Text   Literature

Helping the Imagination through Scientific History

   - by Alexandra Self 
Many students have shown that science irritates their cerebrum exasperatedly,
But what if scientists were seen it a new light, would those students then love science?
Such as, think how Albert Einstein realizing relativity while wearing a pineapple shaped hat
Or Alexander Fleming discovering penicillin along with the cure for MaryPoppingasitis.
Francis Crick finding DNA and the QCS (questioning chemical strand) aka Nerd Gene
Or B.F. Skinner figuring out the behavior of rats and the curious species of turtle spiders.
Frederick Banting, the developer of insulin, saving himself from schizophrenic pop rocks
Or Marie Curie dying from radioactivity combined with a pretty violent hula hoop.
Galileo Galilei gazing at a moon on Jupiter shaped like cheap crab sushi on a rusted platter
Or Issac Newton swiftly losing his wig made of beef jerky to a porcupine.
Nicolaus Copernicus baking bitter genius cookies under the sun’s rays
Or Benjamin Franklin getting caramel apple rain drops stuck on his kite.
Jean Piaget receiving heinous wedgies from three-year-olds when trying to test them
Or Charles Darwin enumerating out the evolution of grilled cheese and ham on wheat.
Anton van Leeuwenhoek studying duck billed kiwis under a microscope
Or Michael Faraday attracting himself to widows of Oreo lovers in torch lit attics.
Steven Hawking having an unhealthy obsession with ornaments shaped like tomatoes
Or Louis Pasteur paintballing fat cells of fried cheese in his spare time.
Even though these things have never happened, it’s fun to see what the mind can do to history
So you science haters, make science fun with the use of mind altering perceptions of scientists.

untitled

   - by alice nelson 
black and grey hairs curl
delicately on his neck -
i memorize him

obstinate kisses,
ghost of sitting in his car
alone with him, late

the space between us,
that pitiless, hungry force,
devours as it grows

Life

   - by Allison Mathews

LIFE
SO BEAUTIFUL
SO MISUNDERSTOOD
SO UNPREDICTABLE
LIFE
WHAT DO WE DO WITH IT?
SO MUCH
SO LITTLE
WE LOVE
WE HATE
WE LIVE
WE DIE
LIFE
IT’S ALL AROUND US
AND WE ARE ALL AROUND IT
IT ENVELOPES US IN ITS EMBRACE
AND THROUGHS US OUT
WE TRY TO SURVIVE
WE CLIME
WE FALL
AND WE CLIME BACK UP
LIFE
A STRUGGLE
A CHALENGE
AN ADVENTURE
LIFE
A WONDERFUL UNPREDICTABLE RIDE

Aqua and Granite

   - by Alysea Aguado 
	It’s so cold in the train car I can see my shallow breaths as puffs of icy white.  Everyone else is still asleep, but I don’t know how.  It’s way too cold.  Someone must need another blanket.  Why won’t they get up and get one?  I just wish someone would wake up and see what’s happening.  My brain seems thick and slow like a milkshake that’s been in the freezer too long.  Too hard to stir.  My body doesn’t want to move either.  Not frozen.  More like heavy.  Full of sand.  I can feel them watching me.  Their eyes are bright.  Especially the first one.  I can’t think of what the color is called now.  It’s like the water in those pristine expensive beach resorts.  Everything else is gray, like shadows.  Their thin nearly naked bodies.  Their marble faces.  The train car.  The faces of the immobile passengers.  All grey.


12 hours earlier:


	I’m standing behind my mom’s silver Kia, trying to figure out how I’m going to fit (let alone lift) the industrial sized suitcase into the trunk without having to shear off the handles or break something vital.  It’s brand new so the fake leather handles are stiff and don’t budge.  I wonder to myself, “Why do I have so much stuff!?  Why couldn’t I just bring the essentials!?”  But, it’s already done and I don’t have time to unpack and repack, so I try once more to wrestle the suitcase into the trunk to no avail.  I resolve that I will, undoubtedly, need the help of my little brother.  Though, I can hardly call him my ‘little’ brother anymore as he towers at least a foot and a half over me and likely weighs twice what I do.

	Matt lifts the massive suitcase as if it were merely just an empty cardboard box masquerading as a suitcase, and easily shoves it in the trunk.  All the while, he’s laughing and asking her how I plan to survive without him to do the heavy lifting.  I punch him in the arm and tell him that I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.  I know it doesn’t hurt him, but it makes my point.  I'll miss him more than I realize right now, but this is just the opportunity I’ve been hoping for.  Whitworth is a great University and I have always loved Washington.  Doesn’t hurt that I landed a full scholarship, either.

	My mom, Matt and I pull up to the train station just 15 minutes before the train is scheduled to leave so I let Matt do some more heavy lifting.  My mom and I grab my other smaller bags and head to the check in.  As I’m walking away I can hear the car beep as Matt locks it but not the rolling of the suitcase wheels.  I glance behind me and he’s carrying the suitcase under his arm like a textbook.  I roll my eyes and smile at him.  In a matter of a few minutes we get inside the station, pick up my ticket and my bags are loaded onto the train.  My mother is crying and smiling at the same time.  She says, “I’m going to miss you so much!  I’m so proud of you!” and gives me such a tight hug, I think my ribs might start snapping.  As I go to give Matt a hug he says, “Wait,” gets down on his knees, “There, now you can reach.’  I punch his arm again and give him a hug.  I climb onto the train, wave goodbye to both of them and pick a seat that looks suitable for the long ride.

	I watch as the last few passengers board the train.  First I see an attractive young businessman wearing a dark grey suit, a perfectly crisp white shirt and a pale pink tie.  Only a good-looking guy like him could pull off a pink tie.  I can’t help but blush as he walks by and flashes his expensive dental work my way.  He’s cute, but looks like he might be a bit too ‘high-maintenance’ for my taste.  He situates himself at the back on the opposite side of the car from me.  He seems to make sure that there is plenty of space between his possessions and the passengers around him as if he might need the space for paperwork.

	The second passenger to board is an older man wearing a white and blue striped polo shirt and blue jeans.  His white tennis shoes look brand new.  He is carrying a dark blue windbreaker neatly over his arm and faded maroon leather bag over his shoulder.  One of the pockets on the front of the bag is open and a rolled up magazine is crammed in.  I notice the word ‘Science’ and what looks like a computer generated image of a planet.  He quickly and quietly sits in the seat at the end of my row.  His knee promptly begins to bounce up and down impatiently.

	The last to enter is a woman not much older than I am with two very young children.  She is wearing tight jeans and a baby blue t-shit with the words ‘Hot Mama’ in white across the front.  She obviously knows how to dress to attract a certain kind of attention.  It seems she has attracted the attention of two very different men because the two children with her look very different from each other.  The girl is very pale with reddish hair and might be three years old.  The boy has an olive complexion and curly black hair.  He is probably just a year younger than his sister.  They both have their mother’s vibrant blue eyes.  You can see it even through her heavy black eyeliner and fake eyelashes.  The mother deliberately takes the row directly in front of the high maintenance businessman and he flashes that expensive dental work again, this time with much more enthusiasm.  Her children follow slowly behind though she doesn’t seem to notice.

	Once the train starts I open the backpack I brought as carry-on and pull out my laptop to see if there is possibly Wi-Fi on the train.  I doubt there is, but it’s worth a try.  I cross my legs under myself and prop the laptop on my knees.  As I wait for the familiar wallpaper of my brother’s photography to appear, I look out the window at the swiftly disappearing city.  Suddenly in my peripheral vision I see the fuzzy black and white silhouette of a couple sitting by a fountain.  Matt’s photos always have a romantic feeling to them and they make great desktop backgrounds.  In the top corner I notice that the AirPort icon is an empty triangle which means no internet for me.  I decide to watch a movie instead.  The only thing that interests me in my iTunes library is The Nightmare Before Christmas.  Halloween is still a few months away, but I never tire of this movie.  I’ve seen it nearly a million times and could sing every song, word for word (voices and all).  Even my poor family could recite the whole movie due to the fact that I have subjected them to watching it with me at least half a million times.

	When the movie is over I just watch the scenery out the window for a while and think about what is waiting for me in Spokane.  Suddenly, I feel a kind of anxiety I didn’t expect.  I’m excited to start my classes and I feel prepared for that, but there’s something else…  Then I realize I’m anxious about socializing.  I’m a quiet person, but I like people.  I’ve never been good at starting conversations with strangers.  I’ll still be able to keep in contact with her friends at home, but I’m nervous about making new friends.  What if all of the people at the university are smart and trendy or even worse: film majors?  I won’t have anything to say to them and I’ll feel stupid if they ask my opinion on ‘Kubrick’s early works.’ I can’t say that I don’t have an opinion or I’ll look even worse!

	I finally tell myself, that no matter what, I’ll be able to find people who aren’t as terrifying as the film major who might have something in common with me.  I’m sure to find someone with somewhat common interests in my Psychology classes.  The mere fact of them being in the class would mean they have at least one interest in common.  “I’ll be fine,” I tell myself.  “It might just take a while.”

	I don’t know when my thoughts turned into dreams.  I was walking through a thick forest wearing a tutu made of pale pink ostrich feathers and leading a large black lion with a red velvet leash.  Then, suddenly I was kicking over my purse, spilling my limited supply of makeup and some change all over the floor.

	Luckily, the guy sitting in front of me had mashed a large duffel bag under his seat or everything would have scattered all over the train car.  After picking up all of the bits and pieces I sit up and realize that it’s dark outside and everyone is sleeping.

	The cabin is quiet.  I look around and see the older man on my row has his head back and his mouth is open just a little.  He’s snoring softly.  The businessman is slouched against the window with his chin propped up on his hand.  ‘Hot Mama’ is leaning with her back to the window and her legs straight out in front of her.  The little boy is lying on her legs with his head on her stomach and a green pacifier that looks like a frog is in his mouth.  The little girl is on a blanket on the floor with her head on a battered purple teddy bear.

	Everyone else is fast asleep, but for some reason I’m wired.  I don’t feel like watching another movie, though.  Unless a Wi-Fi antenna sprouted on the top of the train while I was sleeping I can’t check my Facebook, either.  I can’t really read my book without turning on a light.  That might wake up the kids, and then there will be crying and screaming and angry scowls in my direction… ugh.  So, the only thing left to do is stare out the window again.  There wouldn’t be much to look at, even if it weren’t so dark.  The scenery has turned from city buildings to trees, brush and grass.  The moon is covered by a thick sheet of clouds but the faint glow illuminates the tops of the trees and outlines the mountains.

	Then something catches my eye.  Something large, round and smooth seems to be attached to the train, right outside a window of the front car.  I can’t see it very well because it’s too far ahead.  How did I not notice that before?  It’s almost the size of a VW bug!  It doesn’t seem streamlined with the rest of the train, like it was maybe an afterthought.  I can’t tell how it is attached to the train.  If it was on some kind of chain, the object would be swinging with the movement of the train and it’s not budging.  If there were a post of some sort, I’m sure I’d be able to see it.

	Suddenly, without warning or any perceivable movement, the object is right outside my window.  As it snaps into position it startles me.  The silence in the car makes it even more startling and I stifle a yelp.  Just as still and seemingly attached to the train, the object hovers directly outside my window.  I can see it much more clearly now.  The surface is smooth but isn’t glossy like a car.  It’s crackly and iridescent like an antique mirror where you can almost look through it while still seeing your own reflection.

	I try to look past the exterior to see what might be inside and find nothing at first.  Then by perfect chance, the moon slips out from behind a cloud and I do find something.  Definitely, not what I would expect to see, though I don’t really know what I was expecting.  What I see are a pair of large eyes unlike any pair of eyes I had ever seen in my entire 19 years on this earth.  They are vibrant aqua and almond shaped.  The pupil is a slit like a cat’s, but tilted lengthwise across the eye.  There is no white of the eye, just color to the edge where it gradually darkens.  What I assume to be the lens isn’t clear as I’m used to seeing, but has a gunmetal grey sheen.

	As I examine these eyes, I realize that my breathing has increased in tempo and I’m gripping the window sill with my finger nails.  I leave little half moon grooves in the old wood.  My eyes are open wide and my jaw is clenched shut.  My heart is pumping blood through my veins so quickly that it’s making me dizzy.  I can feel the blood pulsing in my fingertips against the window sill.  I feel a little light headed like I stood up too fast.  I’m fascinated and terrified at the same time but I can’t divert my gaze from those eyes.

	Just as I feel like my heart might push itself through my ribcage, there is a bright flash of light.  In my peripheral I can see all of the small bushes in the wide expanse between the train and the mountains.  Several sets of tiny animal eyes are illuminated a few yards away.  A few of the sleeping passengers stir just a little but quickly fall asleep again.

	Just as suddenly as the light appeared, it disappears.  As my eyes adjust, the object outside the window comes into my view again.  This time though, the eyes are gone.  This scares me even more now that I know they are out there somewhere and I can’t see them.  I keep my eyes on the object as I scoot myself backward from the window till I bump the old man.  He doesn’t seem to notice.  I turn around and climb over him.  Still nothing.  I’m nearly in hysterics, but I can’t help think ‘Wow, he’s a deep sleeper.’  I glance toward the front of the car and see nothing there so I slowly back down the aisle toward in that direction.

