs Fountain of Youth By Alexis Nelson Be Raftin for Ja People By Nicholle Wiaderny Potters Pond By Ashley Vest Cascadia Docks By Shane Vandehei Protected By Collin Harward Your Love By Tomas Diego Cortez Poetry By Keaton Charles Butler Port Town By Brian Walker Sun By Camie Escobar Image By Valerie Valencia Keys By Taylor Anderson Nonthoughts, Nonknowing, Nonsequeters

By Jim Anderson First Kiss By Emma C Fanti Images By Valerie Valencia Spikey Pinks By Lindsey Ayres The Siren's Sestina By Lyuba Basin Time By McKenna Barker Insomnia By Rachel "Raiya" Iverson Liquid By Crystal Ashton Port 1-4 By Ryan Thomas Peterson Things You Find In Dirty Dishwater

By Brittany Burnett oauolesamoa By Lani Te'o Broederlow Jes By Steve Shell Forever Mine By Lucia McKeag Treatment By Ashley Jessop 4

:Racln3 ezTfie $ un

by Leslie Hall

Wednesday is our favorite day for racing the sun. we rush to get ready and head out between the fading of the moon and the shades of blue beginning to swirl into one. As we turn out of our sleepy neighborhood I point to the big mountains and I've said it some many times that now my little one shouts "Mommy, see the pink lights in the sky, see the light beams through the clouds? That's where the sun will rise! Quick mommy we have to beat the sun!"

I break at the second light- I can never make it through in one go- but I take the opportunity ot slightly lower the windows. The breeze is cooling, whispering that Autumn is here as it carries the few first crinkling leaves. As I ease off the break the wind picks up threatening that soon it will keep my windows closed with a cold cruel winter. "but not today." I whisper back.

"The wind tickles me!" the beautifully innocent voice from the back seat giggles.

We pick up speed. I watch the traffic begin to pick up as we drive up Forty Seven Street and begin to feel the anticipation. It is only a matter of minutes between beating the sun or losing our race.

But, as of right now we are flying.

"Fly mommy!" she calls as we soar over the bumps in the road.

As we turn onto Twenty Seven Street my daughter can no longer see the mountains and insists that I go faster so she can make sure we win. Through her excitement I can hear the beginning of concern- and I know already that no matter the outcome of our race I will never win.

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At the intersection that I will too soon return to the trees and houses have momentarily disappeared and she checks the sky.

I check her in my rearview mirror at the second intersection that I never make it through.

"We are winning mommy, but soon will be all the way awake soon!"

I smile and ask her "Who will win baby?"

"We will win today!" She says enthusiastically- "I think." She adds doubting herself. The doubt adds to my anxiety. As soon as the light turns green she shouts "Go mommy go!"

We speed up the busy street hill nearing the neighborhood and as we make a left turn the questions begin.

"What's today?" She asks "Today is Wednesday, Grandma's house day." I answer "Will the kids be there?" she asks trying to sound as casual as a three year old can.

"Yes, you'll get there before the kids go to school." I answer carefully keeping an upbeat tone First dip in the street-I slow down to take it "Do I have my lunch?" She asks and before I can answer she shoots another one "What do I do today?" She waits for answers "Yes you have you have your lunch, and today you go with Grandma to the singing ladies.

We slow at the yield sign and I stay stopped too long to take the last left in our route.

"Is the shower hair lady going to bring her dog?" She asks.

"I don't know." I answer, she sighs- she doesn't like when I don't know... I don 't like not knowing either.

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"Will you do your words and numbers today mommy or is it your learning what words mean day" she asks, her panic surfacing. We drive between the shadows of leaves and spots of light against black pavement. I take the curve slowly watching for the cars that take the curve too fast without looking.

"Its my class that I learn what words mean." I say still keeping my voice happy. I pull into the drive way and she whispers "Did we beat the sun?"

After I unbuckle her seat and pull her out of the car together we search the sky.

"Yup," I say "today we beat the sun."

The feeling of victory is fleeting and she tightens her grip around me and I make my way up the porch steps. I hold her up as she rings the doorbell. And she wraps her arms back around me.

"Mommy," "Yes baby?" I ask "My favorite part of Grandma's house day is when you pick me up and we talk about our day."

"Mine to." I whisper as the door opens.

My mother and I speak in animated voices. It doesn't help.

She begins to cry and my heart aches. Her tears cover my shirt sleeve. My mother holds out her arms and pulls my daughter from my shoulder. I want to hate her for taking her, but in all honesty I know that I have to go, I know that I let go. We try to distract her with all the fun things she has planned to do.

"But mommy I told you the favorite part of the day is when you pick me up and we talk about our day!" She sobs. I hug her one last time.

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"Me to!" I assure her with a smile that takes all I have to keep from trembling. I turn and make my way back into the shadows.

The sun is up but has its light is only harsh in my eyes. Its brightness does little to brighten the mood I fall into. I question myself for the millionth time if I am doing the right thing even though I know this is the best way to provide a better life for her.

I no longer notice the wind speaking or the shadows to light on the pavement. My mind sets to drive mode. The traffic is heavier and I become just another commuter. As I pull into the parking lot of school I feel a buzz in my pocket. After I park I pull my phone out- a text from my mom assuring me that my girl has calmed down and is playing happily.

The sun may have risen for everyone else but until the moment of my day comes where I take the fifteen minute drive back in the afternoon and my sunshine, with the brightest smile upon her face, comes runn ing to me. She ascends into my arms and finally my sunshine has risen.

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By Brookelin Jones

always working, it never fails i've stored every memory and every tale i make you sad, yet happy at times. i give reason to your rhyme. make you wake up, make you sleep. you will laugh and you will weep. i'II confuse you and leave you lost. yet i'II end up helping you at any cost. at points i am your only friend, and i am with you until the end. yet i'm also your enemy from which you can never break free. i hold your demons, yet store a sweet angel. holding the key to your destiny. imagination i give you and give you creativity. i'm just your brain ..yet so much more. truthfully, i'm your survival so don't hurt me anymore.

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'Beauty of 'Nature

by Jerron James

The wind caresses my face, As I sit in this field of flowers.

The green trees dance with the breeze.

Their leaves sing beautiful melodies.

A stream trickles past my feet.

Its clear water ripples through the pebbles.

Squirrels hurriedly gather their food for winter.

Their cheeks stuffed to their limit.

Meanwhile a bird chirps in response to another.

The chirping echoes in the distance.

Silence ... a blessing in disguise dressed in white.

My mind clears with the beauty of nature's light.

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CASE NUMBER "lf91

by Angela Rawling

"Sixteen."

"Sixteen?" The detective repeated, both appalled and sincerely intent on clarifying.

"Yes." "You are claiming to have murdered sixteen people before you were apprehended by police?" He continued, less than pleased with the man's monosyllabic answers.

"Yes." "If you killed sixteen people before you were caught, why do you go by- let me see here." The young officer flipped open the file to quickly reference the specific information relevant to his question. "Why did you take the name of the fifth case number, which you have stated was the third victim?"

"I didn't take it," he replied. "It was given to me."

He didn't have a name; he was, simply put, case number 491 this year. A Caucasian male, age 34, lived alone in a pleasant suburban neighborhood. He worked at the local supermarket, where he was friendly and social, but kept primarily to himself outside of work. He had a few hobbies.

He also, in all his reading, knew himself to be a stereotype of a murderer in many ways.

There were signs, a friend of his had once told him, to look for in children to know if they might grow up to be serial killers. 491 had wet the bed until the age of thirteen. His father had abandoned he and his mother in his youth; his mother has turned to alcohol to cope. He was intelligent, but did poorly in school due to his lack of interest.

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It was never clear whether he had "tortured animals". He had cut the legs off a spider once, one by one, to see how long it would endure; he had once broken the leg of a pet rabbit by testing repeatedly how high it could jump from; he had nearly strangled a cousin's guinea pig when it ran away from him in a state of distress. They were isolated incidents in his mind. Then again, perhaps he was as helpless to fight his condition as Pavlov's dogs were to the call of the bell.

Tonight was to be the third murder. Though 491 had done his research long ago, experience gave him a comfort that knowledge never could._It was four months since his last murder. In most serial murders, the distances from the killer's residence to the abduction and disposal sites were outside of the direct neighborhood, but within an easy car ride. At nearly eighty-five miles, his residence and work both fell outside of the what would be the suspected area. Still, his choice to commit the murders in separate counties would also mean that the same officer never took the different cases.

It would be an African-American teenage girl. His last victim had been a Caucasian, middle-aged businessman and his first was a Caucasian, mid-30s prostitute. The average killer followed a pattern. Statistically, most violent crimes were committed within the same race. This was the perfect time to try something new, to show that his only pattern was a lack of pattern itself.

