LI TE RARY JOURNAL OF TRI N I T Y WE STE RN U N IVE RSI T Y
[s p a c e s] Literary Journal of Trinity Western University Volume 3: 2008-2009
[s p a c e s] Literary Journal of Trinity Western University Volume 3: 2008-2009 Editor-in-Chief Managing Editor Visual Editor Associate Editors
Cassandra Barradas Hannah Jenkins Kenji Alexander Kabayama Skulstad Betsy Byers, Reuben Moes
Melody Attaway, Joel Bentley, Zach Bulick, Rose Collins, Monica Grose, Craig Ketchum, Cheri Le Cappelain, Linnette Schut, Byron Sherk, Cherysh Stevenson, Lauren Thompson, Lise Vandereyk, & Editors
Rose Collins, Kenji Alexander Kabayama Skulstad
Holly Faith Nelson, PhD Lynn Szabo, MA
[s p a c e s] accepts fiction, poetry, creative non-fiction, academic essays, drama, photos, artwork, etc., by current students and alumni of Trinity Western University. Please contact us at <spaces. firstname.lastname@example.org>. Send submissions by email, in a Word .doc for written work, and in a .jpeg with 300 dpi resolution for artwork. All pieces are subject to a blind reading by the reviewing panel. [s p a c e s] does not return manuscripts. Copyright remains with the author or artist who grants [s p a c e s] permission to publish his or her work. No part of this journal may be reproduced without the explicit consent of the author(s) and editors. Any opinions or views expressed in [s p a c e s] are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of Trinity Western University, the editors, or the reviewing panel. Cover design by Zach Bulick. Layout by Kenji Alexander Kabayama Skulstad. Printing by Fraser Valley Custom Printers, Chilliwack, British Columbia, Canada. [s p a c e s] Copyright 2009 ISSN: 1911-7531-09 [s p a c e s]
CONTENTS BLACKBERRY SUMMER 01 Breanne Fultz MR. WILKINSON 02 Camille Sakamoto I WONDER 04 Scott Rowel IF THERE MIGHT BE ONE (THE SCENE) 06 Kenji Alexander Kabayama Skulstad SUMMER IN 07 Cail Judy A SLAUGHTERHOUSE 9150 B. 11 Monica Grose ALL SAINTS DAY 12 Elizabeth Fallon
[ contributed artwork ] IN REFERENCE TO... 13 Lauren Thompson WHEN WE 17 Daniel Wagner WERE BORN WE WERE FRONT STREET FIRE 18 Katherine Hartline ON WAKING UP 20 Hannah Jenkins I AM A THOUGHT 22 Jessica Shafer
BLACKBERRY SUMMER Breanne Fultz “O brave new world that has such people in’t!” * The scent hung on young skin — nestled in firm arms, the fresh, clean smell, summer mornings, sweet leaves — before the sunburst slipped over balmy souls. Torn and tattered leaves scream for supplication, weather beaten blossoms spread the colour — purple — through meadows of green. Fragments of colour, — pushing through to the surface, rushing through veins — they still hunger for portions of us.