	I look toward the back of the car and I see the eyes.  They are floating at my eye level as if they were attached to nothing but the shadows.  My breath catches in my throat and I can’t seem to swallow.  The eyes slowly come closer into the light and I can see the face that the eyes are attached to.  It looks like it could have been carved out of granite.  It’s similar to a human face, but wider and flatter.  The nose is a slight bump with short slits for nostrils.  The mouth is small and the lips are thin.  The eyes have an almost inquisitive look while the mouth is pulled back in an innocent looking smile.  The teeth show a bit and they are like the tiniest pearls I’ve ever seen.

	The creature is coming closer still and I can now see its body in the light.  The head looks very much like a human head, but there isn’t any hair.  Instead, there seems to be hundreds of what look like the flowing fins of a fancy goldfish, the same grey as the rest of the skin.  The neck is long and slender, as is the rest of the body.  There are no signs of what gender the creature is, from what I can tell.  The only clothing that it seems to be wearing is a band of grey cloth around its hips.

	Two more sets of eyes materialize from the shadows on either side of the creature.  One set is just slightly greener than the first.  The other set of eyes is like the flesh of ripe mangos.  The creature with the mango eyes has slightly darker skin than the other two and the fin-like things on its head are even darker still.  All three of the creatures look at me with the same inquisitive eyes and innocent smile.  They are advancing so fluidly that I don’t notice their legs moving at all.  None of them make the slightest sound.  I realize that it’s quickly getting colder in the cabin and my body is slowing down.  I’m still so stunned and terrified that I’m barely moving.

	I tear my gaze away from them just long enough to glance around to see if anyone else is watching these strange creatures.  My eyes dart back and forth between the creatures and each passenger in the car.  None of them are moving.  No one seems to be awake and the creatures are still coming closer.  They stop when they get about four feet away.  It then gets so cold that my mind seems to work even slower.  I feel tired and weak and think how nice it would be to lie down right now.  I tell myself that lying down would not be a great idea right now, though.

	It’s so cold in the train car I can see my shallow breaths as puffs of icy white.  Everyone else is still asleep, but I don’t know how.  It’s way too cold.  Someone must need another blanket.  Why won’t they get up and get one?  I just wish someone would wake up and see what’s happening.  My brain seems thick and slow like a milkshake that’s been in the freezer too long.  Too hard to stir.  My body doesn’t want to move either.  Not frozen.  More like heavy.  Full of sand.  I can feel them watching me.  Their eyes are bright.  Especially the first one.  I can’t think of what the color is called now.  It’s like the water in those pristine expensive beach resorts.  Everything else is gray, like shadows.  Their thin nearly naked bodies.  Their marble faces.  The train car.  The faces of the immobile passengers.  All grey.

	The three of them are standing in front of me; very close.  I am still full of sand and don’t move as the first one reaches out with one of its spindly limbs.  Three long fingers stretch out to touch my face.  I expect to feel revulsion, but the second its skin touches mine I feels relaxed and warm.  Almost happy.  Its fingers very lightly brush over my cheek, then down my nose.  Then with two fingers, one for each eye, it slides my lids shut.  Its warm smooth fingertips are the last things I feel before everything goes black and I feel myself being lifted.

The Endless Carousel

   - by Amy Moeller 
Picture this:
A carousel going round and round…
Each horse bouncing
Folly, folly
to the same old song.

Transfixed in their gayish grins,
They are dizzy with delight!
Rounding, rounding
Folly, Folly
in their escapade of twilight.

Faster! Faster! They do spin
Encircling their world.
Folly, Folly
With the silent galloping
of forever mid‐air hooves.

“Come and join us
Folly, folly!”
They do seem to plea
“Our world is so much
better than the one you know
you’ll see…”

Rounding, rounding
they begin their melodic dance.
Swirling, prancing
Folly
lights and colors begin to mesh.

Spinning, playing, dozing
you hear that same old song:
Folly, folly, folly!
all the
Folly, folly
Night long!

Many circles in their
Folly,
the ups and downs of
Folly
Make my
Folly
Head feel hurt!

Who’d want so much
Folly
all the
Folly, folly
Time?

Glaring past their frozen smiles,
they watch you leave their keep.
If they chase you
Folly, folly
they’re where they began again…

Folly…
Folly…
    Folly…

Untitled

   - by Andrea M. Withers 
Roses bloom
For but a day
Swell then burst
Wilt, decay
Feathers for some distant day
Crumble like dust
And blow away.

My Angel

   - by Anthony Domine 
I cast my gaze,
on twinkling stars.
Screaming the pain,
out from these scars.
Hoping one day,
I'll find true love.
With an angel,
sent from above.
Shouting these dreams,
into the sky.
I'll seek serenity,
in the clouds up high.
I'll search for you,
far and wide.
Until there's nowhere,
for you to hide.
I'll pull you in,
and hold you tight.
I will love you,
each day and night.
Take my hand,
I'll be your savior.
I will protect you,
until forever…

July 3, 2011, Middle America

   - by Ashley Rackl 
	At the Downtown summer Farmer’s market in Salt Lake City, Utah, a young woman is riding her bicycle.  Her skin is deeply tan, the sides of her head have been reduced to soft dark stubble, and her thick black mane has been carefully arranged into a long flowing Mohawk that floats across her neck and down her upper back.  She wears oversized Buddy Holly style glasses, jean cut-off shorts, a Subhumans t-shirt, and knee-high white socks under her classic Chuck Taylor sneakers.  She stops to wait for some friends, smiling widely as they approach with bags of kale and sun ripened tomatoes.  No one stares, no one seems to take much notice of her, as she and her friends ride past the stalls of local produce vendors and artists.

	In between a nearby stall, some young men have hitched a piano, missing its outer wooden cover, to the back of a bike.  They take turns playing it for small change.  The keys twinkle as their inner springs bounce, tap, and dance before my eyes.  Like looking at a diagram of someone’s internal organs, I can see deep into the workings of the piano with its cover removed.  The boy with the nose ring and ponytail plays it skillfully, and it isn’t long before others gather around him clutching their lattes and children to listen.  A few stalls down from the musician, past homemade hummus, gelato, and handmade plugs for stretched ear lobes, there is a small boy with a fiddle raising money for his school, a homeless man and a cello playing concertos, and a clown making balloon animals for suggested donations.  Just a few blocks from my home, this is where I choose to spend my Saturday mornings.

	In Downtown Provo, Utah, there is another community gathering today.  At the height of the afternoon sun, I have driven forty minutes south of Salt Lake City, down the blistering summer highway to America’s Freedom Days street festival in what is known regionally as “Happy Valley” Utah.

	At Freedom Days, I watch a young Mormon couple, not older than 25 years old, dressed neatly in polo shirts and pastel colors, and pushing a stroller containing a blonde infant before them.  They smile coyly at one another, the pimpled man in his wire framed glasses, the woman with her pale skin and light brown hair pulled into a bun.  The husband glances at the wife’s swelling belly and her strapped dress with a white t-shirt beneath it for modesty.  In this sea of faces, of children dressed in red, white, and blue, they are hardly notable.  Here, I see few young people who are not obviously married.  There are hardly any young women without small children or without full, pregnant bellies.  The men, young and old, mostly wear polo shirts, have short hair, and clean, shaved faces.

	Erected exclusively for the Independence Day holiday, the booths at Freedom Days sell a mixture of handmade goods and various items (cheap sunglasses, bags, and hats) that were probably purchased from China or a similar country lacking a minimum wage.  One booth is selling businessman-style ties to various gentlemen in the sweltering heat.  Next to the ties, is an artist selling portraits of celebrities out of charcoal and chalk.  The portraits are framed neatly under glass and made ready to take home.  Next to a close up of Angelina Jolie looking sultry and holding a rose between her lips, is a picture of a Bald Eagle.  The bird is soaring majestically through soft white clouds.  On the top of the eagle’s head is a bubble-like cock pit; on its wings are the machine gun armaments of military fighter jets.  The clouds behind the bird form the outline of the statue of liberty and her torch bearing arm.  An inscription along the bottom of the piece reads, “Enduring Freedom”.

	Next to the odd eagle picture, the artist is displaying a framed black and white rendition of Jesus.  Or maybe it was Brad Pitt, he was pretty dreamy.  Inside the tent adjacent to Elvis, Natalie Portman, and the Lord of the Rings cast is a rendition of Mormon prophet Joseph Smith and another of the current leaders of the LDS church.  God, Country, and celebrities, I must be in Provo.

	At the Downtown Farmer’s market in Salt Lake City, there is a tent where you can buy fresh fruit smoothies.  The young men who work there power the Vitamix blenders with a special bicycle and solar panels that channel the suns powerful rays just from outside the dark green tent.  They sell carrot ginger juice, raw “energy balls” made of figs and coconut¸ and blend their creations with almond milk, acai juice, bananas, blueberries, and vegan protein powder.  Children stop to watch the man sweat on his bike as he powers the line of blenders.  A father explains the mechanics of a solar panel to his curious child.  Just a few carts away, you can buy whole coconuts with straws stuck into their flesh, and hot vegetarian Indian food for charity.  I revel in the variety of cheap, wholesome, guilt-free food prepared by people who legitimately care about their craft.

	At Freedom Days you can buy funnel cakes, burgers, cotton candy, and fried chicken to snack on.  No fresh fruit or vegetables are available in the long line of food vendors.  Looking at the crowd, I decide that there may be more children than adults here.  Everyone seems to have a lot of kids.  They line up at the ice cream and snow cone booths.  A tent calling itself “Margarita Village” posts a sign that says “NO ALCOHOL” in bold capital letters below a list of fruit flavors, just in case you were hoping.  The cynic in me wonders why they don’t call it “Fruit Slush Village” instead.  Speaking of spirits, it is impossible to buy alcohol at Freedom Days or at any adjacent business.  However, the lack of alcohol availability doesn’t seem to be bothering anyone as their smiles grow larger with the setting of the sun.  The annual climax, Stadium of Fire, a high profile concert and fireworks extravaganza will begin soon and I am sure that many of these people are attending.  I imagine they’ll love it, a spectacle of unbridled patriotism manifesting itself in country music and loud explosions.

	Back at the SLC Farmer’s market there are booths representing the Utah Environmental Congress, No More Homeless Pets of Utah, a wild bird sanctuary and rescue, and groups gathering attention for other various social causes.  The people at the Farmer’s Market want you to root for the little guy, to care about the underrepresented smaller interests.  At Freedom Days, there is a booth for the Constitution Party of Utah, and a literature tent aptly titled, “My Freedom Library”.  The banner above the Constitution Party’s booth reads, “Honor God, defend the Family, restore the Republic”.  Judging from the crowd at Freedom Days, I can’t say that the family needs any “defending”, people here are multiplying like rabbits.  Also, memory tells me that the authors of America’s Constitution had clearly emphasized their desire for a separation of church and state, but religion seems to dominate the politics here.

	While visiting “My Freedom Library” one can find book titles such as “How to prosper in the Age of Obamanonics”, “The Role of Pastors and Christians in Civil Government”, and “The Marxist attack on the Middle Class” with a photo of US President Barrack Obama next to philosopher Karl Marx on the cover.  The Tea Party t-shirt wearing booth operator proceeded to tell me that it’s important for young people to be informed about “what’s going on in this country today because the current administration wants us all to be Leninists and ‘busy idiots’, which is the term he used to refer to the masses”.   All I can think of in this moment are the masses who toil away for Starbucks or Wal-Mart under iron fist corporate rule.

	An elderly man sitting behind the “My Freedom Library” table tells my friend and me that he is “surprised” and “pleased to see young people interested in the future and progress of America”.  From across a literature filled table, the gentleman states plainly that this country is in “serious danger of being overrun by communists” while the woman wearing the Tea Party t-shirt explains that there’s an urgent need to “take back the country from the socialists”.  Oh boy, I bet that if this new Red Scare has a Black List, Michael Moore is already on it.  We must have looked puzzled, but our expressions were met with a smile.  She then decrees, “This is a new war that needs to be fought by the young soldiers of today for the freedom of America”.  Freedom, I think.  Free for whom?

	In a Mexican style café next to the Freedom Days festivities, my friend and I discuss the day over some terribly boring onion (mostly onion) and green pepper “vegan” fajitas.  On the wall next to us a mural depicting Michelangelo’s David.   A blue and cream blanket has been pinned at his waist to shield the statue’s genitals and most of his legs.  When I lift the cover to see if the artist had actually painted a penis beneath, I find that he has rendered a marble leather pouch to cover the icon instead.  If the restaurant owners were so uncomfortable with the human body that they couldn’t depict a masterpiece as it is, maybe they should have just painted something else on that wall.

	I tend to forget that multi-cultural fairs, anarchist book clubs, and bikini rocking gay boys are not a part of everyone’s communities.   I realize that the people who frequent the Downtown Farmers market in Salt Lake City and those who visited America’s Freedom Festival in Provo today represent the two cities’ majority populations in microcosm.  At the café, I feel a serious unspoken segregation exists between my side of the Wasatch Front and theirs.

	Traveling just a few miles south of home to Utah Valley can feel like visiting another planet.  Jokingly, over chips and guacamole I conclude to my friend that “happy valley” could use a little culture shock, a healthy injection of a few differing religious and social lifestyles to shake things up.  But more important, I realize that these two cities must refuse to polarize each other.  This ideological divide between “liberal Salt Lake” and what seems like the rest of “Neo-Conservative Utah” will only worsen with time.  Tolerance and respect, not disdain should be our focus.  We are not political parties, we are people, and any warring amongst ourselves will serve only to further the power of those above us, those who are truly in charge of our lives.

