2015: Kiosk Vol 77

C ELEB R ATIN G 77 Y EA R S O F P UB LIC ATIO N

THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE

1501 MORNINGSIDE AVE. SIOUX CITY, IOWA 51106 The Morningside College experience cultivates a passion for lifelong learning and a dedication to ethical leadership and civic responsibility.

2015

ON THE COVER ALLURING RED

by Marcos Pichinte photography

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“We have our Arts so we won’t die of Truth.”

R ay Br adbury

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VOLUME 77 2015

THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE

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STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF ASSISTANT EDITORS VISUAL EDITOR

Hannah Hecht Amanda Girres, Bethany Kluender, Ashley Petersen Brianna Harding FICTION

NON-FICTION

Associate Editor

Associate Editor

Amanda Girres

Bethany Kluender

Board Members

Board Members

Austin Mumm Cat Ruddy Jocelyn Wolff

Amanda Cummings Diane Nguyen Tabby Snyder Elizabeth Sterling

POETRY

COPY EDITORS

Associate Editor

Jessie Byrnes Tasha Lechtenberg Allison Linafelter Mariah Wills

Ashley Petersen

Board Members

Amber Burg Cheyanne Dean Brayton Hagge Alex Struck ART

Associate Editors

Amber Burg Joelle Kruger Summer Wulf

FACULTY ADVISORS

Steve Coyne John Kolbo Terri McGaffin

ABOUT OUR JUDGES: Jim Reese is an associate professor of English; director of the Great Plains Writers’ Tour at Mount Marty College in Yankton, South Dakota; and editor in chief of 4 PM Count. Reese’s poetry and prose have been widely published, most recently in New York Quarterly, Poetry East, Paterson Literary Review, Louisiana Literature Review and elsewhere. In 2012 Reese received an Allen Ginsberg Poetry Award and a 2012 Distinguished Public Service Award in recognition of his exemplary dedication and contributions to the education department at the Yankton Federal Prison Camp.

Tim Young has more than 16 years of design and art direction experience in a wide variety of industries including health care, agriculture, consumer services, and packaged goods. As associate creative director, he’s tapped to provide both strategic and creative leadership on several key agency accounts, manage a team of designers, and make sure the “visual vocabulary” of every project matches brand attributes.

Joey Feaster is an alumnus of the University of South Dakota with a BFA in photography. He has spent the majority of his life roaming the rural countryside of western South Dakota. Playing in the Badlands as well as the Black Hills has emboldened his love for nature and all that is wild. Passionate about social, political, and environmental justice, his art has embraced a more activist-driven theme. Joey enjoys the juxtaposition of cute and happy imagery combined with dark subject matter. While spending much of his time producing portrait photography, Joey’s passion lies in illustration and acrylic painting.

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LETTERS FROM THE EDITORS “I had a professor once who likes to tell his students that there are only ten different plots in all of fiction. Well, I’m here to tell you he’s wrong. There’s only one: Who am I?” Usually, when we write, we set out with the objective to inform. We think, okay, I want to write a story that tells about the time I fell out of a tree, or I want to write a character who is like this kid I used to know in high school. But, by the end of the whole process, in addition to telling the reader a story, we have unearthed details about ourselves that we never actually knew and put them on display for the world to see. There is artistic beauty in vulnerability, and that beauty can turn into something striking when in the hands of Morningside’s literary artists.

This issue of the Kiosk is truly exceptional in the quality and diversity of its narratives. It contains accounts of adventures in other countries, families falling apart, actors preparing to take on other personas, struggling teenagers, and first love. Most importantly, through fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and art, the magazine tells the story of our collective identity here at Morningside. This institution brings together thousands of students, faculty, staff, and alumni, each with his or her own storied history, and the magazine helps to offer a rich, thought-provoking glimpse of who we are.

One of the issues that our staff ran into while putting together the magazine was the question of what separated fiction from nonfiction. If a writer’s story diverges from the slippery concept of “what really happened,” does that make it fiction? What if someone writes a fictional piece with its entire foundation set in the truth? Does the use of literary devices like flashbacks and symbols automatically disqualify a piece from being nonfiction? How should a writer present a factual account of what goes on inside her mind?

In particular, the piece “Inside the Actor” seemed to push the envelope by playing with the creative nonfiction genre in innovative and precarious ways that we had never seen before. The board members, associate editor, and I went back and forth a few times trying to decide exactly how to classify the lived experience presented in a remarkable, if perhaps unconventional, way.

The issue was only one of many that the editors discussed during the long hours the staff devoted to choosing

work for the magazine. I would like to thank the magazine’s associate editors, copy editors, and board members for all their hard work and meticulous insight. Their diversity of experience helped keep this magazine fun. Thanks also to Marcie Ponder, administrative assistant in the English department, for keeping the magazine, the department, and, I’m convinced, a substantial portion of the college afloat. Dr. Steve Coyne, thank you for being my mentor and adviser in the Kiosk and in life and for allowing me to open this letter with a quote from The Amazing Spider Man. Special thanks go out to President John Reynders for making sure the magazine has the environment and the nourishment it needs to flourish.

More than anything, I hope that you, the reader, are able to find something between these two covers that you can take with you on whatever adventure you may find yourself in from here on out. I hope that you discover a phrase, a character, or a sudden revelation that can weave itself into the fabric of your being and help guide you wherever your two feet take you. Maybe that is a lot to ask. But, having lived inside these stories, poems, and works of art for the duration of a semester, I know that they are capable of sneaking their way in and profoundly shaping your own personal truth.

Hannah Hecht

Editor-in-Chief

When asked to be a part of the Kiosk team, I couldn’t help but jump on the chance to help shape such a respected and prestigious publication. Once a yearbook and newspaper junkie in high school, I think it takes a special group of people to slave for hours over editing and layout design while pushing deadlines. Lucky for me, however, as a visual editor, I have some spectacular art to work with.

The creatives at Morningside aren’t just motivated by the outcomes or rewards of their work; in this year’s submissions, I felt their absolute love for the craft itself. It’s incredible that as a college we are able to honor a variety of mediums through a creative publication, and we can recognize each for its thought and composition. I’m honored to be the visual editor this year and to be another helping hand in the legend that has carried on successfully for 77 years.

Brianna Harding

Visual Editor

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CONTENTS LITERATURE

Spoken Birds

Allison Linafelter

10

Inside the Actor

Cat Ruddy

12

Appointment #15

Victoria Anthony

19

Passing

Doug Collins

20

Trust

Sadie Shuck

23

Thailand High Five

Ryan Ingalls

26

A Red Autumn Beast

Sarah Munson

34

How to Make Him Want You

Brayton H agge

44

Oh, Baby

Tabby Snyder

45

Eluded Concepts

Christina Vรกzquez

46

But He Was Such a Nice Boy

Cheyanne Dean

48

Chomp

Jo Ann Donner

52

To a Skinny Girl Tabby Snyder

54

Damn Near Too Good to be True

Brayton H agge

55

A Memoir of My Father

Bethany Kluender

56

I Hope You Write

Amanda Girres

59

Traveling without Maps

Chase Shanafelt

62

R obert Birkby

63

Page from the Past The Kite

All entries are considered objectively by the judges with no artist names or special consideration for any piece.

Editorial staff are eligible for contest placement but not for prize money.

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ART

Alluring Red

M arcos Pichinte

Cover

The View

Claire M ay-Patterson

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For Kathryn

Anna Ryan

13

Hidden

A lex Davalos

17

Bondage

Anna Ryan

18

Grand Central Perspectives

Spencer Eiseman

21

London Back Road

Nicole Loe

22

Lines of Brooklyn

Spencer Eiseman

24

Pyrope

R hiannon Payte

25

Oregon

K elsey A hart

27

Untitled 9

Collin Schrader

29

Lake Bled

Jazmine Dirks

31

Fireball

K enna L ammers

33

Sioux Falls

Amber Burg

34-35

Game of Thrones

Sarah Sorenson

37

Illuminate

A llie Sweeney

41

Rescuing a Life

Michelle Vasquez

43

Love

Scott M artinson

44

Head in the Clouds

Samantha H ansen

47

Tribute to Sanchez

Scott M artinson

49

Chasing Tales

Amy Foltz

52

Rest

Summer Wulf

54

Clothesline Burano

Jazmine Dirks

55

Boat Dock

Amber Burg

56

IV.XVII.MCMXCVII

K enna L ammers

57

Milky Heart

Amber Burg

58

Chicken Fingers

Amy Foltz

59

Taupestry

Joelle K ruger

60

Spruce

Jess Anderson

60

Bear Paw

Jesse Glade

61

Red Dirt Road

Samantha H ansen

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POETRY

SPOKEN BIRDS Allison Linafelter

Syllables zip through the spellbound room, like crazed hummingbirds, whose wizened caretaker confused the bright red sugar water with smoky black coffee, its bitter taste soaring through their minuscule veins, and street racing their Jaguar hearts down lined streets of breath.

They flit by as so many half-formed meanings and visions, that if you manage to glimpse a sparkling scarlet sound, or maybe a blazing umber utterance, you feel as though you have seen the rarest crow in the world.

Each lowly letter creating a unique pattern of plumage more dazzling than that of a phoenix.

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But the dedicated birdwatcher knows that a glimpse is not enough to satisfy the cravings of comprehension.

And so each transforms from a careful observer, gazing across the room though a pair of travel-size binoculars, into a willful hunter, bent on snatching the whole shimmering rainbow of birds from the lips off which they fly, and coaxes them, sputtering and darting, with globs of honey-spun thought, into the wrought iron cage of understanding.

THE VIEW

by Claire May-Patterson photography

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C R E AT I V E N O N F I C T I O N

INSIDE THE ACTOR Cat Ruddy

I

t was a quarter to three in the afternoon on a Wednesday. Class had just been dismissed, and before I packed up my things to head home, I checked my schedule with the urgency of someone checking their watch after they realize they forgot about something really important. I performed this ritual of distress every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at this same specific time. My schedule, penned in my messy scrawl on a magenta sticky note that clung limply to the front cover of my notebook, read: MWF Class: 1:30-3:00 Character Appointment: 3:30-4:30 Rehearsal: 6:00-9:00

I always had to double check, and triple check, before I left campus, even though my schedule was almost always the same. But every once in a while, there “Walking home from school had would be a last minute become my sole form of exercising work shift added here and a teacher conother than acting (because that counts ference squeezed in no matter what anyone tells you).” there, and those wild turkeys really throw a monkey wrench into my day and send me spinning in a whirlwind of confusion and shame, so I always had to double check, and triple check, just to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything. Only after I had done this was I truly free to leave. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief that my school day was done, packed my bag, and donned my black leather jacket which was entirely inappropriate for the season.

The walk home from campus itself was not always an entirely unpleasant one, apart from the cold weather. It was just long enough to make me break a sweat, but short enough that I didn’t really mind that I got a little gross in the process. Walking home from school had become my sole form of regular exercise other than acting (because that counts no matter what anyone tells you), and I had no business eliminating any sort of workout I was accidentally doing.

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But this particular winter day was one of the strange warm ones that made promises of spring, so I did not mind as much.

I set off, a slight skip in my step.

My character appointment was not until 3:30, but most of my physical character work was done outside of that hour. It was during random little moments throughout the day when I was just walking from point A to B that I was able to direct my complete focus into adopting the character’s physical habits until it eventually became my natural movement.

Walking is great for developing the physicality of a character.

Hence, I had a bit of a skip in my step.

I skipped a little, in boots I thought she would maybe wear.

I smiled a lot, at strangers who she would think were nice.

As I slightly skipped home, I stopped at a corner before crossing the street, but the ground seemed to move under my stationary feet. The road in front of me stretched on and on, and it was then that I realized that the path home was straight. I made a mental note of that and couldn’t help but smirk as I wondered whether I had already gone down the dell.

An average uninterrupted hike home was timed at thirty minutes, but the slight skipping brought me in a few minutes under. I was glad for this, because the journey always proved a taxing one, and this provided me with a minute to freshen up and gather my thoughts before the appointment.

In my room I had a plush red arm chair that looked like it had been partially mauled by a wolf; its white cotton stuffing poked out of the back where the fabric covering had been slashed by the claws of my ferocious house cat. I moved the armchair close to the bed so that we could sit facing each other. I grabbed my script and sat down in the red armchair, waiting.

It was 3:26.

This was not our first time meeting, but it

was our first time meeting alone, and that made me nervous and gave me sweaty palms like I was afraid of getting stood up on date night. The first appointment is actually quite a bit like an awkward first date with someone you kinda know of but don’t actually know. I had been fortunate enough to have hit it off with every role that I’d had the pleasure of being cast in, but not every actor is so fortunate. Sometimes the first date is the last one, and that is sad, but it is also usually for the best.

It was 3:27.

The actor has to be a good fit for the role and vice versa; otherwise, it won’t work. The performance might not be terrible, but it won’t be as real and as believable as it could have been otherwise.

And by “a good fit,” I don’t mean it should be typecast. No. Really, any part can be a good fit if the actor can keep an open mind in the process and is committed to doing right by the character and the show. Embracing a character is all about letting go of any preconceived notions or negativity you may have had in regard to the character and looking from different perspectives. Your attitude toward your character will make or break your performance. You don’t have to necessarily like them, (not all characters are likeable by any means), but you do have to know the character inside and out; otherwise it’s not believable. If you aren’t fully committed to doing a part justice, then you don’t deserve the part, no matter what it is. It’s up to us, the actors, to recreate the characters’ experiences convincingly enough so that if they were to watch it, it would be just like going back in time. Doing a part justice is bringing the character to life again but making it feel like the first time. I like to imagine that by the time a show opens, I have become such close friends with my character that they are watching over me like a guardian angel during my performances. I try to make them proud.

It was 3:28.

I flipped through my script so that I would stop checking the time compulsively. The yellow highlighter caught my eye as I turned the pages one right after the other, my lines jumping hap-

hazardly from the page.

I wish…

It was 3:30.

FOR KATHRYN

by Anna Ryan charcoal, conté

There were three quick knocks on the door.

“Come in!” I called, stumbling to get to my feet to greet my guest.

The door opened, and in stepped a young girl with boots, a basket, and a cape as red as blood.

Her cheeks were round and full as a chipmunk’s, and I realized they were stuffed with food. Sweets, I guessed.

Of course she would be eating sweets.

“Hello!” she said cheerfully through a mouth full of pastry. “I’m Little Red Riding—” Crumbs sprayed every which way with every syllable.

“Yes!” I interrupted as politely as I could to stop the crumb dusting. “We’ve met before,” I reminded her with a smile. She smiled too, and for a moment I feared her cheeks would burst and half-chewed pastry would splatter my walls.

“Oh. Right,” she said after swallowing her mouthful of sweets. She then wiped her hands on the sides of her cape and surveyed the room.

A look of uncertain disgust began to creep across her face as her eyes swept across the floor carpeted with dirty laundry.

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Little Red had strong and fluid facial expressions, I noticed. Her face seemed to change with each new thought that sprouted into her mind. It was both highly entertaining and informative.

I took a mental note of that.

“It looks like a boy lives here…” she said, scrunching up her face like she smelled something terribly stinky.

“Oh, that’s probably just Peter’s stuff.”

“Is Peter your husband?” Little Red asked, making obnoxious kissreally lovely cape ing noises.

”That’s a you have. I regretted saying it as soon as the words left my lips.”

I laughed, “No. Peter as in Peter Pan. A past role of mine. He had the run of the place for a while and liked to make big messes and not clean them up. Things were a lot more…” I wasn’t entirely sure what words I was looking for, “neat and pretty when Frenchy and Pilar were running things. And I don’t have a husband,” I added.

“Why not?”

“Uh, I don’t know… I’m really young still, I guess.”

“Not that young…”

She began to inspect the room more thoroughly, picking up past props and costume pieces off my dresser and examining them with keen interest. She would then hold the object up for me to see it and explain what it was, who it belonged to, and what show it was from. It quickly became a game which Little Red enjoyed immensely.

“Cowboy hat. Arles Struvie. A Tuna Christmas.”

“Delta Nu sweatshirt. Pilar. Legally Blonde: The Musical!”

“Electronic cigarette. Frenchy. Grease.”

“Prop Sword. Peter Pan.” She waited to hear what show he was from.

“From Peter Pan,” I added for clarification.

We played that game for a while as I wondered what to say that would get the ball rolling in the right direction.

“That’s a really lovely cape you have.” I regret14

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ted saying it as soon as the words left my lips.

Little Red paused her examination of whatever she was holding, turned her gaze to me, and slanted her eyes with suspicion. “Thanks,” she replied slowly, “my granny made it for me.”

“Don’t worry,” I said quickly, remembering that she carried a knife, “I’m not going to try to steal it from you.”

She leered at me a moment longer before shrugging it off and grinning. “I know,” she said matter-of-factly. “That dumb old Mr. Baker tries to.” She made this remark in a low tone, thick with dramatic bitterness, but then flashed another smile to show that she didn’t really mean it.

I was surprised that she hadn’t drawn her blade and threatened to slice me into a thousand bits for so much as even looking at her cape, but then I remembered that characters are all knowing when they are outside of their stories. They know everything that happens beginning, middle, and end because in this state, they’ve already lived it.

So, of course she knew that I wasn’t going to steal her cape.

And that realization made a question spring to my mind.

“That’s right, the Baker does end up with your red cape,” I said. “They have to feed it to the cow as white as milk as part of the Witch’s potion. So why are you wearing it now instead of your wolfskin cape?”

Little Red seemed a little annoyed by the question. She threw her hands up in the air dramatically and exclaimed, “My name is Little Red Riding Hood, not Little Wolf… hood. It’s easier for people to recognize me with this one,” she explained in a voice that suggested she was doing me a huge favor. She had finally grown bored examining the trinkets on the dresser and skipped her way over to the bed and sat down. She reached into her basket, pulled out a cookie the size of her face, and began devouring it.