* A portion of a speech given by Miranda in Shakespeare’s The Tempest (v.i)
MR. WILKINSON Camille Sakamoto It is Sunday night, at 8:58, and Mr. Wilkinson is reaching over to turn out his bedside lamp. Falling into a dormant calm, he tries to remember today. Only twentythree seconds before, he was climbing into bed and pulling the covers symmetrically up to his shoulders. Three minutes prior, he was hanging up his towel after drying his face and mouth. Having brushed every tooth – front, back, top, and gums – with a precise, pea-size amount of Colgate Tartar Control, he had filled up a four-ounce glass with water, and used every drop to wash down his seven nightly prescriptions. Before walking into his bathroom, he had to slowly climb the creaky steps. At his age, the joints now resembled the staircase, so the ascent took approximately five minutes and eleven seconds. Before bedtime had approached, Mr. Wilkinson was busy cleaning up the kitchen. Cooking for only one now, meals were simple and clean-up was quick. Tonight’s 6pm clean-up was only a small soup pot, a bowl, a spoon, and a mug for his whole milk. The napkins were the disposable kind, unlike when Mrs. Wilkinson was still living, and only cloth were used. Before 5pm dinner prep, Mr. Wilkinson was out for his evening walk. The Connecticut skies were drawing dark at an earlier rate these days, so his daily walk was necessary by 4 in the afternoon. Since the air could be cruel on the bones, Mr. Wilkinson made extra sure that he was well-bundled for his 30 minute walk. If any of his neighbors looked out the window, they certainly would be in for an amusing sight – insulated by six layers of assorted sweaters, jackets, pants, and scarves, he appeared about as wide as he was tall! Mr. Wilkinson didn’t mind, though. The beauty of bright, falling leaves distracted him from his own appearance. At 2:30 that afternoon, Mr. Wilkinson had been sitting in the doctor’s examining room. Only his eldest, Abigail, sat to his right. “All looks well, Mr. Wilkinson. Your tests results indicate that you are quite healthy.” “Can we go now?” Mr. Wilkinson inquired, oblivious to the doctor’s blessing. “I’m tired, and these old arms are stiff and sore from sitting here so long.” Once in the car, Mr. Wilkinson listened politely to his daughter as he looked out the passenger-side window at all the buildings that money could buy in this new day and age. “Isn’t it great Dad, how well you’re doing? I mean, just one year ago, after Mom—” Mr. Wilkinson closed his eyes, face still directed to the window. “Well, we were just all worried about you. But here you are, nearing your seventy-seventh 02 [spaces]
birthday! Okay, Aidrak Ave. – here we are. Let’s get you inside.” Eight minutes later, she was out the door and once again consumed with her own life. Though the slumber nearly consumed Mr. Wilkinson, something was gnawing at his thoughts. Did I miss something? He wondered. I went to the doctor’s office. I went for my walk. Did I have dinner? Yes, I had dinner. And after, I cleaned up… What happened after clean-up? My arm-- I was sitting in my recliner, resting because my arm was bothering me... And that was when he woke up. The lights were dimmed, but he could make out his children in various parts of the room. William was leaning against the wall. Abigail was in the chair next to him. Kimberly was staring out the window into darkness. Mr. Wilkinson looked down and noticed the I.V. in his right arm, and became aware of the oxygen tube in his nose. He coughed; the kids turned. “Dad!” “We’re right here.” “Don’t be scared now.” They all murmured at the same time. Hearing and seeing his children together filled Mr. Wilkinson’s heart with a joy. Suddenly, he remembered what he had missed.
I WONDER IF THERE MIGHT BE ONE Scott Rowel I wonder if there might be one Who’d wander with me through the tempests To the rugged shores ahead. Who’d hold the sails taut while I wrestle with the rudder And loose the anchor from its holding When I’m blinded, port and stern, from the current’s dangerous tide. I wonder if there might be one Who’d cry “abandon ship” and grab my arm And jump, to swim with me to a tattered raft Far away from that sinking vessel That would have snared me in its descent – And sing with me simple harmonies Of peace As we shiver under a pale moon. I wonder if there might be one Who’d wake up in my arms and wake me, Look me in the eyes and grin To trace the cuts and bruises which tell the senses stories of our journey. Who’d shed a tear and laugh to hear the sounds of shoreline, And watch me as I leapt upon that unobtrusive ground.
I wonder if there might be one Who’d leap into my arms instead. Who’d whittle spikes of wood, and gather leaves and grass, And patch the clumsy shelter I would make for her, Then lie on dusty ground and listen to me tell a story, Then tell me one her own, And not mind if this beach were an island, on which we were alone. I wonder if there might be one Who’d find me in the forest, lost in thoughts and scattered prayers, And kneel beside me in the dew And join my voice to speak a simple harmony With rustling leaves, and gushing streams, And distant settling wake, To thank the one who gives us wonder.