	Middle class, Midwest, stuck in the middle.  Maybe someday, the smiling Mohawk girl will be waiting for the pregnant Mormon couple at the Saturday market.

Mind in Flight

   - by Ashley Rackl 
	It’s not often that you meet someone who has suffered a serious head injury and I honestly hope you never do.  Before the accident, I was a writer.  At least I tried to be a writer, but now I find typing coherent collected and meaningful words onto digital paper to be a most arduous task.  If you’ve never known someone with a serious head injury, let me tell you that it will turn your life topsy-turvy and every normalcy you know will change.

	I used to love nothing better than waking up early on the weekends, making some coffee and opening up the paper to the daily crossword puzzle.  As a writer and linguistics professor at a small local college, I love words.  I could usually do the crossword in less than thirty minutes.  No kidding, that’s how good I was.  My brain absorbed words and I could recall them in an instant.  Every now and then, one great word would elude me.  That would be a wonderful morning, because it meant I could add a new word to my growing mental list of everything from abacus to zebu.

	I used to want to be a writer, but now that honor alludes me.

	I haven’t done my weekend crossword puzzle in almost a year.  I still drink coffee, but understand that drinking coffee is not nearly as intellectual as impressing invisible strangers with your immerse inner vocabulary.  These days, I sip my coffee in silence next to my failed attempt at growing orchids, turning the pages lazily from Opinion to World News to Sports.  I never liked Sports before the accident, but now I find watching the temporal players with their sharp, deliberate actions fascinating.  I hate to say this, but watching a game doesn’t require a lot of cognitive ability.  In the hospital, the guy in the bed next to me had ESPN on constantly.  He’d ask me if I’d like to change it, but I was usually too drugged and lazy to make any move to respond.  So there I’d sit, as captive audience to game after game and highlight after highlight all day long until I became a sports fan with a seriously defective brain.  I never liked sports before.

	I tried to go back to teaching full time, but it was too much for me.  It’s embarrassing to forget what you were saying to the class midsentence, or have some snarky know-it-all punk in the first row constantly reminding everyone that “you said that last time” or “we’ve already gone over that, sir”.  Even my friends began to tell me I was exasperating.  I went from full time Linguist and part time writer, leader of impressive conversations at wine and cheese parties, and crossword puzzle-doer extraordinaire, to someone who teaches one class per week (“We think this is really for the best now, Spencer, until you get back on your feet”), leader of loose conversations that can run in circles or repeat entirely (depending on the day) and Sunday morning coffee sipper who skips the crossword puzzle section because he can’t stand looking at it.

	I haven’t done my weekend crossword puzzle in almost a year.

	I’m mostly a full time shut-in.  I skip the crossword puzzles.   I sometimes go out for walks, groceries, new films, and record shopping, but I rarely see my friends.  They tend to act very supportive of my “struggle with this condition”, but rarely make time to visit or call.  Part of this could be my fault, but I’ve found that most of them are excessively pretentious so I’ve given up.  They don’t want to have company with the likes of me.  They don’t believe I could keep up with their intellectual musings about current affairs or this theory of that theory over brunch anymore.  It would “upset you too much to be reminded of how far you’ve fallen” Margaret once said in the most patronizing way possible.  No it doesn’t upset me, Darling.  I’ve seen these uptight, pseudo-intellectual, organic food eating, wine and cheese parties, classist, BMW driving people for what they are and want no further part of their meaningless mind games.  What’s worse, I realize that I was one of them.  After the accident, I moved into a small inner city apartment built around 1920 to watch sports, try to grow orchids, and never spend much time thinking about the people I used to call friends.


***


	It was on a Sunday morning after coffee and the newspaper that Ingrid came into my life.  It was hard to figure out if I was dreaming but I’m sure that she was there.  I glanced from the table to the kitchen and there she was, putting something in the ice box and fiddling with its contents hunched over and preoccupied.  I watched her, stunned, unable to do anything but stare.  Ingrid wore a short bag like dress, cream colored with orange lace details.  Her brown hair was short and wavy.  When she stood up to look at me, her face was something else.  Ingrid was gorgeous, petite, beautiful…and stood looking incredulously at me in my kitchen.  She didn’t waste much time on introductions and I didn’t bother telling her that the icebox she was messing with had been sealed shut by the landlord shortly after refrigerators became standard household appliances.

	“Why do you sit here day after day in my apartment wasting hours and hours, never even bothering to speak to me?” she asks.

	“Ingrid, we’ve only just met, and this is my apartment, and I live here and I don’t know why you say you live here, because I do”, the only response I can choke.

	Ingrid seems to feel sorry for me.  “I watched you recovering from your injury”, she tells me slowly, “It looks as if you were hurt badly, somehow.”

	“Yes, I was”, I tell her honestly.

	“Would I be rude if I were to ask you what happened to you?”

	“No, you’d join everyone else.  I was riding my bike, an elderly woman made a left hand turn across traffic when she didn’t have time or room.  She broadsided a Subaru, pushing it into the bike and me.  I was wearing a helmet but it made little difference.  I still can’t remember anything that happened that week.”

	“So, was it automobiles then? Dangerous things, my Momma hates them,” she pauses, “‘Don’t let the buggy die', Momma says.  Personally, I think she’s old fashioned.  The papers say automobiles are the wave of the future, unreliable as they are.”

	It takes me a minute to process what she has just said.  “What year do you think it is, Ingrid?” I finally ask.

	“But of course it is 1925, you goose.”

	“And you live here.” It’s mostly an affirmation instead of a question.

	“I do.  My first place.  Had to get out because Daddy was a drinker.  I wish Momma didn’t have to put up with that man.  Anyway, it ain’t so bad to be an unmarried woman living alone anymore, not in this age.  You know?”

	I’m not sure how to reply, I’m not sure if I should.  Instead I inquire, “Are you some kind of apparition or a figure of my transmuted brain?”

	Ingrid doesn’t answer.  Instead she stares out the window as if watching someone, and I glance past my failing orchids into the alley to see what has caught her attention.  The gritty space between my building and the next is empty.  When I turn around to face Ingrid again, she is gone.


***


	That was my first interaction with Ingrid, but there would be more.  Sometimes I’d see her in the bathroom pinning her hair.  Sometimes she’d sit on the balcony stoop smoking a cigarette.  Once when I came home, she was vacuuming the floor and paying me no mind.  Sometimes Ingrid and I would speak to each other, sometimes we wouldn’t.  Sometimes I’d want to talk to her and she’s simply turn her head and walk away.  Other times she would sit and watch me as went through my daily routine of reading the newspaper and drinking coffee.  Ingrid was unpredictable like that.

	On one such coffee and newspaper morning, Ingrid was leaning against the stained glass doors that separate the living room from the dining room when she spoke to me, “Spencer, why do you walk about my place day after day with that sad, strange look in your eyes?”

	I had gotten used to Ingrid speaking to me mostly when she felt like it, but this particular question was embarrassing, almost hurtful.  “I don’t know.  I guess it’s because I’ve lost my old self, my life, everything that was me as I knew it was gone in a handful of seconds.  How can you begin to rebuild if you don’t know yourself anymore?”

	Ingrid didn’t seem surprised in the least by my answer and spoke again, “That’s where you’re wrong, Spence.  You really think there’s such a thing as losing yourself? Really you do?”

	“Well yes, of course there is.  I’ve lost some of that.”

	“You can’t lose what’s already there.  Think about it will ya? Just think about it.” With that Ingrid peels her back from the sectioned glass and walks through the living room.  I hear her enter the bathroom and I know that if I were to follow she would be gone.


***


	Two days pass and I’m sipping coffee and gazing over the Sports section of the Tribune.  The phone rings.  I make no move to get up from my business and answer it.  There are lots of articles to read and I can’t think of anyone that I’d like to speak to at the moment.  My hunch was right, because I hear Margaret’s voice.  It seems like a long time ago when I liked the sound of her raspy voice, but I now I find it shrill and callous like a digital clock alarm at 5am.  It’s funny how personal perceptions can change, bounce, and mutate in less than a year.

	After the usual “hi, it’s me” with a slow sigh and an impersonal “I hope you’re well” she moves on to what she’s really after, “Spencer.  I need to talk to you about the house.  This is serious.  I know you’re recovering but sooner or later we all need to move on with our lives.  You’re a great person…we worry about you”, I notice she says “we” and not “I”, “and anyway, the money from the property can help pay your bills.  So please call me back this time.  Please.  Bye.”

	A few steps across the room and I’m punching the delete button.  It’s the only kind of small revenge I can get.  And anyway, if it annoys her further, then it’s completely worth it.


***


	The doctors diagnosed me with a memory loss disorder.  True to form, I can’t remember the name of it.  A person tends to fade out like an old television set the moment a neurologist mentions in passing that it could take years to fully recover a mind, if it ever happens at all.  I was given a file of medical records by the nurses “for good measure” (meaning they believed I must have been truly out of my mind) which would explain the particulars of my injury in case anyone asks.   Most of the time I feel fine, but the nurses smile at me in a way that tells me I’m not.

	You see, when something like this happens, when you come out of a coma in a type of pain you never could have imagined and it feels like your brain has turned into old horse glue, the doctors will make point to smile at you more.  In fact, everyone you know will.  After a while, you’ll grow to resent those wide toothy grins, despise them even.  They’ll tell you to rest.  To try and make the best of things, pray to God and Jesus, and look on to the bright side.  It’s every mindless cliché you’ve ever heard, muttered by people you may actually admire, but whispered as if it were a vulgar obscenity.

	“For God’s sake Spencer! You’re not dead and you should be grateful! Stop acting like a goddamn invalid!” Margaret once blurted out as I clutched my face on the stairs, her broken china scattered across the kitchen tiles, “Get a grip on yourself”.   The brute coldness of her words had burned the house.  All I could see was her and nothing was there.


***


	A few nights later I am startled in my sleep.  I roll over to find Ingrid lying next to me over the covers.  She looks relaxed, yet somewhat worried as she  stares at me through the darkness.  Vision blurred, I am surprised when she asks me, “Have you thought about what I said?”

	“Yes, but I still have no idea what you mean,” I mumble in reply.

	“Tomorrow, I want you to go outside.  Walk to the north side of the building.  There is a nest there in a tall, fine, old tree.  I want you to climb the fire escape and watch the babies and their momma.  I want you to watch them carefully.”

	“Ingrid, I want to know.  Are you a ghost?”

	“We’re all ghosts, Spencer.  Haunted to the bones by our former selves.”

	“Alright, now let me sleep” I tell her as I roll over.  When I slip back into a deep dream, Ingrid gets up, walks to the sofa and sits down to listen to me snore.   That night, I dream of birds and their wild, flying freedom.


***


	After my morning coffee, I walk outside to the north of the brick apartment building.  Like Ingrid told me to, I climb the fire escape latter closest to the biggest and oldest tree.  I hear a high, sharp chirping as I climb.  Ingrid came as I slept and this is crazy.  The sound comes nearer and nearer as I get further from the sidewalk below.  Through the thick green leaves I can spy a nest about 15 feet away.  Nestled into the thick separations of several tree trunk-like branches, a cozy hiding place is revealed.  Stuffed in a nest are about six hatchlings waiting for their mother to return.  It’s not long before she does.   The fledglings crane their necks and squawk wildly for the food she brings and her undivided attention.  There is something beautiful and innocent in the way that she cares for them.

	After making my way down, I walk back inside.  As soon as the apartment door shuts behind me, I see Ingrid sitting in my favorite chair.  Ingrid came as I slept, I climbed the fire escape, and now she’s in my chair and I know I’m crazy.

	“The birds.  What did you think of them?” She asks.

	“I don’t know what you want me to think,” I reply.  If the doctors thought I was a mess then, I am certain they’d lock me up now.

	“Suppose that for a moment that those birds are all that matters.  Their lives, their breath, their very existence.  Tell me Spence, why do the birds live? Why do they carry about the way they do?”

	I have to think about this for a moment, “Well Ingrid, that’s nature’s way.  It’s the way of the Universe, the way of all things to live and to die.”

	“You’re right.  Everything lives and everything dies.  If one of them were to get hurt somehow, what would happen?”

	“It would probably die.  Get eaten by a predator or suffer its wounds to death.”

	“And what happened when you were hurt? Did you have to die?”

	“I was taken to a hospital.”

	“You were healed.  They feed you worms and taught you to fly again.  And now you are living, breathing, and healthy.”

	“My brain doesn’t work the same way anymore Ingrid, you know this.  I’ve lost myself.”

	“But you haven’t really, Spencer.  You kept on living, you kept on breathing.  You’re just as alive as the birds and trees and every other living thing that roams this Earth.  Someday, of course, you will die.  But that day hasn’t come yet.  You are alive and you must live in that fashion.  It matters not that your life has changed.  Life is always changing because time runs clear and deep and free.  You are clear and deep and free.  When you start living like those birds, you’ll know that time will heal you.”

	I stare at her beautiful face for a long moment before I turn to the window.  Ingrid’s eyes are too much.  Sun streaks pull their way through the blinds and glass laying shadows and patterns on the wooden table.  A woman below me walks her husky through the alley, brushing her long blonde hair as goes.

