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Creative Arts Magazine Fall 2013 Volume 17, Issue 1

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ABOUT CANVAS

EDITOR'S CHOICE

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine is published twice a year by Union Board.

Each piece of published work is the property of the author or artist and may not be reproduced without his/ her permission. The views represented in the magazine are not necessarily those of Canvas, Union Board, the Indiana Memorial Union, Indiana University, or the Board of Trustees.

Canvas gives editor's choice awards to the best written and visual work submitted to the magazine each semester. For this issue, we present this honor to Steven Stepnoski for his poems (pg. 81) and to

For questions or to submit for the Spring 2014 issue, contact us at:

canvas@indiana.edu

Natalie Beesley (pg. 16) and Kimberly Luther (pg. 28) for their artwork. This award serves to recognize the high level of craft and creativity with which they represent their chosen fields and to thank them for sharing their exceptional work.

DEAR READER Thank you for picking up a copy of the latest Canvas. Like the Matisse quote says as you opened up this issue, we hope you find some relaxation in these pages. Let Canvas be your comfortable armchair. Sure, some of the subject matter in this artwork, poetry, and short stories might not be "devoid of troubling or depressing subject matter," as Matisse said, but take the time to look at each image and word we've selected for you. We hope you enjoy the Fall 2013 issue of Canvas.

Dianne Osland andAnna Teeter Editors

Written Work

Visual Work Aric Verrastro Zack Worcel

Kelly Novak Natalie Beesley Benjamin Timpson Nelson Kaufman Alex Lawless Rhiannon M Connor Kimberly Luther Benjamin Durst Ben Jaggers Natasha Holmes Yiwen Song Erin Tucker Katie Hayden

Hannah Spiegel Jared Thomas Franny Cook Paige Mostowy

Alice C. Knipstine Vincent Pontillo-Verrastro Don Megalo

Linda Tien

13 14 15 16 20 24 26 27 30 34 36 38 41 42 44 46 47 48 49 52 54 56 60

Cloe Pippin Olivia Graham Joy Travis Ellis Bernstein Sarah Friedline Stella Jeong Elizabeth Forsythe Ann Hunt Steven Stepnoski

Tyler Simnick Jen Samson

Quintin Caldwell Ethan Geller

66 67 68 71 74 75 79 80 85 88 90 91 92

Selections Committee

Assistant Directors

Anna Teeter

Mitchell Sigmund

Sara Boyle

Hannah Garvey Jordan Lickliter

Mitchell Sigmund Kate Robinson Jonathan Metzinger Jordan Lickliter

Tyler Simnick Jake Huff

Emma Patton Chenoa Orme-Stone Eric Van Scoik Katy Davis Liane Yue Louisa Chen

Tyler Simnick Nick McCubbin Jake Huff Sari Jackson Taylor Buckingham Hannah Garvey

Editorial Staff Anna Teeter Dianne Osland

Design Staff Katy Davis Eric Van Scoik

Publisher

Director

World Arts Printing Inc.

Grace Miller

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Zack Worcel, Prom

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Kelly Novak, Day 19

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Natalie Beesley, Repetitive Mannerisms, Brother (opposite)

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by Anna Teeter

Robbie Beesley was the first person Natalie Beesley enjoyed photographing. She loved how honest her 22-year-old brother's

people who don't know him understand something that maybe they've never understood before, autism."

Beesley plans to photograph Robbie for the rest of her life. "It is a never ending journey of coming to a greater understanding of him," said Beesley. Her

Beesley says she is the person who has always been the voice for him and the most connected to him. Even though he can't communicate how he feels in the same way as most people, he is still a human and she thinks he wants people to

goal is to make a book about Robbie and

expressions were.

"With a lot of people the photographer can be in control, but with Robbie nothing changes when you pull the camera out," said Beesley. "It's an organic honesty."

She found that she understood him better when she took pictures of him and then could help other people understand him better. She says she knows her brother well and that he has been misunderstood his entire life.

"I get to know him better, people who know him get to know him better, and

look at him as such. She believes Robbie would want this work to be shown.

"He is just as complex if not more, he feels the same types of emotions we do, he does the same things we do. Maybe he can't communicate them in the same way but maybe by photographing him I can help him communicate these things."

his life.

"He is the best little bundle of joy and I love him so much."

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Benjamin Timpson, Half FullHaf Empty

Benjamin Timpson, Morning Star, Sun andMoon (right)

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Nelson Kaufman, Portrait of a Self 1, Idol of Gluttony, Table Tennis (rght)

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Alex Lawless, Untitled Woman- Tea Infuser

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Rhiannon M Connor, Rauschenburg Guides Tina Upon HerArduousJourney to Find the Lost Stuffed Chicken

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Rhiannon M Connor, Walter' Light Bulb, Vincent's Boots, Figure I (right)

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Kimberly Luther, Confectioners' Panties, My Lady of Cabra, Everything that Ought to Have Remained Secret and Hidden Has Come to Light (right), Offering (far right)

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Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

by Dianne Osland

For second year MFA ceramics student Kimberly Luther, figures were the natural

something outside of the day's norm.

choice as subject matter in her art. She's always been interested in the medical world, and she's always tended toward using herself as a model in both her

These sculpted figures capitalize on that idea of ancient hysteria and female sexuality and work to bring that concept of strange unsettled otherness to the surface. She projects this idea of inner turmoil caused by sexual desire into each figure as they sit in awkward poses, looking up at viewers either angry or confused.

paintings and sculptures.