(THE SCENE) Kenji Alexander Kabayama Skulstad (when i say) i can write her kiss with words in my sleep but i fear we’ll never be a couplet and the kissing rhyme within this sonnet is the closest our lips come to meet (i love you) photographic fluids exchanged by lovers in a photo booth shoot-out for recovering porn addicts dancing in the darkroom and so graphic are the visuals i can’t share them with others (it’s more than) i am left without word without picture i am without the lead opposite me i’m here in the final act and she’s gone but i’ve all of these scenes of me with her developed and exposed on my memory complete with major motion picture theme song (a moviestar kiss)
SUMMER IN A SLAUGHTERHOUSE Cail Judy Relentless, remorseless, it was; all his protests, his screams, were nothing to it -- it did its cruel will with him, as if his wishes, his feelings, had simply no existence at all; it cut his throat and watched him gasp out his life. – Upton Sinclair, The Jungle The smell hits you first. Even before stepping out of your truck, the stench is there. Pigs. Thousands of them. You park the vehicle and head towards the building emblazoned with the Maple Leaf logo, a florescent neon. For the next three months, this is your life. You suit up: One shirt, white. One pair of pants, white. One full body slicker, yellow. One face mask, check. Ear plugs. Double check. The pungent smell of chemicals wafts up the corridor. Machinery rumbles and groans. A long corridor leads you towards the “Dirty Kill” area of the plant, as it’s affectionately known. This is where you work. A freezer door is ajar and you peek inside. Hundreds of pigs hang from the rafters, gutless, strung up by their jaws. You pass Krishin’s office. He is the night sanitation supervisor and the meanest prick in the building. And as luck would have it, he’s your boss. He treats you like shit and it’s unclear why. You’ve run through it many times. Maybe it’s because you’re a pampered middle-class white boy who doesn’t know the meaning of a hard day’s work, according to a speech he gave you last week. Sweat beads on your forehead. You’ve only been working the night shift for a month, but it feels longer. This place fills your nights and haunts your days. Time moves with the speed of an injured animal, slowly lurching forward. You’re doing it for the money. That’s what you keep telling yourself and it’s the truth. After finishing your freshman year at university, you were broke. And cash is a key factor in returning to school. Dad told you Maple Leaf is the best paying outfit in town and you really didn’t have any other options. It didn’t sound so bad in theory. You’d probably end up packaging cuts of meat, like some giant delicatessen. It sounded bearable. You hit a switch to start the turbines. It takes them a second to warm up, but once they start spinning, you sure as hell better stand back. A fire hose is draped over a nearby railing, awaiting use. [spaces] 07
The Dehairing Machine You’re not supposed to clean this apparatus while the turbines are spinning. You could potentially trip and get your head slapped off by the rotating rubber paddles. Each one is about the size of a canoe oar. They take forever to clean by hand because the hair gets tightly woven into each crevice. Krishin has been checking up on you at the end of every shift. You haven’t been getting all your work done on time so you’ve started spraying down the machine while it’s running. It shaves off a good half hour, plus you don’t have to use the pitchfork as much. You turn on the hose and begin the gruelling task of sanitizing the dehairing machine. It spits out clumps of hair, fast and furious in wet, sticky tufts. When the long coils of hair start untangling themselves, it’s feels like you’re playing a video game, where the mission is to pulverise flat, hairy snakes with your water cannon. A large cluster of hair springs off the turbine, splattering your faceguard. You wipe it away, keeping your hose steady on the massive spinning cylinders. For some reason, “Sweet Home Alabama” is stuck in your head. On your first day, Mac (a portly country boy with an offbeat sense of humour) was assigned to train you. You remember him eating a sandwich, lazily sauntering as he showed you around. “It sh’all about spheed and effith-ciencthy”, Mac explained, his mouth full of ham. “This ma-sheen--”, big swallow “--dehairs almost twelve hundred pigs a day. You’ll only have two tools at your disposal: a pitchfork and a fire hose. Make sure to shut off the machine when you’re cleaning. God knows the last thing we need is some kid getting killed on the job. Make sure to work hard