	“Start riding that bicycle of yours again”, Ingrid says from behind me.  When I turn around to meet her gaze, I see that she has left me once more.


***


	It’s a Thursday night and the phone rings.  I’m in the bathtub, staring at my toes as they float awkwardly over the empty space next to the tub and the toilet.  I already know who it is.  Even turning the faucet on again doesn’t drown her raspy nagging voice out.  

	“Spencer.  I know you’re pretending to forget to return my calls.  This isn’t funny.  Phil and I need to settle the property now.  You can’t keep playing these head games forever.  I don’t want this to turn ugly, but if I have to involve Phil in a civil case, I will.  That’s not a threat, but you need to get your life in order and so do I.  We can end all of this unpleasantness and go our separate ways.  I want this to be cordial.  I know you can hear me…Are you there? …Hello? I’m not going to be nice for much longer.  Call me back.   Bye.” Click.  Beep.

	Some of the water splashes out onto the floor as the tub begins to overflow.  An hour or two passes before I make any move to mop it up.  That night, my dreams are deep and vivid.   When I wake up, I can remember Ingrid’s clever smile trumping the toothy and condescending grins of doctors and acquaintances.   That same morning, I decide to call Margaret and settle the house.


***


	Three days after my last conversation with Ingrid, I am riding a new bike down a steep, rolling, canyon road.  It’s the first time I’ve ridden a bicycle since the accident and although there are no cars in the early morning sun, the ride feels risky.  The pine trees rush past, the air is crisp and new.  The adrenaline makes my heart pump faster and my head fills with joy until it threatens to engulf me whole.  Air whistles past my ears, swirling the hair that doesn’t fit under the helmet and trails miles behind me.  My chest feels light; my legs are free to push and peddle harder.

   I am swift,

      I am the wind,

         and in this moment,

            I am flying.

Nothing that was asked for

   - by Ashley Rackl 
I want everyone to know
I don't like the sound
of my voice
because my voice tells me
what I don't like to hear
and you don’t like to hear
but hear,
hear,
that cliché bell toll
that time has come to tell
to excuse my pronunciation of "Arbeit Macht Frei"
which means "Work Makes You Free"
an iron lie twisted above the gates of Auschwitz
forever burned in the minds of historians
of victims under Nazi rule
antique, ironic
I contest that the point remains the same
even now
far away from Germany
in the farthest corners of the globe
where German is never spoken
has not been uttered once
because it wasn’t the Nazis
really, who did those things to so many people?
Who built fences and walls of steel
in minds and hearts?
Who sentenced so many to death
for the advancement of a few?
You see,
you see the fences,
the walls,
they are still blocking ideas,
and thoughts,
good natures, and good health,
and brotherhood,
and sisterhood,
and Mother Earthhood.
Because, you see

our borders are larger,
our fences more complex,
our tasks are just as mindless and meaningless.
As the jobs
the Jewish prisoners toiled over at gunpoint
so long ago
hour upon hour
like our children in Honduras or Korea
they perform, fingers bleeding,
as tiny hands attempt to fill an order,
that sounds nothing like freedom
building
seeking taller shoes
that aren't our own
and never will be.
To be honest
it scares me shitless
to look outwards
and inwards
so I look upwards
into forever
the bottomless sky that never opens
to swallow us whole heartedly,
because there’s nothing more to do
than reach inside ourselves for answers
and actions that speak.
That will say a lot of things
we don’t like to say
but can’t refuse to say any longer.
So the words come, and flow, and seep,
and escape through cracks.
As violent as machine gun bullets
hoping,
to fell walls of steel.

Words enter Mouth

   - by Ashley Rackl 
You never ask     You only take
ignore                pretend
to be
Superior             You create
magnificent tools indeed    for nothing
We form stars.

Older than you      wiser
We listen              even to Your voice
which speaks        to nothing         but itself.

We feel the earth
the waves           the mist   the mountains   the valleys        the sky   the rhythm
the pounding beat of all that is
harmonious          ethereal   sounds of sea   great migrations   trampled grass   anthills
and jackhammers     blindly uncivilized.

We nurse the breath
You continue to take
and take
and choke
Our stars         Our dying stars.

Unknown Sea

   - by Ashley Vest 
It’s as if I’ve stepped into an unknown sea.
So vast, so large, it consumes every inch of my body,
And more.
More that my awareness knew of existence,
And now its life is foreign as overseas,
But it seems to easily be known.
Easy to slide down the depths of my soul,
Into the most wanting core I have recently found,
And the ocean is a monstrosity of the most desirable seas.
I swim amongst and with the tide,
And my body flows and sways upon,
The ever escalating sense of this.

In the Land of Sleep

   - by Betty Stoneman 
“Only that day dawns to which we are awake.” -Henry David Thoreau, Walden

In great, unconscious palaces,
vivid, pearly and florescent,
from dusk to dawn
we stumble upon
Morpheus’ treasuries.
Teased with glimpses
of paradise and
tempered by the torments -
entangled in images of hell.
Upon a pillow of stone
a head, heavy and weary rests.
Tuck away the day
as the edges of reality frays.
Inside the cemetery for
discarded thought,
buried in the blankets of earth,
is a world in which
hell and paradise intertwine,
mutate and morph
becoming indistinguishable
from each other,
leaving the sufferer
tortured by the touching,
comforted by the beating,
and vindicated by the fleeting.
Despite the surrounding absurdity,
in between the telltale reason
of the head,
and the rising swell
of the heart,
is the place it will dwell.
Too unrefined for social discourse,
goddamned with no recourse,
every night we succumb
to the departing sun.

Immigrations Past

   - by Brandon Michell 
	Where did I come from? Why am I here? These are the type of questions that each of us should examine and understand in order to recognize where we come from and our past.  In this paper I will discuss where I have come from and the welcome that my ancestors received upon entering America, the great land of the free. I will also include some of the similarities and differences my ancestors had to endure such as cultural and technological differences compared to the circumstances that I live in today. Another part I will explain is the history/past compared to present/future and some privileges and disadvantages that distinguish my ancestors from modern culture today. “The past is the present, isn’t it? It’s the future too” (O’Neill). The choices that were made in the past by our predecessors reflect the consequences that affect us today and for those in the future.

	It was the year 1812, when Britain was at war against Napoleon’s French army. The effects of this war brought many hardships and along with it the struggle of existence for those living in Great Britain’s Empire (Ferguson). My descendants who came from the British Isles faced many difficult times and were converted to the “Mormonism” religion (Ludlow). They accepted the new religion from the depths of their hearts. Although ridiculed and sneered at by many they were willing to make all sacrifices necessary for the Gospel’s sake. Their greatest desire was to gather with the saints to Zion, located in Utah, in the United States (Ludlow). My great-great grandparents were willing to leave the British Empire, one of the strongest in the world, to a newly developing America all for the reason of religion. I don’t think I could leave my homeland, let alone my entire life behind, for something such as religion. The difference being that I could not leave America for any other country, yet we have the same religion in common.

	“On 31 March 1853, Mary Green and Henson Walker my great grandparents, sailed through the Gulf of Mexico and arrived at New Orleans. They journeyed up the Mississippi River to Missouri and then to Iowa. While journeying along, the Green family was told about the beautiful Utah Valley with the cottonwood trees and sparkling streams of fresh water. They had to walk 1,500 miles to the Salt Lake Valley. The hot sands burned her feet and cactus thorns often penetrated deep into the flesh as shoes grew thin. Summer heat faded into chilly autumn breezes” (Ludlow). The welcome of my great grandparents is very unique in that they where gladly accepted into America.

	While the people were very nice as they arrived in America, the circumstances they had to face while traveling to Utah were not pleasant. The conditions of that time were very different from what they are today. The Green family had to walk, struggle through the heat, and were challenged with chilly weather. They were also faced with many diseases such as malaria, cholera and dysentery (Scott). Malaria brought many symptoms, which for my ancestors included: chills, sweats, fevers, and abdominal pain.  This disease was carried by mosquitoes who would bite someone and they would become infected (Hardships).

	Now, we have the luxury and comfort of cars, heating, air conditioning and doctors. Some of those from our past have endured many difficult and trying times so that their fortunate posterity in the future could enjoy what they have done. Because of this, I will do all I can here in the present to help my future and those who follow me in the future. This results in a never ending cycle, as we receive so we must give.

	My great grandmother, Vivien Baxter Harper Scott, once said, “Although we are scared and we don’t know the future we trust God above will be with us. And with a prayer in my heart, I feel these trials were only a test of our faith” (Scott). We know our past and the future are determined by our choices and actions. In the past my great grandparents lived with many disadvantages, like migrating to new lands, while we have the privilege to be here and receive these opportunities. The heritage of believing in God is something we still believe today, that which brings us closer to our past and knowing how we are blessed.

	During the early years of the establishment of the Mormon Church the Governments of Missouri and Ohio often accused “Mormons” of breaking laws and disrupting the peace just because they represented a new and different religious view. This discrimination became so extreme that the Governor of Missouri issued an extermination order on all members of the church.  Despite the discrimination that many Mormons faced even after moving the entire church to Utah, Henson Walker, my great-great grandfather won the first municipal election and became the mayor in Pleasant Grove Utah in May 1855 (Grove).  Through his ethic of hard work and determination he rose to a position of status.  His efforts laid the ground work for the success and good fortune that our family still enjoys today. His example has reminded me to do my best every day and to learn from the past in order to continue to progress and improve my future. The reason why we are so advanced is because we continually add upon each other’s knowledge.

	As American settlers moved toward the Western United States, they pushed native Indians out of their homes and lands forcing them to change cultures and habitual life.  When my ancestors came from Great Britain, they had to accept much of the new culture of America. Both the immigrants and the Native Americans were forced to try and maintain their own sense of tribe, community and family while simultaneously participating in the dominant culture of America as a whole (Falkenhagen, and Kelly).   Today the dominant society here in the United States is still mostly of European decent and because of my ancestors I am part of that dominant group. I am glad to be an American and to enjoy the culture that has developed over the years and as a part of the dominant social group I enjoy many benefits that other minority groups do not.

	How do I relate to my cultural roots coming from Great Britain? Today, those who remain in Britain and those who came to America both enjoy much of same culture. Some of the similarities we have include: similar foods, language, government and religions. On the other hand some of the differences are the different dialects we use and food. In one of the journals of my ancestors they describe the food they had to eat on their birthday, which included: sea biscuits, beans, and bacon (Ludlow). I relate to them in the fact that they love to eat, but the types of food are different as well.

	It is interesting to note the many challenges and experiences that my ancestors had to face while adapting and accommodating a new culture. As “Mormons”, they were not welcomed in the Eastern U.S. but forced to the Western U.S. to settle there. Today, from their actions, I benefit greatly; and it amazes how much I would not have without them in the culture I live in today. Once a subculture, and now a dominant culture, we stand in the freedom of religion and rights. I learned the importance of my role in society and how I am affected by the past. With a good attitude, I can live in the present and affect the future both for me and as well as those who will follow.




Works Cited


O’Neill, Eugene. "Long Day." Noteable Quotes. N.p., n.d. Web. 2 May 2011. <http://www.notable-quotes.com/p/present_quotes.html>.

Ferguson, Niall. Empire: the rise and demise of the British world order and the lessons for global power. 2004. Print.

Ludlow, CarolAnn Lloyd. "My Story Of My Great-Great Grandmother." (2001): Print.

Scott, Vivien. Interview by Brandon Mitchell. 27 Apr 2011. Print. 2 May 2011.

Hardships, . "Oregon Trail." Oracle ThinkQuest n. pag. Web. 2 May 2011. <http://library.thinkquest.org/CR0210182/hardships.html>.

Grove, . "Pleasant Grove History." N.p., n.d. Web. 2 May 2011. <http://www.plgrove.org/index2.php?option=com_content&do_pdf=1&id=2>.

Falkenhagen, Maria, and Inga Kelly . "The Native American in Juvenile Fiction: Teacher Perception of Stereotypes." Journal of American Indian Education 13 (2). N.p., n.d. Web. 2 May 2011. <http://jaie.asu.edu/v13/V13S2tea.html>.

The Conquered Worm

   - by Brian Carlson 
Lo! ‘Tis the gala night
Within those lonesome latter years!
A throng of the seraphim on high,
Come in like form of like,
Both jasmine so crisp and white
And roses redder than the hue of blood
Arrayed in clothes that glitter brighter
Than the stars in the heaven high
In veils, and drowned in tears,
These seraphim sit in the theater,
More of consciousness than of guilt
To see the play of hopes and fears
As the orchestra breaths deeply
The music of the spheres

Mimes, in the form of God on high
Or in shadows of Lucifer below
Doth mutter and mumble
From on high or far bellow
Flying hither and thither, forever more
Mimicking as if mere puppets, who come and go
At the bidding of the vast formless thing
That shifts the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from their Condor wings
Invisible, but not to all!

True to Form, that drama in motley form
Shall it be forgotten never more?
With its Phantasm chased ever so forever more,
By a crowd that partially seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returns in
To the self-same spot,
Tis true the elements of are of madness and more of sin
And Horror the soul of the plot,
But to those who seize it forever more doth see
More of hope!   But even more a
Plot of love and compassion.