491 pulled into the parking lot of a racially diverse club, one he had heard about on the news a week before - he did not search for anything on the internet. He was attractive, charismatic, and confident that he could lure an illegally intoxicated adolescent into a ride home.

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The bar was near a local university campus and his strategically chosen glasses and button-down shirt made him appear less aggressive. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and loitered near the door. Having nothing to do while hanging outside made you suspicious, but walking inside meant too many eye witnesses. If he hadn't found someone in thirty minutes, he would leave and try again a different day at a different club.

Lucky for 491, fate took pity on him and gave him exactly what he was looking for in twenty-two minutes. Her name was Latoya, he overheard. Statistically, such diverse names came from lower-income households, the kind that couldn't afford to offer rewards or hire private detectives.

Her mother was working late again, her father was long gone. 491 saw something of himself in her; the way in which she carried herself projected a level of superiority. When her friends insisted she call a cab, she waved them off with a melodramatic swoosh. When they recommended calling a campus shuttle, she made an excuse about being arrested.

When they offered to escort her, she laughed and began walking alone. She was perfection.

Once her friends had returned inside, 491 clipped the cigarette's tip beneath his shoe to extinguish it and then slid the butt into his pocket. He jogged a little to catch up with her, hands in his pockets to appear as nonthreatening as possible. "Hey, I'm sorry. I couldn't help but overhear. Are you sure you don't want a ride? Trust me, I've been there ... not exactly being legal, I mean. Seriously. It's not safe walking home alone. I was just finishing up a smoke before I head home. I live over by the supermarket on fourth, near campus, and I wouldn't mind dropping you off if you're on the way."

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She wou ld hesitate, of course, and he would reassure her in the same pleasant tone. 491 lost track of what he was saying after awhile, though he held the highest confidence in his ability to continue without focus. He suggested she call her friends near the end, something he had rehearsed, to let them know where she was. It was something she wouldn't do, of course, knowing what they would say, knowing how overly worried they would be, knowing she would be just fine. It only served to reassure her of her decision to trust him.

Eight minutes later, they were curving around the woods not far from campus, the street conveniently being the most direct route back to their intended destination. 491 took a wrong turn and apologized immediately, but there was "no space to turn around" in the narrow, heavily wooded roads. If Latoya was sober, she might have been nervous. Instead, she turned up the radio. He did not mind the liberty she took; the reward of this situation would be greater than any cost.

When he pulled over, the girl finally began to express anxiety.

The man removed the keys from the ignition and got out of the car without response, walking away. What choice did she have but to get out? If she was sober, she might have tried to walk back the way they had come. Instead, she stomped into the night to look for him, shouting after him, headlights illuminating only the wet ground they had driven into in an eerie exaggeration of the darkness surrounding and isolating them.

It didn't matter that she screamed or tried to run . They were in a swampy area where they both sank inches deep into the mud. He wrapped the mundane boot lace, folded in half, around her neck and began to strangle her.

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The lace was bought from an Army-Navy Surplus store years prior - 491 had no history with the military- and the forensic lab's cyanoacrylate machine would be unable to pull a substantial print from the material.

There was nothing particularly memorable about her death, about the way her hands reached desperately to claw first at the lace and then at his sleeves or how her eyes began to bulge slightly from her head as pressure built from pools of collecting blood in her brain. It was that moment before.

In every kill, there was a moment of recognition that hit the victim's eyes. It was the moment that they realized that they were going to die, that fight or flight kicked in, and that they began to cry and scream and plead that they would do anything, they wouldn't call the police, that someone knew where they were. Oh, how people lied in their final moments. Latoya was different. The instant that recognition hit her eyes, she was silent. She began to scream seconds later, yes, but one could not blame her for sobbing given the circumstances. It was that moment before, that instant of acceptance. She wanted to die. 491 would be the one to oblige her.

After she was dead, the man put on gloves and a plastic raincoat. He chopped off her fingertips with a pair of pruning shears he had inherited. Her identification, the bootlaces, and the fingers were set into a Ziploc bag. The rest of her was stuffed into black garbage bags, secured with cable ties; both items purchased at different markets weeks apart with cash and a handful of other items. Her packaged corpse was tossed into the trunk along with the bag of identifying features.

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491 removed the raincoat and stuffed it into a grocery bag with the gloves. It was a ritual he was growing accustomed to, but one which seemed more poetic now. The blood on scene would be lost to the mud by morning. The bloodied materials he set in the back seat beside a bottle of fake blood and a packaged video camera. If he was stopped for irrelevant reasons, his alibi was already there.

Driving another eighteen minutes to a nearby river, 491 pulled over and looked around, lighting another smoke to increase his image of nonchalance. When he was convinced that no one was present, he snuffed the life of the new cigarette the way he had the old. The way he had snuffed the life of the girl in the trunk.

He donned another pair of gloves before removing the body, careful to keep all fluids within the bags. It took little effort for the man, relatively in shape, to heave the corpse over his shoulder and escort it down to the edge of the delta. Tide was coming in and the body would be gone by sunrise, the current carrying it away to be found most likely some six miles down river, bloated and free of identifying features.

He returned to his trunk to fetch the Ziploc bag, weighted enough to carry without sinking to the bottom. Her fingers might be found as well, but they would be nibbled by fish, misshapen, and worthless to investigators. It would be a piece of an unsolved puzzle. The second pair of gloves joined the first in his back seat. 491 would never return to this place, or to the club. Most killers returned to the scene of the crime to witness the chaos unfold.

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l

In six days, he would return to the town to purchase a postcard as a trophy reminder of the deeds he had committed here. It would be from a gas station, where he would buy a candy bar and drink, with cash, "for the road" as well. Between now and then, he would thoroughly wash the raincoat and gloves. It would be easy using a hose in a neighbor's backyard with the bottle of fake blood nearby.

It would draw no attention. Then he would throw them away, where they would be disposed of by hard-working gentlemen, oblivious to the evidence they were discarding.

He would watch the story as it unfolded on the news.

He would smile in satisfaction as the police found no connection and failed to fit the pieces together; neither of his other victims had been murdered or disposed of in that fashion . In six days, he would buy the postcard. Every day between now and then, he would internally gloat at his victory, his success. This bliss. In three months, he would find another victim.

"Why the fifth case number?" The detective repeated.

"Because," he replied coolly, looking up to meet the man's gaze. "She was the only one who accepted what she was destined for."

"And what was that?"

The killer stared for a moment, genuinely dumbfounded, before responding: "Death."

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Mirror silver of my breath

By Crystal Ashton jewelry of jingling bells I disarm Goosebumps with the dawn of cold Sinking among a depth less sky I take up flying Break another faulty echo an opiumatic skirt with various patterns thoughts pouring out of your skull and into your aura A bounty of released souls from a well To feel a fierce clarity renews your perception The splitting of barrier fruit Fly

fayt·Hj Jtou.e OH tl:,e caJt{e Uu.otte-i 'aay at work ...

By Steve Shell It came to me like little bee Buzzed nearly close my ear.

She said, "My liege the Queen is near So, lay most carefully."

Set aback I arose with haste; continued with my lead.

One day I'll sing, abandon song, of how it came to be.

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A Hipster Conversation About a Recently Deceased Author

By Brian Walker

Yeah, the author died before he could finish it the way he had intended.

But yeah, it's still good and yeah, the reviews are great. And yeah, we'll see another edition with "lost" portions (and you know there's a reason they were lost) dug up by his ex or son or someone, and without a doubt it'll betray his vision. But anyway, have you read his first one?

I got my copy sil:,rned in '99.

He did a reading at the book shop downtown and there were only like ten other people. Yeah, he was so ahead of his time and yeah, he's sure to be imitated once his style catches on, once it falls into the hands of the mainstream.

By then we'll be saying he sold out (posthumously, somehow.)

But yeah. I've read it.

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The Humping, Biting, Pooping Wonders

by Polly Bringhurst

I love Black Jack. No, not the game, but my dog. My wonderful, dorky, pubic-haired, Schnoodle. Sunday was his last day with us. About ten-o'clock that night he went to his new home. I'd like to say I handled it well, crying just enough to look beautiful in my sorrow, but I'm a terrible liar. For two hours prior to his departure I cradled him in my arms while sobbing into his curls.

He licked the salty tears and snot off my face, enjoying the treat, not understanding what was about to take place. That made me bawl even harder. He's so innocent. I don't care if he bites the kids when he's excited. So what if he likes to demonstrate his dominance by hugging your leg. He's a good dog!

By the time his new owner arrived, I was a blubbering, red-faced, swollen, snotty mess. I could not pull myself together. It didn't matter that Black Jack's new owner was my best friend who just lived down the street. All I knew was that my feet were going to freeze at night without my fur blanket to keep them warm.