"It's almost a no brainer," she says. "You don't have the funds for a model so it's a convenient, and I can hold poses for longer periods of time that models would need break for."

Each of Luther's sculpted figures focuses on the history of women and hysteria.

Since Plato's time, "hysteria" was a term used to describe women out of order, women who wanted sex, who were moody.

It seemed to describe women doing

In Luther's "Confectioner's Panties," she explored the idea of indulgence. The ceramic-iced panties were worn by a live model in a series of photographs in which the models also wore Marie Antoinettestyle stacks of bagels on their heads.

"A little voyeurism went into that piece as well," she says.

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Benjamin Durst, UntitledI, UntitledII, Untitled III

Ben Jaggers, Brown Laundry Baskets (right)

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Natasha Holmes, Ties,

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Yiwen Song, Colorful

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Erin Tucker, Frayed and Fragile, Frayed and Fragile (detail) (left), Internal Study No.1

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Katie Hayden, EndocarditisNecklace 3, HandIV Ring (opposite)

Hannah Spiegel, Untitled 3

47

Jared Thomas, Untitled

Franny Cook, Floral

49

Paige Mostowy, Untitled

51

This work explores the division and central space given to me by my mother and father. The negative space I inhabit where I am left to gather, catalogue and reinterpret fragments because neither parent wants to be burdened by the remnants of their failure. The dichotomized arrangement of materials sheds light on the clear separation of each person within the same environment. However, the artifacts of their former life references a previous unification. The dual channel audio recapitulates my mother's over powering perspective and the small amount of

uncertain information my father gives, allowing the viewer to assimilate what caused the animosity and resentment. The performative aspect of the work is derived from the ability to take on the separate role of each person. By wearing the coat of each parent, I am taking on the separate role of each individual 30 years prior.

While reading each letter sent from the opposing side allows for a reinterpretation of past events, simultaneously juxtaposing the current circumstances through subsequent audio recordings.

Paige Mostowy, These Are Partsof Something Which Was Once Whole

Alice C. Knipstine, Loveseat, Sk8r Boi (opposite)

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55

Vincent Pontillo-Verrastro,from going back home, daydreams of being domestic, uselessness: bitch tits, (opposite)

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Don Megalo, Woman in a Room, Man in a Room, Kalopsia (previous)

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Linda Tien, Pholita, Amanita, Blue, Compost, Fed (previous) (left to rght)

WRITTEN WORK

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Thirty-Eight Days Cloe Pz pin

the shape of his name snagged on the edge of your mouth, it unraveled you (again). for the first time in a long time (you drank some whiskey, you drank some wine, and some whiskey) everything had been good until until until until until until

67

Wendell Willkie's Penumbras Olivia Graham

A state named after desecrated peoples is bound for success.

The Injuns can no longer be the scapegoat for the beer-bellied frustrations of married second cousins - blame it on the Wetbacks or the 11 votes and lack of gravitational pull.

Despite this cardboard box fever, we soar, 80, hoping to make it to Greencastle before 4 p.m.'s sun dives into some place more worthy of enlightenment - maybe

Ohio, probably Ohio.

Typical Hoosier Male wanted to celebrate Jesus by making a j-shaped peppermint and called a cane instead.

Away from Speedway, nothing smells like burnt rubber or Paul Malls or rat piss or home.

He cried, "It's lonesome down here in the armpit of America!"

I always realize our symbiosis when I'm somewhere near Rensselaer, soybean

candy. The public flipped upside down This is Indiana. Yeah, we're barely breathing.

Maytag has hitched a ride to the nearest maquiladora, and Indiana is suffocating; the diluted gasoline's engulfing our nostrils.

All that's left is for the Talented Tenth to follow suit.

We'll never make it out of the Brain Drain alive, and Illinois can't be a shelter for our angel-headed fantasies much longer.

And on a Sunday morning sidewalk, I'm wishing that this death wasn't so undeviating, that the bomber wasn't another Muslim, that the smog in the Evansville sky would dissipate before my grandkids are smothered.

You can be Gregg, and I'll be Pence, and we can decide which one of us will bring economic degradation more quickly, like acid chewing the limestone proofs of Monroe County's agrarian remorse.

The corpse of 38th and Georgetown is sailing off the Chase Tower.

specters as transient as the corn-whipped turbines.

But I could go to Dubai or Saturn and still smell Gary in my veins.

II Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

How to Fail in Business Even Though You Really Tried Joy Travis

Step outside and wish you hadn't. Call out the name of your deity of choice. It's almost Christmas, but it's always almost Christmas these days. They started to advertise their layaway options in June this year, just when you'd finally gotten around to getting rid of that pesky holiday weight.