I observed her actions closely. Even just sitting and eating, Little Red was very animated. Every movement she made had a fierce energy about it, a

physical sort of purpose even when she wasn’t doing anything purposeful. The high energy wasn’t completely unfamiliar to me, I had played high energy before, but Little Red’s wasn’t the same.

I watched her eat the cookie and concluded it was her naive innocence that made her different.

I like different. Different is a challenge. Different is interesting.

I have found that each character is profoundly different from the next if you’re looking deep enough, as is true with real people. Their personalities are unique and intriguing, but it takes more than just one hour to get to know them to their full extent. It takes time and patience and a lot of thought. It involves a lot of asking questions and requires you to search for the answer within yourself.

Little Red finished off her cookie with a final audible gulp. She cleaned her hands on the side of her cape again before turning her attention back to me. “So…” she started, elongating the O’s in a way which implied she was going to ask something very awkward, which she did, “Who are you?”

Was that a trick question? “I’m Cat Ruddy.

We’ve met before, remember? At rehearsal?”

Little Red rolled her eyes. “I know that’s your name,” she said hurriedly and airily, as if she didn’t want to waste her breath on an explanation, “but who are you? You can’t exactly go around pretending to be other people if you don’t know who you are first, now can you? You won’t be able to tell where you end and the character begins! That’s a good way to get yourself lost,” she added, taking a large bite out of a piece of bread that she had pulled from her basket.

“Well…What do you mean, who am I?” I had been prepared to ask questions, not answer them.

Little Red let out a groan of annoyance.

“WHO are YOU?” she repeated, her volume increasing with her frustration. “You see me and you know who I am. I look at you and I don’t know who you are. It’s like I’m looking at someone else, but they don’t quite exist.”

I didn’t know what to say. What does that

even mean? I exist! I shook my head in an attempt to gain clarity. “Who I am isn’t what’s important.

I’m here to find out who you are.”

“You think you can figure out who I am without figuring out who you are first?” she asked incredulously. “That’s pretty foolish!” She laughed.

My cheeks flushed. I had never been called foolish by a little girl before. It stung, but she was right.

“If you don’t see me when you look at me,” I began to ask tentatively, “then who do you see?”

Little Red searched my face and her expression turned grim. “Hmm. You’re in there somewhere…” she murmured. Then her face lit up and she said, “I know! Come look in the mirror!” She grabbed my hand and pulled me to the vanity mirror that stood on top of the dresser. “See for yourself.” She referred to my reflection as if it were a tragedy so great I needed to see it with my own eyes to believe it. Well, I suppose that’s not entirely wrong.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall…” I began jokingly, but Little Red didn’t laugh.

Little Red stared at me blankly. “You know this isn’t really an enchanted mirror, right?” she asked, somewhat concerned.

“Yes. It was a joke.”

“Well it wasn’t a very funny one.”

“Oh my goodness, the sass just never ends with you.” Mental note.

I sighed and tried looking in the mirror seriously. I turned to her after a moment. “I don’t see anything.”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed. “Where are you, Cat?” I looked into the reflection of my eyes. I could have sworn they used to sparkle, but now they looked dull and lifeless. “I don’t know. I’m lost. I have been for a while, I think.”

Little Red smiled sadly. “Look again, but really look this time. What do you see?” She paused and then rephrased, “Who do you see?”

I looked. I looked, and I looked, and I looked, and for what felt like the longest time, I wasn’t looking at anything. I saw what I expected to see, KIOSK15

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what I knew I would see. “I see…”

“Yes?” she asked eagerly.

“Myself?”

“Are you asking me what you see?” She folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Are you blind or something?”

I knew she wasn’t going to let it go until I answered her silly, sarcastic question, so with a heavy sigh and great annoyance I answered, “No.” “Okay, then really look this time and tell me what you see!”

“You’re kind of a brat,” I muttered.

“Yes, I know!” she said, beaming. “Now stop stalling. Time is tickthat’s your name,” ing!”

“I know she said hurriedly and airily, as if she didn’t want to waste her breath on an explanation, “but who are you?”

I shook my head and looked into the mirror again. I stared at my face. I recognized it as my own, but the

longer I stared at it…

“I see…” I began again.

“Yes?” My breath caught in my throat; my reflection was slowly changing. My skin grew paler and paler and my body thinner and thinner until I was nothing but bones; the color drained from my cheeks and dark circles developed around my eyes. I looked hollow, empty.

“Myself.” This time it was not a question. “I see an empty shell of the person I once was.” In my peripherals I could see Little Red nodding sadly.

“Keep looking,” she urged.

“I see…” I continued looking, searching now for any signs of life. Then, slowly, my features began to darken until I almost completely resembled— “A shadow,” I said quietly. “A shadow?” I was as confused as ever. I closed my eyes, hoping it would help me think better.

“A shadow,” Little Red echoed solemnly. “Now where might that have come from?”

As soon as she said it, I knew. “Peter,” I said, 16

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and when I opened my eyes that’s who was staring back at me. The handsome pixie boy with the flyaway hair and a skeleton leaf tunic. A gold sword hung from one hip, a drawstring pouch full of fairy dust from the other. The same glittery substance sprinkled the boy’s face and body like freckles and trailed after him whenever he moved.

He stood with his hands firmly planted on his hips and let out a boisterous crow.

“Peter Pan.” Peter winked and smiled at me, and I felt my heart take flight. I reached out to touch his face, but he melted away beneath my fingertips into a dark puddle on the floor. The puddle then stood and shifted shapes, perfectly reflecting my image.

“Ah,” I said, laden with realization. “Hello, shadow.”

The shadow bowed in greeting.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

In answer, the shadow shape shifted back into Peter and spoke with his voice, “Oh sweet lady,” he laughed, “I never left! Well, not really,” he added as an afterthought.

Now I was confused again. “You never left?

But it’s been months since—” “Since the show ended, yes,” said the shadow Pan. “But you haven’t let that stop you from visiting Neverland, have you?”

At first I didn’t know what he was talking about, but then it hit me like a memory from a deep dream. “Yes,” I realized, “I go there all the time. It’s my happy place.”

The shadow Pan gave me a look that told me there was something more to it that he didn’t want to say. “Oh poor Cat lady,” he lamented. “You never really left.”

“But… I said goodbye to Peter…” I was far beyond the realm of confused now. At the end of every show, I have a personal little farewell to my character. I like to keep an “it’s not goodbye, it’s see you later” state of mind in this matter, but it always makes me very sad regardless. My farewell to Peter Pan had been a very difficult and emotional one, but yet, the idea that I never left truly left

Neverland seemed impossible. “I left. I remember leaving. I remember walking out the front door when I left.”

“But you took a piece of it with you, didn’t you?” the shadow Pan questioned, cocking his head to the side as indeed the real Peter Pan would have done. “So you would never truly have to say goodbye?” He looked at me with such pity, a look that the real Peter Pan was not emotionally capable of giving. He sighed sadly and explained, “When you said goodbye you promised to never grow up, but you went and did it anyway, and it made you feel sad and lonely. I was outside your window one night and heard you weeping. I showed you the route to Neverland so that you could find your way back whenever you needed to. But your visits became longer and longer, and Neverland swallowed you up and…”

role I’ve played, but most importantly, he taught me how to survive. Letting go enough to the point where you are no longer dependent on something or someone who you associate with staying

“And I got lost.”

“You just strayed from the path a bit, that’s all,” Little Red assured me comfortingly as she patted my back.

The shadow Pan nodded sadly. “Neverland is not meant to be for forever. Everyone must leave at some point.”

“Oh, but please,” I pleaded, sudden emotions overwhelming me as memories and recollections came rushing in, “I don’t have anywhere else to go!”

“Yes, you do!” Little Red cried, her mouth once again filled with pastries, crumbs flying everywhere. “The Woods can be your happy place now!”

Shadow Pan chuckled. “You are not banned from Neverland or anything of the like. However, like all things in life, there must be a balance, and that balance must be maintained. And I doubt it would hurt to have more than one happy place to go to,” he added with a dashing grin.

My heart fluttered and sputtered as it dawned on me how emotionally attached I still was to Peter and the shadow and Neverland. There is always something to take away from a role, and I walked away from Pan with a lot. He taught me how to be fiercely independent but also how to be a loyal and caring friend. Pan taught me more than any other

alive…is a bit daunting.

It was then that I knew the shadow hanging over me was there because I wanted it there. “You stayed because you knew I wasn’t ready to let you go.” The shadow Pan nodded. “I just am afraid of being left all alone.”

HIDDEN

by Alex Davalos photograph

“No one is alone,” Little Red replied, taking my hand and squeezing it. “You know that.” She smiled so sincerely it was hard not to smile back.

“Don’t worry, Cat, you’re going to make it out of the woods,” she reassured me.

“How can you be so certain?” I asked.

“Because you’re like me!” she declared proudly.

“I am? How so?”

“I think you can answer that question yourself,” she said, grabbing her basket. She looked inside and must have eaten more sweets than she realized, for she looked a bit disappointed. “But that will have to wait until next time,” she said, “our hour is up for today. But…” She hesitated, KIOSK15

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peering back into her basket, debating. She then sighed and reached into her basket. “This is my last sticky bun,” she said, eyeing it like romantically. She hesitated again, but then offered it to me instead of shoving the whole thing in her mouth, which is characteristically what she would do.

“But I want you to have it,” she said.

She shrugged. “I’ve already had four. Well,” she said with a huff, “I’d best be off. I hate to leave, I have to though.” She smiled and said brightly, “Goodbye, Cat!” “Goodbye, Little Red! See you tomorrow!”

And then she went skipping on her merry way.

My heart began to swell in my chest. “Thank you. I know how much you love sticky buns.”

BONDAGE

by Anna Ryan graphite

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POETRY

APPOINTMENT #15 Victoria Anthony

I’m naked again, why I am always the naked one?

As I shift back and forth and listen to my joints pop, And feel my muscles strain and spasm like an internal tick tock, Measuring how long I’ve been sitting here with each twitch.

White paper lining is crinkling under my ass, And all I can think about is the number of asses Of all shapes and sizes that have sat here before I did.

Waiting for the doctor to come in and interrupt Me reading all about how to tell if I have a hernia Or looking at a distended bladder diagram.

“Hello miss, what can we do for you today?”

Oh I don’t know, could you maybe give me my pants back And pretend I’m not the thousandth nude you’ve seen this week?

Just some stripped down body you examine like a mechanic with an engine.

I watch as she catalogues the winces and delayed reflexes, Searching for sensitive points and any patch of skin With the telltale rough marker of auto-immune.

The medication conversation lasts a while, And she mixes up a new cocktail for me for the fifth time.

We talk about my life habits, “I’m totally quitting smoking.”

But I’m not. I febreezed myself before I came in.

We talk about how my body is doing like it is separate from me, Like it’s some entity that ruins my day and hers on purpose.

It is always the same shit. I can practically quote her.

“Well, the test results were inconclusive.”

“Another cautionary breast exam.”

“Let’s try the strength test again.”

“Are you even trying today?”

I am, and I can tell she’s worried, but in an abstract way Like you’d worry about whether or not war will break out in Dubai.

It’s always the same scene, and I am always the naked one, Whether I have my clothes on or not.

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FICTION

PASSING Doug Collins

E

zra awoke again in his favorite chair and, as he rose to greet the day, reminded himself that his back would feel a great deal better if he’d start sleeping in his bed again. He knew it was later than he wanted to wake up but not as late as yesterday. Ezra rose slowly from the chair and stretched his long body toward the ceiling. Several places reported in with pops and cracks, and he laughed to himself as he walked toward the kitchen.

“You make more noise than microwave popcorn,” he said to the morning air.

The clock on the kitchen wall was a holdover from Martha’s influence. It was yellow with flowers covering its face. The ap“Two words,” he said to his pearance of the timepiece was far too cheerful in reflection, “Ugh lee,” and a relation to how Ezra felt. smile spread across his face.” The dial read an equally unwelcome 8:15 when Ezra saw it on the way to the bathroom. He rubbed his eyes and shuffled a little faster on his way.

Shower done, teeth brushed, and hair adjusted, Ezra looked into the mirror one last time.

“Two words,” he said to his reflection, “Ugh lee,” and a smile spread across his face.

Now back in the kitchen and in the process of making breakfast, Ezra continued his games from the last several days. He had determined that this morning he would forgo the use of his left hand. How would a person with only a right hand get their breakfast? That was his question as he set about making his morning meal with only one hand. He found most of the work easy enough, but let himself “off the hook” pretty quickly when it became more difficult. The situation with Dean Johnson the day before and his time at the hospital had taken a toll on him emotionally. Even though he made no mental connection, his patience had started to slip, and he was distracted.

As he ate, Ezra began to work over the day’s chore list in his mind. He would start with plastic for the windows, inside and out, and then begin the long task of pruning bushes, cutting back 20

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Martha’s roses, and bagging leaves. Tomorrow, he would need to clean out gutters. He was reasonably sure that he would have enough time to get all these things done before the weekend, but it seemed like he was forgetting something. He consulted the 3x5 card in his pocket and found the missing item. He would need to get the oil in the truck changed sometime in the next week or so. It would be ridiculous to think of any of these things as an emergency. Even the oil change could wait weeks before there could arguably be a need.

But that was how Ezra operated. He had a system for everything, and he worked his lists and did his chores with vigor.

Some say that’s what kept him so young at heart. Others were more of the opinion that it kept him from thinking about Martha. Ezra didn’t cast a vote. He emerged from the house dressed for combat with nature and headed for the garage. The air was cooler than he thought it would be. The rains from the day before would have little effect on his plans for today, but they brought with them a cold front that had dropped the temperature a good 15 degrees from the day before. This meant that Ezra was going back inside for a jacket. He laughed to himself as he walked inside; “sweater weather,” Martha used to call it. The day before had started in the mid-sixties, but today would be working to get to that number.

Outside again, Ezra went to the garage and found an eight-foot ladder. He carried it to the windows by the back door and returned to the garage for the plastic. His work progressed quickly throughout the rest of the morning, and by 12:30 he was putting the ladder away and heading in to hang plastic from the inside. He chided himself for not buying new insulated windows a couple of years ago. He and Martha (mostly he) had never been quick to spend money, though, and the new windows never got past conversation. They lived in a comfortable home, paid their bills, took care of what they had, and kept a little money in the bank.

They had learned how to do without some things in order to keep it all going. Still, he would like to go through a winter and spring without all of this.

He was on the porch with its long line of windows, getting ready to open a new box of plastic, when he heard it. The unmistakable sound of tires squealing and a horn blowing ripped through the peaceful morning. His thoughts were shattered, and his head spun in the direction of the street.

Right in front of his house, a car was sliding to a stop. Ezra tore through the door and out across the lawn as fast as he could. His mind was telling him that he had seen the form of a small child in front of the car, but he could not see one now.

was cheering, and someone clapped him on the shoulder, but he didn’t notice any of it. His mind was filled with a hundred images, and he made no effort to sort them out from past to present. A tear escaped his eyes when he closed them. In his mind he was in that other place. The other Ezra

As he reached the scene, the driver was just getting out of the car, and the scream behind him told him that Mrs. Thompson had just realized that the child was hers. Ezra knelt over the still body of Lea and began to look her over. His eyes scanned hers, and he bent to listen for a heartbeat or the sound of her breath.

His old fingers fought him in the cool air as he struggled to remove his jacket and put it under the child’s head. The sweatshirt was next, and he draped it over Lea’s still not-moving body. He began CPR. Unknown to him, tears had started to roll out of his eyes. People had gathered around him and were talking, but he could not hear them.

As he continued to work, his mind kept jumping back and forth. First he was here, next in front of his father’s church, now with Lea, and then over the body of another little girl. He shook his head and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. He loaned her small body his breath, and his hands compressed her chest. He added another breath, and then she convulsed and began to move again.

Ezra pulled his mouth away from hers quickly and went to check for a heartbeat.

He slouched back on his heels and let out a sigh of relief. The small crowd around him

was much younger and the other child did not move. He was, in fact, so deep in those thoughts that he had not noticed the paramedics. He jumped when one of the crew put his hand on Ezra’s shoulder and repeated the request that he should step aside so that they could take over. Ezra had not heard the sirens and was not even aware that they were setting up equipment around him as he worked on the child.

GRAND CENTRAL PERSPECTIVES

by Spencer Eiseman photography

He rose to his feet slowly, thinking about returning his home. As it happened, he became immediately aware of two things. There were tears in both of the knees of his pants, and Kendra Thompson’s large body was being pressed against him in a powerful hug. She breathed a quick thank you through a curtain of tears and was helped into KIOSK15

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the ambulance by one of the paramedics. Her hug had interrupted his trajectory, and he was now stopped in the street, taking in the whole scene.

His glance fell on a man standing on the curb with a police officer performing a sobriety test. He felt his blood boil. He took a great stride toward the

and was dressed like a slob, in Ezra’s opinion. He was barely standing while the other officer talked to him, and the situation had apparently led to a lack of bladder control on his part. Ezra was glad no one could read his thoughts.

“Do you live around here?” the officer in front of him asked, once more bringing his attention away from the driver.

Ezra scanned her name badge, “Little,” it read. “Yes, Officer Little,” he said, maybe a bit too formally, “Right there.” A crooked old finger jutted out from his hand in the direction of his front door. The heat was going out of his anger, but he could not resist another look in the direction of the driver. The interrogation on the curb didn’t look to be going well, but it was still too gentle for Ezra’s liking. He was contemplating heading that way again when Officer Little broke in on his plans.

“Can I get your name?” she asked. She was patient and persistent. In her hand was a small notebook, and she was working the process by the numbers.

LONDON BACK ROAD

by Nicole Loe photography

man and felt his fists clench tight.

Someone stepped in front of him.

“That was good work, sir.” The voice belonged to a blonde woman, and Ezra thought for a moment that she looked familiar.