Black Jack's leaving was a long time in coming. I knew back in May that he would have to go. On Mother's Day, my sweet boy, Ian, was hospitalized for a massive asthma attack. Following this trauma, I took Ian to see his asthma doctor.

"Do you still have the dog?" Dr. Gourley asked.

"Yes," I admitted sheepishly. "But this one is hypoallergenic and Ian seems to be fine ..."

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Dr. Gourley was shaking his head. "He's not fine. There is no such thing as a hypoallergenic dog to an asthmatic."

I love dogs. I grew up with them and cannot remember a time when my youthful feet weren't tripping over metal food dishes on the floor. My first pooch was Penny the Toy Poodle, and then came Kachoock, our Siberian Husky with different colored eyes, and finally Mindy, the stray Collie my mother rescued on a stormy afternoon.

Having grown up with dogs, it was only fitting that I would want them to be part of my own family. When my oldest daughter was about two, she developed a mild discomfort for all things canine. My husband and I decided the best way to combat this unnaturalness was to welcome a tiny ball of fluff into our home.

Tank joined our family, and for the next thirteen years he worshipped my husband and pretty much hated everyone else. At least he cured my daughter of her fear. And while he tolerated four children, I would never recommend a Pomeranian as a good family dog. In spite of his propensity to bite and his inappropriateness with stuffed animals, I loved him and cared for him when age claimed his hearing and bladder control. Three months after his passing, my husband, Scott, surprised me with an American Bulldog.

Once in a while, an animal comes along who is different from all other animals. There is something special and unique that draws you to this creature. My bow-legged, barrel-chested, Tinkerbell, was such an animal. She had a magnetic soul.

Weighing in at fifty pounds, she was the largest puppy I'd ever owned.

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Caring for a dog means that you are willing to make certain sacrifices. You understand that poop will be tracked into the house on the bottom of a sneaker, you learn that library books shouldn't-but do make good chew toys, and you decide that the short white hairs in your food really aren't that big of a deal.

You make these sacrifices because the rewards of having someone in your life, who loves you unconditionally, are worth it. For me, dogs are the best medication, the best therapy, the best cure-all for whatever ails you. They fill a need in me that I can't get from anyone or anything else.

With a dog in my life my soul feels complete.

After two months with Tinkerbell, I knew it wasn't going to work. Ian's allergies intensified around her so much, that with one lick of her tongue, he'd break out in hives. After giving her away, I came home and climbed into my bed. I didn't leave it for three days. And when I did, I refused to wear anything but black. I wasn't in a good place. Along with my appearance, my thoughts and mood were dark.

I admit that during that time I had some very un-motherly feelings toward my son. It wasn't rational and it wasn't fair, but part of me thought, If it weren't for you, I could have a dog. I'm ashamed that those thoughts and feelings once had a place in my mind and heart. Ian couldn't help his allergies and asthma. He was born with those ailments.

What I failed to realize at the time was that he was losing something special too. Like me, Ian loves dogs and is happier when he's around them.

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But as with dogs, raising children requires certain sacrifices.

We know that sleeping through the night is a rare treat, and the ruins at Mesa Verde will wait, but a kidney infection will not. We understand that a dinosaur diorama is a family project, and we know that teenagers-when unsupervisedwill break a brand new La-Z-boy. Our children's needs always come before our own. Even if we don't want them too.

Black Jack was my last attempt to have a dog. Being a Schnoodle, he was considered a hypoallergenic breed.

I lived in denial for two years, but eventually came to realize that it was Ian or the dog. The canine season of my life had come to a close and it was time to put my child's needs before my own.

The night Black Jack left I knew I needed to stop looking at my losses and start counting my blessings. I have many of them and the best ones are my children; Tawni, Rebeka, Zackary, and Ian. No pet is better than them. So with eyes that tear up occasionally (but remain clear) I am choosing to look for the good, and I'm finding it. Although my feet are cold.

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Haiku #7 i hope to live happy do you? i ask in whisper no one answers me

.___, r-

~

Haiku #9 i look to the right, the shadows are frightening . i look to the left...

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Untitled

By Alice Nels on

"Hold the camera like a gun" I say, but she thinks I'm joking and doesn't care that it makes me ill to sit next to her and have our knees touch sometimes.

I repeat it and promise, promise that I'm serious. she looks at me a little longer, her gaze more penetrating, alert, measuring me when I think I've won.

Her eyes are cold coal, black beads, and I don't think I want to meet them.

I imagine her squeezing them into angry diamonds for making necklaces hard, cruel baubles being sold somewhere, maybe, and knees endlessly, perpetually, endlessly tentacling out.

Image By Valerie Valencia 28

5=t~ 11\_e D«rk_ne.s..s.

By Lucia McKeag

Her unsteady hand closed the door Shutting the world out forever more Tears streamed down her pale white face Never had she found her place All she felt was searing pain Made her want to go insane She lost her will to just move on And now arrived the dreaded dawn As she watched the sun go down She slipped into her parting gown She lay down on her silky sheet And waited for her last heartbeat

The Cougar By LindseyAyres

The Stalker By LindseyAyres

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Blue

By Erin McGuire

There was something wrong with her, the one who was his.

To him time was a clock without hands, so he couldn't tell you when she began to be different. But she was. Her feet that used to click across the floor, click click sharp with purpose and poise, were always barren now. Smooth and cold, announcing her presence to him with a dull drumming, slow and aimless as she moved around the place that was theirs.

Once he wouldn't have had to make himself known. She would find him, eagerly, instinctively, her blue blue water blue eyes alight with joy and her arms enfolding around him, gentle soft and warm as they pressed close, cheek to cheek.

"I love you," he'd say.

She'd smile. "I love you."

He would nuzzle her, and she would laugh, and there was love, love, love.

Even now he loved her still, though he had to cry to get her attention. Quiet at first, then louder, insistent until it became a wail. Notice me, please notice me. I love you don't you love me? Please hold me.

Sometimes she would. Sometimes their place would be like it had been, before something had changed. Bright, colorful, filled with we and us and ours. There would be others, too, and they were them, and he welcomed them because he knew she loved them and he loved what she loved.

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They made her smile, she laughed with them and they spoke what he couldn't speak and they filled the cracks of herself that he wished he could heal but he couldn't. Of course there was jealousy when they were around, because they could be what he could not. But in the end it was fine, because she was happy, and when they were gone there was love and at times when they were there love was still around, he curled contented on her lap while she stroked his head and spoke with them what he couldn't speak.

There was one who he knew she loved even more than him - the one that was hers, just as she was his. He didn't like her one at first, for he craved her attention but when one was around it was all she could see. One stayed long, one was around so often the place that was theirs began to feel like the place that was theirs and its and that was simply too much.

He'd done all he could to drive one away, chattered in its ears, messed with its clothes, leaving warnings of red stinging lines in its flesh. Nothing worked, it would just laugh or push him away or even be good like she was good, its hands different rough big butjust as kind upon him. He began to see what she saw in the one that was hers. In the dark and the quiet, she and hers were love.

Love, love, love. Love that mended the sad hurts inside that he couldn't see, and how could he hate the one who gave her the important loves that he couldn't?

But it was gone now. His last memory of the one that was hers was the two pressed close, so close they were the same, holding on tight and murmuring fervent words he couldn 't speak as the water blue bled out of her eyes and stained its skin like a promise.

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"I love you," she cried, the only words he knew, over and over, choked with water blue. He hadn't heard her say them since.

Together they sit in the place that is only theirs again, dark with the colors washed out, only the rumble of the box that shows others he's never seen flickering light and noise into the room, her attention solely upon it as it tells her of violence and death and with each bloom of horror she waits and hopes and prays.

There are no them to fill her cracked spaces and no it who can fix her unseen hurts that keep leaking, drip drip drip down her face. He catches them and tastes the salt of her loneliness, presses into her side and sings to her gently, the sound emerging from deep down in his heart. I love you, I love you. I notice you. I'm here.

A ring, the ding dong of the threshold between their place and all other places echoes in the quiet. She's on her feet, flies to meet the sound and opens the gate between theirs and not theirs with a wild, desperate intensity. He watches, waits at the corner, wondering.

On the other side is them, a single them who holds some sort of paper in his hands and wears clothing he doesn't recognize and an expression he does and wish he didn't.

There are many words he can't speak and trembling hands that take hold of the paper, slowly, slowly.

Beyond the two he sees the sky, intense vivid blue, blue blue like her eyes when they aren't seeping like colored ink into her pale fingers. By the piercing sound she makes, the way she hides her face, he knows her skin is being dyed blue again.

33

Eventually them leaves, and there is only him and his. He tries to comfort her, twisting his warmth around her ankles and whispering softly, unable to bear the gasping choking wailing dying noise of her cracks splintering into fathomless chasms. She doesn't notice.