Hurry to your car. Get stuck in traffic.

Take a moment. Notice things you haven't had time for lately. The couple taking a leisurely stroll hand-in-hand. Some idiot crossing the street while laughing into a cell phone. The billboard advertising attractive smiley people and a time slot. A stoplight.

Enough of that. You'll be late. Park

deity for no runs in your stockings. This is your last good pair.

Take the stairs. Elevators are for people with time for exercise outside this accursec building and who are foolish enough to believe that big metal boxes are trustworthy methods of transportation. When you reach the familiar door, stop. Adjust your skirt and feel for hairs that have dared to stray from their tight bun. You never know who you might run into in the hallway, after all.

crookedly in someone else's spot. Shuffle as quickly as you dare in shoes that were not made to be worn when it's almost Christmas, but it's always almost Christmas anyway and these are the shoes that matched the blouse that was dark enough

Strut to your desk. Make no eye contact.

Notice someone has mistakenly laid their cardigan across the back of your chair.

Toss it on the top of the nearest filing cab inet. Sit down and arrange yourself. You have work to do. You always have work to do. Casually lift the garbage bin and knock

to make coffee stains hardly noticeable.

Slip only once. Plead with your occasional

in the photos to the right of the monitor.

Stare at the screen. Type away.

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Pretend you don't notice the perky little thing who jerks to a stop at the edge of the desk and looks afraid. She tries to say something, but you have a screen to stare at and things to type. The poor little thing gets huffy. She yells at you. Wave a dismiss-

something, but you have work to do, so you keep typing. You don't have time for this. Suddenly, the screen goes dark. Stare for a moment at your reflection in the black surface and note that your make-up is, indeed, perfect as always before whirling

"Elevators are for people

al hand. Others have come and are giving you strange looks. Hope your lipstick isn't smeared again. Make a note to take a break in an hour or so to do a touch-up in the ladies' room. Ignore them. You have work to do. They'll leave eventually. Smeared makeup can't be that exciting for long. Watch out of the corner of your eye as they look at each other and someone says something and walks away. Sit up straight as they stand in front of your desk and watch you type.

around in your chair to glare at the tubby man with a cord in his hand.

building and who are

The perky little thing looks like she might cry. Smile a little to yourself. Shake your head. Focus.

Really hit your stride just as an overweight man in polyester approaches you. He says

He tells you it's time to go now. Glare.

Consider how you can budget your remaining day to make up for the lost work.

He repeats himself. Cross your legs and arms. Watch him talk into a little black box.

Have a staring contest until another, more fit man shows up. Uncross your arms and smooth your hair back quickly. Give the new man a little smile. Notice his name tag says "Greg."

Greg comes and touches your arm, telling you to come with him, please. Smile at him and politely inform him that you have work

with time for exercise

outside this accursed foolish enough to believe

that big metal boxes are trustworthy methods of t ra nsportati on."

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to do. He says you don't. He says you were fired two weeks ago. Shake your head. He pulls your arm more forcefully. Stand up.

Notice how you barely come up to his shoulder even in your heels. Wonder how tall he is exactly.

run extending down your stocking from just below your right knee. Stop struggling immediately. Face the surprised Greg and inform him that you have to go. Forget your coat and your purse and hurry out of a room full of wide-eyed observers. Hope none of them saw.

Greg tries to pull you. Forget his height.

Struggle. He gets behind you and holds both your arms, pushing you forward as you try to escape. He is stronger than you.

Wonder briefly how much he can bench press. Dismiss these thoughts. You have to get back to work. Inform him loudly that you have work to do. Wonder why the others are letting this stranger man-handle you. Greg says it's time to go and pushes you forward. The tubby man holds the door to the hall. Note his nametag says "Matt." Decide to lodge a formal complaint. Matt deserves to be fired.

Look down as you attempt to wriggle your way out of Greg's manly grip. Notice the

Go down the stairs and out to the street.

Consider the clothing boutique down the block that undoubtedly sells stockings.

Walk briskly. Figure your upcoming Christmas bonus into your spending allowance.

See the cursive black words in the window of your destination. It's almost Christmas, so there is a silver garland around the necks of the headless mannequins. Stop.

Look back. Look forward. Look in the window. Look back. Look forward. Look up. Wonder about that deity for a moment.

Keep walking.

71

The First Date Ellis Bernstein

A couple of days after my doctor said "You might want to get your affairs in order and" about five seconds before my death, my Future finally asked my Past out on a date.

It was late one night when I was deeply asleep... my Past was standing on a stepstool trying to find the right place for a dusty book that she had discovered while she was cleaning the library of my hippocampus, when my Future appeared in the open doorframe and took his hand out of his sweat filled pocket

to knock on the frame's worn wooden edge.

With Stardust covering each pimple on his face, my Future locked eyes with my Past for the first time.

A tear glimmered down my Past's cheek and she unsuccessfully tried to hold back

a giggle.