“Did you see the accident?” She was between Ezra and the driver completely now and was trying to draw his attention away. “Did you see the accident?” she asked again. The woman was a police officer, and Ezra thought she looked incredibly young and frail for this kind of work.

This time he responded. “Huh? Yeah… I mean no. I… I heard it.” He was trying to keep his eyes on the driver as the police officer turned his attention away. Ezra was weighing in his mind whether it would be worth it to push past this young woman and go set the driver straight. The other man, obviously intoxicated, looked to be in his late 40’s

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Ezra looked her over again as if he was trying to figure her out. His mind was having a hard time adding up the scenes that had just played through it. Finally, he smiled. “Ezra Roberts,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr. Roberts,” Officer Little replied.

She continued on with questions for about another 15 minutes or so. Ezra was quite tired and out of sorts by the time he found his way into the house. It wasn’t until then that he realized he was wearing a blanket over his shoulders. He thought about trying to find his sweatshirt and jacket, but his head hurt, and he decided against it. He opted instead for a cup of coffee and a moment or two in his favorite chair. Lunch was out of the question at this point. The hands of the clock on the kitchen wall showed 2:15, and, again, the flowery face seemed too cheerful. His head hurt a little.

Ezra woke with a start in his old, familiar chair. His eyes were wide, and they darted around the scene. He was taking in information as fast as he could, trying to determine where he was and

what time it was. His mind raced as he pieced it together, and he felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Not dark, not morning. In his chair, but it was later in the day. It all began to add up, and he remembered the accident and the paramedics.

He looked at the watch on his arm, and its hands read 3:30. He sighed in relief and eased back into the chair again. His head still hurt a little, but not as bad as before. Waves of unorganized memories came without invitation to his mind. Scenes that were similar and yet years apart flooded his thoughts, and he stared into the distance at nothing at all. A dog was barking somewhere, and it was enough to bring him back to the present.

Slowly, Ezra rose from the chair and went to the kitchen for more coffee. There would be no more chores today.

Ezra looked at the clock again quickly, as if he hadn’t really seen it before. There was still another appointment today, and he would need to hurry if he was going to make it. Luke would be waiting, and now there were two families to visit at the hospital.

“So much for a quiet workday,” Ezra said to the coffee maker as he pulled the urn toward his waiting cup. He rattled around in the cupboard for a moment and then opened the bottle he had found. A little something for his headache, a swig of coffee, and he was ready to go again.

He backed out of the garage and headed east.

The long Buick knew the way to the nursing home better than he did sometimes. Today was one of those days. He rolled along in the silence, automatically working his way to the place his brother now lived. He tried to get here often, and he hated that Luke was here. Sometimes there are things that you just can’t help. He had vowed to himself long before that he would not put a family member in one of these places and then ignore them. He made every attempt to be as much a part of his brother’s life as he had ever been. Unfortunately, today was shaping up differently.

He didn’t spend much time with Luke today.

Ezra explained that he couldn’t stay for dinner, and he wondered if any of it got through. After a

few minutes, he explained it again. He never knew for sure if Luke rejected the news he didn’t like or if he simply wasn’t able to understand it. Ezra explained it again. He had theories about what had happened—was happening—to his brother. He always felt that Luke was still in there and could hear him but couldn’t let him know anymore.

“You… you got stuff ta do,” Luke finally said.

His big frame rocked back and forth in the wheelchair as he spoke. “’portant stuff. . . got ta do it.”

It always spooked Ezra a little when it seemed like Luke might know more than he had been “The long Buick knew the way told. Sometimes it even to the nursing home better than felt like Luke knew he did sometimes.” things Ezra didn’t.

Maybe Luke was just making an assumption. After all, anything that could take Ezra away from their time together must be important. Luke had begun to ramble some, and Ezra found his thoughts drifting again.

“Don’t worry, Ez,” Luke said. Luke’s big hand was resting on Ezra’s knee, and he was looking him straight in the eye. “She’ll be okay.”

Ezra blinked back to reality. For just a moment there had been perfect clarity in Luke’s eyes. It was gone now. The conversation had turned into a trip to rabbit’s house for the party.

Ezra sat back and passed a hand over his own eyes. The headache was persistent, the day was long, and he was beginning to feel the effects of all of the excitement.

“This walk is over,” he said quietly.

“Over,” Luke repeated.

Ezra pushed Luke’s chair back up the walk.

They paused in the dayroom to wave to Katie, and she came along to finish getting Luke back to his room. Before he left, there was the traditional hug and a lot of waving.

“Gotta go,” Luke said, almost singing, “‘portant stuff.”

“Yeah buddy, gotta go,” Ezra repeated, “Behave yourself.”

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That last comment was met with a loud, impish laugh from Luke.

The walk to the car was long and filled with a handful of thoughts jostling for his attention. Ezra turned on the car radio and was met with a song from Billie Holiday. He attempted to turn off his thoughts as he listened. He was tired of thinking.

Uninvited, his mind drifted to a ballroom and a young thin man in a poor-fitting suit dancing with a beautiful young woman.

The sound of a car horn brought him back and reminded him to stay in his own lane.

“Sorry,” he said to the other driver through the closed window, but the driver waved back and went on his way.

Ezra didn’t arrive at the hospital until 6:00.

The growling from his midsection reminded him that he had skipped lunch. Another visit would start in the cafeteria. He didn’t know the young

man at the end of the counter. He paid him for his food and headed for a table. He had been here so much at times past that virtually everyone knew him. But the staff had changed some. Sitting at the table, he took inventory of his meal. Bland beef and noodles, overcooked carrots, peas nobody else would take, and a Styrofoam-looking roll with some plastic butter. The coffee tasted like a breakfast blend.

“Breakfast yesterday,” Ezra laughed to himself.

Generous portions of salt and pepper later, he paused to bow his head. “God,” he thought, “teach me to be thankful for even this food. There are so many with nothing. Help me to be grateful for the things you do. Allow me to spend this visit loving people as you love them. Help me to bring peace and hope. Amen” He stabbed at the food and began to eat. As much as he had grumbled, it did not take long for him to finish everything on the plate. He wouldn’t admit it, but the army life many years ago had trained him to eat what he was given and not say a word.

As he left the cafeteria some minutes later, he headed for the admitting desk. He recognized the woman behind the counter as Mrs. Eubanks from the church.

“Hello, Pastor Roberts,” she said with a broad smile. Lydia Eubanks was a widow at 62 and had always been sweet on Ezra.

“Lydia,” Ezra replied, “when are you gonna quit calling me pastor?”

“Oh, Pastor,” she began, “you can run but you can’t hide. Everybody knows that you still do the job whether you hold the title or not.” She turned to her computer screen and talked over her shoulder to Ezra, “Who you here to see?”

LINES OF BROOKLYN

by Spencer Eiseman photograph

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“Well you, of course,” Ezra joked. He knew about Lydia’s feelings for him, but he remained politely out of reach. He had already been in love with the only one who would ever have his heart.

This was business. He had work to do, and even he did not know what he would face today.

POETRY

TRUST Sadie Shuck

You have a baseball bat in your hands, and I say, “Swing away,” as I open my arms wide and close my eyes.

At this point, I normally hear my ribs crack and see the dark red color of pain.

My knees usually buckle in agony and scrape against the harsh gray concrete beneath my feet.

A scream typically escapes the back of my throat, and I gasp when all my breath gets sucked out of my chest, when the bat continually connects with my nose, my neck, my stomach, my back, my skull.

I choke on my own blood, and when I try to scream, “Stop,” all I can do is cough up the ruby red evidence of my own self-destruction.

As blackness threatens to swallow my mind, my last thought is always, “Why did I let this happen?”

PYROPE

by Rhiannon Payte digital painting

So I stand here with my arms wide,

full of regret, because I have put myself in this position again.

But you are different because suddenly, I hear the clink of a baseball bat hit the cool cement.

My eyes fly open and meet the hazel color of yours. you pull me into you, and I cry out because the only thing hitting my body is a wave of relief.

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FICTION

THAILAND HIGH FIVE Ryan Ingalls

I

t’s surprisingly windy and dreadfully humid on the twenty-first floor rooftop of the Boss Suites Hotel in inner city Bangkok. This vantage point offers a fantastic view of Sukhumvit Road and its dissection of the two social classes. North of Sukhumvit houses the rich, who live in westernstyle apartments and frequent luxurious marble covered boutiques and shops. South of Sukhumvit houses the poor, who live in box-sized, run down, shanty-style apartments and find most of their daily essentials at 7-Eleven. I wonder what differentiates successful people from unsuccessful people, possibly a single decision. This is just one of the many thoughts flood“Wait a second! I can explain,” ing my mind as I am being dangled over the guard I scream, as the last two days rail; the only thing between come crashing down on me. me and a twenty-one floor descent to hot pavement. I am now forced to retrace my previous day’s decisions that led to my “misunderstanding” with the five-foot-six, blond-haired Thai street enforcer now holding a .40 caliber semi-automatic pistol to my temple.

est balance strap and instantly let go of it. Greasy black grime now covered my hand and rendered this particular strap utterly useless. The ride to the main terminal lasted about ten minutes and was accompanied with sudden stops and turns that jostled me about the cabin. I frequently received blank stares from the locals who didn’t understand why I was not holding on to anything.

Once I arrived at the terminal I set out for the first 7-Eleven available, which happened to be about one-hundred meters from the entry control point.

My breath still reeked of Japanese curry and Kirin Ichiban malt beer. I entered the small, poorly lit establishment and purchased a set of mints, water, a SIM card for my BlackBerry, and a pack of Marlboro reds, which to my amazement had a picture of a diseased lung on the front of the carton. This was going to be awesome! I stared at the package for a moment and reached for the new SIM card.

“Wait a second! I can explain,” I scream, as the last two days come crashing down on me.

Besides being pissed about now needing a ride, I felt completely disregarded by my friends who supposedly were going to pick me up from the airport, but I quickly realized the type of mongrels I associate with and, more importantly, the type of mongrel I am.

I had awakened to a stewardess gently pressing against my elbow saying, “Ohayou gozaimasu.”

“Gomenasai, arigato gozaismasu,” I responded.

I struggled to catch my breath amid the extreme humidity, and instantly I knew that I had arrived at the Suvarnabhumi International Airport in Bangkok. I quickly pulled apart my seatbelt and grabbed my carry-on luggage. I had packed exactly one week’s clothing and toiletries for a much needed vacation from the military life of Okinawa, Japan. I hurried toward the front exit of the airplane and was greeted by a semi-corroded metal staircase leading downward to a dingy yellow bus.

What kinda show are they running here, I thought to myself; well at least I was in Thailand, land of a thousand smiles, with nothing to do but relax and drink for the next week.

Upon entering the bus, I grabbed the near26

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After inserting it into my phone, instantly I received a text message from James that read, “Hey bro the hotel is on 42 Sukhumvit Soi 4, Klongtoey.

My room is B241. If Corey and I are not there when you arrive we will meet you in the morning.”

I glanced at the time; it was now 0100. I had a hunch that Corey would also have a working cell phone and gave him a call, which he answered with, “Hey man!”

“Hey, where you guys at?” I asked.

“No idea man, we have been hopping about the bars since the noon.”

“Well fuck me, man!”

“Hey dude, there is a nice little strip about three-fourths a click from the hotel that you could post up at for the night.”

I responded, “Word, catch you tomorrow.”

Instantly, I knew that tonight could not be a total wash. I only had seven nights and was not

going to waste one sleeping at the hotel. One a.m. or not, I was going to get some beer in me and chat up some girls. I headed toward the airport taxi queue at the exit of the terminal. This particular taxi queue had multiple lines for licensed taxis and walk-up style service for “private” taxi services. At least four-hundred people were scrunched in line for a licensed taxi, so I opted to take a “private” taxi. A dark-skinned, tattooed Thai boy who could have not been more than 16 approached me.

the type of lifestyle I was meant for, slow days and fast, hectic nights. I was in awe as we passed many wonderful establishments, waiting for the chance to shower up and hit the streets. The cabbie took a right turn down an adjacent street and stopped in front of a marble motor-pool ramp with steps leading to a glass entrance.

The cabbie announced, “Boss Suites Hotel.” He

“Low cab price, ten baht for three kilometers.”

I replied, “One-hundred baht to my hotel and no meter,” showing the boy my text message from James with the hotel address.

The boy counter offered, “Twohundred baht.”

“One-hundred baht,” I repeated and then began to walk to the next cab in the queue. Suddenly my carry-on bag was taken from my shoulder as the boy said, “Onehundred is ok, one-hundred is good.”

He threw my bag in the trunk and opened the passenger-side door. I buckled my seat belt and rolled down the window as the boy started the engine and drove towards expressway.

Several kilometers down the road I unbuckled my seat belt and lit a cigarette. Screw it, this was the land of a thousand smiles and the first time I had been on leave in a year. It was time to party, make some awesome decisions, and really up my lifestyle for a week.

The ride was quiet and awkward, as I gazed in astonishment at the city of twenty-two million.

I smoked five cigarettes by the time we exited the expressway for Sukhumvit Road. Neon cocktail signs, advertisements for late night adventures, tattoos, and strip clubs shined like stars on the sides of skyscrapers. Hundreds of patrons and street vendors flooded the streets and made it almost impossible to navigate the road. This was

grabbed my luggage from the trunk and held his hand out, stating, “One-hundred baht.”

While fumbling through my wallet I noticed a tiger tattooed across the boy’s thumb and index finger.

OREGON

by Kelsey Ahart photography

“This is for you. Thank you.” I handed the boy one-hundred baht and another forty baht, He shook my hand, “Thank you, good man.”

He drove away as I entered the hotel lobby. A green and gold embroidered carpet led me to a counter with an unusually large Thai man standing behind it. He was talking to an older female receptionist about something that appeared to be of importance. I could not understand a word of their native tongue, so I took this moment to glance at my phone. It was now 0200. I snapped back to atKIOSK15

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tention when the large man greeted me in English.

“Hello sir. Welcome to the Boss Suites Hotel.”

I replied, “Thank you. How are you?”

The man smiled, “I am Chongrah, the head of security. You can call me Chon.” Chon left the counter to sit in a chair near the entryway of the lobby.

The receptionist took over for Chon and began checking me in to the hotel, “Please, let me take a copy of your passport.” She quickly turned around and walked toward a copy machine.

I took a look at the lobby, which had vaulted ceilings, a marble staircase leading up to a restaurant, and an elevator surrounded by gold inlays.

“Here you are sir.” The woman handed me my passport and issued me two keycards for my hotel room with a slip of paper that read B-142.

and

I began walking I only had seven nights towards the elevator she had directed me was not going to waste one to, but halfway there sleeping at the hotel. Chon stood up out of his chair. He met me near the elevator and stated, “You have any questions or trouble just come find me.” He lifted his blue polo slightly, revealing the grip of a semi-automatic pistol.

I shook my head and replied, “Yes, of course.

Chon, let me ask you something. Have you seen two other white guys around? They go by James and Corey.”

Chon replied, “I see lots of Westerners. What do they look like?”

“James is about my height, spiked, black hair, and usually wears cargo shorts and a polo. Corey is a bit shorter, blonde hair, glasses, and dresses in jeans and a t-shirt. Both are pretty loud guys.”

“Yes, I think I have. I saw them leaving with some girls earlier.”

One of the few important things I had learned while traveling throughout the Southeast was to tip wisely. I felt this was a circumstance that called for action, so I dug into my wallet. I said, “Thank you,” as I handed Chon 1,000 baht (About 30 U.S.D.).

Chon replied, “You have a phone?”

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I reached in my pocket and presented my BlackBerry, “Yes, I do.”

Chon pressed the elevator call button for the B floor and began to exchange contact information with me, “You need any directions, cab, good tattoo store, or anything just call.”

I replied, “Thank you, I will if I need anything,” and I entered the elevator.

Upon arriving at the second floor, I hung a left ten meters from the elevator and walked down an open balcony to my room. My room was exactly what I had imagined, a living room, kitchen, bedroom, and full bathroom/shower room with a glass partition separating it from the bed. It really was the Boss Suites. I quickly undressed and showered in hopes of catching the final few hours of nightlife. Before leaving my room, I looked at myself in the mirror.

“Let’s have some fun.” I parted my brown hair to one side, tucking in my slightly too-small polo shirt, as to reveal my athletic build. I left the hotel lobby by 0230 and headed down the street toward the “strip” that Corey had mentioned. Sukhumvit Road was littered with street grills, clothing stalls, and bar girls advertising cheap drinks and thrills.

Everybody was attempting to earn a night’s pay by feeding off the needs of foreigners and locals addicted to the nightlife in Bangkok.

Three clicks down the strip I stumbled upon a bar named Nice with Ice. This particular bar had a sidewalk seating area with a fully stocked bar facing the street. A blue neon sign with a cocktail cup and ice cubes was displayed on the sidewalk to lure in potential customers.

“Tiger Beer, please,” I ordered my first beer of the night, The waiter fished my beer out of a steel bucket filled with ice. I approached a heavy-set white man with a thick, black mustache standing at the bar.

“Hey, what are the good spots around here?”

The man gave me an odd look for a moment and I questioned whether he spoke any English.

“This is as good as any,” he said in a deep Scottish accent. “Keep watch for the lady-boys any-

where you frequent, unless you’re into that stuff… like those business men from China.” He pointed at a group of older Chinese men and the modellike “women” that accompanied them.

I replied, “Good lookin’ out,” and received a blank stare from the obviously drunken man. “I mean thanks,” I added. I left the bar to sit at a black, plastic table for four and ordered another Tiger Beer. I lit a cigarette and let out a sigh. This was what I had been waiting for all year. Time to take it all in. Shortly after my beer arrived three women approached my table.

We drank and smoked into the night, observing the bustling nightlife. My new Thai friends exchanged buying rounds with me as we conversed about career choices and cultural differences until around 0400. The two shorter women had decided to leave.