That night, she takes something to her bed. A white bottle full of white pebbles that she downs, downs, downs all at once, like rocks swallowed into a stream and sinking fast to the bottom. She lies back against her blankets, and she stares blankly up at the ceiling. Her eyes are gray, for there is no blue left to shed.

He crawls onto the bed, quietly tiptoes onto her chest and rests on top of her, trying to meet her eyes with his. Again he sings to her, this time so passionately he knows she will understand, his feelings reverberating throughout his body and into hers. I love you. Please don't be sad. I'm here for you, I'd do anything for you, you are my everything.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

For the first time in a long while she smiles gently back at him, places her hand atop his warmth and feels his affection vibrate on her fingertips, sure and sincere. He feels the steady rise and fall of her beneath him. Rising, falling, rising, falling, and then she is still. He sings, sings to her with all of his heart, and there is love.

34

Icarus

By Taylor Anderson

Fallen Fr i end By Brian Bo

Seven year old hands are capable of much more than anyone, even I, would have expected . I wouldn't call it an act of ignorance, I was fully aware of what I was doing. I would've considered it more an act of justice, or even God, but the fact of the matter isn't whether it was right or wrong.

Silly little thing. I will never understand a bird's feather brained logic. We first met when I was walking down the three flights of stairs of my apartment building on my way to catch McDonalds' breakfast. His mangled body laid on the cold cement. No blood, but a fractured wing .

35

First instinct, I scooped him up and held him gently in my palms. With my dainty fingers, I began to caress his deranged feathers in place. Then, I began to want. He laid there so helpless. I felt like I was a mother who had to care and nurture her child to health. But he didn't feel the same way. He struggled to hobble himself off my hands onto the unforgiving pavement. The foot-and-a-half drop ended with a crack of the neck.

I tried throwing him up in the air to help him get a head start.

I even went up one flight of stairs, spread his wings, and flung him forward like a paper airplane, but no luck.

This time I picked him off the ground but held him more tightly in my hands. He was stunning. He had layers of yellow feathers, some on top of green ones, which made an illusion of another shade. The blood stained patch that created a nice orange tone. His black and white polka dotted chest pulsated.

I stared into his starry eyes; the moment was one of pure intimacy. My left hand spread his wing and with my right, I began to pluck. It wasn't so much of a jerking motion, but like a smooth tweeze of an eye brow. One by one, the drifting feathers compiled into colorful mounds that contrasted against the dull concrete. No Lego set in this entire world could have had me so intrigued.

36

Soon he looked like a scrawny version of my thanksgiving turkey, plucked and featherless. With swollen follicles and a broken neck, he was sprawled out and silent, but not dead.

I never noticed how much bird legs are like twigs; textured, thin, and branch out. Not to mention, they snap as easily as twigs do too.

The scene was filled with beautiful feathers and ligaments of all sorts. The last to go were the wings. The legs were a bit stubborn but his wings were unrelenting. Bald and limbless, I subtly set him on the sidewalk where I found him and wiped my contaminated hands off on the dewy morning grass. Then my stomach growled for a delicious McGriddle.

37

The Grave That Is Like the Womb

By Gary Howard

Deeply into our souls

I wonder if the grave Is like the womb · Where down under

Our minds The far-seeing consciousness Of the universe

We can make out Somewhat what they

Be gentle

Say about us

We say Or just a vibration

Whisper

Or two or even a fee Ii ng

· Declaim

Instinct or impulse

Selectively

Still their whispers .

Offering up Your commentary

Their snickers

Like definitive

Their gentle derisions , Even their praise .

Truths

And kindness .

Like final verdicts For the great beyond

Must go down Like thunder Like lava pouring Off a mountain

39

fl!_g~f i93ale

by Myra Karine Once I had a nightingale pretty, bright, and gay till I shot my nightingale and in my arms she lay Oh sing for me my nightingale brighten up my day and I'll smile for my nightingale and in my arms she'll lay So, she sang, my nightingale sweetly, loud, and clear and when she stopped, my nightingale, I softly shed a tear Oh sing for me my nightingale brighten up my day or else I'll leave my nightingale I'll have no cause to stay And so she sang, my nightingale, to brighten up my day but when she stopped, my nightingale, I quickly turned away Sing for me, my nightingale brighten up my day or else I'll shoot my nightingale and all alone she'll lay So she sang, my nightingale but soon her voice was stayed then I shot my nightingale and in my arms she lay.

Oh sing for me my nightingale, once again for me and I will kiss my nightingale soft, and tenderly She didn't sing, my nightingale quiet in death was she so I kissed my nightingale soft and tenderly Once I had a nightingale she brightened up my day 'till I shot my nightingale and in my arms she lay 40

By Jacob Mark Meyers Why, why do I fall in Love?

My heart is heavy Because it falls in love so easily She blows like a wind into my life She does not know that I cannot control my heart It has fallen And I know that it is futile And it is My love is like the sword that pierces a man's heart It tears at my soul It feels like I am bleeding And then the blood begins to freeze When I know that if she had the strength To see past what she sees That her heart would have fallen too

42

w1'i.l.e ob~ ~ ~ G-t-.,.ss

by Stacey Barnett

While observing in the grass. I saw people walking and I could hear the clacking of a woman's stiletto heels hitting the ground. I could smell the grass under my feet. I could see the trees starting to change color because it's fall. The plants in the flower gardens are already dead. I could hear a man playing his guitar. It was very quiet, I thought that this would be a great place to study. There was a women taking a nap on the grass. This was a good idea too I thought.

I could hear the water hitting the ground in the fountain. I could see the water and it was very nice to watch. I don't know why water is so fascinating to watch? Whi le standing there I could feel the sun on my face and the cool air hitting me at the same time. It was a nice feeling to be part of nature for a few minutes.

43

Death Under the Tree

By Jeannie Miller

The phone was ringing and I kept trying to answer it. Why, when I click it on does it keeps ringing? My husband nudged me awake.

What? What? Oh, I was just dreaming. I started to sink into sleep again when the phone rang again, startled, I punch it with my thumb to silence it. It seemed such a rude, incessant little thing to make such a loud noise in the middle of the night. Mont moaned from being woken up again.

"Hello, hello? Jeannie, are you there?" I then realized in my confusion I had turned the phone on in my efforts to silence it.

I checked the alarm clock with its green glowing numbers, "Two o'clock in the morning?" I muttered. There was a crying sound coming from the phone, it was Julie, my sister. I became more alert. "Julie, what's wrong?" Her words slurred by her crying, "I want our family to be together again:' There was a long pause as she started crying again.

"Julie, are you drunk?" There was quiet on the other end.

"Julie, are you there?" I waited long enough to know she was still on the line. "Julie, can this wait till morning?" Mont rolled over moaning again.

"No, I just want to go on this show where all the family comes together again:'

49

I felt for my bathrobe to go out to the front room knowing Julie just needed to talk to someone. Julie had always had a harder time with the divorce. Dad had tried to get the four of us but at the time it was unheard of for a Judge to give children to the divorced father. Eventually we all ended up in the Toledo Children's Home. Dad's second marriage had been rather hard because of our new mom's inexperience and that we had been exposed to so much already in our early formative years.

Our family was turbulent at best leaving so much wanting for normal, but it was so much better than what I had experienced with Janet, our real Mother.

"If we could go on this show our family could ... :' "Julie;' I interrupted, "do you know what you are saying?

I have made a good life for myself. I do not want anything to do with Janet:' There was crying again, "But she's our Mother!"

I realized it was just stupid to argue with her when she was drunk. "Julie, you need to get some sleep, OK, Honey? Aren't you tired?" There was quiet on the other end. The phone made the rude short little beeping noises to hang up. I just stared at the phone hoping Julie would just go to sleep. I shuddered, remembering Janet. Julie had not had the same treatment from our Mother, despite the fact we were twins.

"Mom, the phone is for you," Sarah brought the phone into the front room where I had been sewing:' Is the dress going to be finished in time?" Sarah asked. "It's so pretty. It's Grandma;' she said, pointing to the phone.

I had been so distracted I forgot I was holding the phone. "Hi Mom, what's up?"

50

"Um, this is really um, well," there was concern In her voice, "What is it Mom?" "We just got a call from the FBI. It's Julie. She's been in Florida visiting Janet:' "What?" I tensed.

Mom began again, "Janet apparently drugged Julie's coffee, put her in her car and kicked her out of her car onto the freeway."

I felt surreal, like I had just entered some movie.

"Is Julie alright?" I asked.

"Yes, yes, she is. Someone blocked traffic and called the police.

They came and picked her up and took her to a dry out unit.

When the drugs cleared her she said that Janet had killed her husband and stuffed his body under a huge tree root in the river.