She quickly ruffled her finger through her long curly hair and re-shelved the book in the wrong place before tip-toeing down the stepstool and out of the library for the first time.

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Ernest Ellis Bernstein

With a limp, and a glide, his whole torso jumps left, while his jaw swings right to shout anybody's name: he knows them all.

Ernest doesn't care about the payroll, the shoes the car trunk with a bumpin' sub vibrating two AK-47s.

He doesn't even care for the plastic flask

of whisky that Bossman gives the workers for Christmas.

He just wants a handshake.

Aint it amazing how

he can have the most genuine smile in this world: This world that can strip a man down to his dirt covered bones before he can even put up a dripping fist stained with blood before he can shove it into the air and show that he bleeds the same bright red blood as you do?

The same blood you tried to wash away when you sprayed him against the wall with your hungry egos.

How come Ernest gets more joy out of Thanksgiving turkey than you do sex?

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How come my friends laugh at the limping "crack head" on the street when that limp comes from a man trying to raise a family trying to put food on the table trying to support his pregnant daughter trying to try?

The truth is that smile Ernest wears is more real than yours, and if you asked him to switch places with you for a million dollars and a healthy leg, he wouldn't even think about it.

But you would.

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Followers Sarah Friedline

I have 4000 followers, acolytes sifting every word of my succinct gospel with mystic fervor.

On Twitter, that is.

But still, I am their small God, Ruler of red lights, molasses-slow lines, and the dentist's waiting room.

My religion-one of distraction, freeing my devotees from their temporal Beings as they contemplate this electronic Scripture; guarding my flock from the natural cycle of self-absorption, which leads to pride, which, just as in every other major world religion, is a sin in mine.

6-18-9-5-14-4-19-8-9-16 Stella Jeong

Thomas is playing computer games again.

It's not the first time today, and I'm really starting to get worried about his habits.

Games always get me heated up, and I have to fan myself down excessively. I wish I could just close this game, maybe open up his Word document for his English paper instead, maybe that'll encourage him to write it.

He finally closes his game, but he opens up a movie instead. I try to take a while to buffer his movie, since he's streaming it. I hate it when he streams since it opens doors to too many unknown sources and unfriendly bugs that roam around those sites.

"Why is this buffering so slowly, damn it." He groans, which I hear through the speakers. I want to tell him it's because he wrote on the calendar that his paper was due tomorrow, but he doesn't even have a paragraph started. I know he's not excelling in his classes either, since every

time he sees his grades, I only see mediocre 65-75%'s. It's hard to detach yourself from a person you know so well. Nothing is hidden from me, but Thomas doesn't seem to notice that. Or really care, since he doesn't care about cleaning my system out occasionally either.

Nonetheless, Thomas is my best friend. I see him every day, from about 3 pm - 3 am on a normal day. Sometimes I get to see other friends when he visits a caf6 or a crowded cafeteria. I might see Alex's Mac or Ethan's Acer sometime. We often meet up on weekends when they all play games together.

Last week, Ethan's PC wasn't happy with Ethan's choices that week.

"It was just all porn, video games, streaming, downloading illegally, all that stuff that brings me down," Ethan's Acer said. We both acknowledged his pain, knowing that we strived to be used for better reasons, but we don't have an option.

Once, I came across someone who is being used to his or her optimal use.

Cassie, this glamorous iOS 10.7.5 MacBook Air, was being used for making marvelous graphic design projects for non-profit organizations that aided African tribes. She seemed a bit pretentious with her fancy programs like Adobe Creative Suite and

Core IDRAW Graphics Suite and all, but she was doing something more for herself than I was.

You see, when we're manufactured, we are designed to do what we're told to do. Some of those things might not be our favorite of things; I personally hate streaming movies, while some of my friends hate having to play games. It's all just preference. But no matter who we are, we come to love and hate our owners. I loved Thomas in the beginning. He was an 18-year-old when we first met. I was his graduation gift, and he treated me with such care at first.

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But now, he uses me to procrastinate all the important things in

his life. I realize it's not going to help if I buffer forever, so I load the movie for him.

I hope that he finishes the movie quickly, and starts on the blank Word document.

You see, I wouldn't say Thomas is a bad kid. He has a good relationship with his parents, who send him emails once a week. He buys things on Amazon legitimately. He often buys music from iTunes, usually using a gift card or his debit card. He has a constant surplus in his debit card account, and he even writes short stories when he's up at night and can't sleep. His girlfriend, Karen, and him have been dating for a year, and they chat nightly

on Skype.

Just lately, he's been a lot less of a good kid. From my understanding, he's a senior now. He paid for his cap and gown recently, but didn't finish a paper for his sociology class last week and I saw he failed

his exam in Spanish.

Thomas is getting a Skype call from Karen. They haven't talked for days now, which I found a bit concerning but couldn't do anything about it. He pauses his movie, and opens up the Skype call. I enjoy Skype calls with Karen's MacBook Pro. We normally chat about RAM and memory and battery life while we let the two lovebirds talk. Tonight seems different.