“You take care of our friend?” the older of the two inquired.

I replied, “Of course.”

“Do you have friends?” the tallest of the three asked.

I briefly scanned the group for obvious signs of masculinity. No protruding Adam’s apples, small knees, and narrow shoulders.

“Nope, not tonight,” I replied. “Please have a seat.”

The three women had some words in Thai and sat down. The tallest of the three sat on my side of the table, and the two other women ordered a round of drinks. I did not pay much attention to the other women who accompanied us that night. I do remember them being of typical height and appearance for Thai women in their twenties, high cheek bones, sun-kissed skin, and petite bodies. The waiter brought us a round of Tiger Beers, which I thanked the women for. It seemed highly unusual to me that a woman would buy a man a drink, but I was soon fixated on the tall, dark haired Thai woman who sat next to me.

“You’re quite tall for a Thai person,” I said.

She replied, “Yes, I know. Thank you.”

“Wow, your English is also very good. What are you girls doing out this late?”

“We had the night off work and wanted to have some fun.”

I held out my hand, “My name is Jerry McIntyre.”

She placed her dainty hand on mine and said, “My name is Tiab.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing we ran into each other tonight. We look for the same thing.”

The two women walked towards a nearby crowd at a bus stop and disappeared into the night.

“That is okay, right?”

UNTITLED 9

by Collin Schrader photography

She smiled and nodded approvingly as I stared into the reflection of pink and blue lights in her eyes. I ordered one more round for Tiab before inviting her back to my hotel suite. We departed the outdoor bar and walked back to the Boss Suites Hotel. Most of the bars and nightclubs were beginning to pull down the metal shutters that covered their doors and windows. The smell of fresh meat and spices filled the air as the street vendors served ravenous drunkards of all nationalities. I was glad that I choose such a lively part of the city to spend my vacation in. Upon arrival we were greeted by Chon, who propped open the door and smiled.

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lobby while navigating to my suite. I opened the door and Tiab made her way through the living room, slowly unzipping her dress.

“Jerry McIntyre, I am happy we see each other tonight.”

I

I tossed my shoes aside, took off my shirt, and lit a cigarette. “I am also happy we met.” I made my way to Tiab. This was exactly the part of Thailand I wanted to experience. At that point, I loved my life. I grabbed the complimentary liter of whiskey from the bar in the corner of my suite and took a drink, washing it down with a long drag of cigarette smoke. I exhaled the This was the type of lifestyle smoke out of my nostrils as Tiab put one arm around was meant for, slow days and me and took the cigarette fast, hectic nights. from my mouth. She pressed the cigarette into a nearby ashtray and pulled me toward the bed, tugging on my belt.

I was awakened by the sun beaming across my chest and the sound of running water beating against the glass partition that separated the bedroom from the shower-room. I turned over to check my BlackBerry: no missed calls, no texts, and the time read 1400. I began to wonder if James and Corey had awakened yet, or if they had even made it back to the hotel last night. This thought died as I stared through the glass partition into the shower room, watching Tiab work shampoo into her long, black hair. This was the only kind of paradise where you could actually watch your woman shower while you lounged about in bed. I loved Asia. I entered the shower room in hopes of not being perceived as an absolute pervert and began cleaning myself of the filth from the previous night’s adventure. Tiab smiled and took the wash rag out of my hand.

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“Tiab, you have your purse?” I said.

She replied, “Yes.” “Okay, let’s do this.”

Tiab and I made our way to the hotel lobby, which was empty except for Chon. Chon was at his usual post by the door and talking on his phone. He gave us a smile and a wave as we left.

Tiab and I walked to the restaurant she had proposed, which had a small patio facing the street.

Tiab and I had a typical Thai brunch consisting of green curry and rice soup. Ready for another good time, I ordered a Tiger Beer with my meal. Tiab was silent for much of the meal, quickly devouring her food as if she had not eaten for days. When finished, she finally spoke, “I must go to work. I am late.”

I said, “Of course, I’m sorry I kept you so long.”

This is when I realized that not everyone was in the same vacation mode that I was living in. “I am glad that I met you, maybe we’ll see each other again.”

Tiab said, “I am happy also. I had fun last night!”

I slowly stood up and leaned towards her to initiate a parting hug. Tiab stood and pressed her soft lips against my cheek.

I responded by raising my hand, “Here’s to an awesome night!”

Tiab stared wide-eyed for a moment and raised her hand to meet mine, “Yes, haha—thank you.” She exited the patio and walked south, down the street.

I left the restaurant and headed north towards the opposite end of the street, where I saw two young white men with girls in tow at a Europeanstyle pub. This pub was no more than a deck with a bar and pool tables scattered throughout the space. A metal sign overhead read, “STRIKERS!”

An hour or so later we emerged from the shower room, and I asked her, “Are you hungry? I haven’t eaten since arriving in Thailand.”

Recognizing the two men I yelled, “James!

Cory! What’s up?”

Tiab replied, “Okay, let’s have some food. I know a place down the road.”

Corey called to the bartender, “Get us another shot!”

I grabbed my wallet and its contents, which were scattered about the nightstand. I checked its 30

contents: money intact, passport, and one room key.

James stood and met me with a handshake, “How are ya brother?”

As I greeted James, I saw an odd looking Thai man with blonde hair sitting in the back corner of the bar area. He was dressed in camo shorts, a matching field jacket, and a wife-beater. I couldn’t be sure if he was paying much attention to us because his eyes were masked by aviator-style sunglasses and cigarette smoke.

“I’m glad to see you guys!” I said. “I have an awesome story to tell you… I just got the Thailand high five!”

Corey’s jaw dropped, and James replied, “Ugh, that sounds awesome! Tell us!”

We all downed our shots, and I told them

about my previous night’s adventure.

“That sounds like a perfect night!” James said.

Throughout the day I found myself frequently looking in the direction of the blond-haired Thai man. His jacket was now off, revealing full-sleeve tattoos and various scars scattered about his chest.

I motioned toward the man. “James, who the hell is this guy?”

“I have no idea man. He has just been hanging out all day,” James replied. “I saw him and the owner talking earlier. I would bet he gets paid to hang around and deal with the crazy-drunk Westerners.

You know how some of those Europeans get.”

“Ah, I guess that would make sense.”

Corey stated, “I don’t care what he does, I’m not screwing with that guy.”

We continued to drink, smoke, and reminisce about past military deployments. The day began to transform into night. The blue and pink neon once again illuminated street corners and transformed our lingering cigarette smoke into a colorful haze. The night was a living, breathing entity once again. Our skin glistened more and more as the night progressed. Our shirts became heavily saturated with perspiration from the still, humid heat of inner-city Bangkok.

The clock over the bar’s register now read 2330. James, Corey, and I were pretty well drunk when I noticed Tiab entering the bar. She began to walk towards me.

“Well, I didn’t think I’d run into you again so soon,” I said.

Tiab replied, “I work here, but I get off soon,” as she sat next to me.

I gazed at Tiab’s near perfect body, reliving last night’s adventure. I quickly turned to James and said, “This is the girl I was telling you about earlier. Why don’t we bring this party back to my suite and continue the conversation?”

LAKE BLED

by Jazmine Dirks photography

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“Yeah, for sure, but let’s grab some beer and smokes on the way,” James said.

“Corey, you down with that?”

Corey replied, “Sounds like a blast, lead the way.”

Before leaving Strikers we had one more round of shots. Given my now semi-drunken state, I proposed, “Let’s get the tattooed guy a shot!”

I looked over into the corner of the bar and saw a group of men, but no blond-haired creepy Thai guy.

“Well, that’s his loss! Let’s go!”

Our group left the pub and squeezed through crowd after crowd of Thais, Chinese, and what seemed to be every other type of foreigner you could I felt nothing, no memories imagine. I remember the flashing, no pain, not even thousands of eyes that I the steel against my skin. briefly met and passed that night. They all appeared to be looking for some type of happiness to confide in, or maybe just something to ease their minds for the night. We stopped by the local 7-Eleven and then arrived back at the Boss Suites. Chon was not near his usual post, but the two receptionists were present. Both exchanged giggles and avoided eye contact with our group as we made our way to the elevator. Once on B floor, I turned the corner and noticed the door to my room was already cracked open.

“Hey, wait up a second, guys. The room is open.”

James said, “It’s probably just room service.

Let’s go.” James entered the suite and yelled, “See, I told you. Stop being a Nancy!”

I entered the suite last and locked the door behind me. While entering the room I noticed that my second key card was already in place, thus turning on the electricity in the room. I made my way to the living room, turned on the light, and was greeted by an unfamiliar voice.

“Stay quiet, and do not try run.” A five-foot-six blond-haired, heavily tattooed Thai man and his entourage of three now occupied my bedroom.

I said, “Wait a second, what the fuck do you guys think you’re doing?”

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The leader replied, “I said quiet!” as he brandished a semi-automatic pistol.

His three heavy-set thugs also revealed their pistols.

“You think that Somboon’s girl would just let you fuck her? You westerners are so simple.”

“Somboon, what the fuck kind of a name is that?”

Corey said.

Tiab was standing in the corner and staring at the floor, avoiding eye contact.

I looked at her and said, “The fucking key card, huh?”

She continued to stare at the floor.

“So what do you want?”

“I want your passport, money, and bank cards,” Somboon said.

Corey, who was behind me, pushed me out of the way and said, “How about no and fuck no!”

The largest of the three Thai thugs grabbed Corey by the throat and put his arm securely around him.

Somboon ordered, “Grab the other two, and we go up to the roof. You girls get lost and forget this happen.”

The two remaining thugs pointed their weapons at James and me as the ladies walked towards the hotel stairwell. We entered the nearby elevator and took what seemed like the longest ride of my life. The call button for the twentieth floor illuminated, and we were herded out of the elevator. The roof was vacant at the time but must have served as a bar or dance club on special occasions. There was a dance floor, fully stocked bar, and strobe lights hanging from tall speakers.

I thought to myself, how the hell am I so stupid?

James said, “Jerry, what the fuck are we going to do, man.”

I replied, “I don’t know! Just give them what they want and let’s get off this damn rooftop.”

Somboon said, “Quiet! Now! I want the passports and bank cards, quick!”

Corey pleaded, “You can have the money but not the passports! We need them to leave Thailand!”

Somboon motioned to one of his thugs, and he

dragged Corey to the edge of the rooftop. I attempted to break free from the man holding me but was quickly struck down with a blow to the back of the head.

Somboon walked towards me saying, “Tough guy, huh? I show you tough.”

He drug me to the edge of the rooftop as my vision became blurry and eventually faded out.

I regained consciousness only to find myself being dangled over the guard rail, the only thing between me a twenty floor descent to hot pavement.

Somboon, the five-foot-six, blond- haired, Thai street enforcer, was holding a .40 caliber semi-automatic pistol to my temple.

I screamed, “Fuck! Wait a second! I can explain!” My head was now over the railing, and I looked around at the surrounding skyscrapers. How could we be in a city of twenty-two million people with hundreds of buildings and no one had seen us? I realized quickly that no one really gave a shit about a few westerners in Thailand; we were nothing more than pocketbooks and revenue. Somboon was now directly behind Corey, holding him by the belt and leaning the front portion of his body over the edge.

James screamed, “Wait! Come on! We will give you what you want! Put him down!”

Somboon leaned Corey further off the roof saying, “I show you westerners we serious in Thailand.”

Corey’s body began to flail, and Somboom released his grip.

“Ahhhhhhggghhh,” is all that we heard as Corey’s body slammed into the hot pavement below.

Somboon looked noticeably shaken and peered over the edge. I glanced between the rails and saw a crowd beginning to gather around Corey’s mangled body and look towards the rooftop.

“Wait! We can still make a deal!” I said.

Somboon said, “No, it is late now!” He began to walk towards James and shook his pants until he found his wallet.

James said, “You don’t have to fucking do this!”

Somboon motioned two of the thugs to bring James toward the ledge. I began to struggle and

broke free from the third thug, who was holding me. I quickly lunged toward Somboon, shoving my elbow into his throat. He dropped to his knees, and I tried to free James from the two remaining thugs. The thug that I had escaped from quickly regained composure, threw me on the ground like a ragdoll, and began to drag me to the edge of the building. Steel now pressed against the back of my head. I clenched my eyes and heard two violent cracks. I felt nothing, no memories flashing, no pain, not even the steel against my skin. I opened my eyes to see the body of Somboom drop at my feet. One of the three thugs hit the floor directly behind him. Blood was spattered across their backs and the railing in front of me.

A familiar voice said, “Free him!”

The remaining two thugs released James. Two more violent cracks sounded, sending steel ripping through their chests. The men fell to the roof pavement, and blood spattered across James’ face.

I turned around and saw Chon standing near the rooftop bar.

Chon, panting and smiling said, “You westerners may have just got me a job as real police!” __________

FIREBALL

by Kenna Lammers woodcut print

Vietnam, four months later “So, long story short, that’s why I don’t take any girls home since coming to Ho Chi Minh.”

The young, dark haired Vietnamese woman stared wide-eyed for a moment and said, “Oh, I understand.”

I stared at her hip-length black hair and Japanese style yukata (a type of summertime kimono) that contoured perfectly around her petite body, regretting telling the previous story. James approached the small tiki-style beach bar with an equally beautiful Vietnamese woman.

He smiled and asked, “How about we take this party back to my place?”

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FICTION

A RED AUTUMN BEAST Sarah Munson

I

t was March 24, 2011, a rainy day, when Sandra decided enough was enough. It was the usual pork loin for dinner; her mother was absent at her second job, and her father sat at the end of the dining table, picking at the meat with his fork. He was looking past Sandra and out the bay window while his hand absently twirled his silverware. The rain pattered against the window in a melancholy beat, and she could hear the cars driving by. Sandra stared hard at her father, knowing he would never register her cold gaze. His “The one thing that didn’t once golden hair had faded fade or change was his eyes.” into greys and dehydrated yellows. The unkempt beard grew with sharp stubbles beneath his gaunt cheekbones and all the way down to his neck above the Adam’s apple. Sandra thought about how handsome Dad was in the wedding photos hanging skewed on the walls and how different the man in front of her was now. The one thing that didn’t fade or change was his eyes. Her mom always said it was those crystal blues that she fell in love with.

Sandra brushed the hair out of her eyes. She had the same ones, the same blue.

“Dad,” Sandra spoke softly to the man at the table.

He didn’t stir from his impenetrable gaze of the world outside.

“Dad, I want to talk to you.” Her voice was louder, and she took a deep breath. “I want you to get help. Mom doesn’t think there’s a problem but—” Tears already brimmed her eyes, and she sniffed the water down her throat, “She can’t see what she doesn’t want to see.”

Thunder vibrated the windowpanes.

“I see it,” she continued, “One day you just left and never came back.” She cast her eyes down, struggling not to lose the momentum, the courage to speak to him. “At least… not all of you.”

Reaching into her back pocket, Sandra pulled out the pamphlets and brochures of nearby recovery centers and Addicts Anonymous group meetings.

Her hands were shaking. “Dad? I brought some of these home today. I checked out all of them for you and the people seem supportive and good and they 34

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know what you’re going through and—” “They know?” His voice, soft but strong, broke her ramble. “They know!”

He repeated it louder, and Sandra dropped the papers on the table, shock rendering her speechless.

“They know!”

It was his voice rattling the glass now, his hands slamming the table, his body moving in a blurred surge towards her. Violent hands gripped her shoulders, and Sandra was met with the fiery gaze, the one untouched feature by the otherwise all-consuming addiction. She screamed as he shook her body, but he held on in a bruising grip.

His words came out, slurred and angry, and spit rained on her skin, hot but quick to chill.

“Don’t tell me they know! No one knows what I live with day after day!”

His callused hands pushed his daughter back, slamming her into her chair. She cried out and fell back. The blow was so hard that the chair broke underneath Sandra’s body and left her quivering

on the floor. She raised her hands, pleading that he stop. Tears streamed down her face; it was the first time she’d ever been afraid of her father, the first time those hands embraced her that way.

“You just stay out of it, Sandra! Just stay out of it!” He turned away, the fiery brilliance of his violence and rage following him, urging him to punch the wall as he left. ____________ On a not-so-important Monday in late August, Sandra sat in the attic, rifling through junk and garbage to be sold for their rummage sale. Her mother had decided to spring clean (even though she was a few months late). Dust was heavy in the air and on every solid surface. Sandra wiped sweat from her brow as she sat cross-legged on the wood floor. A cracked mirror on the wall caught her eye, and she studied the broken-up reflection of her body. One of the glass pieces was missing so that it looked like there was a triangular hole in her face where her mouth should be.

Her gaze moved away from the mirror and

to the cardboard box pressing against it. She set down old photos of the Carr family, Irish relatives from the 1890’s, and reached toward the box.

Peeling back the limp lid, something gold shone inside. Curiosity got the best of her, and she found herself holding a bound red journal with a gold clasp. It was small enough to fit inside a jacket pocket. The cloth fibers of the binding were unwinding with age, and she struggled to keep the papers all together. The handwriting inside was scrawling, and the letters resembled spiders’ legs more than anything coherent, but some words did stick out on a particularly loose page: “hollow,” “imperfect,” “beast.”

With a start, Sandra realized she recognized the handwriting. It was her father’s. Her interest increased, and she squinted, trying to make out more of the words on other pages, but in the dim light provided by the grimy window, nothing more was legible.

Creaking footsteps on the ladder caught Sandra’s attention.

“Sandra? Sandra, come and eat breakfast.” Her mother’s voice floated up the rectangular opening, and Sandra jumped, hiding the book in her back pocket, and made her way down the narrow ladder.

She tried not to feel guilty. ____________ It was unusually gray for June, but Sandra supposed it was fitting for a burial. Everything about her father these past months had been devoid of life, so Sandra felt that in a way she had been prepared for this day. Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

After finding her dad in the bathtub, piss and shit all over, drool and vomit hanging out of his mouth… it was surprising to see him now in the casket.