See, but even more do not sleep nor seize at not
The darkened shape crawling shape doth intrude
A blood –red thing that writhes from with out
The scenic solitude, within the Garden so deep and private
While his others slumber yonder.
He writhes! –He writhes! - With mere mortal pain and pangs
In a Garden, clothed in roses red and jasmine white
Such a spectacle to behold!
For the invariant Sun doth descend below,
So that all may ascend to the starry night sky
Abrogating the seraphs sob at the mortal pains
For all focused on the human gore imbued.

Out-out are all the lights-out all!
And over each quivering form,
The curtain, more akin to a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm
All the seraphim of heaven high, all pallid and wane
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man”
And its hero the Conquered Worm.

O God! O Divine Father! These things shall be
Forever more undeviatingly so
Through the grace and invariance of Thy beloved
Sun hath forever more
Conquered that play called Man
By Thy true love we Thy Children are part
And parcel in Thee.
Thou who knows the mysteries of the will and its vigor
Man doth yield to these temptations and unto death utterly
But because of Thy perfect love we are free
Both jasmine white and roses red shall return
Like shall return in like, forever to remain with Thee.

Sewing Machine

   - by Brittney Condie 
	“Come on honey let’s go get it.”
	The little sunshine in the back seat took her mommy’s hand and jumped to the curb. Everything was so bleak today but she brightened at the sight of a bungalow house she loved.  She glanced into her mother’s face,”Mom, maybe Grandma is awake today!”
	“No, honey, I am sure she will still be sleeping.”
	Katie scurried to keep pace with her mother and gasping with hope, “When will she wake up?”
	“Honey, not now. We have to get your sewing machine.”
	Katie stopped pulling her hand from her mother’s, “It’s not mine, it’s Grandma’s.”
	Her mother hesitated on the walk, “She wants you to have it right now. Come on.”
	Katie stood her ground, “How do you know?”
	“Grandma said so in a note. Let’s go get it now, come on.”
	Katie sat down, “No! She told me when she goes for her journey home it would be, but she’s asleep! So it’s not!”
	Katie saw a tear slide down her mother’s cheek, “Katie, Grandma sleeps because she is on her journey. It’s yours. Please come with me.”
	Katie’s stubborn expression melted and a tear fell to the ground, “She didn’t say goodbye… but I made a present for her to show her daddy.”
	“Oh…Princess, come here. “ Katie went to her mother, who scooped her up and cradled her.
	“Mommy?” Came Katie’s muffled voice.
	“Yes Princess?”
	“Grandma will come back right?”
	“Some people think so, so maybe you should save it, but it will be a long time.”
	Katie sniffled. Maybe was better than never.
	“Mommy can we go get it now?”
	“Of course.”
	Katie was content and let her mother carry her into the house. Who had to dodge two men who carried a headboard Katie recognized. It was her grandma’s.
	Inside, Katie asked her mother to put her down and together they found the old yellow sewing machine. Katie ran her fingers over a small doll that lay next to it on a pile of clothing patterns. It was unfinished, a project she would put aside for later when her grandma came back.  Her mother unplugged the machine and they left with it in her mother’s arms, and the dear doll departed in the loving arms of Katie.

	“Mom?!” Katie’s daughter was going though the dust covered surroundings finding stuff to sell at a yard sale the next day.
	“What, Ellie?!” She was in a small kitchen upstairs.
	“Can’t Tom and I sell that stupid machine?”
	“No.”
	“Why? You don’t even use it,” Ellie huffed up the stairs.
	“I will someday. Plus that quilt you love so much was made by it.”
	“So who cares, it’s finished now. When will you use it again?”
	“When I want to.”
	“When great grandma returns from the grave?”
	“Who told you that?” Katie turned and examined her disrespecting daughter leaning against a wall.
	“Grandma, of course, who else? You know according to her Great Grandma came to visit her, and guess what?” Ellie’s arms crossed comfortably, it almost made her a good looking target.
	“Not now, Ellie. Go find something better to do.” Katie turned back to the noodles boiling on the stove.
	“She said.…”
	“Ellie, I will not stand for this!”
	“Fine. Keep the useless sewing machine. I bet no one in this century would want it anyways!” Ellie went stomping back down the stairs.

	“Where’s Molly?” Katie shifted under her blue flannel blanket.
	“Mom, don’t worry about her she playing with that doll you two made,” Ellie cradled her mother’s wrinkled and weak hand.
	“I need to talk to her.”
	“Mom no you need to rest.”
	Katie shook her snow white head, “No Darling, I promised to tell her good bye.”
	“Mother you’ll be fine…” silent tears started to moisten Ellie’s face, and the wizened old hand departed from hers and wiped them away.
	“You and I both know that’s not true, I need to tell her.”
	“Why?”
	“So I don’t leave her like my grandma left me…” Katie’s chest rattled, “And to tell her to take my treasure, that sewing machine you hated so much.”
	“Mom, I’m sor.…”
	“Just teach her how to use it, my darling, Ellie.”
	“I really am sorry, Mom.”
	“Don’t be.”

I Used To Think

   - by Brookelin Jones 
I used to think life was all about what others thought of me…but you showed me differently.
Thought life was miserable and just something to get through.
Truthfully there was nothing to get me by.
Until you caught my eye.
I know now life is beautiful…and I have something to offer.
The world has so much to offer me. And now that I’m facing
My demons, I have been set free. I found the strength because of you
You taught me a lot showed me what to do I can’t thank you enough for saving me
and proving there’s more than what the eye can see we all have struggles we all
have fear but we don’t have to let it consume us. we all cry tears we all fall down
but we can let love resume us. My heart is pure and I am sure that I know things
I ought to have known before. There’s much to be gained from facing what tends to scare you…nothing better to prepare you.
And you’ve helped me find peace of mind. The color and meaning returned.
Every bridge holding me back you helped me burn!

AMBLE

   - by Cami Escobar 
Wither to sleep
Fade into slumber
Smoking through stain glass windows
A simple smile, caught in a pause on a beautiful afternoon
Sinking into solace like a quiet stream drifting nowhere
Passing me as I sit, listening to the
Irresistible seduction of a perfect afternoon

Coming to Grips with being a Bastard

   - by Carlos Rivera 
	At the age of thirty, I finally came to grips with being a bastard. Have you ever been led to believe something was actual reality when in actuality it was far from reality? Well, I finally just got over the fact that I never knew my biological father nor had anyone to call dad.

	I grew up fatherless. I am the youngest of nine children. As the youngest I remember living a pretty happy life as a child. I was labeled the annoying one. I can agree, I was in everything and I had to know everything, which made this mystery more interesting. I can’t complain, my mother was there. For the most part I didn’t miss the presence of a male figure in my life. I was lucky to have the support and examples of different role models from different organizations that were able to influence me positively. I kept busy at a young age with church and community activities. There was a mystical father figure out there. Imagine you are four or five years old, you see this man who doesn’t say a word to you, and everyone calls him papa. I immediately put him up there as a father figure because he was called father. By default, he took on the father role in my little head even though I never had a conversation with him. I never had any interactions with him. 

	No one in my family ever enlightened me to the truth. I went along in my world not questioning anything really. I was pretty content in the life that I was living. I guess my needs were being met. My mother hadn’t denied or confirmed whether or not this mystery man was my father. I guess I just took it for what it was until one day when my sister was irritated with me. 

	As “normal” kids we teased each other a lot. I would get in her business and she would try to put me in my place. I would expose her conniving plans and she would show her hate towards me. I ultimately looked up to her as a younger brother would. One day when I was about twelve or thirteen we were at each other again. It was a sunny day. I remember the sunny rays beaming through the living room window and the dust particles floating through the air. I was annoying her. She retaliated by insulting me. I quickly fired responses to her insults and that is how it went until she shouted, “YOUR FATHER!” Everything went quiet for me. Amidst all the noise I could hear the sound of a pin drop a mile away. I was a bit shell shocked. In my mind I asked myself, did she really just say your father? Why would she stoop to that level? How could she insult our father? I’ve heard kids say your mother as a form of retaliatory insult but never expected my sister to say something like that to me. I asked her to explain and she said that we didn’t have the same father. Incredulously I inquired of my mother. Her eyes widened to the size of half dollars and she said “who told you that?” She then revealed to me the truth and I was heartbroken. I felt like I was the result of a table cloth snatching trick gone wrong. The footing and foundation of my world swept from under me and I came crashing down emotionally. 

	It took me a long time to get over that revelation. I hated my mom for a little while, but I couldn’t hold anything against her for long. I just didn’t get at the time why she kept that information from me. I struggled with reminders as I attended father and son campouts with church leaders. I was also reminded when there were activities at school involving dads. I carried the pain and disappointment for a while. It affected my self esteem and self worth. A part of me was missing. Where was this man that biologically was my father? I on occasion think about this mystical figure that I have not yet known.

	As precious metals are refined by fire, I feel I have grown and developed into an open minded and introspective individual. I have survived the test of a divorce and other failed relationships. I have survived the drug and crime ridden neighborhood that I grew up in. I have come to know myself. I have come to appreciate me for who I am. I am not defined by the decisions made by others. I am not defined by the past. I smile knowing that I am where I am in my life. I smile knowing that I have come to grips with being a bastard.

Ghosts of Our Past

   - by Cauleen Mae Hansen

The ghosts of our past haunt our memories, thoughts, and actions.
They taunt us with their knowledge of deeds past.
They lurk in the dark corners of the mind,
waiting to float out at us at the most unexpected times.
We try in vain to exorcise them in various ways,
with drugs, alcohol, and self-inflicted amnesia.
The ghosts are smart, though.
They may hide for awhile in the haunted house of our minds,
only to reappear again and again.
We claim we are changed, healed, cured, better, well.
The ghosts know better.
The ghosts know it is only a facade,
and that we make our own mirrors.
We make our own mirrors, don’t we?
Fit ourselves together to present a reflection of ourselves
to flash to the world.
The ghosts truly know us.
They know where all the skeletons are hid,
how every scar was made.
They present the nightmares that wake us up with a scream,
trigger our memories when we hear a song.
They are always there in the shadows of the mind.
Waiting.

Is This Really Happening?

   - by Ciara Garcia 
	I couldn’t stand without being completely overwhelmed with the feeling of fainting. It had already been two weeks that I was out of school. I thought to myself, What is this? Why now? I just started my sophomore year! All I could think about was the amount of make-up work I had to complete. While resting in the same spot I had been for what felt like months, my mom drained of wondering said, “That’s it. We’re going to the emergency room. Something is wrong with you, I know it!”

“Mom, please. It’s probably nothing.”

“I have this awful feeling, Ciara. We have to go see a doctor.”

	I remember going through all the possible scenarios in my head while we were on our way to the hospital. Never did I consider the magnitude of what was about to happen. 

	The staff ran a number of tests, checked my motor skills, and fulfilled typical lab work. Finally, they decided it was time to order a CT scan of my brain. The anticipation was like trying to sleep on Christmas Eve when I was five. I couldn’t wait to hear the results. During this waiting period, I started to realize how many people truly cared about me. The nurses cracked jokes, “Wow, you guys are having a party in here!” I had at least ten people in my room with me at that point.

	The young, beautiful ER doctor on duty that night entered the room. In a soft, compassionate voice she said, “Mom and Dad, you might want to take a seat.”  As my parents situated themselves on either side of me, the doctor spoke again, “We found a very large cyst in your daughter’s brain.” I looked around the room and saw worry flush over my parents’ faces. She informed us that the cyst was benign—not cancerous. However, I wasn’t out of the woods yet. My mother’s eyes welled up with tears as she embraced me even harder. We continued to listen to the doctor explain the complications of what could happen if we didn’t operate immediately. My brain surgery was scheduled for the next morning.

	I was both reluctant and delighted to meet the man who was to perform this intimidating procedure. Tall, bald, and admirable, he positioned his hand in front of him.
“Hi there, Ciara. I’m Dr. Muhonnen.”

	I shook his hand. I swear, all doctors’ hands are cold! At this point I couldn’t stray from the thought of death. I was fearful. The success rate of the craniotomy was eighty percent. That twenty percent would be the end of me. I was certain.

	Right when I was getting used to the stale, clean, plastic-like scent of my room, the anesthesiologist came to take me to the operating room. My parents followed me as far as they could. The image of them holding each other, my mom crying, while I thought to myself, Will I ever see them again…will forever be painted in my mind. As this stranger wheeled me away from my parents, I stared at the fluorescent lights passing over me. I considered silently, Is this really happening?

	In reality, four hours and fifty-six minutes had passed. Of course I felt like only seconds had gone by. In a very muffled voice coming from the ICU—Intensive Care Unit—nurse I heard, “Ciara…Ciara…Ciara?” I realized that I had done it! I defeated that monstrosity of a cyst.  My head felt like it was a ball consisting of eight cinder blocks. I was confident it was the size of a beach ball. My blurry vision grew sharp and I saw a familiar face. My dad stared at me with this look in his eyes as if I had just won an Olympic gold medal; So proud.

	Even though he shaved my head, Dr. Muhonnen was my new hero. This man did something great. He saved my life. He has affected me in ways that will probably remain unknown to him. After four days in the ICU I said my thank you’s and goodbye’s to everyone, including my lifesaver.

	I spent a solid week resting and relaxing at home before I began to feel somewhat normal. Soon after I finally felt at ease and the time came to restructure my character. Naturally, I became a completely different person. I notice things now that I never did before. Maybe most importantly, I’m able to view this experience in a new light. I resented the fact that I was faced with brain surgery for a very long time, until now. Viewing this adventure positively has enabled me to do more than your typical ‘second chance’ epiphanies. However, this incident will always remind me to welcome every day with a smile on my face, no matter the circumstances. I wonder though, If I never developed this cyst from birth, would I still be who I am today?