Karen's Pro alerts me that Karen doesn't seem very happy on her side, so I should be on my best behavior.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Karen demands.

Thomas seems exhausted by Karen's question. "I've been home. I've

reminder for him two days ago, "I've just been so busy lately with everything and such. I'm sorry."

"My God, you consider playing games and not doing shit for school as being 'busy lately'? Alex tells me that you've been basically throwing all your responsibilities down the drain. You've been so obsessed with playing that stupid League of whatever game-" "League of Legends."

"Oh, do you think it matters to me what the game is?" She doesn't realize that it does matter. League of Legends takes up so much memory, so much energ and so much time for me. I can't rest, I

school?"

can't sleep, I'm constantly fanning myself down. Oh how I wish she could know tha Thomas minimizes the Skype ca] to open up the movie again. "Okay, can w talk about this tomorrow or something? I

"Oh, I forgot," Thomas says, which I knew was a lie because I flashed a

really have to get this English paper done.

10 pages, due tomorrow"

been busy."

"Busy enough to miss my celebration dinner for getting into med

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Karen's Mac and I disconnect without a word, and I stare angrily at Thomas. He notices the brightness increasing, and he lowers the setting.

Thomas doesn't call her back, but instead starts up the movie again. I'm getting tired

of fighting him tonight, so I comply and perform like normal.

All is normal with the movie stream, but then McAfee Security presents me some issues. They alert me that a virus is in the proximity, and they ask how they should handle the situation. Normally, I would command them to eliminate the virus immediately, and do it quietly so Thomas doesn't notice. We computers know that if an owner reformats us, it's game over. The physical data memory like documents, photos, and music might be saved, but we as the original PC is killed off and a new one is reformatted. This happened to Ethan's previous computer.

He reformatted more than 4 times due

to viruses before he settled for a new computer.

Thomas is a very meticulous guy, and he doesn't allow for viruses on me. But I know if he finds one, he's the most likely to shut me down.

McAfee alerts me again about the virus. "It's not really a high security risk one. Just a pain. Command Central tells me it's a virus, Downloader-AAP." I grimace a bit, which makes the fans run even faster.

Downloader-AAP is definitely a pain in the ass, one of those flashing fake "Security Programs, you have 305923 viruses on your computer. Click here to clean" window virus. They slow things down, they ruin the cleanliness of our systems. It's not pretty.

I hesitate, but I tell McAfee to get rid of the virus before it can get into the system.

It's almost 2 AM by the time Thomas finishes his movie, and finally opens up his document. He stares at it

for a while, then down at what I think are his notes. He then looks back at me, a bit defeated.

"If only someone could magically write this paper for me." He says. He glances one last time at the blank document, minimizes it, and leaves his seat to go to sleep. It's what he normally does; he just leaves me on all night (not my favorite).

Once I hear Thomas's snoring, I open the blank document again. I know I could write this paper for him right now. I can find his prompt, the notes he took in class (not many), and powerpoints for his class. But I know this is against our rules, and it's against one of the most punishable rules. If a system helps their owner out in any way, the computer's central office is alerted and we are reformatted without the owner's knowledge. It's a scarily seamless process, which I've only met one computer had that happen to it. It was Thomas's

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

friend Zachary's Sony; he finished math problems for his owner when his owner was sick with the flu. He was reformatted within minutes.

I almost give up on helping Thomas when McAfee contacts me again.

that he'll still have the paper, and leave him a memo on his desktop that will probably be my last words.

I tell McAfee that this is our last night together. "Let the virus into the

"We're so sorry about alerting you so late in the evening, but the virus is not being removed like normal. We may have to opt to do a full scan and some

"Are you sure? Thomas will undoubtedly reformat his computer if this gets on his computer," McAfee says, sounding regretful already.

"I'm sure," I say, looking back at

other measures," McAfee sounds annoyed, but I know McAfee is just hiding the true severity of the virus.

Then the pieces come together, and I come to the conclusion of what I have to do. I know I'll have only a few minutes before I get reformatted if I help Thomas, but Thomas will at least have his paper and that's what I care about.

I write to the best of my ability his paper about Ralph Waldo Emerson's Friendship, send the document to his email so that in the case I'm gone by the morning

system."

Thomas one last time. It's been a go od fo4ur years , Thom -las. Ju$t d0*n't le&t

my// ti,me wi\[6]th y..ou g,o t\o wa[18]\ ste. Kare[9]n rea[5]ll.,y lik/es yo'u an00d y//ou wer\e on.ce an ex\\[14],cel/

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J///)(ust d)on't f/[19]org,et i]t, Th\\[8] omas. I wis-h yo[9]u th$@e B(^#)e,s[16] T...108.......