or the boss will ride your ass like a rodeo clown.” Mac reminds you of a sweaty John Goodman with a moustache. He doesn’t bother wearing a protective jacket or facemask, when both are required. You ask him why. He points to a brown stain on his arm. “I could be covered in hog sauce or chocolate pudding,” he says. “I really don’t give two shits either way.” The machine you’ve been assigned to clean is almost two stories high. It towers above you like a slumbering carnivore. It’s a giant mouth and you’re the dental floss, doomed to clean its teeth each night. Mac tells you the dehairing machine is a necessity for any “self-respecting” hog plant. Three large cylinders with rotating rubber paddles remove the hair from a hog’s carcass. As the hogs are stripped bare, a steel auger churns the waste. Shaped like an immense corkscrew with serrated edges, the auger is constantly turning, digesting hair and excreting it through a chute into a sewage pit. 08 [spaces]
The Mustard Gas The amount of deadly chemicals at your disposal is frightening. On your first day of training, you sat in a large classroom with a number of other new recruits. A stubby Asian man with horn-rimmed glasses kindly informed everyone that hydrochloric acid and ammonia are two common chemicals used in the sanitation process of the plant. If these two chemicals are mixed, he warned, you’ll create mustard gas and if exposed, you’ll probably die. He said it would be as potent as anything used in World War I. The Night’s End You can feel the clock closing in on the eight-hour mark, your night almost over. You wrap up the fire hose and tuck it behind a large pillar. You close all the doors on the dehairing machine and turn off the power. Krishan, walking towards your station, greets you with a curt nod and begins a slow inspection around your area. He stops and stoops down near one of the large pillars. He beckons you over. By his expression, you’d think someone just took a shit on the hood of his car. “What is this?” Tell me, what is this?” He points to a clump of hair tucked behind the base of a pillar. “It appears to be a clump of hair.” “It does, it does. And so it appears you are unable to do your job properly. Why don’t you take some goddamn pride in your work instead of wasting my time here? You white boys, you’re all the same. Worthless!” Something peculiar happens. As the spittle flies and his eyes burn, Krishan appears to be getting smaller. His body withers and shrinks with every heated word. He’s barely five feet high. Now three feet. Two feet. One. His tiny eyes are bulging. He raises his arms up and down, trying to emphasize a point, unaware of his new size. You raise the heel of your boot and bring it down on the tiny figure beneath you. Hard. A squeal erupts from his body, along with some murky red mush, as if you’d stepped on an overripe tomato. You grind your foot down, as if putting out a stubborn cigarette butt. You look up and realize you’re alone. You turn your head and see Krishan [spaces] 09
walking away, trench coat billowing, clipboard by his side. It seems your whimsical daydream has blocked out the majority of his tirade. You try to ignore his words, but they still sting. You smile slightly. At least the dehairing machine canâ€™t talk. You head to the locker room, your shift over. Shedding your yellow slicker and undershirt, you toss them into the laundry bin. A dull pain crackles up and down your spine. You roll your shoulders, providing a little release. You get dressed. The night is over. The night air is cool but the smell of the factory lingers. Your white Isuzu truck waits in the parking lot, ready to go home. You pull into the driveway, hot and sticky with sweat. Your parents have been asleep for hours. You open the screen door quietly, so as not to wake them. The display on the microwave reads two in the morning. You undress completely and take a hot shower, attempting to scrub the smell out of your pores. If you stand under the water long enough, perhaps you can wash away the shit you feel inside.
9150 B. Monica Grose you say it is like a tall man awkward yet safe questions fill the cracked walls where paintings hang not as escape but to remember strings folding on the ceiling full chairs around the kitchen table tea times ten thousand conversations clothes worn as costume to celebrate our front yard where images play this is where birds live and love and love
ALL SAINTS DAY Elisabeth Fallon If this life were stripped and stretched Of all feathers and frivolities Perhaps I would (at last) Understand the epitaph of your shrouded form: Feathers are as insignificant to life As cold stone is to God.