I Live

   - by Clifton Armantrout 
In the end
The end is too much to predict
It's all I can give
The more I die  
The more I want to live
In the life that was given
Mine seems unfair
And if you ever let me out again I'll live until I die again.
Tomorrow might lead somewhere.

Ignoring Intuition

   - by Clifton Armantrout 
Today:

	At first the rats were the audience. They came into the little hollow and seemed to line up for a show. As their numbers grew though, so did their gall; now everyone is a participant, the only audience left is you.

	You can tell he’s getting very tired, so tired, he seems to have lost his will to fight them off. There’s a big white rat that just took a chunk of nose. You can see that his arms are braced tightly above him and his blood is saturated into the roots that are his restraints — even in this dim light you can see the blood, shiny on his fore arms, on its way down to collect into the  puddle beneath him. No one but God himself could tell what of it used to be his blood, and what used to belong to the rats that he managed to smash to a pulp, back when he still had the strength to stomp on them.

	Twenty-four hours ago he would have laughed at the idea he might be helplessly wishing for the end of his life to come sooner, but when the trees lowered him into this hole in the ground, and the earth closed above him, he finally admitted to himself that he should have listened to the “old woman.” He feels more than he sees the mess that he is standing in, because his vision is becoming blurry and his eyes can’t seem to focus on anything anymore. He can see one thing quite clearly though, he can see the end — he hopes it will reach him soon.

YESTERDAY:

	As he steps out of the back of the town car he’s in a good mood, he can’t believe how lucky he is to have gotten a spot so close to the crafts & hobbies store; he barely notices the homeless looking old lady that he nearly bowls over.

	The woman clears her throat as the two of them kind of bounce back off of each other and then, at last, their eyes meet. His eyes are a bit dull, despite the good mood he was in just seconds ago, he’s wearing the expression of someone who’s mildly annoyed. When he looks into the old woman’s eyes he is confused at what he sees — youth. And just as strange is her voice when she speaks to him.

	“You need to let go of this.” When she speaks, her voice is as young as her eyes; the old homeless looking woman sounds like a child.

	“I’m sorry?” he says, confused, not believing the little girl’s voice really came from this old woman. He looks around for the little girl that must have spoken, but his gaze finally returns and this time his eyes are on her lips as the child’s voice comes from the old woman’s mouth.

	“You can’t go on like this.”

	He steps back to the point that he’s leaning on the town car and that’s good, because his head feels like it’s spinning. He wants to tell the old woman that he has no idea what she’s talking about, but his voice is lost; just as surely as his breath would be lost if someone punched him in the gut—he knows exactly what she’s talking about.

	The homeless woman has an ora about her when he looks back at her; a white light that surrounds her and is almost too bright to look at, reaching a ten foot radius at least. This time when she speaks her voice sounds quiet and yet is booming in his ears.

	“She has had too much of you.” Her voice, so small, and so loud inside his head, “She has decided that she must be done, she has decided she can wait no longer for you to realize, and that she can no longer afford what you are taking.”

	He is almost hypnotized by her voice and notices nothing else until she stops for a moment to allow him time to take this in, and then he notices the pedestrian traffic flowing by around them—notices that no one is taking any notice of him or the glowing woman. A chill runs its course; sweat beads and trickles down his body. She speaks again and now her premature voice is all he can hear.

	“I only ask that you try, she does not wish to harm you but feels that she must if you don’t take her warning seriously this time. It is a barren quest your venture, and it is time you see it as such. It is only fair.” Her voice cracks in this last sentence; squeaks just like a pubescent teenager.

	The driver’s door opens and he turns to look, Mike is standing there, a giant of a man, looking even bigger in his driver’s uniform. “Everything all right boss?”

	He looks back for the bag lady, but she’s gone (if she was ever actually there in the first place).

	He tells himself, “That didn’t just happen, I’m just nervous…”

Today:

	They’re eating his eyes and he’s cursing himself for still being alive. His gut had nagged him from that moment on, he almost took the old lady’s advice and called it quits right then and there, but that would have meant financial suicide and he just couldn’t do it. Even after the old woman — that wasn’t really old — spoke to him in that chilling, childlike voice.

	It isn’t just rats anymore. After the rats came in they soon gave way to spiders, and not the kind of poisonous, hairy, monsters you would see on a movie screen. These are just tiny little legs that are all over him now. Itches he will never scratch. Itches only trailed over and over again by little legs. Legs of flies that are starting new families and ants too big to fit on quarters. He can almost feel the maggots growing out of his skin. His flesh is now a buffet.

	Only now does he realize that his flesh was borrowed. For the first time in his short and seemingly prosperous life he finally grasps the time it took to get to this point, by then the spiders, the kind that look like little harmless specks, had eaten into his brain. 

	The trees had to chuckle, just as they had as the ground closed above him. And to their credit it was a little funny. How humans thought that they were so big; that they thought that being big even mattered.

Tomorrow:

	Justin stands at the kitchen table feeling like he’s done something wrong. He’s playing with his Legos, but they don’t seem to have the luster that they usually do, so he helplessly goes back over to the almost completed replica of the Golden Gate Bridge.

	It’s really quite amazing; there are cars on the road and tiny little people on the walkway. His daddy helped him spray paint the cables—three pieces of twine that he twisted together—and they look just like they do on the real one, spaced out in scale. The detail is incredible and the craftsmanship nearly perfect; it’s only missing the last little bits of trim that will make it almost look real enough to cross. Daddy said he was going to get the stuff to finish it and that they could do it today.

	But daddy didn’t come home last night like he was supposed to. Mommy said that he had to work late, but it looked like she was crying.

	Justin looks past the unfinished bridge and out at the old weeping willow in the yard. There’s a spot on the tree, where two limbs branch out, it looks like it’s smiling. Justin notices this smile for the first time and thinks I wonder if it has teeth.

The Response

   - by Codie Deleano Carver 
I ache for an understanding, not my own but of the one my heart dares longing to dream.
 
Another soul as old as mine, from a place in which there is no time. I'm already seen as a fool in this life for being alive. 
 
For pain is the greatest teacher, and with yours I will be and have been. Its only when our hearts can bleed open with each others can they be sewn up again. 
 
I can dance in your joy and be dipped in my own. No rules where nothing else matters except these moments we hold. 
 
I can no longer feed my ego at the expense of my soul. If things I do or say hurt then I'm sorry but I thought you should know. 
 
I can see beauty in failure both yours and mine, for each day is a new step and another left behind. 
 
At the moon I'll scream YES! while still wearing rags. My hands will hurt to put food on the table for the family  I have. 
 
If you can be honest then in your fire I will stand. Without a thought to shrink back but a want to hold your hand. 
 
I am sustained on the inside by something that is so great. Once people try to define or explain it, it tends to slip away.
 
I am content alone with myself and at my best in empty moments.
 
I got the invitation that you sent, in my response is where you hold it.

National Debt - The True Cost of War

   - by Curtis Carlston 
National Debt- How do we acquire it?

	Each year our federal congress passes budget legislation to allow our federal governments to acquire and spend money to keep our government running for the current year. The budget can be broken down into a few major groups; Taxation, Treasury, Defense, Entitlements, and Discretionary spending.

	Taxation is the means by which the government pays for its expenditures contained within its budget for a given year. The federal government collects taxes based on its current tax code every year from individuals as well as corporations. You might consider within your own context as this being your household income, you may get salaries from multiple employers throughout the year for each person working within your own household. These are the moneys you use throughout the year to sustain your household.

	Another way the federal government can acquire funds is through the Treasury Department by the issuance of “Treasury Notes” and “Treasury Bonds”. These are investment vehicles by which the purchaser can lend money to our federal government. In return, our government promises to repay the debt in a specific period of time along with a specific amount of interest every year for allowing the government to borrow these funds. You might think of this in your own personal household as the loans take in order to make additional purchases.  For example, a mortgage, a loan for a car, or perhaps credit cards that you use to make larger purchases for things that you couldn’t normally purchase within a given pay period. When you borrow money from a lender you promise to make timely payments until the original principal is returned to the lender along with interest that the lender considers a profit for allowing you to use its money for that period of time.

	The federal government utilizes the money it collects through these sources to pay for the things it is responsible for. To simplify, let’s break them into 3 main considerations.

	The Department of Defense is responsible for defending not only our nation as a whole, but what we consider the American way of life.  The department of defense spends money to sustain our military to fight our wars both domestically and abroad. It is also responsible to support our internal security through particular divisions within the government such as, Homeland Security, the Central Intelligence Agency, the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the like.  In addition to national departments, the federal government is also responsible for subsidizing our local security forces i.e. our state and local law enforcement agencies.

	A large portion of the federal government’s current expenditures goes to entitlement programs.  Social Security is a means by which our Nations citizens pay into a fund with hopes that one day when we retire or become disabled; our federal government will assist with our living conditions.  In addition to living assistance, we also expect our government to assist us with the cost of health care.  As well as income assistance for a particular amount of time should we become unemployed through no fault of our own. Additional entitlements include pensions for those individuals who have worked a considerable amount of time for our government within varying agencies. 

	Finally, we expect our federal government to assist our State governments in helping to support the costs of infrastructure; our major freeways and highways, bridges, railways and airports as well as educational assistance for our state schools; both elementary and higher education.  Setting up resources within our local communities to assist us with a better quality of life are all responsibilities that fall within the discretionary spending of a year’s budget passed by our congress.

	Each year when congress convenes on the task of passing a budget, the end result is a surplus or deficit.  If we as a country have enough money for the year to sustain our spending is “a surplus”. If we fall short of meeting our expectations and must rely on the borrowing power of our Treasury Department to acquire the funding necessary to meet our obligations “a deficit” occurs.

Balanced Budget vs. Deficit Spending

	“Since 1790, the United States has been debt-free only twice, in 1834 and 1835. But the government has not added to the debt every year. It ran more surpluses than deficits until the Great Depression. Since World War II, however, the budget has been balanced in only 12 years. Most recently, the budget was balanced between 1998 and 2001 when fiscal discipline and a booming economy resulted in surpluses.”3

	Some perspective; as your household goes throughout the year, you make choices concerning your own personal finances. Do you live within your means? If you have a balanced budget you do. A balanced budget means that at the end of the year, your household has not spent more money than what it brought in. You have met all your obligations with perhaps a little left over at the end of the year “a surplus”. If you haven’t, perhaps during the year, your car broke down and you needed to finance a new one.  Maybe this year’s technology yielded a new television that you just couldn’t live without since you just purchased a new beautiful home. All these decisions forced you to borrow money from somewhere.  You just created a deficit for the year that you plan to make up with surpluses in the years to come. We all create deficits from time to time, and for the most part we take responsibility for those decisions by maintaining future budgets that allow us to pay back our obligations easily and without too much strain on our household. As a general rule of thumb, a household can still maintain the comforts that life affords if our deficits account for less than 30% of our annual incomes, our debt-to-income ratio.

When deficit spending becomes difficult to control

	It’s when we as a whole start to make poor decisions that deficit spending becomes hard to get under control. We decide that the neighbor’s house is much nicer than our own and that we want to have one nicer, not the one that we can afford. The car we have is nice, but imagine how much better we would feel if we just spent that little extra to get the one we really want, even though it’s just outside what we a comfortable making loan payments on. That television we have works just fine, but it would be so nice to get the one that’s 5 inches bigger and a better viewing experience. Though they feel like minor concessions at the time, each poor decision starts to stack up and before you know it our monthly obligations account for 60% of our current income. Though that may still be manageable, crisis arises, and we have to restructure debt to account for crisis. Debt itself is very expensive, “by 2020 the federal government will spend a projected $900 billion each year just to pay the interest on our current debt. That’s more than what the U.S. spends right now on two wars, plus the Department of Defense, Education, Energy, and Homeland Security combined”.1

	As you can see from the from the graph from the U.S. National Debt clock, between the years just following World War II until the early 1980’s our national debt maintained a low even ratio to the revenue the federal government brought in. This can be measured by our nation’s debt to our nation’s gross domestic product or “GDP”.  During that period from the early 1940’s to the early 1980’s that ratio maintained an even keel between 30-40%. Notice however the dramatic increase since that period of time to the present, from the early 1980’s until mid-year 2010.  “The United States is on a path for its debt-to GDP ratio to rise from about 40% in 2008 to about 90% in 2020”.2

	Though the increases cannot be attributed to any one specific factor, the following are some of the major decisions made by congress between the years of 2001-2009 that influenced the dramatic rise of our national debt.