Peaceful, resting, and untarnished.

They had dyed his hair back to its illustrious brilliance, painted his lips and cheeks a slight pink for the illusion of life. If she wasn’t too careful, she’d catch her father’s chest moving up and down; her mind was so used to seeing him breathe.

SIOUX FALLS

by Amber Burg infrared photography

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As they loaded Jackson Grant in the long black hearse, her breath danced eagerly out of her aching lungs.

When she realized that this was the last time she would ever see her father, she didn’t cry.

It just took a while to breathe right again.

When she left a flower on the step leading to his cheap casket, she almost tripped over the ruffled white cotton lying atop the risers to the platform. A hand steadied her, and she turned and saw black hair, acne scars, and a lip piercing.

That’s how she met Brent.

Brent was two years her elder, but he was mentally and emotionally stunted to 17 years old. She found Brent to be less than adequate in standards.

He shot squirrels and birds and the occasional cat for fun with his BB gun. She was sure he had explained to her the caliber and other masculine facts of the gun, but it wasn’t information worth retaining.

He also liked drinking. And driving. And drinkinganddriving.

Sandra didn’t care. He had a Pontiac (or something) and liked to go fast all the time. Even in bed. Foreplay was a minute and another minute for him to grunt and sigh beneath her. She was always on top.

Again, Sandra didn’t mind.

Why? Because she could shower and bathe at Brent’s without the yellowing-white tile reminding her of— Because she could fuck Brent and forget about— Because she could stay up all night memorizing every detail of Brent and how he didn’t look like— All she needed was a distraction. It had a name. His name was Brent. ____________ Labor day provided Sandra an easy day off. It was 10 a.m., and leaves blew in front of the window like flashes of fire. Ever since she had found the journal, she carried it with her always. Not as a 36

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reminder of the man that wrote in it, but for other reasons. It was a poem written by a man called Weldon Kees. Just like the best of them, Weldon died in obscurity and the poetry he left behind…

Sandra had memorized every line. It was a poem her father had admired, maybe as much as Sandra found herself loving it.

With the sun out and the clouds hesitantly rolling in, the weather was still relatively warm. Sandra was comfortable in a hoodie sporting her college log and shorts. Her mom, dressed in blue jeans and a cotton tee, sat at the breakfast bar with her.

“I really don’t like that boy you’re seeing.”

The comment didn’t really surprise or bother her. Nothing really bothered Sandra these days.

She stared down at her Mini-Wheats, crunching and talking around the rectangles of grain. “It’s not really anything, Mom. Truly.” She put her spoon down and let the milk absorb into the cereal. Her appetite had retreated away like her interest in the conversation.

Her mom held the classified section of the newspaper in one hand and a pen in the other.

There were red circles around several job listings and two-bedroom apartments in the area. The rummage sale in August had been a preamble to selling the house, as Sandra had recently realized.

Mom had pointed out some potential places to her before switching to the current topic. Sandra didn’t know if she really wanted to move, just that her mother thought it would be best. It was enough work to go through all the junk they had in the attic. Everything had a memory, and she wondered if there was a difference between getting rid of the good memories and the bad. Each one had its own weight, its own heaviness on the heart, even a broken mirror or a forgotten journal. Thinking of going through the whole house like that made Sandra nervous.

Folding the paper up and then grabbing her bowl to put in the sink, her mom talked to Sandra all the while. “Well, seeing him, dating him, whatever. Either way, I think it’s better you let him alone.” Her mom’s voice, Sandra thought, did its best at remembering what a parental tone sounded

like. It fell flat, like a disinterested best friend. Sandra shook her head and picked at the bits of cereal.

“Whatever you say, Mom.” That same evening, Sandra set off to meet Aiden at the Woodland Reserve. The college called

Sandra was mesmerized by the colors. Moving like a sleeping beast, the blowing breeze shifted the dried, scaly covering of leaves. She sat against a wide cottonwood in the park just above campus. Aiden, her friend through two years, three English classes, and her family’s upheaval, sat next to her as she opened the journal and flipped through the pages.

She met Aiden before Brent, before the funeral, and before the suicide. If she really thought about it, she probably loved Aiden; he was her best friend, and he was quiet, and his eyes were blue.

He was everything Brent never dreamed of being.

And Sandra was afraid of her feelings for him.

“So whose journal was this?” Aiden brushed the aging pages; their smoky yellows were welcome in this autumn haven. “Most of this stuff is quotes taped on pictures.” He flipped forward a few pages while Sandra’s hands protectively held the fragile spine of the red book.

“We have snippets of Mark Twain quotes, a couple of pressed daisies, a matchbook, and my favorite—” He put his right hand over hers, caressing the back of her hand while she held the back of the book. Gently, he pushed Sandra’s left hand out of the way and opened the red cover to the last page.

Whispering in her ear, in his best pirate voice, he said: “By hook or by crook, I’ll be the last to write in this book.” She could hear the smirk in his tone.

it a nature reserve, but it was Sandra’s escape. She and Aiden were enjoying the small reprieve from classes. It had taken a while for Sandra to get back on track with her schoolwork during the…difficult times earlier in the year. She almost laughed now at how fast her junior year, and now senior year, had gone and how much had happened in the past six months.

The sun was an hour from setting, and the reds and golds gave dying life to the amber leaves that had already fallen. They shone in splendor, and

GAME OF THRONES

by Sarah Sorenson digital photo

Shivering slightly, Sandra closed the book again and rested it in her lap. She tucked a piece of red hair behind her ear and smiled at Aiden. “It was my father’s. From a very long time ago.”

The mood changed drastically. Aiden’s eyes grew wide, and as Sandra looked at him, there was a hardness to his features. After what Sandra went through emotionally for the three long months of her father’s…

Sandra shook her head and cleared the thoughts away. Aiden was angry at her dead father.

Was she?

She felt nothing that strong anymore.

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“Um…There’s a name—” She continued on, ignoring his stiffness.

Hesitantly, Sandra flipped the book forward again. “Here.” Her chipped nail pointed at the scrawled name on the front page. “Elias Jackson Grant.” Her finger pressed along the name, feeling the finite grooves like they were brail bumps full of answers. “No one ever called him that. He hated his first name. But I think I like it.” She smiled involuntarily. “Sounds like something from the Antebellum.”

“The

“Why make a journal if it’s nothing you actually wrote?” Aiden gestured at the crinkled edges of comment didn’t really surprise pages threatening to rip or bother her. Nothing really from their bindings. His bothered Sandra these days.” voice gave away what Sandra had already guessed.

He was upset.

Opening the journal wider, more carefully this time, Sandra flipped through pasted clippings and transcribed words to find the one poem that drew her love and affection from the start.

“The first day I found this, I had been rummaging in the attic, sorting our stuff for a rummage sale. And I was having such a tough time with it.”

Keeping her finger inside the book, Sandra closed it so Aiden couldn’t read the lines while she spoke.

There was this need inside her for him to understand the power this poem had over her.

She hadn’t shared it with anyone else.

He looked up at her, auburn hair ruffled by the wind. There were freckles on his nose that she adored and counted when he was sleeping on her couch or when his gaze was somewhere in the sky.

“I didn’t want to get rid of anything. All I saw were lives waiting to be found again. Even in the waste.”

She blushed as if she revealed too much. Too much about herself, too much into the things she had buried back in June with her father.

Aiden’s voice brought her attention back. “So the next time I watch Hoarders, should I look for you?” He blocked the punch that he knew was coming. Holding her fist easily in his palm, Aiden

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brought it back down to rest on their legs. He sighed heavily and almost smiled. “Sorry, just continue. I’m listening.” He straightened his back and made an effort to be serious. And failed. At least his anger had subsided.

Rolling her eyes, Sandra continued, smiling.

“Anyways, about a month ago, I found this old journal in a box with a note pressed inside. The papers inside were delicate, and I couldn’t make out was written on half of them but this page…” Sandra smoothed the fine paper. “This one… was waiting for me.”

As she readjusted the book in her lap, the spine creaked with all the exercise it had had in the past few minutes.

“It’s a Weldon Kees poem. I didn’t even know who the guy was when I read this, but it didn’t matter. I fell in love.” Her eyes scanned the familiar lines, hearing the beats, feeling the deep words press against her chest. “I loved the poet, the poem, and the man who wanted to remember them.”

The handwriting on the torn page was cleaner than on others. Her father, she assumed, had taken great care to write these lines, and in that care, they were legible. The handwriting, elegant. On the bad days and the good days, when she thought of leaving Brent, when she didn’t leave Brent, when her mother wore nicotine patches, when she chained her American Spirits, when there were nightmares, and when Sandra forgot to dream, she read from this journal and always found this page, always this poem.

Always.

“I’m not quite sure what it means, either.” She scanned the words as she spoke, taking in again the sense of the words. “Maybe it’s about the futility of distractions like happiness and reprieve and passion. How we all tend toward a teleological nature.”

Coughing next to her, Aiden sputtered, “A tele what?” He scratched his arm as he peered over at the poem, seemingly looking for the definition of what she had just said.

Pausing, she looked up, her smile still in place.

“It’s like a philosophy about how nature, human nature, moves toward definite ends. I think.” She squeezed their still entwined hands. “I think this poem is about how moments can bring us a fleeting happiness, but as these moments end…” She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her words.

“We realize the impermanence of life.” Her eyes shut as she finished her thought. “The only permanent distraction from our lives is death, a final state of movement and moments.”

Shifting toward him, her chest close to his, she searched Aiden’s eyes for understanding. That she wasn’t just rambling and that he was present there with her. In this moment, she was quite close to desperation.

His eyes looked down at her. She breathed in his scent, mixed in with the rest of the dusty, decaying woods. He smelled like sandalwood and clean laundry.

This was the closest they’d ever been.

“Can I read it?” Aiden opened his hands, and for the first time since she met him two years ago, he looked apprehensive, shy.

Sandra was apprehensive as well; it was like offering a part of herself with the possibility of never getting it back. Leaning farther into the grooved bark, Sandra lifted up the journal.

She knew the words by heart now and silently spoke them with Aiden: The smiles of the bathers fade as they leave the water, And the lover feels sadness fall as it ends, as he leaves his love.

The scholar, closing his book as the midnight clock strikes, is hollow and old: The pilot’s relief on landing is no release.

These perfect and private things, walling us in, have imperfect and public endings— Water and wind and flight, remembered words and the act of love Are but interruptions. And the world, like a beast, impatient and quick,

Waits only for those who are dead. No death for you. You are involved.

After he read it, Aiden closed the book, handed it back to her resting hands, and then kissed her.

It was soft, brief, and brilliant. When he pulled away, Sandra felt cold and longing and more than she had felt in months. The briefest happiness…a different imperfect happiness than she thought she had with Brent.

And she was afraid.

The world, like a beast. . . waits only for those who are dead.

She feared what this moment, this distraction, this blooming flower in the cold autumn would do to her when it ended…

Suddenly, impatiently, and quick.

No. Biting her lip, Sandra grabbed the book from Aiden’s lap and turned away from him, damning herself for tearing up, for disturbing the quiet friendship they had until now.

“Sandra, I—” But Sandra broke him off, disrupting his slight smile and the flush in his cheeks. He couldn’t understand that Sandra didn’t want this lovely moment, that it burned her skin and nearly caused her pain. Did she even understand it?

She didn’t want to.

“I need to go,” she said, and then she pushed herself up and away from him, heading back to the path.

The walk back to her car was bitter and gave her too much time to think. Sandra’s purple jacket did nothing to keep the chill from reaching her skin. With the zipper broken, she had to clutch the opening closed as she ran back to her car. At first, Aiden yelled after her, calling her to come back, but she kept heading back toward the street.

Eventually, his beckoning stopped and that almost hurt more than her running away. The sun had set now, and dark clouds lined the horizon, following Sandra home. The journal lay quietly on the seat of her car.

As she drove home, the night was still and KIOSK15

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quiet and clashed with her aching heart. ____________ When she got home that night, her mother laid into her. She was worried about Sandra, about her relationship with Brent, about all the time she spent away from home.

And more specifically, about how Sandra was not dealing with her dad’s death.

“I just wish you’d talk to me instead of run.”

Her mom was curled up on the couch, and Sandra was on the ottoman a little space in front of her.

Some Lifetime movie played in the background.

“You’re not the only one he left, Sandra.” The ball of Kleenex was scrunched even tighter as her mother tensed her grip.

Sandra looked up at her face, the brown eyes red rimmed and her perfect red hair now frizzy and tangled.

Rubbing her face, Sandra tried to figure out what to say. “I’m dealing with it the best I can, Mom. But honestly, toward the end it was like he wasn’t even there.” She tucked her feet under her and occupied as little space as possible. Long-buried feelings were clawing their way from the grave she had made months ago, and she pushed them back down. Not tonight. She wasn’t going to deal with this tonight.

Brent. She wanted Brent.

Her mother’s sniffles brought Sandra back to the room, to the storm on the horizon, and to the empty house. “I was already dealing with a dead father, Mom,” Sandra muttered. As she glanced at her mother, she saw that she was barely present, but Sandra continued anyway. For her mom or herself, she had no idea, but she finished her thought.

“After the accident and him losing his job, he never came back to us.”

The downpour of rain against the windows startled her. The grandfather clock chimed eight.

“Mom. It wasn’t him anymore.”

They know? Her father’s words echoed in her mind, and Sandra clenched her fist, familiar aches raking up her arm… ghosts of father’s hands.

Her mother’s sobs broke out from her chest, 40

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shaking her small body. “Oh god!” She cried and wiped her nose across her cardigan sleeve.

At first, Sandra just stared at her mother, cringing at her cries. It took a few seconds, but eventually Sandra stood and reached out toward her, but her mother just waved Sandra off. Instead of leaving, she sat and let her mom cry out for her father, cry until she hiccupped and passed out. It was two hours, but Sandra stayed, not knowing what else to do except cover her mother with a blanket and let her sleep.

Her coat was still wet and lay on the tan footstool where Sandra had been. She grabbed it and headed for the door again, ready to drive to Brent’s.

“Hey.” The amorous greeting reached her as she opened Brent’s front door. There was a mess of Coke cans, fast food bags, and empty boxes of condoms—not all of which had been used with her.

She set her purse by the door and took off her jacket. “Hi.” He was on the floor in front of the TV playing his PlayStation3. Or 4. There were some things, well most things, she didn’t bother to remember about Brent and what he did.

“I’m almost done with this level, and then we can go in back.” His fingers rapidly pressed a series of buttons, and someone died on screen in animated blood and gore.

“I was actually wondering if we could talk first.”

Sandra sat next to him on the floor. His wife-beater tank showed off some very prominent biceps and a tribal tattoo on his shoulder. The 12-hour days at the pallet company kept him in shape. Brent was pretty all right to look at. She knew that what she had with him was nothing more than the surface.

He wasn’t her type and they both knew it. Her dad had worked at the same pallet company before one of the forklifts landed on his left leg. Brent was the one who drove him to the hospital.

He grunted next to her, finishing whatever he was doing, and then paused the game. “Yeah, what’s up?”

She fished for the right words. Unlike Waldon Kees, she had no art of eloquence. “Are we…

She said it more forcefully after he delayed answering her.

“The pills. I didn’t know it would, that he would—” Brent looked away from her and tried pulling his arm back.

ILLUMINATE

by Allie Sweeney photography

She held on, and his eyes looked away from her.

“Get that bad. I swear, I didn’t know he would off himself.”

Thunder split the air, and her hand dropped from his arm, suddenly more weight than she could bear. Her dad’s last words echoed in her head: Stay out of it! what… I just don’t think—” She sighed and pinched her nose, closing her eyes for a moment of composure. “Whatever this is—” She stared at Brent, who eyed her suspiciously. “It’s not really—” “Going anywhere?” He finished for her and shifted back so his legs were stretched out.

Sandra looked up, half-amused that they were on the same page for once. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

He took a swig of pop and leaned slightly over to her. “It’s something I’ve been thinking about.

Why did we start this at all?”

It was the first time Brent sounded grown up.

She was shocked and ashamed; not once did she ever try to know Brent.

“I mean you’re pretty, and the sex isn’t bad.”

His shoulders shrugged and watching him, she saw the knots in his muscles.

“It’s pretty bad, actually.” They both looked at each other and laughed, really laughed.

His hand wiped under his nose, and he gave one last chuckle. “Yeah, it is. God. Everything’s just fucked up, you know?”

Sandra didn’t know, and she said as much to him.

He sat up and leaned on his knees. “Well, I mean what happened. To your dad. First the leg, then the job, and he was in a lot of pain so I was just trying to help out and—” “Help out with what?” Something was knotting in the pit of her stomach. Sandra grabbed Brent’s arm, hard. “Helped him with what, Brent?”

Over and over again they rang louder, and the image of when she found him in the bathroom, naked and cold and blue, rattled around with the words. Her father gone in the most inglorious of deaths: a treason to the man she once loved and respected.

“Sandra, I’m sorry. Forget I said anything, okay?”

Brent’s hand awkwardly rested on her back, and she twitched away from it. She shook her head to clear the memories, the noise. All she wanted was to purge the awful moments, the rapid decline of her happiness, the binding ties unwoven in a matter of months, ties that had taken years to weave. She wanted them gone.

“Hey. Sandra? Let’s just go in the back, yeah?

Let’s just forget about—” Brent’s last words were cut off as Sandra slapped him hard across the face. Needles pinged on her palm, and her breath came in rapid movements.

The electricity of her emotions shocked her body into physical momentum; she shot up and stood, staring down the boy that rubbed his red cheek.

He started to curse at her, but she cut him off.

“Don’t.” Her hands were shaking, and it took everything to not explode at him, to beat him down, but then…

Her father’s hands pushing her to the floor, his booming voice shattering his daughter’s trust.