Timur Akhadov // Weeping Cross // Digital photograph
Cameron MacIntosh // (untitled) // No media information supplied
Reuben Moes // little guy watches big guys who actually look little // Fuji Sensia 400
Russell Leng // Sale // Digital photograph
Monica Grose // Verbatim Translation // Polaroids
Whitney Shier // Gordon // No media information supplied
Zach Bulick // (untitled) // Medium format
IN REFERENCE TO... Lauren Thompson Age 7: …Encyclopaedias I am sitting in the hallway with my legs straight out, my feet not quite touching the opposite off-white wall of our modest rancher in Woodland, California. The faux-oak bookshelf beside me stores Bibles, cookbooks, and dozens of Readers’ Digest condensed novels. I am here for the second-to-last shelf, home to my favourite pastime: The New Book of Knowledge, 1994 edition in 26 volumes, speckled tan on tan. On the spine, each book is stamped with a golden tree set on a square navy background — just like the tree in the middle of the Garden of Eden that I learned about in Sunday school. I will continue to read these volumes over the years with my feet almost reaching, then just touching, then slightly bent against the opposite wall, drifting in and out of learning comas that start with a simple question (what does the flag of Argentina look like?) and end with a meandering journey through the United States Constitution, Number Theory, or Vespucci, Amerigo. I love reading the encyclopaedia. The world is easy to understand because it has been written down, black on white. Pandas eat this, World War II started then, Andorra is located there. What’s not to get? Age 9: …Rhyming Dictionaries In front of me are pieces of construction paper: red, white, and blue stars and stripes, and a big red rectangle on which I am supposed to paste them. We can arrange the shapes however we want, my teacher tells us, as long as the result is not symmetrical. I sit and stare at my paper for a long time until I finally lay out three stars evenly spaced on the top half of the sheet, and two stars evenly spaced on the bottom half. My teacher comes up behind me and tells me, kindly, to try again – that is symmetrical, left to right, she says. I argue that if you fold it top to bottom the sides don’t mirror each other, but she doesn’t buy it. Try again, she says. I can’t. I wonder, helplessly, why can’t they just be in a pattern? After minutes of staring at my stars and stripes, I move one star a little to the right. It looks ugly, but it’s asymmetrical. I hope she’s happy. [spaces] 13
This same year, I receive a rhyming dictionary for Christmas. I don’t think I would be fine/writing a poem that didn’t rhyme. Age 11: …the Thesaurus I am in sixth grade, and I am the smartest person attending Willow Spring elementary school. My status as smartest person is cemented by a paragraph I wrote in response to the prompt “What is your favourite season?” I chose winter. I wrote a compelling paragraph about bundling up with a book and a blanket in front of a crackling fire, while a breathtaking ice storm raged outside – wishful thinking of course, as Sacramento Valley winters lack any sort of dramatic precipitation. The piece’s only critique was that the word “ice” was used too many times – justifiable, I contend, because there are very few synonyms for ice (I looked it up). My teacher displayed this unprecedented essay before the whole class as an example of the ideal way to answer a prompt; it earned 6 out of 6 on the California sixth grade writing rubric. So it’s settled. I am the smartest person at school. The proof is on the overhead projector. My primary rival to this position is Marvin Dinozo, a stout Filipino who wears tall white socks and has a black mole on the left side of his mouth. Marvin can do long division on par with me, and his essay on “Why I Will Choose to Live Drug Free” was selected to be read in front of the all-school drug-education assembly. (I found it a bit contrived and unconvincing.) But I’m not too worried about my standing against Marvin. One day during recess, amidst the tangled oak trees and splintery picnic tables of our under-funded public school, Marvin told me he didn’t believe in God. I told him he should, or else he would go to hell. Marvin said he wouldn’t mind going to hell. It’s not very smart to want to go to hell. Age 14: …Dictionaries There are over 25 entries for the word “do” in the dictionary. I know this because these are the things I wonder: What does it mean to “do”? How would one articulate the meaning of the ultimate action? I’m sitting alone in my grandparents’ den. It is a true Southern California summer, and I am hot. But this is of little consequence: bigger issues are at hand. A definition eludes me, a piece of knowledge I have yet to possess. In my solitude, I spot my prize: the dictionary. It stands on the massive oak bookshelf, authoritative and holy, irresistible. It holds the answers. It can define my motion and my meaning. 14 [spaces]