  • 2001 tax cuts: $1.35 trillion over 10 years
    • 

  • 2003 tax cuts: $349.7 billion over 10 years
    • 

  • 2004-2006 tax cuts: $333.4 billion over 10 years
    • 

  • 2003 Medicare drug benefit: $381.3 billion over 10 years
    • 

  • Wars in Iraq, Afghanistan and other spending to combat terrorism: $943.8 billion 2001-2009
    • 

  • Gulf Coast recovery for Hurricanes Katrina, Rita and Wilma: $134.1 billion, 2005-2008
    • 

  • Farm Bills passed in 2002 and 2008: $87.9 billion from 2002-2012
    • 

  • 2008 Financial system bailouts: $99 Billion
    • 

  • 2008 Refundable individual income tax rebate: $124.5 billion over 10 years
    • 

  • 2008 Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac subsidies: $99 billion over 10 years
    • 

  • 2009 Stimulus package of tax cuts: $862 billion over 10 years3

	As you can see, while we could not control some of the crisis that has played a role in the dramatic increase of our National Debt over the last 10 years, much of the decisions we made as a nation did indeed have a large impact on the amount of money that we owe to others.  Perhaps the biggest mistake we made as a nation was the decision to cut taxes during a time of war. “Fighting a war is one of the most reliable ways to create big debt. The British for example, finished repaying their World War II debt to the U.S. in 2007. Germany will finish repaying its World War I reparations in 2010. Every Allied nation except Finland defaulted on its World War I debt to the U.S”. “War typically results in higher taxes. For example, Congress passed a 10% surtax to pay for the Vietnam War. You would take your tax bill and add 10% to it. The tax produced a surplus in 1969, the last one until 1998”. “The wars in Afghanistan and Iraq have cost the U.S. $915 billion through 2009, and the Obama administration allocated another $130 billion to the wars for 2010”.4 The current timeline for continued fighting in these wars stretch beyond 2016, and there has been no discussion whatsoever about rising tax revenue to cover the cost of these campaigns. 




Works Cited

2 de Rugy, Veronique. "Our Unsustainable Debt." Reason Vol. 42, No. 2. Jun 2010: 16+. SIRS 
Researcher. Web. 14 Feb 2011.
2 Gale, William G. "5 Myths About the Deficit." Washington Post. 28 Nov 2010: B.2. SIRS 
Researcher. Web. 14 Feb 2011.
3 Unknown. "What You Should Know About the Deficit and Debt." Gannett News Service. 08 Sep 
2010: n.p. SIRS Researcher. Web. 05 Feb 2011.
4 Waggoner, John. "How Do We Dig Out From Under 12 Trillion in Debt?." USA TODAY. 14 Jan 
	2010: B.1. SIRS Researcher. Web. 05 Feb 2011.

The Lost Tribe of the Shwamii

   - A Formalist Essay by Curtis Whitear 
	Shwamii, the very word harkens back to a bygone era of pulp novels, comic books and serialized radio dramas. The oft fictionalized tribe stands in league with Atlantis, El Dorado and other stories that have made their way into our shared global mythos. You’d be hard pressed to find someone who didn’t grow up hearing lurid tales of the tribe’s inherent cannibalism, human sacrifices, and unholy lust for blonde women. In academia, the tribe has generally been considered little more than a relic of popular imagination. However in recent years many have begun to take a second look at the possibility that the tribe may have actually existed, and new evidence has surfaced which strongly suggests that to be true.

	Though the Shwamii have been referenced in hundreds of stories, it’s generally believed that they first entered into the popular consciousness of the western world with their central appearance in Howard S. Burroughs’ pulp hit Head Hunters of the Himalayas, first published in 1917. Though Burroughs’ estate would have us believe that his knowledge of the Shwamii came from one of his well-publicized excursions into the far east, George Kalat’s unauthorized biography of the authors’ life reveals that the name was more than likely inspired by a brief reference that can be found in Conrad Whitefield’s Ages of the Universe - a Theosophical text, which Burroughs was known to have had a large collection of. In his book, Mr. Whitefield cites the Shwamii as being among the “elder brothers of the earth”, stating that they are one of the last remnants of an advanced, and now extinct civilization of the ancient world.

	Throughout the 1920’s and 30’s, America’s consistent interest in esotericism proved to keep the Shwamii tradition alive and well. Burroughs continued his Himalayas series with eight more installments, and then there was the syndicated comic series “Savages in Paradise,” which held to the west’s tradition of eroticizing the eastern world. In the 30’s the Shwamii made their way into the cinema, appearing first in the 1931 exploitation thriller “Trapped by the Shwamii”, which is now considered to be lost. Next, there was the 1935 Saturday matinee serial “Head Hunters of Shangri La” - a loose and unauthorized adaptation of Burroughs’ first Himalayas novel. A few decades later, a pair of Italian documentary film makers would claim to have actual footage of the Shwamii performing one of their harrowed blood rituals in their 1971 film “Bloody Asia” - the “Shwamii”, as it turns out, were actually impoverished Philippine natives, the blood was a pigs.

	It wouldn’t be until the late 1970’s however, that anyone began to take the myth of the Shwamii a little more seriously. On a visit to the remote Nepalese village of Tang Ting, noted anthropologist David Minton came across the story of an extinct tribe known as the Swabii, that seemed to have much in common with the fictional Lost Tribe of the East for which he had held so much affection as a child. It was a village elder who had first shared the story of the Swabii, describing them as a degenerate clan who were said to have been decimated by some sort of devil. The Swabii were apparently given to cannibalistic behavior and human sacrifice, just as the Shwamii were usually depicted as practicing. Minton would spend the next several years researching the Swabii and building his case, having found numerous similar accounts of their existence throughout the region. His work would ultimately be shared in Volume LVII of the New York Anthropological Journal, published in 1979. Minton’s theories were met with much skepticism, and his reputation quickly collapsed.

	Though Minton’s work failed to find favor with the academic crowd, it did manage to find a small following in various circles within the New Age movement. Despite the title being quite the mouthful, Robert Sheller’s 1994 book Paths of Light: Becoming a Shwamii Shaman was a major success, and Sheller’s seminars continue to attract large audiences. Sheller, who completed his training as a Shaman with a Nepalese group that claims Shwamii ancestry, attests that the Shwamii were the keepers of a higher knowledge which has long since been lost to the modern world, and that their false depiction in the west is merely the result of propaganda on behalf of “the dominant religious culture”.   Here we see the popular depiction of the Shwamii come full circle, not to far from the Theosophical texts of its roots.

	Academic sentiment towards the Shwamii experienced a sudden and drastic change in 2005, with the discovery of a log entry made in December 1824. Henry Altwood was a surveyor for the British Empire who found himself journeying beyond the northeastern edge of Colonial India. It was here that he made two separate, brief entries in his travelogue in which he describes coming across a small tribe he calls “Shwamii”. Altwood’s initial account, seen very much through the eyes of a 19th century imperialist, speaks of a backwards and barbarous group of savages. His second account, logged on July 18th 1825 during his return through the region had this to say of the Shwamii: 


Their numbers, having been quite small to begin with, appear to be thinning. My current count is fifty-seven, down from seventy-four late last year. I attribute this to the rather hostile nature of the Shwamii. This includes ritual sacrifice of their young, followed by consumption of the dead. All of this was done for the honor of Imburru, which I presume to be some sort of God.

	This entry in particular, sent shockwaves through academia which rippled into popular imagination as well; the documentary “Nepalese Blood Cults: The Shwamii Revealed” pulled in huge numbers on the History Channel in 2008.

	Further research into the log entry has revealed more details about the Shwamii. Many scholars made lengthy notes as to the meaning of the word Imburru, which as they believe, translates to mean “pale demon”. Kent Moran, a professor of Anthropology at Rutgers, believes that the sacrificial rituals that took place in Altwood’s presence were done as an act of expunging themselves of the “pale demon” which, he states, “must surely have been Altwood himself”.

	There are of course many dissenters who insist that the newly discovered logs are some sort of forgery, but the overall consensus is that they are genuine. For those that do believe, many questions remain. What ultimately became of these people? And how is it that their name has become imbedded into the vocabulary of our modern culture? Did the Theosophist Conrad Whitefield or possibly Howard S. Burroughs stumble across a copy of the Altwood logs? Or did earlier Theosophists, who claim to have done spiritual training in nearby regions, come into contact with the Shwamii themselves? Perhaps these answers are not to be found, but what is known for sure, is that the real life saga of the Shwamii mystery has proven to be even more captivating than any of Howard S. Burroughs Himalayan adventures.

Move Of A Lifetime

   - by Dajana Perkovic 
	The tunnel was long and gloomy, advertisements of “Colgate” and flights all around. As we continued to walk down, the sound became louder and louder; it was as if we were walking straight into thunder. The sound of suitcases and feet rustling past, it seemed like everyone’s thoughts were written on their forehead, “I just want to sit and strap myself down.”. “Move it, move it, move ittt!”, but the biggest one of all being “What kind of future was in store?”.  My sister’s screams weren’t helping, “We all feel that way dear” says some lady as she skedaddles past her. Feel what way? What makes you so sure you know why she’s even crying? I bitterly think to myself (of course considering I didn‘t speak English, it was in Bosnian), but then I feel bad; she meant no harm-and is probably right. I look at  my dad, he attempts a smile but the eyes say everything; he’s just as worn out and tired as anyone else around. But even with all that wariness and fear in his eyes, that little stream of hope is there- I think of Bob Marley (yes I actually did grow up with his music) and sing to myself “sve ce bit dobro” (everything’s gonna be alright- I never knew the English words, I was just taught the interpretation).

	Really I had not a clue what was actually going on, when we were leaving everyone just kept saying “America, America, America”, what does that even mean? I was generally good with words, but this, this left me completely blank.

	“Welcome! How old are you? Do you need a drink?” I had no idea what this strange woman in a red suit was saying to me, my dad was responding back to her though, why was I not aware of this foreign tongue? She handed me a little airplane and pushed me down the aisle, I found myself thinking how rude that was and who made her in charge; but I did as I was told (yeah I know, what a rebel I am). “24C” FINALLY! I never thought it’d come. I couldn’t do anymore of this though, I just wanted to go back to my bed; 16 hours in a big, white, noisy, machine was not my friend-in fact it was just the opposite.



	I found my thoughts flying away like the plane, to what seemed like centuries ago. As the thoughts flew around I pictured grandma’s cake, one thing I was unable to understand was why she had kept saying who knew when she‘d cook for me again. Something stirred inside me and I started to faintly cry. I didn’t understand where these random lost emotions erupted from, but I quickly wiped the saltiness away before anyone caught the tears. My parents already had one bawling child, one more wasn’t necessary.

	Eleven hours I sat there. Eleven outrageous hours. How is it that sitting for so long makes one so restless? Shouldn’t it have the opposite effect? What makes it even better is my sister cried for probably seven of them, we were like the annoying neighbors; just a lot more close and personal than many wished to be. My mom said she was crying because her ears were plugged, but how do you solve that problem when it comes to a one year old baby? She tried to comfort her by saying we were almost “home”. I wanted to just scream back at her, tell her mom was lying to her. It was so clear that even she had no idea where this big flying machine was taking us. But what effect would that have? I preferred to just sit quietly like I had been. There was only one thing I was sure of; wherever we were going it had better been worth this misery.

	Every once in awhile the women in the red suits, who I had learned were the “stewardesses”, would come by offering drinks, food, blankets; it seemed like they had everything in that little cart of theirs. I felt like a princess, for the first little while that was, and then I started wondering if this was one of those “Hansel and Gretel” situations. I was offered/handed all these amazing goodies, just so I could be plumped up and eaten once our destination was reached. I started to feel nauseous, my parents said that was “motion sickness”, but I knew what it really was. I wanted to save my parents but I didn’t know how to let them know without being suspicious and getting caught. Memories soared back into my  mind, Kristijan (pronounced Christian-my best friend at the time) had been right all along; I should’ve listened to him and practiced my fighting moves when I had the chance.

	All of a sudden my thoughts were interrupted, by what I was told was the “pilot”. My dad leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. He had a big smile (a sincere one this time), but I was still so confused! Why won’t anyone clue me in?! “Half an hour until we were landing” he said. It was almost like that “pilot” voice heard my inner cry of help, good thing too because my fight moves-or not so moves-would’ve gotten us absolutely nowhere.

	I looked out the window and saw monstrous snowy mountains, just like we had in Bosnia, but these were much more massive. What was this place? Everyone around started cheering, the tension and relief seemed to fly out the window, even my sister stopped crying! As I felt my blood rise, I wondered why I was still the only clueless person in this entire “plane”.

	The plane started heading downwards and I felt my stomach say hello to my esophagus, this was the same feeling I had going up. I was still trying to make sense of it, when the noise and “turbulence” came back. My dad looked at me again, “Get ready for the wheels he said”. And BAM we went, bouncing up and down a few times, until finally a steady pace was reached. For some reason I started to feel relieved as well even though I didn’t know what was coming up next; but for the first time in two days, my thoughts weren’t miserably running away with my luggage.

	We got our “carry-on luggage” and slowly made our way up to the front again. When we reached the entrance/exit, the man whose voice had saved us  and the rest of the “stewardesses” stood by the door with big grins. The pilot beamed and leaned over to say something to me, I felt like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz talking to the “Oz”-or I guess in my case staring in amazement at. He took me to a little room where another man in the same uniform as his sat, it had all these strange buttons and made such a variety of noises. I didn’t understand much of it, but it seemed to bring me joy anyway.

	As I was finally getting excited, we were back in that dreary tunnel. What was so great about this thing anyway? Was it really necessary? And why did every one have the same commercials on it? Those emotions were coming back again, I wanted to run back to the pilot; maybe he could somehow explain to me what was going on. I looked up at my parents again, they had relieved looks on their faces. Seeing those looks and feeling a sense of comfort brought me some sort of security, and the emotions went away just as quickly as they had appeared.