Janet thought it was funny. But when Julie was horrified, Janet drugged her coffee. The FBI are now calling all of her previous husbands to see it they are alive. They are holding a, what do you call it, um, a Grand Jury? Anyway, it's a type of trial. They need to see if there is enough evidence to convict her so they can hold a real trial:' "Mom, where's Julie now?" ''l\fter the FBI took her statement she flew home. She's with Kevin now. She will fly back out for the Grand Jury. Oh, and one more thing before I go Jeannie, the FBI in their searching for previous husbands found one that had burned to death in his bed. Janet collected the insurance money from it:' I realized I was clenching my teeth. "Thanks Mom for the call.

Do you think it would be alright for me to call Julie right now or should I wait for awhile to see if she will call me?" ''I'd wait hon, give her some time to sort things out:' "Thanks again Mom for calling, talk to you later:'

51

Mont, who had quietly been standing behind me listening, sat down in the chair next to me. Shaking my head slowly I looked into his eyes, pain reflected from my own, "I tried to warn her. I tried to tell her to stay away from Janet."

Two weeks later "Hi Kevin, is Julie there?"

"Yes, but she's sleeping. Do you want to talk to her?"

"No, I'll wait. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow."

"Is that Jeannie?" I could her Julie's voice in the background as Kevin muffled the phone.

"Hi Jeannie, how are you?"

I side stepped the question, 'Tm sorry Julie, I didn't mean to wake you, I've been concerned about you. How are you doing?"

'Tm better:' She rehearsed the whole story filling in details that I hadn't gotten from mom. Janet had answered a lonely old man's letter on the internet. In the process of their courtship and subsequent marriage she divorced her husband Cecil, who stayed in a camper parked in their driveway, she took all of the man's property and put it in Cecil's name, took out a life insurance policy on the poor man and they killed him.

A thought suddenly came to me, "Julie, do you have my address and telephone number?"

"Yes I do:' "Did you have it at the time you were with Janet?" There was a deafening stillness that stood between the two hundred miles that separated us. "Julie, up to now Janet was not aware of my married name. I have my children to worry about should she ever try to come and cause us problems. Did you have my address and telephone number with you when you were with Janet?"

52

"I think I did. But I don't think she would have looked in my purse:' "But, you don't know do you?"

"She's in jail right now, she can't hurt you or your family;' she offered hopefully.

Knowing the issue would not resolve I dropped the matter for now. Trying to change the subject I asked, "Do you know when you'll be leaving?" ''I'll be flying out in two days. As to when they'll have me testify, I don't know:' "Julie, I've got to go now, will you call me if you need anything, or even just to talk?" She said she would and we both said our good-byes and hung up.

The Grand Jury felt that there was not enough evidence to indict Janet to stand trial. A lot of the evidence was washed away in the river where the old man was killed. Janet was set free and last time I checked she was still living in Florida. One good thing did come from all of it. While Julie was in Florida, Janet's sister and brother came for the trial, Aunt Shirley and Uncle Steve.

Since the divorce so many, many years ago we had deliberately stayed away from that side of the family; now we are in contact.

Aunt Shirley is a great genealogist. She had been working on the family lines well over twenty years. She called me and asked if I wanted a copy of her work from that side of the family. Being a genealogist myself, I was elated. My husband and I with some of our children drove cross country to spend a Thanksgiving with them. Aunt Shirley called absolutely everyone who was part of the family and some of the extended family so we could meet each other. I do believe in silver linings. I do not believe that the internet is a good way for people to meet.

53

By Nean Michael Hawe

Marylin stood beneath the great willow with her eyes closed, listening to the soft whisper of the wind through the branches.

The night's chill fingers caressed her wrinkled face, and in the quieter moments it almost felt as it had when she was young.

Beyond the lot the city bustled: cars honking, people talking, planes roaring in the distant skies above. The willow no longer stood at the heart of a rural nothingness, and in fact would not stand at all for much longer. If the billboard standing at the side of the road was to be believed, soon this space would be filled by upscale townhouses, completing the suburban dominion over the farmlands of her youth Opening her eyes, Marylin surveyed the swaying grass and stands of thistle which populated her childhood playground, trying her best to ignore the crumpled beer cans and empty oil drums, the stray papers and cigarette butts. The city lights cast a pall on the field, one the pale moon -just rising- only enhanced as it limed the world in silver-gray.

Image By Valerie Valencia

54

In the gentle twilight she could almost hear the giggles as her brothers and sister played an earnest game of tag, while she and Averly watched from up in the willow. And there was the boulder where she had her first kiss, ignoring her best friend's stifled giggles from her hiding spot nearby -though the boy didn't seem to notice. And it was here beneath the willow that she had tearfully promised Averly that she would return, that awful day when her parents shipped the family across the country, away from her whole world.

Since that day she had missed this place, the fields and flowers, the memories. And now that she'd come home -having loved and lost and lived long enough to begin to fade- she was dismayed to see how much it all had changed. Gone was the barn where she'd broken her leg, missing the hay pile when she'd jumped from the loft at the insistence of her constant companion. The stream where her brothers had once caught frogs, meant to terrorize all the girls but Averly, was now little more than a stinking, muddy rivulet, meandering back and forth behind the houses of strangers. Everything was louder, and even the air smelled strange: metallic and harsh where once all had been fresh as spring grass. But more than all that, she couldn't find Averly.

Maybe her parents and the doctors they had sent her to were right.

She remembered the night before they left, hearing her father's voice as she hid at the top of the stairs, "It's not normal. It should have stopped when she blossomed. Hopefully a change of scenery will put an end to it. No more nonsense about this Averly.

Even her sister is taken with her mad fancy now. " It was a foolish old woman who moved across the country in the last years of her life to search for a flight of childhood fancy. A very foolish old woman. Still, Marylin wished she could see her again.

55

With that she clutched her jacket tighter to ward off the chill in the air and turned to walk back to her car. She would go to her cousin's, tell her she had changed her mind, go back to stay with her son, and forget this sad little field and its heartbreaking memories.

She had taken three steps when something made her look over her shoulder, back at the willow. As she glanced she caught a glimpse of a pale face pulling back behind the tree. ''.Averly?" she called out.

There was a pause, and then: Mary? You came back!

Marylin spun around and hurried back to the tree, nearly tripping on the uneven ground in her haste.

"Averly! You're still here!"

Where did you go, Mary? It's been so long, no-one will play with me anymore.

Marylin fell to her knees, ignoring the sting of the dirt and gravel digging into her bare skin beneath her skirt. She wept as she spoke, "I didn't want to go, Averly. I wanted to stay, but I couldn't:'

56

Through her blurry eyes she saw Averly's small, strange face peer down at her from behind the tree. Her liquid violet eyes were as vibrant as ever, but her pale skin and downy hair seemed faded, almost translucent.

What took you so long? I've been so lonely, with no one to play with me.

"I know. I'm sorry. I grew up. I had a family, and a life, a career and children. I couldn't just leave them:' So you can't stay?

Marylin paused now, drying the tears from her eyes.

"No ... One way or another that's all behind me:' At last Averly moved from behind the tree, extending one thin, childlike limb to Marylin.

Come play with me, Mary, like we used to.

Taking hold of the small, soft hand, Marylin stood up into a world of light, leaving behind the vacant lot and the shell of her life, forever.

57

Lucid

By Sarah Jacobs

Fountain of Youth By Alexis Nelson I can see the mirror with its reflective glass. It creates smears on my walls whenever the light hits it right. It is at my mirror that I spend my mornings, my afternoons, and evenings. It shows my ugliness. It sparks my creativity. It presents my beauty. Without my mirror I am nothing. Every night I sit in front of the glass and I pray. I pray that I may one day become somebody. Anybody.

Anything. And every night I go to sleep knowing that I am not that somebody. I am not anything. What have I accomplished?

Nothing. I am nothing. I am a husk. A shell. A waste of space and a waste of air.

My mirror proves this to me. I can see my eyes, ragged and dull.

It is my fault. I have not done what I should. I am the only one to blame. If I do not produce, I do not prosper. That is how it is. That is how it has always been. That is how it always will be.

58

It is correct. It is the law. That is the rule. The mirror knows best. I comb my hair, brush it until it shines in the light. Hair that shines is important. It signifies health. It signifies that I take care of myself I will not let myself go to waste. I will not let my ugliness show. I will not be ugly. I will not be ugly. I will not be ugly. I will not. I cannot. My mirror is my salvation. It shows me where to place the paste, where to trim, where to shave. Containers surround the glass. Acne cream. Foundation. Shaving cream. Eye shadow. Eyeliner. Lipstick. Blush. I cannot live without these. I must hide my imperfections. I must rid myself of these diseases.