Oh god. Horror caused Sandra to shake now; her bones rattled with revelation. How had Sandra been any better than her father? Distracting herself, KIOSK15

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burying the hard realities of her family…

A sob escaped, and her hand flew to her mouth to stifle the rest. Brent sat defeated on the floor, his face still red, clothes rumpled. The air was dead in the room, and Sandra was suffocating. Oh god. She wanted to leave, run home, and hug her…

“Your mom told me about him.”

Sandra’s mom whipped around and eyed him accusingly. “Jack! Thanks for throwing me under the bus!” She waved the wooden spoon at him.

There were so many things she wanted to tell Brent, to scream, but she said nothing.

Her father’s deep laughter filled the room.

Nothing when she opened her car door and drove back to the Woodland Reserve.

And in that air of nothingness, a memory from her first year at school came battering down, as hard and quick as the water from the black clouds above. ____________ “Hey baby!”

Coming in from the back door, Sandra’s dad walked into the kitchen and kissed the top of her head. “How are my two favorite girls?”

Her mom was cooking pasta at the stove and blew an air kiss over her shoulder. Heavily, he sat down at the breakfast bar, shifting back and forth on the spinning wood stool.

“Fine, Dad.” Sandra said, marking her place in the story with a pen. “How was work?”

Her homework was “The Swimmer” by John Cheever for her literature class, and honestly, the conversation was a nice reprieve from the third time reading it. She was still finding metaphors and meanings she didn’t catch before.

He grunted next to her and ran his hands through his long hair. It was golden blonde. For 45, he was still lean and handsome. There was a touch of youth that never quite left his features. Well aware of his good looks, Sandra always hoped she would have the same trait when she was older.

“It was fine. Boring, but fine.” His left hand clapped down on top of her book, obstructing her view.

She eyed him through her curtain of bangs.

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He eyed his daughter suspiciously, and Sandra sighed in fake frustration.

But she couldn’t. He was gone, and running away hadn’t helped him, and it wouldn’t help her.

Nothing as she staggered out the door.

42

“So what’s this about a boy? What’s his name, Aiden?”

Sandra grinned at her father. “Well, he’s in my class, and we drink in his dorm all the time and have lots of sex and did I mention the weed—” “Whoa whoa whoa.” Her dad put up his hands, grimacing. “I don’t want to hear about you having sex, in jest or not.”

“But the drugs and alcohol are okay?”

He paused and winked at her, “Yeah, just anything other than the other thing.”

She nudged him with her elbow, “What other thing? I didn’t quite get that.”

Laughing, he shoved at her and got up from the stool.

“That’s enough, you two. Come and eat.” Her mom’s voice rang over their giggles.

Her dad pushed Sandra’s head as he went over to her mother. Sandra watched them both. Her mother was swaying side to side to a silent song, and her dad never took his eyes off her, even as he reached for a dinner plate. Sneaking closer to her, he pinched her mother’s behind and moved out of her reach as she went to swat him with the spoon she’d been waving around earlier. Sandra smirked at her parents and went on reading the story.

The chilled midnight breeze fluttered in from the open car window. The garish orange from the streetlight touched Sandra’s pale, shaking hands, and she struggled to breathe. The memory had come on with such force and clarity. And it was then she failed to hold back the reservoir of buried anger, sadness, and regret.

As her car sat in the Woodland Reserve’s lot, she cried, first quietly, fighting the reaction, but

eventually the momentum crashed and the ugly, loud crying took over. They were tears she had never allowed herself to cry in a very long time.

Her hand clutched tightly to the wretched book.

Eventually the heaving of her chest grew calmer, her breaths slowed down, and she saw the red journal lying sleepily on the seat next to her. The memory of a man who no longer existed.

A memory she could no longer deny was a part of the same life as the ugly beast that had taken over her father in the end. Without really thinking, Sandra grabbed the journal and ran outside. On the curb was a public trash can, and she held the journal over it. At the last moment, she was unable to release it. Frustrated, she kicked the metal can and sat down in the rain. The curb was cold beneath her. Even now, she could not rid herself of her father’s addiction… of his betrayal… and of the shame she felt as his daughter.

Looking down at the red bound pages, Sandra opened it and leafed out the Kees poem. Crunching it in her fist, she flung the rest of the book to the barrage of rain from above. Pages flew out of the journal, landing unceremoniously on the cement lot before being swept away by the tiny streams of leaves, branches, and regret.

The scholar, closing his book as the midnight clock strikes, is hollow and old…

Uninvited, the words rang out in her mind.

For several minutes, she sat still and cold, and the rain beat on.

Her muscles ached, and her breathing was labored, like the act of ridding herself of the journal was equivalent to dead-lifting 1,000 pounds.

1,000 pounds of a ghost. A memory. Of an autumn beast.

Shakily, she stumbled to her feet, jamming the lone page inside of her pocket and headed back to her running car. The heater blasted against her face as she collapsed inside. She wasn’t crying, but her body was exhausted.

Uncalled for in the midst of all this, her phone pinged. She half-hoped it was her mother, checking in on her, but it wasn’t. In the morning, Sandra knew her mother wouldn’t even bring up the conversation they had that night. In the end, Sandra’s struggle, the journal, everything that had happened, was something she could never share with her mother. Her father’s struggle, the addiction, his shame at his failures, was something he never shared either. They weren’t a family that dealt well with the end of happy moments.

Wiping her nose with one hand, she dug her phone out of her purse with the other. As she checked the message, she saw it was from Aiden.

“Are u ok?”

Breathing in a little more steadily, the bit of the red beast Sandra saved from the torrent outside crinkled in the quiet of her car.

RESCUING A LIFE

by Michelle Vasquez linoleum print

She typed back to him.

“I will be.”

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POETRY

HOW TO MAKE HIM WANT YOU Brayton Hagge

Start with a stolen glance, that’s what they say.

Lead him towards the heat of your fall bonfire, then douse the flames with words full of breeziness.

Hand him the match, but hide the fire starter, and tell him to look everywhere; make him desperate to look everywhere.

He’ll want you more that way, that’s what they say.

But I’ve never been a good listener, and I’ve never been good at hiding things.

Remember when we met?

I slipped my hand into yours so the life lines in our palms crossed one another, so that our wrists met, and I could feel your pulse mirror my heartbeat, and I did not hide the fire starter.

I held it out to you and said, “Don’t look everywhere.

Look HERE. Look HERE,” making you stare into my eyes.

And when you told me “Go,” I did not respond with words full of the chilled carelessness of fall breezes.

I did not let myself shrink underneath the weight of such a heavy syllable.

I let my voice grow big 44

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as I handed you the bottle of kerosene, as I said without blinking “I want to stay.”

And maybe they were right, maybe I should learn how to hide things.

Maybe I shouldn’t have given you everything you needed to light me ablaze.

It turns out that you cannot be trusted with such dangerous things.

LOVE

by Scott Martinson oil painting

POETRY

OH, BABY Tabby Snyder

I don’t know what it’s like to be a parent.

I am the girl who waits until the very last minute to finish her homework, speeds to school because her makeup took too long, runs into class two minutes and 34 seconds late, interrupting.

Only to realize her homework is still sitting on the dining room table.

Irresponsible.

But here I am.

And all I can think about is how repugnant, nauseating, it will be to have a baby.

Sucking the snot out of a bug-eyed, bawling baby face was not how I pictured myself at this age.

I should be sitting in the passenger’s seat of a rusted out, dangerously unstable 1991 Chrysler Le Baron driving too fast and thinking too slow.

After all, that’s what kids do.

And that’s what I am, a kid.

A kid about to have a kid of her own.

To hold and care for and love and raise. and change diapers, and painstakingly scrub dried spaghetti sauce from the kitchen walls and floor after attempting to have dinner.

When I call my mother in tears, she’ll explain to me a baby’s incessant, unappeasable, and uncontrollable tendency for tantrums at all the wrong times.

She’ll tell me it wasn’t my fault, and she’ll rush home from work as soon as possible.

How am I ever going to do this on my own?

How do you be a person another person depends on, all the time, for everything?

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FICTION

ELUDED CONCEPTS Christina Vázquez

T

he sky was suddenly blushing red. Hadn’t it been blue just a little before? Marda grimaced at the window and turned back to the problem set she had been working on since she came into the library.

Nicholas grabbed a nearby chair and twirled it around before planting himself astride it, resting his forearms and chin on the back. His voice took on a whining, pleading note. “Come on, Marda, let’s go do something fun.”

X equals…X equals…equals…equal…and her mind was once again in white space, background thoughts chattering like the static of a television, merging into the quiet hum of voices, pages, shelves, and air-conditioning that permeated the library.

She took a while to respond. She stared at her paper for a bit, before slowly reaching up to scratch her neck. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “I really need to finish this…”

She trailed off.

A sudden voice broke the almost-silence and made her jump. She hadn’t heard what it said, and Marda hurriedly tried to appear as As she awkwardly turned to face though she had been the voice, she noticed, in a corner of busily working on her mind, that the sky was now dark. algebra. This was a futile and obvious attempt, but this fact registered only after she had done it. As she awkwardly turned to face the voice, she noticed, in a corner of her mind, that the sky was now dark.

The voice was Nicholas, who was quietly laughing at her, his too-wide smile spreading far across his freckled face, and his blue eyes twinkling with merriment. With a sloppy wave of his hand and an impish twist of his mouth, he indicated the almost-blank paper underneath Marda’s pencil.

“Working hard, I see.”

Marda felt a slight heat of embarrassment rise to her cheeks. “Well… yeah…” She sheepishly looked down at her paper and fiddled with her pencil, twirling it and tapping the end of the eraser on the table.

Nicholas bounded to the front of her table, slapping his hands onto the wood and leaning forward ’til he was at her eye level. “Come out with me.”

Marda flinched away from the face so suddenly in front of hers, arching away from her friend as far as her chair would let her. “Eh… could you sit like a normal person, please?”

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Nicholas watched her in silence for a long fifteen seconds before abruptly speaking up.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

Marda lifted her gaze to him.

“The problem, I mean.”

She shook her head. “Not a bit.”

“Here.” Nicholas plucked the pencil out of her hand and spun her paper toward himself.

“Okay, so you’ve set the problem up correctly.” He focused on a particular part of the lettering, and a mischievous twinkle came to his eyes. “And set up a nice little place for the answer, I see.” He looked at the neatly written x and equal sign in the corner of the page for a moment more before bringing his attention again to the problem at hand. “X cubed over eight x plus four times x squared plus—” His voice drifted into incoherency as he was caught up in the problem. Occasionally an “x” and a “three hundred forty-seven” could be heard, along with an “over five x,” but mostly his mumblings were unintelligible.

Marda had started out watching the swiftly moving pencil work out the problem, she really had. But as she watched the pencil scratch across the paper, her attention soon shifted to he who held the pencil. She noted how hard he gripped his writing utensil, knuckles almost as white as the shaggy, white-blond hair that fell across his forehead. She noticed how his forehead was wrinkled in concentration, white brows knit together in thought, and how he’d bite the inside of his cheek when he was working out a particularly difficult part. She saw how his eyes would widen with joy upon understanding a part, and

how the pencil would attack the paper with new vigor, and how— Her musings were interrupted when the object of her thoughts triumphantly slapped the table and circled the answer. “And x equals seven.” Nicholas grinned up at her, eyes alight.

“You get it now?”

Marda figured a little white lie wouldn’t hurt. “Yeah, I do.”

“So you ready to go somewhere?”

That had only been the first problem of the twenty-question set, and the matter still remained that the basic concept eluded her. But, Marda smiled into the eager face of her friend and began to pack up, collecting her papers into her folder and sorting her pencils into her bag.

“Yeah, I am.”

HEAD IN THE CLOUDS

by Samantha Hansen photography

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C R E AT I V E N O N F I C T I O N

BUT HE WAS SUCH A NICE BOY Cheyanne Dean

I

“

don’t know if anyone’s told you, but Ray died.”

This text came to me while I was relaxing in my dorm room, alone and working on homework. I don’t think I ever finished that communications assignment.

I couldn’t wrap my mind around this information. I felt like a part of me that I never realized was there was suddenly sliced out of me. He meant so much to me, and it took losing him for me to realize it.

I texted my best friend Katie what happened.

She surprised me by coming back early from work to check on me, but I was already sobbing, unable to move off the hard, ceI felt like a part of me that I ment floor. She let herself never realized was there was into my room with gifts of chocolate and a shoulder suddenly sliced out of me. to cry on. She stayed with me while I got in contact with some people, but she couldn’t come with me to the funeral for support.

My parents wanted answers that I couldn’t give them, like when the funeral would be or what had even happened.

I tried texting a close friend of Ray’s whom I was on good terms with, John. He couldn’t answer those questions either. But I had another one.

“Should I go? I feel like people won’t remember that we dated four years ago.” It had lasted a year, but at fourteen, it can only get so serious.

“Don’t let anyone tell you that you shouldn’t be there. He was a big part of your life for a while.

No one can take that away from you.”

John was right. His encouragement gave me the push I needed to face going home. But I kept picturing Ray’s bright green eyes looking at me, his short, dirty blonde hair swished off his expressive face, saying something sassy.

It snowed on the day of the funeral, even though it was April. The church didn’t stick out much in my mind. I wasn’t surprised by how many people were there; he was homecoming king, after all. I wasn’t particularly impressed 48

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with the grandeur of the sanctuary—a church is a church.

I ended up going alone. John hugged me as soon as I walked into the church, but he was an usher. I needed to find someone else to sit with since my boyfriend and family members had better things to do than be supportive.

I ended up with Maria, an acquaintance from choir and show choir. I only sat with her because she was also alone, we got along in high school, and it was easier than finding someone else closer to the front.

The things I do remember have been crystal clear in my mind for a year now. I remember how Ray’s eye makeup bothered me because the eyeliner was too thick, making him look feminine. At 6’4”, Ray was a sturdy man and was definitely not mistaken for girly. The foundation they put on his face to give him color was too dark. He was naturally fair, but he still always had liveliness and energy in his face. The plastic-ness of the makeup was disturbing. I did like how the stuffed young Simba lion toy fit snugly just under his arm. The toy reminded me of how much fun he was to be around, always goofing off. I remember that the church had a rainbow candle on the alter; it was the biggest and in the center. I didn’t know much about the church his family belonged to, but it was sweet that they supported him. I remember that the worst part of the whole day for me personally was when they played the song “Simple Man” by Shinedown. He loved that song. The first time I’d ever heard it was after our homecoming freshman year in his step-dad’s minivan on the way to Perkins to eat. I remember him singing quietly. It still makes me think of him.

After sharing a box of Kleenexes, Maria and I carpooled to the interment. We walked down the grassy slope to the crowd, standing by some of my old classmates, including Nate. He kept laughing as my heels sunk down into the soft soil. I don’t know why exactly that was comforting, but it was.

The luncheon was at a banquet hall somewhere I’d never heard of, so Maria and I carpooled there as well. We parked illegally because

me. He usually lets my mom handle emotional things. But at this point, the family is keeping quiet about how their son passed away. It doesn’t become public knowledge until a few weeks after the funeral. The boy’s mom doesn’t want his memory tarnished.

TRIBUTE TO SANCHEZ

by Scott Martinson oil painting

Earlier, I found out from Maria that he had overdosed. I tell my dad this, but I stress that I’m not supposed to know yet.

“That’s too bad,” he says, and he walks back out into the living room to watch T.V.

there were no open spots close to the door. I remember Ray’s old boy scout leaders serving the food. I bumped into a lot of people from school I hadn’t seen in a year, but no one really wanted to catch up under the circumstances.

I trudge through the door into my kitchen at about 3:30 p.m. My dad is standing at the sink, rinsing off the dirty dishes and putting them into the dishwasher. He’s a big man with a stern face, black hair, and dark blue eyes. He’s wearing an old ratty t-shirt and some gym shorts, although he hasn’t been to a gym in probably twenty-five years. The sink looks small with him hunched over it. The dark blue walls with apple accents don’t do much to make the rest of the room look big, though.

“How was it?” he asks nonchalantly. He’s referring to the funeral. He was watching the news when I left at 9:30 this morning. He didn’t even say anything then. I’m sure whatever story being covered was enthralling.

A few days after the funeral, I am spending time with my boyfriend. He refused to go to the funeral with me, even though he used to be friends with Ray. He hates funerals, which is funny because nobody likes them. I tried to convince myself that it would have been too awkward to go with him, but really I wanted the support, so that I could not be the strong one for once. But I guess it’s my own fault; I didn’t ask him to go because I wanted him to want to go with me on his own. I just pretended I wasn’t mad.

We go to my house so I can change before we go shopping for hunting supplies that he won’t ever buy. He stays upstairs with my mom in our living room.

I come back up the stairs, and my boyfriend is talking to my mom. This usually scares me because they have very conflicting personalities and simply don’t like each other. More times than I can count, they’ve gotten into it about gun rights and ownership, my boyfriend being for, Mom against. But they seem to have found something to agree on.

“It was nice. The church was packed. They had his younger brothers write letters to him. Our old choir group performed. His closest friends spoke after his mom. It was sweet,” I answer as briefly as I can. I just want to go to my room. I know my dad won’t be a comfort to me.

“I think his mom is being selfish by not telling anyone he overdosed,” my mom says. She’s sitting in a desk chair with her computer on, but she’s actually looking up from Candy Crush for once. Her curly bronze hair is pulled back of her pale, freckly face and she’s wearing a grey sweat suit. Her green eyes are naturally fiery due to her quick temper.

“So, did you find out what happened?” my dad asks. This must be the reason he’s talking to

“She doesn’t want his memory tarnished,” I butt in. Ray’s mother, Megan, is a phenomenal KIOSK15

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person. She deserves to get what she wants, especially in this troubling time.

“But that’s selfish,” my boyfriend says, “He should be made as an example of what not to do.”

He’s hunched over, his hands in his jean pockets, tapping the toe of his tan work boots on our beige carpet. Instead of sitting on the couch or the open armchair, he stands awkwardly next to the dog bed.