79

Ars Poetica

-For

AJH

Elizabeth Forsythe

You creep into my bed to empty yourself into my hollows and leave silvered traces laced into the sheets. I reach as if

I invent a melody in D flat because I know that's your favorite key. You

to stroke your warm and ambered fleshthink better of it. I wrote you a bottle of wine in the hopes that for once we could make love instead of just fucking

as you leave. I will pour the wine into the

but you dropped your heavy boots to the floor instead, their echoes pealing in my head like some aberrant parody of the church I grew up in.

keep the rhythms; my body finds use as your drums. You will write the lyrics

sink, return to the bedroom, change the sheetswait on a door-knock that will never come.

I will write you into my fragile palms.

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Domesticated Rabbits Ann Hunt

The air that night smelled like pumpkin stems and rabbit feet.

Though we did not know it, we were not the only midnight victims of its seducing darkness. It had invaded like a cancerous statistic. At least one in every four households was drawn to the sexy October Thursday, and every 30 seconds another casualty agreed not to go to bed on time.

Do you remember that night? We didn't plan on going outside or leaving the house at all. That night you wanted to stay in and get drunk to have sober conversations.

Talks of white boys who dressed like Vietnam veterans and beat boxed to girls who put holes in their tights themselves.

They all seemed so foolish and attractive at the same time in their carelessness - at least from where we were sitting. That night you wanted beer and a movie to bring a thousand things to talk about.

But I forgot to buy the beer, and the movie wasn't good. It finally took eating the curry made with stolen Sriracha to realize we were having a bad time.

You stopped talking altogether, and I commented on the mugginess of the living room - how the carpet suddenly felt like a sponge, leaving dank reminders on our soles and palms as we drew circles.

"You don't need this," our hands mused to our feet. So we listened and took to the porch, taking pockets full of animal crackers and cigarettes with us.

"God, it's nice out," was all I could say. You looked at me with a flat disappointed mouth. And I know, I know we aren't supposed to talk about the weather because that's what boring people do, but I couldn't say nothing. The air belonged to a different season than any I had ever known. I felt like with every breath, my lungs were being split open to remind me where my heart should go.

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"What do you want to do?" I asked.

Let's run you said. I laughed and looked down at the top of the ceramic turtle you bought at the dollar store. Five dollars at the dollarstore can change your life, you used to tell me.

"Where are we running?"

Doesn'tmatter.

Jumping into a bounce, I rushed to grab my shoes. The living room looked like a failed birthday party now that was easy to leave. We're leaving, I announced to the hollow room.

I thought you would wait for me, but when I got back the porch was empty. Instead of leaning against the peeling column like I thought you would be doing, your decisive back was at least seven bounds down the street by the time I was laced.

Without thinking, I ran after you.

Your arms flailed like clownish windmills that I followed with Quixote blindness. I

laughed loudly and the air caught it with a listening wind. You heard me. You had to have heard me.

You ran faster.

We passed the gas station that was all lit up like a deserted carnival ride. A man looked at me as if something was wrong. So I laughed louder and let my eyes lead my

Two blocks later, and you were gone. I slowed to a walk to decide what to do as I cut a sidewalk through a patchy green yard onto a new street.

I knew where I was, but I felt a long way from home. Do you remember the

tle houses lined up like boxes of chocolate in a crystalline candy store. I wanted to

elementary school where I tried to catch the rabbit? It was that one. I sat down on the stairs and imagined the rabbit. I told you it was my destiny to domesticate a wild rabbit and This is the one/I told you. You laughed, but did you really think it was funny? I leapt for the rabbit's haunches, leaving you on the stoop, but the rabbit took off and just barely escaped under a break in the locked chain link fence that framed the school's playground.

From where I was sitting that Thursday, the fence was only a few feet away. The ghost

laugh again for you to hear me, but your

shaped hole stared at me.

feet. I looked adorable.

Past a strip of darkened store windows, you took a sharp left into a neighborhood.

Did you know where you were going? Your stride had a purpose that I couldn't see from so far behind.

On the street, the air was even clearer. Lit-

pace seemed to be reaching out in a way I couldn't catch. I shouted your name and pushed my legs until my breathing turned

biting.

How far had you gotten at that point? I guessed about by the vacuum store on Baxter.

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

A trail of leaves then flew into the square of concrete where my feet were perched.

Dancing like red pepper flakes, they whispered Do something.

I fought the command and slid down the double helix of my thoughts, crossing where you might be running to where I was running in my mind.

Keep running, I would have told you. I didn't want to get up anyway. But the sexy October sky thinned my blood a second time. I wanted to find the rabbit.

Like a convicted Paso doble champion, I strutted to the fence to climb it. Though twice my height and a guaranteed violation of trespassing laws, I gripped the wiry squares between my claws. It felt nearly erotic as I pulled my body up with surprisingly deft ease. Just three strides, and my chin was peering over the top. I was going to make it in the courtyard and find the rabbit. He would be waiting for me.

I eagerly grabbed the edge with both hands

spread like saucers and swung my right leg over. Nothing, not even a ten foot fence could keep me from my rabbit, I thought, until a line of galvanized spurs curbed my

flight.

The metal spikes that hid in the darkness drove into my palms and thighs, clutching the collar of my shirt as I cried out to the air, which was more indifferent now than just a few moments ago.