Pimples. Scars. Crow's feet. Moles. These are wrong. These are unacceptable. There is no gain in imperfection. There is no fortune. There is no fame.

Every morning I rise. Six o' clock sharp. To dally is to dawdle.

Time is important. Time is of the essence. There is nothing without time. If I do not work I will not succeed. I will be somebody. I will do everything within my power to be somebody.

I will come. I will see. I will conquer. Every morning I stare into my mirror and prepare myself Without my mirror highlighting all my wrongs, highlighting all my imperfections, I will not be able to obtain my dreams. I will forever be a nobody. I will forever be nothing. And no one will notice. No one will care. Without my mirror, without my guide, I would be lost. Without the reflective glass showing me my failures and presenting my hideousness, how would I achieve?

I can see the mirror. I can see me. I can see the blood. I can see the cuts. I can see the rope. I can see the gun. I can see the bottles. I can see the pills. I can see the knife. I can see the paper. I can see the words. I can see the frown. I can see the sorrow. I can see the hatred. I can see the despair. I can see the dislike. I can see the suffocation. I can see the ugly. I can see the beauty. I can see the lies. I can see the truth. I can see it all. And it's lucid.

And I'm done. I quit. Not life but the game. The game I played.

The game I became. It's over. And I'm free.

•59

CJ}otter's CJ}ond

By Ashley Vest Today the two spoke no words. Their souls needed only their silent love. She watched him as he cast the line. It soared into the beautiful sky and the moment before it contacted water seemed endless to the little girl. She sat in awe with her eyes fixed upon the rainbow bait, waiting for its fall. Its distance amazed her, but as it was her father's cast it made.

She watched the man's motions and studied his ways. He'd reply as he gazed into her eye and showed a tender smile on his face. He saw how she was learning.

Her mind worked the same, just as his. Her shyness and subtleties were just as shy and subtle as his. In a group he'd sit back and listen, but it was not just ears working here. His mind was running, constantly running. He'd wonder why they spoke as they did, why they moved as they did, and he'd think about what they were saying. He had a complete argument in his head. Would he say something? Not likely.

In a crowd she'd sit back and listen, but it was not just her ears working. Her mind was running, constantly running.

She'd wonder why their sentences were formed the way they were, why their actions seemed to echo their thoughts and she'd think about the words they had spoken. Her mind would take its toll as she'd calculate her response. Would she say something? Not likely.

61

They continued to fish, in their own world, but all in all the same. They sat on the banks of the lake upon the earthen ground. They heard the lake ripple, the bird's chirp and other life as it did scatter by and by. Each of them, enjoying what nature was offering, also enjoyed the comfort from each other. With no words spoken, they were speaking to each other. Their conversation was beautiful, for as they both were sensing life, they sensed each other's words.

Hours passed and they were still sitting, together.

Their cast after cast helped them grow and learn.

Anything worthwhile takes time. Patience was their virtue. They passed the time by viewing all aspects of the world. Nature was beautiful. Everything here was methodologically natural to them. What was there was right in front of their eyes. Its tactility was as the presence of air in our life.

Things mended together. Just as an association to the warmth of your sun, a drop of rain, the touch of one's skin. The girl felt more content with each passing moment. As she waltzed around the lake she couldn't help but look over her shoulder to see her father filled with the same peaceful smile. And they stood not so abnormally anymore.

62

A tug happened and the girl flushed to grab the pole. It was a force to the little girl's strength. Her hands began to grasp the rod. She used all her potency. Her eyes met her fathers and he began to draw near her. His feet began to run and his dependence to the ground was permitted by the love of his land.

He reached her and put his hands over hers. It was as if a glove were put on the girls hands. With her father 's help, reel by reel they raised life from the wate r. As the fish reached shore it swayed with their movements. It flew in all directions. The energy produced by both of them was the same. With eyes wide open and a permanent smile on their faces. Together, life was brought to them.

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Yoar Love

By Tomas Diego Cortez

Your love truly echoes in the chambers of my heart, Your smile truly echoes in the chambers of my mind, Like the earth needs the sun I need you even though apart, A match to your radiance impossible to find.

And while the distance between us only makes our love stronger, The exhibited courage you continue to show, In my prayers we will not be apart for much longer, So grows my need and love for you more than you know.

I'd give all that I own in trade for your pain, Even give up my life to wash out your sorrows, An eternity in hell I'd happily sustain, To ensure that you have the brightest tomorrows.

65

?~0

By Keaton Charles Butler

MOVING

POEM

Our covered feet take solemn steps while

a dandelion's

the sky is decorated

wish-blown seed

with sunset orange

hovers, calling

streamer clouds

to creators and

for our going away party.

scrambling to do its job

We thank you for

of messenger.

loving us in all those ways, like when I would walk

BLESSED AWAKE

in the rain, a feline mother licking

Morning, in soft light a

my narcissistic wounds,

mountain driven up

and go as far as I could

by earth's power,

away from my scariest places-

the small light

where I didn't belong.

of approaching sun

My footsteps, like cobblestones,

cries over the clouds,

and thoughts, like graffiti,

and leaves the small caress of

cover most of these

a lover on your shoulder,

gray yarn sidewalks,

slowly evolving

and Timpanogos' radiant tip

as touch gains comfort.

would cradle my heart between it and each passing sunset, spraying gold and red above my sprouting.

66

Port Town

By Brian Walker

SUN

Had I stayed in the port town of my childhood, I might have grown more acquainted with the sea. Early brisk mornings, my weathered face all stubborn, unshaven, my rope-schooled hands more useful, worn.

A fisherman's son in a port town, strong and steady, I could have known an honest day's work. Starting with the sunrise, left to the mercy of swells and winds like God's own breath, had I stayed.

By Camie Escobar

Image By Valerie Valencia

The delicate motion of the sky drifted over me Taking my entire body through the soft, burning embers of the sun Dripping lemon yellow beads of light through your hair Inspiration danced through your distant eyes and I paused only for a moment To take in the simplistic beauty of it all Endless hours fell through the empty spaces of time My heart seemed to melt into the gentle beauty of your words And I found myself carefully searching for a way to keep this dream from fading.

67

l'J O rl T H O U G H T S , rl O l'J K rl O ~\/ I rl G , rl O rl S E Q U E T E R S

By Jim Anderson

I've decided to start this blog post with nothing at all - nothing worth typing out loud, anyway- on my mind. I've decided that I'm going to, for the first time ever, start this sucker before titling it. Typically, I have something in mind when my fingers start to do the keyboard dance. Not this time though. Wonder how it will turn out? :/ I can say this much, I'm not going to blog about a "new year;' let alone a "happy" one. I already touched on that via Twitter earlier today. Or was it FaceBook? Not important.

Just to get it out there, I've recently started a private journal.

This has been taking up a fair amount of my time and has, so far, been hovering somewhere between exhausting and boring with a hover-by on analytical. Why do I bring this up you ask?

Glad you did! (it shows that I suckered you into a 2nd paragraph!

Vay me!) Well, I mention the journal as an entry point into asking you all (my, what, 2.65 readers) whether you do the same or if the private journal is a bygone antique of a much less "social-media" centric age. A relic passed by with the where-areyou -right-now-and-what-are-you-thinking-and-what-ad-shouldwe-stream-to-you age.

69

So let's have it, are there any closetjournalers our there? If so, do you do it the old school way, with pen and paper, or do you just have a different (insert fav blog service here) account that you have made private? Maybe you downloaded some special journal software? I took up my second offering. I have a private Word Press blog. If you ask real nice and the sky is grey and I see four horses on the not-so distant horizon and my shoes are yellow, I may grant you the rights necessary to read the sorry, sappy, drivel that I have dared to think and - worse yet - to scratch upon their (the blog service's) hard-disc space.

But I warn you, yer gonna have to be pretty special indeed, because I don't think I'd be able to face you ever again if said access were to be provided!

I gotta say, man it's hard to get genuinely cavernous into one's own thoughts. At least I find it really difficult. For me, the trouble lies on a few factors, ranging from mundane to psychologically challenging to just plain old, stupid, scheduling, but the main hardship that I find myself worrying about the most is this ... I've had this idea of myself for so long that it's become really hard to try to see around that idea to see things below/behind this idea of self. It's freaky hard in fact! You know the old anthem that goes something like: "Who knows you better that yourself?" Well, I posit that while that may or may not be terribly true, it does not infer the seemingly-goes-without-saying followup thought that, "You must be the person that really knows yourself' I don't think the two thoughts are at all mutually inclusive. Do you? I think that a large number of people, and I include myself amongst the ranks, don't really know themselves at all.

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I think that we (yeah, I used the word "we" here) think we know ourselves, but we are mistaken about that. We are lying about that. I know that I have a self image that doesn't align with other people's image of me. I know that my self perceptions don't necessarily align with perceived reality, if looked at through a proper lens. I also figure that I am not alone in this phenomenon. I mean, look at the phrase, "Hindsight is 20/20."