And, it is alphabetized. There are over 25 entries for the word “do” in the dictionary. I now know them all: should I actually do any of them? Age 17: …Atlases It’s June. The air is warm and the mosquitoes will be coming out in a few hours. Various members of my extended family are seated in a circle in the backyard. There is a rainbow-striped Mexican blanket lying on the grass, scattered with cards and small gifts for my twin brother and I. It is our graduation party. We mostly receive cards with cash or cheques or meaningful sentiments in them, but we also get one main gift from our parents. It is intended to send us off properly into the world of adulthood, which will begin in a few months in the form of university. My gift is beautiful, something I’ve been wanting for months: The Oxford New Concise World Atlas. It lives up to my expectations, with full-colour topographical and political maps, essays on current geographic trends, and enough charts and graphs to satisfy any information junkie. I relay the volume’s assets to my family; comments with the mocking effect of “Only Lauren…” are made. But I know the joke’s on them when the book is passed around the group. People start to crane over others’ shoulders insisting “Hey! Find San Diego!” and pointing, “Look – this is where I traveled last summer!” Later, I am looking through my atlas: page 108, Eastern Washington, where my family will be moving soon. As I scan the landscape surrounding my almost-hometown of Spokane, I spot Walla Walla, Washington. It lies relaxed on the Oregon border, not far from neighbouring Idaho. This comes as a shock, albeit a fairly inconsequential one. Ever since I’d heard of Walla Walla, probably sometime in elementary school, I thought it was located in the direct middle of the state. It’s odd, to be so totally wrong about something so easily known. It’s just a moment, but I am slowly realizing I don’t know as much as I thought I did. Age 19: …Almanacs I work for the news section of my university’s newspaper. I’ve never taken a journalism class, but I like to try my hand at reporting anyway: get the scoop, find the facts, understand the story. My colleagues and I have decided to run our section under the pretence of objectivity. I know objectivity is an impossible goal. Around me I see thousands of facts, [spaces] 15
snippets of information I am suppose to condense into 600 words or less. No tomes are allowed here, no sprawling comprehensive volumes of knowledge. Only what is most important is permitted on an index card of truth. What I choose, catch, and cage on paper from the thousands of facts dictates what is important, what becomes printed truth for others. While attending a newspaper conference in Portland, a group of friends and I decide to visit an enormous used bookstore downtown: Powell’s, a wordy wonderland submerged in hipster aesthetic. I am wandering through The Blue Room, a great cave devoted to fiction and literature, when I stumble upon a shelf full of almanacs. My excitement worries me: the rack nearly reaches shrine-status as memories of legs bent against the opposite wall come back, forcing one hand into my purse and the other to reach up on the shelf. When I show off my purchase to my friends, I blush. They laugh and begin the old refrain, “Only you…” Is this normal, wise even, to live a life obsessed with facts? Age 20: …Wikipedia I recently went to the Vancouver Art Gallery. In an exhibit devoted to trees, I saw an installation piece by an artist named Mungo Thomson. It was located, nearly hidden, in an alcove right past a forested mural painted in greys and blues. Thomson’s piece was a soundless video loop of a tree falling in the forest, mesmerizing I’m sure, but I was more concerned with the top right corner of his artist’s statement: “Born: Woodland, USA.” As soon as I returned to my computer I went straight to Wikipedia, adding this new fact under the “Famous Woodlanders” heading on the “Woodland, California” page. I am making my virtual ink stain on the canvas of the internet, where this nugget of information will stay until someone in Akron or Brazil or next door decides I am wrong. This contribution to virtual truth is synonymous with my technological embrace of both democratized facts and the overwhelming amount of information that I consume, regardless of its relevance. But even with the internet, I still often turn to the beloved reference materials on my bookshelf – a Pocket World in Figures I bought for a nickel at the library book sale, the soft-covered almanac leaning against my treasured atlas, a travel-sized dictionary/thesaurus combo. They have taught me many things, but I wonder: what have I really learned? I love my facts, but are they wisdom? So I’ll still keep searching, reading and wondering, because there is one thing I am certain I know: there must be something true, things fully worth knowing, out there. I’ve been primed for it my whole life, and I intend to find it. 16 [spaces]
WHEN WE WERE BORN WE WERE Daniel Wagner When we step into the sea our bones dissolve like salt and we join with the jellyfish: suspended, serene. When we leap into the air our bodies condense into clouds and we are cumulo-nimbus, thunder, and lightning. When we enter the earth our muscles contract like worms and we propel ourselves deeper into darkness to die.