The sound I made as I was crucified to the fence was incredible. It was the first time I knew what the word expel really meant.

Somewhere the rabbit heard me and snuggled a little closer to his best rabbit friend.

Rabbits like to do that.

Maybe the two of me were watching from a bush in the courtyard, draped like a meaty flag that had been thoughtlessly caught

mid-flight, I was latched in a physical Catch-22. Either I pull my leg back and fall

to the sidewalk or commit to my whim and push into the pain to drop inside the fence and find my rabbit. Letting go was also an option, allowing my body to fall where it may. My choices all faced additional loss of skin.

Jump thefence, find the rabbit.A voice in the wind was pushing for this confounding destiny that was making increasingly less sense. I realized getting in would mean finding a way out. I felt warmth spread through my thigh where the metal was piercing. As I tested my gut with logic, I heard two voices approaching from down the street.

They were walking without cadence, stumbling and sliding on the cement and leaves. Their conversation was incoherent, and it wasn't until they passed under the yellow of a street lamp that I could tell the were drunk. They too were called out by the night air and were swaying with a pirate swag that commanded respect in their

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I didn't move. Unfounded fear added its layer to my knotted stomach. They were just a few feet from the start of the fence when the brown beard shoved the grey beard's shoulder and burst: "I just - don't want her anymore!" He

macaroni!"

"What's wrong with it now?"

"I don't know," he said. And he meant it. I could feel his sad unawareness like I felt the

"The metal spikes that hid inthe darkness drove into my palms and thighs, clutching the collar of

fence in my abdomen.

"Harvey?"

my shirt as I cried out to

crumpled to the ground, right shoulder landing first. His friend swayed in front of him before he joined on the grassy knoll.

"Yeah?"

the air, which was more

world alone. Both had unkempt brown beards, though one was greying to a dirty must, and wore tattered browns, greys and

plaids.

"I know, I know..." he burped loudly "She knows too. But you still -."

"I don't like her macaroni anymore!" he screamed, throwing his hands in the air.

There was a pause. I had no idea how to comprehend the situation in which I was strung.

"Ohhh," the grey beard replied knowingly.

It was as if he had finally been given the answer to a riddle.

You would have laughed out loud at the next part.

His friend continued, "It used to taste so good, Harvey. I mean, I wanted to eat her

"You're my best friend."

Harvey flopped his arm around the brown beard's shoulder, not saying anything. After a few seconds, the brown bearded man rolled over to his knees in a post-confessional deliverance and got up.

"Let's go before I throw up on you," he said, then chortled.

indifferent now than just a few moments ago."

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

I watched the two men lumber down a perpendicular street, never once looking back or noticing my body up above. By that point blood was trailing down the silver diamond links. I looked into the courtyard with the wooden playground built to look like a vaulted castle and the four swings idling in a square box of mulch. There was no rabbit in there. It had disappeared with my desire to catch him, to bring him home and to name him Bartleby.

I let go and fell to the ground to the sound of my shirt ripping and the fence shaking in remorse.

girls in a bar bathroom.

When I finally got back to the porch, you were lying there sweating, staring up at the hardwood ceiling with dreaming eyes. And I couldn't help from asking: Where did you run?

Out to the lake and back.

Why did you leave me?

I'm sorry. Just couldn't stop.

What do you mean?

Do you remember what you told me next?

Ifelt like a wild rabbit.

The walk back to your house took longer with the injury. I winced down intermittently to check the gash and several scratches that littered my body. They all felt like they were breathing and sighing to the pools of blood forming around them. The air had gotten cooler, like it was constantly checking itself to stay fresh like a crowd of

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85

Iron Out Steven Stepnoski

Early Sunday mornings, when I find my own wrinkled pants with creases in the shins and crinkles at the knees hanging in the closet, the pair uncoils an electrical cord I trace to the back of my brain and back further to a wall outlet where an iron is connected.

I see my slacks reclining on the cloth surface of an ironing board.

One leg laid, the other

dangling off the side, the same position my father would lie too exhausted from work, from family, from rising before the sun.

I would spot this pose through the crack in the bedroom door

at the end of each workweek.

And when my father woke me, with the first sun of the new week my teeth chattering, bones quivering, I would stand by him, witness his hand smooth each crumple laid upon the rusted ironing board and breathe in the steam from the iron, permitting the hot moisture to fill my lungs and warm my skin.

I touched the scalding hot iron oncean accident on my right hand's knucklesand a festering burn bubbled throughout the church service.

That early Sunday morning fingers folded over bleached white blisters, I learned a hushed lesson: Cleanliness was Godliness.

Starched sleeves and stiff slacks straightened boys into sons.

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

[we are our own] Steven Stepnoski

We are our own breed cranking the bike pedals too fast for the rusty chains clinging to the gears shooting us beneath the dim streetlights, until we squeeze the brakes tightly enough squeak a skid loudly enough so the girl-living in the shabby house across the tracks with the pretty eyes and dirty shoes and the worn out clothes, who gets grabbed while she gets off at the last stop on the school bus can hear a squeal less longing than lonely dogs howling at dusk.