Doesn't that support the idea that people aren't able to see themselves (or situations) particularly clearly?

To me it makes sense.

Anyway, my non-new year's resolution (I can claim this because it's been ongoing for a while now) is to try, via my private journal, to get to know myself a bit better. God, did I really just say that? What a completely embarrassing sentence to utter, let alone type (or blog!) Well it's done. Gonna let it stand in all of its embarrassing glory and pride. Sorry about it. Just don't read that last part! D'oh! I guess it's too late to ask that of you now. Wah wah.

I guess it's time to try to title this puppy. any suggestions? If so, let me know and I'll think about letting you be my "title voice!" :) Gonna go with ...

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An excerpt from "confessions of an Attention Whore''

By Emma C Panti

All I ever wanted since my first boyfriend, Troy Miller, was to be kissed. And I watched that magical moment in "Dirty Dancing" enough times to know I desperately wanted to be kissed like Johnny kissed Baby. I envisioned standing close to him, our arms around each other, breaths heavy-yet shallow.

I imagined him caressing me, up and down my back and across my shoulders; his soft lips leaving a trail of kisses from the base of my neck until reaching my mouth, gently nibbling. Then, parting my lips slightly, engaging each other passionately.

And if "Hungry Eyes" should happen to be playing in the background, even better.

The problem was physical contact was a no-no at my middle school. I guess the principal was worried that hand-holding and hugging in the hallways would lead to sex behind the bleachers or something. Thanks to that I hadn't even made it to first base, and I was already in my third relationship of the year, this time with Matt Hawthorne. Now that 7th grade was coming to an end, the window of opportunity was fast closing in on me.

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It was on one of those mornings, near the end of the school year, I found an invitation taped to my locker. I tore it open only to reveal it was from Allen Warren. While being invited to boy-girl parties was a big deal, Allen Warren's guest list wasn't exactly one to be vying for. Not that Allen wasn't a good guy or anything. He was sweet, actually. I just couldn't figure out why I was being invited to his party. We had choir together, but aside of that I don't know that I even had so much as one conversation with him. I wasn't exactly in his circle of friends. Come to think of it, Allen didn't really have a circle of friends, not that I could remember anyway.

Allen was one of those boys whose awkward phase started around the fourth grade and lasted well into high school. Instead of tall, dark and handsome, he was lanky and pale-faced, with an overbite guaranteed to put his orthodontist's kids through college. The only thing I really knew about Allen was he had horses. He still carried around his horse-themed Trapper Keeper from elementary school, ate from his Black Beauty lunch box, and often wore his favorite gray sweatshirt-the one with a herd of wild mustangs silkscreened across his chest.

"Did you get one?" I asked Celeste, waving the invitation as she arrived at her locker.

"No," she replied. "Who's it from?" When I showed her, she laughed. When Julie arrived at her locker on the other side of me she joined in the teasing too.

"You're not going, are you?" Julie asked.

"I don't know;' I shrugged. "Maybe."

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"Maybe he likes you," Celeste mocked.

"Be nice;' I sighed, looking over at Allen drinking from his Black Beauty thermos. "I don't even think he's noticed girls yet."

"Speaking of which, what about Matt?" Julie asked.

I shrugged. Matt and I used to spend so much time together during track season. But ever since the final meet a few weeks earlier, we hardly saw each other anymore. We had different lunch periods, no classes together, and lived in opposite directions which meant taking different busses. I finally caught up to him in the hallway that afternoon only to find out he wasn't going to the party. Great, the only boy-girl party all year and I wouldn't even get my long awaited kiss.

I knew that if I told my mom about the party, she would make me go. Not that I was opposed to going, I just didn't want it to be weird - me with a bunch of kids I barely knew, swaying awkwardly to lame music. Then there was what the invitation said. "Barn party." I had no idea what that even meant. Visions of cowboy boots, bolo ties and square dancing filled my head. Maybe I wouldn't go after all.

My last class of the day was P.E. While dressing for gym, I overheard one of the girls ask Maggie Fritz about Allen's party - whether or not she received an invitation and if she planned to go. I stopped tying my tennis shoes and held my breath, listening, waiting to hear what Maggie would say. Maggie Fritz was the most popular girl in school. It wasn't because her family had money, because they weren't rich. It wasn't because she was a total knockout, because she was actually quite plain. However, Maggie was a superstar at every sport she played, plus she was the only cheerleader who wasn't completely stuck on herself Maggie Fritz was popular because she was nice to everyone in spite of being good at everything she did.

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"I heard he invited the whole class;' Brooke chimed in.

"Apparently his mom told him he could have as many friends over as he wants:' "Too bad he doesn't have any," Lynne scoffed.

Maggie shot her a disapproving look before stating, "I think we should all go:' Smiling, I shut my gym locker and joined the rest of the girls for stretches. Now that Maggie declared her attendance at the party, I knew that everyone who was anyone would be there. I called Allen that night to tell him I was coming.

Saturday night finally arrived. My mom dropped me off in Allen's driveway and told me she would be back to pick me up promptly at ten o'clock, even though the party would go until eleven. She had to work her graveyard shift at the hospital and I was not to make her wait on me. I nodded in agreement and jumped from the van with Allen's gift tucked under my arm.

Making my way around back, I could hear strains of U93 FM blaring from the barn. The Bangles had just finished "Walk Like an Egyptian" and next on the playlist was "La Bamba". The evening was a little humid and I prayed my extra-hold Aussie Sprunch Spray would be strong enough to keep my seashell bangs intact.

The barn had been swept clean and blankets were strewn over bales of hay. Pizza and soda covered a plastic folding table against one wall and white Christmas lights framed the main area of the dance floor. I felt confident in my stone-washed jeans and oversized college sweatshirt. Several of the girls nodded for me to join them in a circle on the dance floor. Even though I played sports with most of them, it was different to be included at a party. And while I still didn't understand why Allen had invited me, I was flattered he considered me one of the cool kids.

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Soon the deejay on the radio announced a slow song, and like many of the girls, I retreated to a hay bale, doing my best to act apathetic about slow dancing. That's when Robbie Stayner approached. He had on his dark blue rugby shirt and his snugfitting Levi's, which hugged him in all the right places. He smelled good too.

"Wanna dance?" he asked.

"Um, I have a boyfriend," I stammered.

"It's just one dance," Robbie said, melting me with his dark brown eyes and dimpled grin.

I nodded and joined him, placing my arms around his neck, rocking from side to side to some love tune by Atlantic Starr.

Besides, I rationalized, it wasn't like Matt didn't know where I was.

Surely he knew there would be boys at the party and he probably assumed there would be dancing, and since when was one dance a commitment anyway?

But then one dance turned into two as another ballad filled the airwaves. I could feel Robbie's warm breath against my cheek; soothing, yet slightly ticklish. His hands on the small of my back pulled me in a little closer. I rested my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes, losing myself in the lyrics.

"Call Matt;' Robbie soon whispered into my ear.

"What?" I asked, looking up at him.

"There's a phone over there;' Robbie motioned. "Call Matt."

"Why should I call Matt?" I asked.

"Tell him you want to break up."

As if under a trance, I followed Robbie's directions and made my way over to the big black rotary-dial phone on the wall.

I hadn't given a second thought to the words I found myself blurting out next.

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"I think we should break up," I told Matt when he answered. I don't really recall his response other than he agreed and our conversation was over almost as soon as it started.

Robbie watched me from across the room, one leg propped up against the wall behind him. Feeling his eyes on me, the blood rushed to my face. I don't remember exactly how many more songs we danced to that night, but I remember the look in his eyes, drowning me.

It was getting close to ten and I knew better than to make my mom come look for me. I also knew that if I was going to be kissed, it was now or never. Leading Robbie by the hand, we left the barn and slowly made our way across the farm, in the direction of the house. My feet seemed heavy, moving against my will. My ears took a few moments to acclimate to the still of night. Robbie's breaths seemed to keep time with the cicadas. ''Are you playing little league this year?" he asked, still holding my hand as we walked.

"Yes," I replied a bit shakily. "Crystal Valley Catering. What about you?" I asked in return.

"Yeah;' Robbie sighed. "For Hawkins Water Supply:' Little league was a big deal in our town and I knew that was Robbie's way of asking if he would get to see me over the summer. As we neared the house, Robbie tugged on my arm a bit, pulling me behind a large rose bush. I turned to face him.

We were standing so close to each other, an electric shock jolted the tips of my fingers, crawling up each arm. As Robbie placed both hands on my shoulders the tingling spread to the pit of my stomach and then swelled within my chest, bleeding upward into my cheeks. I looked into his eyes, then to his lips and back to his eyes again. Then leaning into me, Robbie cradled my face in his hands and slowly brought my lips to meet his.