FRONT STREET FIRE Katherine Hartline First no one spoke. They trailed from their houses, heading north in the dark, following the old woodâ€™s smell and inimitable, sharp popping to the Square, where smoke folded into warm, wet air and paint peeled from the window boxes, their flowers curled and floating with the updraft. And, standing then in twos and threes, they considered the volunteers, their reflective jackets and helmets, the bright spray of water in the night. Making small judgements, the bottoms of their pyjamas and slippered feet wet from new puddles in gutters and asphalt corners. I arrived from the East, late and pink cheeked. Breathless, with satisfaction in the hollows of my mouth and pedals under red, bare feet--
The tips of oak branches are illuminated in the street light and I am still. Exposing their beautiful, dark tableau. Burning the latent image. Their history is engulfed, then gone. Arms crossed, waiting for the apocalypse, they are part of something the whole world is doing. Even tomorrow there will be minutes when they will not remember. Even tomorrow I will forget the hot lick of flames, the glass of shattered windows on the pavement reflecting their faces against smoke and stars.
ON WAKING UP Hannah Jenkins There is no struggle so great, no singular moment so agonizing and permanent as the one that man faces every morning when he is violently and suddenly ripped from his purest state of being. It is a sad but proven truth that to do anything worth anything in this world, one must first get out of bed. For some it’s radio jargon, for others it’s the mind-numbing drone of a buzzer and for a lucky few it is the voice of a loved one—these are the disciplinarians who scold us out of bed in the morning and shake us to attention, reminding us that there are people to see, places to go, papers to be written and puddles to pontificate over. They are our daily reminder that surely laziness is the greatest form of selfishness and yes-you-should-feel-guilty-for-hitting-the-snooze. In an attempt to trick my mind I set my clock ahead fifteen minutes and timed my alarm per-usual for 7:15. Alas, when morning came my mind sprinted fifteen minutes ahead of my body and had the audacity to tie me to my bed with my own bed sheets until the real 7:15, by which time my clock deceitfully glowed 7:30. The mind can work its best trickery in the morning if you have not given it a strict talking to the night before. It requires a firm voice and an up-to-the-minute schedule of the morning’s events in order for it to let your body out of bed at the desired time. If the mind has no clear idea of what activities the body is missing out on in the morning it will tell myriad lies to coax you into submission: “But it is so cold out there; surely you will freeze if you let even one toe hit the floor, best not to catch pneumonia before 7:30!” “You will work much better with fifteen more minutes of sleep; that’s right, drift off, let your mind rejuvenate for the day.” “What a lovely dream you were having! I don’t fancy you’ll ever live in an igloo palace with talking penguins for servants again, why not go back to it?” Of course, the most convincing and frequently used line the mind uses is simply, “Why bother, it’s raining.” His lies must be cut off mid-sentence, like a telemarketer who calls over dinner. When the AM strikes do not listen to one lie your mind tells you but instead rip off your covers, flip on your lights, wiggle your toes and swiftly make your way to the lavatory. It is my experience that once my lights are on my covers are off and I have been to the lavatory my body is once again a fair match for my mind and I can convince it that a cup of tea would warm us up just as well as covers. My friends, once the tea is in your hands, victory is yours. By simply escap20 [spaces]
ing the confines of your sheets you are already one step closer to becoming one of the greats. I have it on good authority that men such as Winston Churchill, Athanasius, Michael Phelps and yes, Barack Obama, have all made it a habit to get out of bed in the morning. So roll over, and resist the urge to hit snooze. If you fail, so be itâ€”after all, there will be another opportunity to prove yourself in only twenty-four hours.