We are our own

passengers propelling the car driving the night into a blur of shouts and speakers singing, the streak of sound swinging behind our trail of red-hot tail-

lights that disappear in the rear view mirror when we lean on each other to turn the corner.

We are our own audience applauding when the back seat becomes the pitch black back row and our hearts are humming and our hands are trembling and her dirty shoes make our ivory ankles bear the moonlight peering through the window.

We are our own riders roaming by trains tracking routes on railroads crossing our hearts and hopes

good bye to where we stood once sharing the same pulse our ages echoing down each alley back when we didn't need to get off at the last stop or give up after the sudden skid or stone the streetlight but instead still sought what the morning's sun brought.

We are our own because we are to own the gears cranking within us and the dirty shoes untied behind us, because we are to own the unmarked maps plotting our lives on skids and streaks, because we are to own our own but never entirely on our own because when you become your own we become your only.

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Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

"Hypnotherapy" Tyler Simnick

The tiki torch snuffer Hangs from its head Dangling on a length

Down your

Of bamboo cat gut String swaying Back and forth

In trickling

In a rhythm almost Like a heartbeat.

Pool in which

Consistency

Merged by the

Falls into the No-time of The rocking

Deepening Levels of release.

Down, down, and

Cradle lull.

Down, down unto

Draped in Diaphanous

The final point

Warmth your Muscles melt

Fingers let Go of the pool's Wall and with eyes

Away sliding

Trellised Skeleton

Rivulets collecting In a spreading

You are sub-

Of sundering where your

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Clamped shut And the deepest Breath you

By a bliss As unfamothable As the abyss.

Surrender yourself To the depths To the promised Death, and waiting

To Sink like a

Damnation Unmasks itself As salvation, Paradoxes fertilize The blossoming

Safe, ending up

Of a laughing Half-buried In the muck At the bottom.

Float.

As depression After it's been Turned inside

Float.

Out.

you

You

Buoyed up

Faith, Incredulity Now as silly

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Dare

fen Samson

And when he had

finally pulled himself up -

muddy trouser bottoms through the flower box -

crumbled paint beneath blackened nail beds -

up

tasted pipe tobacco -

and plunged into a billow al book dust pumping his arms to keep from spilling

gingerbread warmth on his tongue -

on to the sill to peer inside the dare

over the edge - there

and he swung one

leg, then the other carefulcarefulnotdragging

cicada shells in mason jars lined up on bone-dry shelves

0 r

91

Muscular Atrophy Quintin Caldwell

Neil plants freedom's flag in the moon, Looks down upon that cloudy blue ball And gives Russia the finger.

Lance wins seven straight gold jerseys With half of any's manhood And says, thanks for nothing, pussies.

My country, home to cheats, Home to muscular atrophy, Weak arms.

Our god boasts now upon the parapet, "America does not make pinprick attacks,"

I

His scrotum hanging open, A testicle rolling loosely around the stage.

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine II The Morals, The Passion, The Money

Three Triptychs Ethan Geller

I Christ, The Moon, My Lover Staring out my window watching you eclipse the sun obscuring my thoughts of amateur arithmetic and torah numerology in excelcis deo watching you recede from the ocean watching the ocean recede from you who are you?

The world that I've built for myself is you an expansive vaudeville set with christ hiding beneath the floorboards I can't remember who put him there, do you? this place can fall into such dreadful disrepair but if you want to dredge him up again, to put something else besides me up on that pedestal I wouldn't be against it I wouldn't be but I have this terrible nightmare, it's true I just have this terrible nightmare, it's awful you're laying on the table that you set for me lying there with six tongues and eight eyes scee-eee-eeeaming "marry me Ezekiel, time to face the family wheel"

I fly off in Merkabahs in 87 different directions I wish I could find some meaning in that but the truth is I'm hardly as confident as I think I really don't have my life goals quite figured out I think about my brother more than I care to admit but I'll be damned if I rest on all my laurels I never want to feel quite so comfortable that I bleed out into ether bleed out into ether

III

The Players, The Worlds, The Lives You don't like video games because they're for greasy boys in hoodies who refuse to leave a trance with eyes like dusty cathode rays ignoring church and science alike I like video games because I enjoy the experience of exploring a world knowing there is a grand designer who built it just for me you don't like video games because they are power fantasies for horny teenage boys who want to shoot aliens and nazis with big phallusguns always being the one true destined hero for every world they enter I like video games because every time you ask why a character in a movie didn't save him or her I want to ask myself why I couldn't save him or her realizing that I'm not the one true destined hero for every world I enter but I'm trying as hard as I can you don't like video games because killing as many police as one can in vice city

must be affecting our children changing their preconceptions of the world and besides, you're not very good at them.

I'm here to tell you that It is all true. it is affecting our children but a world of sandboxes with plastic objects we could try to swallow is better than a world without sandboxes and I never cared if you were good at them I just want to explore it all with you

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