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And then-he stuck his tongue in my mouth.

I tried hard to resist the gagging reflex one often has when choking on something unexpected. Robbie's tongue flailed from side to side before whirling around mine. What is he doing?

I wondered. This wasn't how Johnny kissed Baby.

Finally, Robbie pulled away. I could tell by the gleam on his face and the light in his eyes he felt he gave an extraordinary performance. I worried wiping the slobber on my shirt sleeve might be offensive, so I at least waited until he turned away. We reached the driveway just as my mother's van pulled in.

I lay in bed that night replaying the kiss over and over in my mind, wondering how something that was supposed to be so magical could so closely resemble the welcome I received from my dog each day after school. True, I had finally made it to first base. But as far as I was concerned the French could keep their drooling kisses to themselves.

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By Lyuba Basin

I Let it start with the bamboo singing, lured into the embrace of gold and red, into a tangle of arms, under a star-lit web.

Chamomile whispers dragging them into dreams. while the glow of the streets cast a soft shadow kissing and waiting for the sun.

II Let them lay, while the earth awakens with the sun and the cars and shops all start buzzing and singing.

Taking cover under the leaves, the tree's tall shadow.

Kissing until lips turn red, until minds intertwine our day-dreams. to become tangled once more, between a leaf and limb web.

m Let the spider attract its fly to the web; and have it pray each day for a rising sun.

With a need for lustful dreams, and a song that won't stop singing.

A withering breath to see a deeper red, but to a weak heart's eye, a conquering shadow.

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N Let the tango be the dance for our shadow, and with each step create a more intricate web.

With each lash that bats, the sky begins to red.

A perfect setting, the setting sun, against the sound of the Siren singing, luring men, once again, into exotic dreams.

V Let us not turn away from such dreams, instead surrender to the darkening shadow.

But who can resist the Siren's singing, when you find the pleasure of hanging in the web?

Watching the daily motions of a tangerine sun, and closing the eyes to escape to a world of red.

VI Let the blood begin to boil, and boil red, a steam of passion that clouds the dreams to make them forget the light of the sun.

Forever stuck in the Siren's cool shadow, trapped for a lifetime in the strong web.

If only they cou ld resist the smooth singing.

VII When they awaken, they have lost their own shadow What's left are only fragments of dreams in the web, but in the distance, a Siren still singing.

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INSOMNIA

By Rachel "Raiya" Iverson

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Thin9s Yov Find in Dirty Dishwater

By Brittany Burnett

This story of mine begins at the kitchen sink. The water is running through my fingers and the soap bubbles are soft and almost sticky in a way. The smell is a mix of lavender and old food. I ask myself "why don't we just clean the dishes right after we use them?" Instead we let them pile up until it is a treacherous chore that requires much self-control to bring ourselves to do. As I stand there scrubbing grease off of a small plate from Sunday's dinner, I see a flash from the diamonds on my finger and vow, like I always do, to put my ring on the counter next time I am going to put my hands in dirty dishwater; some habits are hard to break. I fumble through the water, feeling around for silverware at the bottom. I accidentally grab the sharp edge of a knife. The odd thing about slicing your finger while it is submersed in water is that no matter how deep the cut, you barely feel the blade.

As my hand emerges from the filthy water in the sink, I see the small trickle of blood and close my eyes. My mind becomes like a movie reel. I envision images of blood and razor blades flashing before me. I see a girl who is lost in her own mind, surrounded by confusion, and unable to deal with the boiling over frustration in the pit of her stomach. This girl, although I know her so well, is barely recognizable to me anymore. A terrible feeling of frustration leaves her, unable to control herself any longer.

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At thirteen years old she does not have the appropriate skills to deal with her overwhelming emotions. She walks into the bathroom, crying, feeling defeated. She takes a hot shower to try to calm down but in the shower she loses control.

Taking the razor into her hand she makes her first slice, on her stomach. Under the stream of water the cut only stings for a second. The blood rushes out but is quickly washed away by the water. It's gone so fast; she needs to do it again, and again.

She smiles. She is happy.

As the images kept spinning in my mind I could see that hopeless girl walking from my childhood bedroom into the bathroom. She is magnetized to the razors; she needs them. When she could get somewhere private to cut, she would. When she wasn't able to cut, she would daydream about the feeling it gave her.

During school she wore long sleeves and used her longest fingernail to replace the blade. She often looks at her scars and feels happy; truly liking the way they look and feel against her skin. She does not want to stay in the bathroom too long to raise suspicion; but she has already showered twice today and cannot come up with an explanation to shower once again.

So she puts the razor in her arm sleeve, brushes her teeth, and returns to her bedroom. She thinks it is sort of fun to sneak around and outsmart her parents, like always. In her bedroom, behind a locked door, she turns on music and carves into her body what she thinks are beautiful designs.

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In this country most think of cutting as a way young people seek attention. That was not my experience. I hid my cuts and scars from others. They were special to me, sacred almost. No one else deserved to see them. I rarely cut my arms because they were the hardest place to conceal so I usually stuck to the inner thighs and stomach. I did not want to be labeled by my addiction, or looked down on by people who had no idea what self mutilation was really about.

For a long time, cutting made me happier; not sad like you would think. I know a lot of people who are addicted to tattoos and it is not much different than this. Tattoos are painful and leave permanent marks like scars. The difference is that tattoos are letting another person inflict that pain on you; but they are socially acceptable. It is interesting how people judge things so harshly that they know so little about.

Eventually that adrenaline rush became much harder to feel.

The stakes would have to be raised to get that same feeling.

I see myself trying anything to have that happiness I once felt when I cut. Cutting at one time was able to solve all of my problems but it was not working so well any longer. I see that girl starting to beat herself with anything she can find; usually the weapon of choice is a thick wooden hair brush. When she is home alone she tries smashing her head into the walls as hard as she can. She tries taking more and more Tylenol at once to see how much she can handle. She tries strangling herself quite a few times but it seems like she just isn't strong enough for it to work. Just for the rush, one night she decides to pierce her ears herself; she puts 10 holes in each ear. She continues cutting as well because, even if it didn't give her that same happy feeling, she still thinks she needs it.

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I feel queasy in my stomach as this movie reel I am seeing seems to never end. I am sickened by the things I used to do to myself and the terrible mental illness that had to be hiding under it all.

I start asking myself "how did I ever get free?" "How did I ever get here?" It is hard to realize that I am still that same girl; I will always be that girl. I am different, but still the same. As my life was spinning out of control there were only two options. I would have to break the addiction or I would eventually kill myself.

I see that girl, me, looking in the mirror admiring her scars. She looks up to see her face. She wonders, "will I always like these scars?" She pictures the person she wants to be in the future; a wife, a mother, and a professional of some sort. She thinks "how can I get anywhere in life being like this?" The recovery process was long, but after fighting urges and having relapses she cut for the last time three years later.

Now, I open my eyes and remember where I am. My finger is still bleeding and it suddenly hurts like no cut has hurt before. I run it under the flow of the faucet and I look into the sink. I think about how my finger was cut inside the filthy gross water. I realize for the first time in my life that I no longer have the slightest urge to mutilate my precious body. The bleeding stops and I decide the harm is already done, so I should finish my chores.

But before I stick my hands back into that water, I stop and place that sparkling wedding band onto the counter. I realize although some habits are hard to break, the journey you take while breaking them is what makes up life; the good and the bad.

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Jes

By Steve Shell

Looking through the tiger's eye I see the moon & grab the sky.

One day the world will truly see A body strong my spirit free.

Forever Mine

By Lucia McKeag

The man that kept her love alive No longer could his heart survive Few words were said between the two Except the words "I Love You:' Their lips touched softly one last time He said to her "Forever Mine:' He closed his eyes so painfully And held his wife so lovingly She wept onto his small warm chest And watched him take his last big breath Side by side for 60 years Now all alone to face her fears The man that kept her love alive No longer did his heart survive She closed her sad and old wet eyes To drift away into the skies

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Literary Editor Jason McFarland

Design Editor Kristy Sabey

Associate Ed itor Leslie Hall

Staff Editors Jim Anderson Nean Hawe Jacob Meyers Brooke Anderson Steven W Shell Jr

Faculty Adv isor Lisa Bickmore

Cover Original artwork

by Brian Bo

Contact 4600 S Redwoood Rd. Writing Center, RM AD238A 801.957.4686 folioslcc@gmail.com

Disc laimer Salt Lake Community College is not responsible for the opinions expressed in Folio, nor do the pieces represent an official position at Salt Lake Community College.

Individual authors are soley responisble for the opinions expressed herin.

Copyright Each author and artist retains copyright individually

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