I AM A THOUGHT Jessica Schafer I am a thought, ageless, old, alone, hung between here and a cloud, a small orange glow that seems to distort the smiles of the deaf. I am not deaf. I can hear thoughts, have no desire to distort the beauty of being alone in a fog that glows like a translucent cloud. I want to fly away on a cloud, scream fear to the deaf, begin to glow with the passion of a thought that lets me be alone, escape Doubt trying to distort. Truth can be easy to distort, become a vague and shifting cloud placed in the sky, alone, taught to be deaf to pure thought, faith that glows.
burn, burn bright, glow! truth has died, there is nothing to distort. I was once a thought now swallowed by the cloud, feeling like everyone is deaf in a crowded room alone. I am alone with the sickening glow of the dead who hear, but stay deaf, who take words, distort and hide them in clouds, hoping no one will find their thoughts. I am a thought, even so, still alone a distant cloud, a faint glow. it takes little to distort and little to be deaf.
CONTRIBUTORS Timur Akhadov (MA Ling ’10) studies Linguistics and takes photographs, aonly the latter of which affecting this publication. Cassandra Barradas (Education ’09) was this year’s Editor-in-Chief and that’s a fact, a fact that helped her fellow editors (we thank her). Zach Bulick (Communications ’09) has a note written by the editors: we are thankful for the cover he designed, as most people judge books by their cover. He probably wants to design something beautiful for you too. Betsy Beyers (English ’09) studies English and wrote the back cover’s text, two truths that helped her fellow editors (we thank her). Elizabeth Fallon (MAIH ’10) is the female Jason Bourne. Breanne Fultz (Communications ’10) enjoys painting, graphic design, landscape photography, writing both poetry and screenplays, and playing her guitar. Monica Grose (International Studies ’10) enjoys banjos, bicycles, and adventure - among other things. Katherine Hartline (Environmental Studies ’09) is a graduating (sigh) Environmental Sciences major, who loves many things and people. Hannah Jenkins (Communications ’10) often writes and sometimes studies Communications, a fact told in these very pages and a fact that helped her fellow editors (we thank her). Cail Judy (Communications ’06) is a strong promoter of turkey bacon. Russell Leng (Art ’09) takes photographs and studies Art, as this journal can attest. Cameron MacIntosh (Biology ’11) takes photos and studies Biology, or at least that’s what can be safely assumed from the content of this journal. Reuben Moes (Business ’10) likes accounting and hopes to one day do your taxes for you. Or maybe run the accounts payable department for your company. Or maybe audit you and catch you on your tax fraud. Scott Rowel (English ’08) is, having studied English and Music for a few years, a recent graduate of TWU. Camille Sakamoto (Linguistics ’11) must do three things on a regular basis: read the Word, run, and write. Jessica Schafer (International Studies ’07) and her husband Dan own over six hundred books and a fish named Squishy the Second. Whitney Shier (Linguistics ’12) takes photographs and studies Linguistics, as this journal proves. Kenji Alexander Kabayama Skulstad (Humanities ’09) will tell you the end of this story someday because the ending will make you wonder how you could’ve ever seen anything but the brightest lights. Lauren Thompson (Communications ’09) is a displaced Californian who hopes to write the back of book jackets so she can indulge her love of grandiose, extravagant, superfluous adjectives. Daniel Estlin Wagner (Communications ’06) shares a middle name with e.e.cummings.
[spaces] Literary Journal of Trinity Western University
would like to thank the support of its advertisers, the TWU English Department, and TWUSA, who made this yearâ€™s publication possible.
When you make a work of art, it is an act of creation. It is bringing order out of chaos; it is separating light from darkness. But our creating is not the Creatorâ€™s cadenced, omnipotent commandingâ€”itâ€™s like the Divine sticking both hands in rich earth and forming a man from the soil, bending to breathe the breath of life into his mouth. When you create, you plunge your hands in, molding and shaping the work. And then you breathe life into it. For this is what making art is: a bringing alive. But listen! You must listen to the work telling you how to form it and shape it, how to breathe into it. You are its creator, but it is your teacher. And then, maybe, it will go forth from you and live on its own. It will breathe, and it will bring breath to others. These creators listened, molded, breathed. Then they opened their hands and held their breath, hoping their works would breathe and live. And they do.