“Exactly!” my mom agrees. “She should be using this to help other people instead of just trying to cover it up.”

I always thought it was weird that she cut out the obituaries of people she knew…

At the time, I can’t think of any witty defenses, so I just let them air out their opinions. I can’t even bring myself to appreciate them finally agreeing on something.

Within the week, I go to my grandma’s house with my mom. We are sitting in the wood paneled kitchen at the gray marble island on barstools.

Naturally, the conversation about Ray comes up.

“Chey,” my grandma says, “I clipped this out of the paper this morning. It doesn’t say what happened though!” Her rings ding as she shows me the obituary. I always thought it was weird that she cut out the obituaries of people she knew, or people someone she knows knew. Close family members get laminated.

“Oh, he overdosed,” my mom says in an unpleasant, judgmental way.

“What?!” she screams, slamming her hand on the counter. “But he was such a nice boy.”

“I know,” my mom nods. I wonder why overdosing changes him into not-a-nice boy, but I don’t say anything. My grandmother and mother are incredibly self-righteous.

“You know, I called Scott,” my grandma goes on, “and he said that it was a shame. He said that Ray was a nice boy, too.”

I’m surprised my uncle remembers him. I dated him more than five years ago. My grandma shakes her head in disgust. Her short, curly, graydyed-brown hair swishes a little. Her glasses catch the glare of the light, giving her an impish look.

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“I wished they would have put that in the paper. People deserve to know.” My grandma slams her hand down again.

She has always been the biggest gossip I have ever known. Any information withheld makes her impossible to live with. She uses dirty details as a weapon to control our huge family. I don’t argue with her. It never gets me anywhere if I try. My grandma’s skull is too thick for any opinion other than hers to penetrate it. Any information shared with my grandma will reach every member of our extended family within a week, and if any information is shared with someone else, it will get back to her in three to four days. It’s actually really amazing. But it also keeps me quiet. With Mom and Grandma, I’m once again on the defense, alone and outnumbered. So, I forfeit.

They go on for a while about different things, mostly ragging on his family. My grandma brings up people she knows of who have had similar situations and searches for common themes. I tune them out as best I can, but their “inside voices” are louder than a normal person’s.

Shortly afterwards, Megan added me on Facebook. Ray’s best friend kept inviting me to events in his memory. I was not forgotten as a significant part of his life by those closest to him. I was surprised and flattered that they were reaching out to include me, but I still didn’t feel like I had anyone to talk to about how I was feeling. I wasn’t sure that these invitations were genuine. My family was out of the question, as they’d never been the emotionally supportive type. My boyfriend was a raving lunatic. My closest friends didn’t know Ray, and everyone who did know Ray was grieving as well. Why would they make time to listen to me? I felt like I didn’t have a right to be as upset as I was. I felt like there was some unwritten rule for how much grief I was allowed to have based on immeasurable factors, like how recently I had spoken to him, how I wasn’t as close to him when he died, how long it had

been since I was close to him, and if I was even still important to him.

The light turned her round, Hispanic face an eerie blue.

About six months after the funeral, in late fall, I got an invitation to a memorial birthday party– Ray would have been twenty. I was flattered that his close friends and family had remembered to invite me, as only a select number got invited. I had every intention of going, but I chickened out at the last minute. With fewer people, there was more of a chance that I’d have to interact with people. And what was I going say? Should I bring something? How did these things work?

“It’s almost been a year,” I thought out loud.

“Really?” Alexa asked, “That’s cool. Good choice.”

By the next day, I had a burning guilt for not going. It was stupid that I was afraid to talk about how sad I was. I finally realized that I was allowed to be sad, that I didn’t need someone’s permission to grieve. In an effort to release my feelings, I wrote Ray a letter. In it, I admitted to my being a chicken-shit and apologized for not going. I told him how important he was to me and how I was better for knowing him. I acknowledged that we were pretty much kids when we were together, but we still cared a lot about each other, even after we broke up.

Although it was only a page or two, I needed to stop several times to collect myself. This time, I disappointed myself.

I burned the letter after I finished writing it.

I used an old coffee mug that had a picture from his favorite movie, The Lion King, on it. It was very ritualistic, but it was the only thing I could think to do. Somehow, it burnt out the pent up feelings of remorse and resentment I had accrued since his passing. I thought about getting rid of the coffee cup, but I wanted to remind myself of how I felt that night and the months leading up to it. So that maybe I won’t make the same mistake again.

“This song was my song with Ray,” I say, mostly to myself, as “Drops of Jupiter” by Train started playing over Alexa’s phone.

Sam turned to face me, “I can’t believe that you had to go through that. I wouldn’t have been able to… If Ean died, I’d fucking kill myself. I wouldn’t know how to handle it, especially not with the shit support system you had then. You are so strong.

Stronger than I am. It’s amazing. No one should have to go through that. When I found out about what happened last year… I got so pissed. That was fucking awful.”

I peek over at her without saying anything. I can barely see her sharp, petite features in the darkness of her dorm room. We had pulled two mattresses onto the floor to fit the three of us, and Sam was in the middle with her red hair everywhere. I knew she was being honest because she was still drunk from our earlier foray with cheap vodka.

I hug Sam as much as I can without getting up.

I choked back tears. Her words meant a lot, validating that I did in fact go through hell, but I had come out on the other side stronger than ever. But I held in my thoughts; Sam was already dangerously close to a drunk crying session. I didn’t need the support anymore, but it was a nice perk.

Now, I think of how my family would feel if it were me that had died, or my brother. My mom would probably blame my dad. My dad would blame whomever he could to not take any blame himself.

Why does it matter how he died? Would they feel differently if he died some other way? Probably.

Then it would be someone else’s fault. But since he overdosed, he was just being a dumb kid. There couldn’t have possibly been other contributing factors that would make his memory worth respecting. I think of how insensitive my boyfriend, my mom, my dad, and my grandma were being toward his family, toward me. It took seven months, but I finally gave myself the permission to grieve that I never received from any of them.

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FICTION

CHOMP Jo Ann Donner

C

homp, chomp, pop. Lee leaned forward in the desk, rapidly chewing a small piece of green gum as his restless eyes moved about the classroom.

Everyone was bent down over their work, pencils moving and noses almost touching the papers. He scanned back over the room, reversing directions, searching for eye contact from someone, anyone.

He moved again, more noticeably this time, reaching up an arm in a mock stretch and then running his fingers through his black, oiled hair, mussing it just enough. Chew, pop, scan; still no one noticed. Much more and it would attract the teacher’s attention.

Maybe he should at least look over the assignment.

the old piece. Chomp, chomp, THUMP! He let his desk accidentally drop shut the last inch or two.

“Oops, my bad!”

The room stirred a little, a few people shifted, and someone sniffed loudly, but no one really looked up. As the silence stretched on, Lee’s amused boredom began to turn into irritation.

Although he didn’t quite know why, quiet bugged him. It was unnerving and a little scary.

Mostly, though, when it was quiet, Lee had time to

Naw, he was almost sixteen and still a high school freshman; it seemed a little late to start studying now. A few more months and he’d be out of there anyway. Right now though, he was bored. If one of the girls would just look his way, he could get her to giggle. If she was close enough to him, he could even start a conversation, and hopefully that would give someone else the idea to start talking too and end this awful silence.

Lee stretched his gum across his tongue with his teeth. It was getting stiff and flavorless. Another quick scan. Was the teacher watching? He lifted the top of his desk, pretending to search for a pencil, and popped a couple of fresh sticks into his mouth along with

think. The clock at the front of the room sounded like the clock in Grandma’s kitchen. It was quiet like this at her house too, and that was why he had been sent to live with her. Her house didn’t have strange people coming over at all hours of the day and night; instead, it was clean and quiet.

When he was little, his house used to be clean and pretty; now it was just a busted-up hole.

His mom still lived there. She had been pretty once too; he loved to look at her shiny black hair and laughing brown eyes that smiled at him from the picture on Grandma’s dresser. Now her long, graying hair was dull and tangled, and she was missing teeth. She’d been drunk when he’d seen her last. She’d reached up and grabbed him

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tightly with her thin arms that were scarred by cigarette burns and clumsy, home-drawn tattoos.

Her beery breath caressed his cheek as she told him over and over how much she missed him.

Then he had gently eased himself from her grip and had left quickly in case her mood changed and she started acting crazy again. But it wasn’t his mom who really scared Lee. He had to get away before Uncle Joe came home. Nobody could get crazier than Uncle Joe drinking. If he only had two or three beers, he would just get silly. Like the night when he had decided to smudge the cat. He didn’t like that cat very much; he said it had weird eyes, so he was going to bless it with sweet grass smoke in the Native American tradition. Everyone was rolling on the floor laughing as Uncle Joe chased through the house after that stupid cat, waving a smoking braid of sweet grass and shouting, “Here kitty, kitty. Get back here you little fucker ‘n le’ me bless you!”

“Eeeuuwww… Lee just stuck a big green blob of gum under the desk!”

As the teacher walked up, Lee put on his best “I don’t know what I could have done wrong” look. He heard the word “gum” and opened his mouth wide; wagging his tongue back and forth to show her there really was no gum. Finally, she ordered him out of the room, which, by now, was no longer quiet. He smiled, beginning to feel better. He stood up slowly, aware of the fact that he was taller than the teacher by several inches. He flexed his fingers; if he had been in a worse mood, he might have pushed his advantage. Nothing too much, just slap her around a little. Nothing like Uncle Joe did to his newest girlfriend last night.

Instead, Lee made a little sweeping bow as he left the noisy classroom for the quiet office.

A few days later, Lee had seen that same cat out back by the trash barrel, its neck twisted at an impossible angle, vacant eyes reflecting the clouds overhead. Nobody could get meaner than Uncle Joe drunk.

Lee had been chewing so hard that his gum was once again a flavorless lump. He bent casually forward and slipped it under his chair. Not sneaky enough. That little narc behind him started whispering loud enough that her voice carried all around the silent room.

CHASING TALES

by Amy Foltz woodcut print

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POETRY

TO A SKINNY GIRL Tabby Snyder

What’s it like to be skinny?

Does your body feel strong or weak?

Do you balance better on your feet?

Do you like it?

Have you ever not been skinny?

Have you ever not felt pretty?

Because sometimes I think if I could just be skinny I wouldn’t have to worry about anything else.

I wouldn’t have to prove myself the way I feel that I need to now.

If I were skinny I think I would feel better about myself.

And not just about how I look but about what I can do and the things I can say.

I would smile a lot more.

Even though my teeth aren’t perfectly straight, I’m perfectly in shape so it doesn’t matter, right?

Maybe if I were skinny, I would go on runs more often I’d run and run and run until I felt accomplished.

Fat girls don’t run. Not because they don’t want to run, but because skinny girls don’t want to see them run.

REST

by Summer Wulf charcoal

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Fat girls don’t get to say whatever they want either.

If a skinny girl says something stupid, it’s okay because, well, at least she’s skinny…

If a fat girl says something stupid, she’s just… stupid.

If I were skinny, I would wear the clothes society says I’m not allowed to wear if I’m fat.

I would wear shirts and dresses that show off my back.

I would wear shorts and tank tops because it’s hot, but it wouldn’t be a big deal because I’d be skinny.

It’s a big deal if you’re fat. No one wants to see that…

I wouldn’t feel bad if I took an extra piece of pizza in the caf’.

If I were skinny I would always feel like I belonged wherever I was.

I would just fit right in with anyone.

Do you feel that way?

Or do you sometimes feel like you’re still not enough?

Do you sometimes feel like just giving up?

Is it worth it to skip a few meals a day just to be able to say that you’re proud of what you weigh?

Do you sometimes feel like being skinny is the only thing you have?

And you would gain a little weight if it came with a little bit more piece of mind?

And what about guys?

Do they respect you?

Do they always say and do what you want them to?

No, they don’t for me either.

So, skinny girl, think about this when you’re looking at me.

We both have struggles, but only mine you can see.

POETRY

DAMN NEAR TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE Brayton Hagge

I wander up to your big-windowed house, the path smoother than the surface of our crick on a sticky, not-even-a-damn-breeze kind of day.

I know the way your parents’ eyes will bug out, too big for their narrow faces, when they see me wearing last summer’s washed out, too small for my growing-like-a-weed body, not-even-white-any-longer dress.

A dress that’s been stiffened by the wind as it dangled off our sagging wire line.

The dress that was my sister’s until she started spilling out of the seams like I do now.

“What a lovely dress,” they’ll say, and I’ll hate the way their voices sound,

too sharp, like they aren’t of the earth, because they’ve never heard my grandpa drawl, “them a good thing” when pointing at hands painted with the dirt that he’s desperately worked to own.

‘Cause if they’d ever heard that, they wouldn’t speak with their heads; they’d speak with their hearts.

“Is Jake ‘round?” I’ll ask.

“He’s A-round,” they’ll sneer as they reluctantly call you down, and even when you look at me like I’m damn-near-too-good-to-be-true, your eyes blue as a wide open sky, your parents’ faces tell me otherwise.

CLOTHESLINE BURANO

by Jazmine Dirks photography

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C R E AT I V E N O N F I C T I O N

A MEMOIR OF MY FATHER Bethany Kluender

T

he air is alive with the conversations between families and friends; a dull roar of English, Spanish, and Mandarin is all that seems to exist in the packed visitation room. Throughout the room, the matching ottomans are heaped with empty candy wrappers, chip packets, and pop cans from the overpriced vending machines. There is a children’s corner with a wooden cabinet full of games, a television playing Wreck-it Ralph, and a corkboard tacked with hastily colored drawings.

shoes being on rotation between inmates, and he has tried to mask it with shoe polish.

But most of all, I notice his hands. Once smooth, they are now wrinkly, and the skin sags a bit over his bones. His mole is visible on his left wrist since they took his watch away; it is

The African-American guard’s voice booms, “Is there anybody ready to leave? Anyyyybody ready to go out front?” but my family ignores him as we huddle forward between two rows of gray plastic chairs to miserably the same outfit attempt some privacy.

He always wears when we visit, and for ten years, I won’t be able to see him any differently than I do now.

Now and then, there is a silence as we each try to think of something new to say, and it is in these fleeting moments that I can see how much my dad has changed. I sit across from him, and, like usual, hw’s dressed in his tan-colored uniform and scuffed black dress shoes. He always wears the same outfit when we visit, and for ten years, I won’t be able to see him any differently than I do now. There is a lull in our conversation, since we have already reminisced about the usual past memories and the “when I come home” fantasies. Those are especially prominent now since it is a little over two years until he will be released.

BOAT DOCK

by Amber Burg infrared photography

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He has tried his best to clean himself up; he has trimmed up his beard (which he only has started wearing recently, since razors from the commissary were too expensive. He has pressed his shirt and tucked it into his pants and worn black socks to match his shoes. But with each visit, I notice that things start to fray a bit more at the edges; as I look at his face, I see a few gray wisps of hair that poke out of his sideburns and beard. His hazel eyes, once so much like mine, are now surrounded by spiderweb-like tendrils that crinkle when he laughs, like the cellophane wrappers on hard candy. The leather on his dress shoes is cracking at the ankle and toe, from the

the same mole that my mother used to distinguish him from his twin brother when they were all young.

As my dad reaches out and squeezes my hand, a small gesture of reassurance and love, I think to myself that these are my grandfather’s hands.

My mom has told me, on more than one occasion, “When your father gets home, everything

will be the same again.”

No, Mom, I’m sorry, but things won’t be the same. There will never be a “same.” Nothing can take away the memories that I now have.

Can’t you see that I have changed?

Can’t you see the change in yourself, too?

“Come with us this time?” my mom asked.

“Please?”

I snapped the cover of The Odyssey shut with a loud snap. I felt the usual stirring of annoyance in my gut whenever someone interrupted while I was reading. It took me a moment to focus on my mother standing near my bed instead of the cadenced lines of Calypso’s plea.

“Fine,” I sighed, heaving myself up from my comfortable bed. “I’ll come.”

I don’t remember what had compelled me to visit my dad that day. Maybe it was the fact that I had done enough waiting, and I wanted to make a decision during a time when I had felt I had little choice. Maybe it was the way my mother looked at me, a slight smile on her face, like she was hopeful that our family could be whole once again. It was more likely a culmination of events and moments that wore down my stubbornness until I relented.

ing me jump. We followed him down a long white hallway of painted concrete blocks until he stopped us in front of a black door.

“Right through here,” he grunted. “Visitation door number 12.”

When we opened the door, my dad was waiting for us. The visitation room was designed for one person and not for two women and two children bouncing off the walls. A thick pane of glass separated us from him. A black telephone with silver cord was attached to the wall.

“Bethany, you came too,” he said. My dad’s eyes lit up when he saw his whole family there to visit him.

“Here I am,” I replied, feeling silly for stating the obvious. All of the things I had thought to say to him on the car ride here vanished from my mind.

“I like your shirt,” I said, commenting on his orange outfit. It was his least favorite color.

“Gee, thanks,” he chuckled.

Most of that first visit comes to me in bits in pieces. I remember that we were all trying to talk at once, all wanting attention at the same time. When it became too loud, we shared the black phone receiver in order to hear his voice more clearly. I gave up the phone whenever someone else wanted it, not wanting to cause any trouble, while my two younger sisters fought over it. And, it was all over much too soon.

As we pulled into the parking lot of the jail, I was surprised at how modern it looked. The front sidewalk was surrounded by trimmed green grass and mulched beds full of purple and pink petunias. The building was symmetrical in design, the center entrance flanked by tall vertical columns of cement and glass. Three flags stood in the center circle of grass on the way to the main entrance: the United States flag, the Iowa flag, and a light blue flag with a center ring of yellow. I supposed that this represented the jail, but I wasn’t sure.

We all took turns pressing our hands to his, trying to ignore the pane of glass that divided us.

After that, we returned to our old lives, and my dad returned to his new one. We tried to visit him every other weekend at least, sometimes more.

Waiting to see my dad was a long process. My mother and I were required to show ID and fill out three pages of paperwork each. We sat in uncomfortable blue plastic chairs while my two sisters stopped bickering with one another long enough to play Legos.

We kept in pretty good contact for those four months, until he was transferred to several other prisons across the country before settling at the Federal Correctional Institute in Seagoville, Texas, where he would serve out the remainder of his tenyear sentence as a sex offender.

“Kluender!” an armed guard shouted, mak-

IV.XVII.MCMXCVII

by Kenna Lammers linoleum print

Now, we visit my dad twice a year, once in the KIOSK15

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summer and once in the winter, when all of our schedules line up just right. Six years in, two more to go. Each time that we visit him, I feel that I get closer to my family. This may be due to the fact that I have to endure a twelve-hour straight shot down to Texas, with two sometimes happy, sometimes not happy sisters; with my mother chatting in my ear that her dream of becoming a teacher was now attainable; with dozens of country stations, which make me want to gauge out my eyes.

More likely, it happens because once we are all there in the visitation room that we are a family

again. For a few days, or a week at most, we recount stories of the past, but we also look forward to our future.

I worry about my dad, though. How will he adjust to the real world after being away for so long? What kind of job will he find? How will our relationship be? How will our family change? Will things be like they once were?

These questions are always with me, tucked away in a corner of my mind, and I think about them often.

Our four-day visit goes by way too quickly.

By this point, we have played multiple games of Sorry, checkers, and Uno. We have told and retold childhood stories and discussed politics. My dad tells us how his life is here; he has a job sewing patches on military uniforms. His new roommate, or “cellie,” is better than the last ones that he’s had. My dad is known as the chef, and people who work in the kitchen get items for him that he then makes and shares with everyone. He has a special clothes iron reserved for cooking quesadillas. I tell him that he should start a culinary degree when he gets out, and he later tells my mom this, as if it was his idea all along. My mom tells me to make sure to hide the iron.

Something special about this trip is that we have decided to go visit Galveston Island for a few days. We make the four-hour drive there in no time. My mother has me drive over the bridge that connects the island to the rest of Texas because she is scared of looking out at the wide expanse of ocean.

MILKY HEART

by Amber Burg photography

We finally arrive and breathe in the hot, salty ocean air. We unpack our suitcases and lather on sunscreen. My mother wears sunglasses so she won’t get a migraine. My sisters run out to the ocean, stepping over clumps of brown seaweed and dead jellyfish and embrace the ocean, laughing and screaming.

I join them, also laughing, also screaming, because it feels wrong not to.

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POETRY

I HOPE YOU WRITE Amanda Girres

I hope one day you’ll learn to take the tragedies of life and make kaleidoscopes of words in streams from fragments of your broken dreams.

Let ink drip throughout the pages, staining white, the liquid rages.

The words will run like maps that lead back to the heart from which they bleed.

On paper lies a piece of soul, the part of you they thought they stole.

They ripped your clothes. They cut your hair.

They made you bleed. They left you there.

But writers’ hearts will always heal.

The shards of broken glass you’ll steal.

From blackened ash, what will you make?

The inspiration’s yours to take.

I hope you learn to take the things that cruel fate oh so kindly brings, and make the fires flaming red; give birth to living words instead.

CHICKEN FINGERS

by Amy Foltz woodcut print

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one manʼs trash is another manʼs

one manʼs trash is another manʼs

towel.

S oft towels a re only one o f the

toy box.

We m ake everything from the canopy above your head t o the totes beneath your bed. W e aren’t your average b ed-linen c ompany. We a re a lways s tylish, you l ove our p roducts f or t heir durability

and

power nap.

Blankets are only one of the vast variety of home products that

made from recycled or refurbished material

.

upestr y.

Taupestry is available at Target and JCPenny. Visit taupestry.com for more information.

Chests a re only one o f the vast variety of home

above your h ead t o the totes beneath your bed. W e aren’t your a verage bed-linen c ompany. W e are always stylish, a lways unique, and a lways

bed. We aren’t your average bed-linen company. We are always stylish, always unique, and always intrinsic appeal, y ou w ill l ove that t hey a re a lways m ade from recycled o r

intrinsic appeal, you w ill l ove t hat t hey a re a lways One man’s trash is another man’s ta

one manʼs trash is another manʼs

love that they are always made from recycled or refurbished material One man’s trash is another man’s taupestry

.

refurbished material .

One man’s trash is another man’s taupestry

.

Taupestry is available at Target and JCPenny. Visit taupestry.com for more information.

.

Taupestry is available at Target and JCPenny. Visit taupestry.com for more information.

TAUPESTRY

by Joelle Kruger magazine advertising

SPRUCE

by Jess Anderson logo design

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BEAR PAW

by Jesse Glade branding and package design

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POETRY

TRAVELING WITHOUT MAPS Chase Shanafelt

...and when the wind jogs through the hills of brush and ash and oak, it causes the trees to whisper advice.

“Leave,” they quietly tell me.

So I begin to walk westward, until the city streets turn to county roads, and the horizon swallows me whole.

RED DIRT ROAD

by Samantha Hansen digital photography

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PA G E F R O M T H E PA S T

THE K ITE Robert Birkby, ’76

I took a piece of paper, and with wood and string I built a fragile kite.

I poured my skill, my heart and my soul through its delicate frame, and with anxious hands I hurled my kite into the swirling sky.

What are the hopes of man but kites in the wind?

Encouraged only by a breeze of hope and love, man casts his deepest desires into a raging sea of sky and cloud.

There they soar— or are dashed upon the earth.

Perspectives 1970

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LITERATURE

Victoria Anthony is an English major who plans on being a novelist and poet but might end up taking a few odd steps on the way there.

Doug Collins is a non-traditional student majoring in general psychology and religious studies. He lives in Sioux City where he works as a pastor and counselor. If he ever grows up, he’d like to be a writer.

Cheyanne Dean is a senior English major with a minor in psychology. Besides working on the Kiosk, she is involved in Sigma Tau Delta as the acting historian. After graduation, she hopes to finally leave retail and work in a public relations office so she can have weekends and holidays off.

JoAnn Donner has used many titles to identify herself including teacher, mother, and artist, but she has considered herself a writer ever since her teacher praised her first poem. That encouragement was all it took; she was hooked.

Over time, she has become not only a writer of poetry, but of essays, flash fiction, and short stories as well. JoAnn is an education graduate of Morningside College, and as a teacher, now she encourages new writers. However, her students often inspire her in return. Many years in the classroom have given her a wealth of real-life situations on which to base fictionalized characters, and several of these have found their way into “Chomp.” JoAnn’s current project is researching and writing a historical fiction short story based on a family legend. She is greatly honored to be published in the Kiosk again.

Cat Ruddy is a senior double major in theatre and arts administration with emphasis in theatre and a dance minor.

She enjoys Celtic music, really bad jokes, and dragons. She would like to thank her cat, Finn, for all of his love and support.

Chase Shanafelt is a recent Morningside graduate working towards his masters in English, rhetoric, and composition at TCU. Chase enjoys writing, drives an economy car with great gas mileage and ample leg space, and wears Crocs for their style over their comfort.

Sadie Shuck is an English Education major. One day she hopes to be a teacher and a coach at a small high school, but for right now she is just a busy college student who enjoys reading, being with family, and watching Netflix.

Brayton Hagge is a sophomore student majoring in English education. On campus, she is involved in a variety of activities, from MAC to Sigma Tau Delta. In her free time, she enjoys hanging out with friends, taking naps, and daydreaming about Northern Ireland, where she will be going to school next spring.

Tabby Snyder is currently a sophomore secondary English education major with a religious studies minor. She participates in many activities and extracurriculars including college choir, jazz choir, Kiosk, and soccer. She enjoys reading, writing, watching movies, and hanging out with friends. When she graduates from Morningside, she would like to teach high school English somewhere close to her hometown.

Bethany Kluender is a senior English and Spanish major. In her free time, she enjoys reading, watching Netflix, and planning future travel adventures. She will be studying library and information sciences at the University of Iowa next year and is excited to see what the future will bring.

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Sarah Munson is an English major alumna from Morningside.

Currently she works at Siouxland News as a sales assistant and content specialist, but she endeavors to branch out into publishing. What started as bedtime stories with her mother has led to a passion for literature and expression through words. Writing has always been her way of bridging reality and the never-idle imagination. She continually strives to follow Jack Kerouac’s idea on writing, language, and life: “One day I will find the right words and they will be simple.” To write, one has to be brave enough to live.

Amanda Girres is a junior majoring in English and business and minoring in Spanish. She graduated from Sergeant Bluff-Luton in 2013 and is currently completing her second year at Morningside College. In her spare time, she loves to write, draw, play flute and guitar, listen to music, and hang out with her friends.

Ryan Ingalls is an English education student at Morningside College and a former United States Air Force avionics technician. When he is not diligently studying at Morningside College, he is most likely traveling abroad with his wife or enjoying a relaxing gym session.

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Allison Linafelter is a freshman English major with a minor in legal studies. She is from Sioux City, IA and lives with her loving mom, Jean, and her mischievous cat, Sheldon. She would like to thank her mom for always being supportive, and she would like to thank Morningside College for giving her the opportunities to succeed in what she loves, including writing. She hopes you all enjoy the wonderful works of art in this edition of the Kiosk.

Christina Vázquez is a first-year student at Morningside College. She is double majoring in mass communications and graphic design. In her free time, she likes to read, watch anime, eat all her friends’ food, and sleep.

ART Kelsey Ahart is a junior majoring in graphic design and photography with a minor in advertising. She is from Denison, Iowa. After graduation she wants to be a graphic designer. Kelsey loves cats.

Jess Anderson is a senior at Morningside College, majoring in graphic design with a minor in advertising. He is currently the president of AIGA Morningside and some of his interests include design, reading, video games, and music.

Amber Burg is a sophomore at Morningside College and is majoring in photography with a double minor in journalism and advertising. She is a member of the Morningside College Photo Club. Some of her interests include taking pictures, reading, and playing with her dog, Meeko.

Alex Davalos is a senior double majoring in photography and graphic design with a minor in advertising.

Jazmine Dirks is a recent Morningside graduate working towards her masters in art education at the University of Iowa. Jazmine enjoys traveling, spending quality time with her pet fish, Flynn, and using her medical background from watching House, M.D. on Netflix to diagnose friends and family members.

Spencer Eiseman is a senior double major in photography and business with a minor in graphic design. He is a student athlete and majorly involved on campus. He is planning to go on to graduate school in pursuit of a master’s degree in student affairs. He is a space nerd, cat lover, and nap enthusiast.

Rachel Eisenbraun is a senior at Morningside and is graduating this May with double major in photography and graphic design. Rachel enjoys reading and traveling and hopes to one day incorporate her love of art and traveling into a career.

Amy Foltz has been teaching art at Morningside College for a decade as an adjunct. Not only does Foltz like to make prints, she also likes to make faceted windows, mosaics, batiks, drawings and sculpture and ride her bicycle.

Samantha Hansen is a senior studying writing and photography. She is currently spending a semester abroad in England at the University of Oxford. Samantha enjoys experimenting with different photographic techniques as well as photographing the people and places around her.

In her spare time, she enjoys going on adventures and quoting her favorite movies.

Joelle Kruger is a sophomore at Morningside working towards a graphic design and advertising major. She is motivated by the grace of God and sees redemptive beauty in everything. She also loves tea, unique foods, recycling, rustic decor, and all things ridiculous.

Kenna Lammers is a senior from Emerson, Nebraska. She is double majoring in corporate communications and graphic design. Photography is one of her favorite hobbies.

Nicole Loe is a junior at Morningside majoring in photography and English, and she has spent her spring semester studying in London at Regents University and trekking across Europe.

While she’s not traveling, Nicole enjoys cuddling up with her cats and reading a good book.

Scott Martinson is a senior at Morningside. He is a studio art major. He would like to teach painting at the college level, but he will continue to paint, regardless of what his future holds.

Jesse Glade is a senior at Morningside College majoring in graphic design with a minor in advertising. He enjoys the outdoors, watching sports, and being with friends and family.

Claire May-Patterson is a junior at Morningside and studies art education. She enjoys camping, scary movies, swimming, and discovering different kinds of fruit smoothies.

Rhiannon Payte is a Morningside junior working on a biology major with an art minor. She has a healthy appreciation for puns and anti-jokes. While biology is her true passion, art has always been present in her life, and she would like to keep it alive while pursing scientific endeavors.

Marcos C. Pichinte is a girl (her name throws people off) who was born and raised in Sioux City, IA. She is currently in her third year of studying graphic design and photography at Morningside. She’s always had a passion for the arts and hopes to one day make her family understand her work and make them proud through it. After graduation she hopes to continue her photography path and hopefully be able to get into commercial and fashion photography. Marcos enjoys music, writing, and exploring various cultures. But there are also times when she just enjoys having a day off.

Anna Ryan is from Omaha, NE, and will be a senior in the fall of 2015 at Morningside. She is studying to complete her undergraduate degree with a general psychology major and minors in studio art and religious studies. Anna’s interest in art began in first grade, and it has been her favorite hobby ever since.

She hopes to continue to make art even after finishing college.

Sarah Sorenson will be graduating from Morningside College this May with degrees in biology and Spanish. Her future plans include attending graduate school, traveling, climbing, salsa dancing and purchasing a Wirehaired Pointing Griffon named Mike.

Allie Sweeney is currently a junior at Morningside College pursuing a degree in advertising and minors in both photography and business. Besides photography, Allie enjoys playing volleyball and watching Netflix.

Michelle Vasquez is a third year student at Morningside College who is a double-major in biology and chemistry. After graduation, she plans on going to medical school. She was born and raised in Sioux City, IA. Art has become a major life passion, and she enjoys doing many other things such as playing guitar and spending time with her friends and family when she is not studying.

Summer Wulf is a junior at Morningside College and is majoring in art education. Summer is from Denison, Iowa and some of her interests include art, reading, and playing with animals.

A BOUT THE K IOSK “Subject to editorial fallibility, the best will be printed.”

This quotation first appeared in the foreword of the 1938 issue of Manuscript, the predecessor of the Kiosk. In the early years of Morningside, student satire and short fiction was often published in the yearbook, but an idea for a student literary magazine began to grow in 1937 during a meeting of the Manuscript Club. In March, 1938, student and faculty gathered to read aloud stories and poems, which has undergone a screening process; only pieces of “sufficient literary merit” made it to readings, recalled Miriam Baker Nye, first editor.

That fall, South Dakota poet laureate Badger Clark visited campus, further fueling student desire for a literary magazine, and so on December 7, 1938, Manuscript was printed and distributed. Response to the publication was instant. One of the stories described students skipping chapel to go to an ice cream parlor, and the next week President Roadman started taking roll during chapel.

Over the next several years, students were motivated to submit their work and have their words read and their voices heard. The group published sixteen issues until Manuscript disappeared in 1952. The magazine resumed publication under the name Perspectives in 1955. Students changed the name to Kiosk in 1971 and have continued publications nearly every year since. Advisors over the years have included Donald Stefanson, Carole Van Wyngarden, Janice Eidus, Scott Simmer, Robert Conley, Jan Hodge, Jason Murrary, and for the past 24 years, Stephen Coyne.

zine was revamped in 2006 to include student and alumni-created art of various media. Art advisors John Kolbo, Terri McGaffin, and Dolie Thompson have assisted student editors in allowing these artistic pieces take a more central role in the magazine.

With the continued support of President John Reynders and the Morningside community, this publication continues to grow and evolve.

Since 2006, the Kiosk has won multiple awards from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and Associated Collegiate Press, including a Silver Medalist Award, a Silver Crown Award, six Gold Medalist Awards, and three Magazine Pacemaker Finalist Awards.

Submissions are accepted in the spring semester of each academic year. Literary work is then reviewed by the editorial boards, and recommendations are forwarded to the head editor, who then forwards accepted pieces for judging. Art work is selected by a panel of student judges who represent Morningside’s various art majors. A panel of area artists then selects the award winners. Those interested in working for and/or submitting to the magazine may contact Professor Stephen Coyne by email at coyne@morningside.edu.

The Kiosk is published annually by Morningside College and is distributed at no cost to Morningside students and alumni.

While the Kiosk has included cover art in many of its publications, the format of the maga77 Years of the Kiosk 1938

1956

1971

2006

2014

First literary magazine on campus.

Name changed to Perspectives.

Name changed, again, to Kiosk.

Format change introduced more artwork.

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist

R ECENT AWARDS

2006

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Medalist Associated Collegiate Press Pacemaker Finalist

2007

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist

2008

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist Associated Collegiate Press Pacemaker Finalist

2009

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist

2010

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Crown Award

2012

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist Associated Collegiate Press Pacemaker Finalist

2013

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist

2014

Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist

2015

Tommeraasen Award of Excellence

Kiosk magazine is printed on a digital printing press using four process colors on 80# matte-coated cover and 80# matte-coated book paper stock. Adobe InDesign is the page layout software used to assemble the entire publication.

The book is perfect bound. Typefaces used include fonts from the Folio, Trade Gothic and Berkeley type families.

Copyright 2015 by the Kiosk, a publication of Morningside College. After first publication all rights revert to the authors and artists. The views herein do not necessarily reflect those of the Kiosk staff or Morningside College.

The Kiosk is published by and for adults. Some material may not be suitable for children.

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KIOSK15

ON THE COVER ALLURING RED

by Marcos Pichinte photography

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KIOSK15

C ELEB R ATIN G 77 Y EA R S O F P UB LIC ATIO N

THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF MORNINGSIDE COLLEGE

1501 MORNINGSIDE AVE. SIOUX CITY, IOWA 51106 The Morningside College experience cultivates a passion for lifelong learning and a dedication to ethical leadership and civic responsibility.

2015