	My parents said “Mario” and “Alma” were waiting for us at the end of the tunnel, I slightly remembered them; Mario had had a unibrow and Alma had been a little plump and jolly. At this point I’d agree to anything as long as they claimed the journey was over. I was drained, naïve, and didn’t know them well; but they were my light at the end of the tunnel and I was willing to take a chance in this new world.




Picture Citations:
	http://thumbs.dreamstime.com/thumb_367/1234871383CSK0K7.jpg
	http://www.beaglepaws.com/images/airplaneFun.jpg

Chilled to the Bone

   - by David Barney 
	It was a blistering cold winter night on a very frozen Strawberry Reservoir, somewhere between Heber and Duchesne. My friend Jeff and I were all alone for several miles, sitting on a lake in the middle of nowhere, frozen to the bone and feeling near death. I remember saying to my friend, “Test your heater, make sure it works and that he knew how to use it, before we are out on the ice.” I had a revelation during that fishing trip. I realized that I had to make something happen if I wanted to survive, because my friend failed to test his equipment, we were shivering-our bodies were shutting down.

	As we walked across the lake there was a sound of ice cracking in the distance, a slow approaching rumble and then shaking beneath our feet. The cracks in the ice were a foot wide in some places, over time filled with water and frozen shut. It was after midnight, the temperature well below zero, when we left the safety and warmth of the truck to head out to fish. Jeff and I walked along to our fishing spot, pulling a sled with our pop-up canvas ice shelter, our fishing supplies and a brand new heater—fresh out of the box. Walking along I could feel the ice building and growing, cracking and forming underfoot. We stopped about a half mile from the truck, standing on two feet of ice, over fifty foot deep water.

	I heard stories about people driving their trucks on the lake, only to have them disappear beneath the ice. I begin to think how nice it would be to have the truck right here, just in case we needed it. I was drilling the holes in the ice with the power auger, while Jeff set up the pop-up shelter. By the time we had everything up and into place, we were both chilled to the core. After climbing into the hut Jeff tried to get the heater working while I readied the fishing poles. We were in a two man hut, the lamp was working, the lines were strung, baited and in the water waiting for a hungry fish to pass by. The problem was we were both shivering from the frigid weather and unable to get the portable heater to function properly.

	I was seventeen at the time, Jeff was sixteen and we had been friends since we both could walk. We spent a lot of time together over the years, and a lot of time fishing together. My earliest memories were of the two of us playing in the yard, or somewhere camping with our families. We spent a lot of time throwing stones across the surface of the water, or having sword fights with random sticks. Jeff and I were attached at the hip, and practically brothers. He had been out on this lake several times with his dad. I had only been ice fishing with them a couple of times. Our regular fishing trips were in a small stream on a warm sunny day or a slow moving river during more moderate temperatures. Our fishing trips were usually during the day, but we managed a few overnight fishing trips. Jeff and I had been out on the ice before, but we were completely unprepared for the temperatures we experienced that night.

	I sat there shivering and shaking, my fingers felt frozen even with several layers of clothes, a heavy coat and insulated gloves on. I sat there in a daydream, my mind and body slowly shutting itself down. Wake up, make something happen, it is time to fight.  At that point something inside me took over. I had to act fast, either I get this heater working or we both leave our gear and run back to the truck. Having a similar heater at home, and knowing how it worked, I took over trying to get the heater to kick on. Because the heater was brand new and freezing cold, it took a little work to get it started and running effectively. Finally it started up, radiating heat throughout the small ice shack. Our body temperatures started to rise and once it became more comfortable our moods elevated and we sat there laughing, knowing the dangers we just dodged. We were both so relieved and focused on the warmth, that we almost missed a fish on the line. Jeff reeled in a nice sixteen inch cutthroat trout.

	That trip taught me about myself, and about the dangers of being ill prepared. I learned when dealing with new equipment. Make sure to test it out to know how it works before you really need it. Most importantly, when faced with danger, it is fight or flight. You have to make a plan for survival and work hard to get it done.

I Am a Nobody

   - by Derek Staker 
	On a day as normal as any other, the day after my 13th birthday, my life was changed by four simple words, a phrase that turned out to be the truest statement that anyone has ever said about me.

	“You are a nobody,” screamed Dan as he and I had yet another of our daily disagreements.  I called him Dan because even though he was my biological father, it felt at times that he didn't care for me as a biological son, nor did he act much like what I thought a father figure should.  Sure, he bought me clothes, fed me, taught me how to throw a baseball and many other normal activities fathers do with their sons, but his temper always got in the way.   No matter what we did, no matter how much fun we had, the day always ended with an argument, him getting angry with me for something I did or didn't do.  Granted, I was a typical spoiled last child that didn't respect him or show gratitude for anything either of my parents did for me.  I blamed him for everything, and nothing he could do, in my view, was right.

	This particular day when the unforgettable words spewed from his mouth, we were fighting about my dreams and aspirations to leave the puny town where we lived and do something other than be a lame potato farmer.  That's when he said it, "You are a nobody!"  I guess he wanted me to believe that I didn't deserve more than what he had, that I didn't deserve to be happy and that I, along with my three brothers, was destined to be just like him.  We had worse arguments in the past and he had already made fun of me for the way I looked, the way I acted and even the way I spoke, but never before had he insulted my being.

	For some unknown reason, that day when Dan said the unmentionable words, it hurt.  I can't explain it other than it stabbed me, hard, like a swordsman puncturing the belly of his enemy. I had no response for those words; I froze, like a deer in the headlights.  I didn't cry. I didn't blink.  I just stared at him with a facial expression as blank as a sheet of paper.  He knew the pain he caused was deep, deeper than the ocean.  He immediately began to paddle his words, trying desperately to save our already sinking relationship by telling me he was only kidding; he tried apologizing and even muttered the words "I love you."  I didn't hear any of his empty apologies, the damage was done. The only spaces available in my mind were occupied with thoughts of revenge; what could I do to hurt him like he had hurt me?  Then I said it, "Dan, may I be excused?  I want to go to my room." The look on his face told me I had done it.  By calling him by his first name, I had hurt him; I had dethroned him by removing the last bit of respect I had for him.  I threw away, in my view and his, the title which was so liberally given to him.  From that day forth he was no longer called Father, or Dad, or Pal or any of the other endearing words we used to use.  To me, he was just Dan.  We rapidly grew apart.

	As the years passed, we eventually came to terms with one another.  I realized that he was doing the best he could with what he had been taught by his parents.  In spite of our rocky relationship and even past our rehabilitated kinship, my father's   harsh words taught me something, something so valuable that it changed my life, for the better, forever.  "I am a nobody."  I am wiser because of those words, I am better because of those words, and most importantly, I am who I am because of the unknown wisdom spoken so long ago.

	You might ask how anyone could be better from such a numbing phrase.  I'm not going to lie; I didn't immediately understand that there was wisdom in the words thrown at me that day.  It took many years, a good friend, and the enlightenment of a heavenly being to make me not only accept, but embrace the words Dan had said.  As I reflect back on my life, I can specifically remember, as though they were tattooed in the front of my mind, two events which helped me understand the meaning of being a nobody.  One memory taught me what it truly felt like to be a nobody, a negative in someone’s life.  In contrast, another showed me an example of someone truly special who thought of himself as a nobody.

	I was a sophomore in high school and my self-esteem was as big as a pea. I was starving for attention and would do almost anything to get it.  Living in a small town, there was never much to do besides get in trouble, and even though I was too scared of my father to get into real trouble, I would find anything I could do to push the line of agitation.  This behavior got me the attention I wanted.  Because of my self-esteem issues, I felt a need to acquire someone more homely, more depressed and more vulnerable than me to pick on.  Zack Hone, a freshman, was the unlucky candidate.  Ever since I could remember, Zack had been at least 200 pounds overweight.  He was my target, like a bird in the branches of a tree, not knowing that the site of a BB gun shadowed its heart, my eyes were fixed on Zack.  I was vile and found every opportunity to stroke my measly ego by cutting his into even smaller pieces than they already were.  Then, one gloomy winter’s morning, there was a knock at our door.  It was Zack’s parents and I could tell that something terrible had happened.  Zack had hung himself.  The previous evening, while his parents were away, he wrote a simple note, with eight breathtakingly painful words, “I can’t take the teasing anymore, I’m sorry.”  My heart broke.  I knew that I was partially, if not fully responsible for his death.  What destroyed me the most, was Zack’s father telling me how grateful he was that I was Zack’s friend, and how much Zack looked up to me and how much Zack wanted to be like me.  There aren’t words that can describe how microscopic and gross I felt.  I realized at that moment my father was right, I truly was a nobody.

	The second memory carved in my head was that of a friend, a leader of sorts.  I was then 19 years old and stuck in a country far from my own.  Alone and scared, I yearned for someone, anyone, to bring me close and befriend me. Like Batman arriving from the shadows to defend the weak, President Madsen came to my rescue.  He treated me like a son, and in my eyes, he was the father I never had.  He taught me how to be strong, how to be a man. He supported me in my decisions and provided responsibilities that would teach me leadership, empathy, and love.  As time went on, I noticed that I wasn’t the only person he had helped, nor was I the only person he was currently changing. I noticed he was constantly talking to, sympathizing with, interviewing, writing letters to and emailing others just like me, others who needed help.  It wasn’t until much later in life that I came to find out how expansive his arms of tenderness and concern truly were.  On a sad day, March 2nd 2002 to be exact, it was time for me to leave.  I was headed back to my family and friends and everything else that was unfamiliarly familiar.  As I was saying goodbye to President Madsen, I thanked him for everything he had done for me and what he meant to me and how special he was to me.  President Madsen then caught me off guard, using words that I had once heard, words that were inseparably connected to someone exactly opposite of him. He said, “Derek, I’m a nobody.”  He expanded on what he meant, but I didn’t listen.  I’m a nobody; a phrase that was negatively entangled in every fiber of my soul began to shape into a new meaning.  I knew what he had meant though it was hard to hear a man who I looked up to and admired say the same phrase that came from a man that I despised.

	On the 13 hour plane ride home, I thought back on the day I had learned that Zack had killed himself and what a stark difference there was between the selfless President I had just left and the selfish boy I had once been.  I then realized what it meant to be a nobody.  I recognized that I was not the center of the universe.  I am truly a nobody to billions of people.  It helped me to know that my personal needs and wants are minuscule compared to the needs and wants of the human race. President Madsen understood what it meant to be a nobody.  I knew I had to change. I needed to remember the words of wisdom spoken to me by my father, that no matter the amount of success or money that comes my way, I will always be a nobody.  I felt like a seaman who had found the hidden treasure chest he had searched for his whole life.  I had found my treasure, my key, my secret.   I knew that I was a nobody, but this nobody could make someone else feel like they were a somebody, somebody very special.

Grandma’s House

   - by Erica Gurney 
	Do you ever wonder how different your life would be if just one event was played out differently?  We don’t always get to choose the path our lives go down.  Much of life depends on our decisions, but sometimes it’s just fate; some things we have no control over.
	Lucille Rogers was my grandma.  The only grandparent I ever had the chance to get to know.  Unfortunately, not for very long.

	I remember how much I loved going to my grandma's house.  My mom would drop me and my sisters off at Grandma’s, and leave us for hours while she did her shopping.  Grandma’s house always smelled of freshly made treats, and it always felt so warm and safe.  It had the feeling of love and comfort.

	One of my fondest memories of going to Grandma’s was the time I was sitting in the living room with my snack tray, watching her “soaps” with her as she slowly fell asleep.  When I thought for sure she was out, I would go to the kitchen and sneak another treat.  I’d come back to the living room and try to change the channel, and she would sit straight up and give me the evil eye!

	“Erica, you quit eating those treats, and don’t touch the TV; I'm still watching that,” she’d mumble at me in her sleepy voice.

	“Sorry Grandma,” I’d say, as I shoved the rest of my cookie into my mouth.

	You think that mothers have eyes in the back of their heads, but grandmothers have x-ray vision.  I swear no matter where I was in her house; she always knew when I was up to no good.

	I loved having sleepovers at Grandma’s house.  Behind her bedroom door she had a plethora of t-shirts that I would use as night gowns.  Her bed was made up of two twin beds pushed together.  She would put a chair on one side of her bed so I wouldn't fall off.  Instead of rolling off, I rolled into the middle crack and she would have to pull me out.  Sometimes I would have nightmares, and she would hold my one hand while I rubbed her soft “Relief Society” arms, listening to her hum a tune in my ear.

	I’d wake up the next morning to buttered toast and Tang.  Grandma was awesome because she would buy the good cereal that mom won’t let us eat.  Even when Grandma had no specific plans to go anywhere, she would have her red lips painted on, and the smell of her perfume was fresh in the air.  She was a classy lady no matter the occasion.  She also seemed to know when something was bothering me, and could make wrong things right again.  No matter the situation she would make things better.

	Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.  It was my family’s last summer vacation before I started third grade.  My family was on vacation at Lake Havasu, visiting the London Bridge, when my mom received a call informing her that Grandma was very sick.  Mom and my older sister, Monique, flew home right away to be with her while the rest of us stayed to finish our vacation.  A few days later, when we were at the Grand Canyon, we got the call that Grandma’s condition was failing quickly.  My dad drove us home right away, as if he was racing the clock.  When we pulled into Grandma’s driveway, I knew something was wrong.  The house did not have the same warm cheer to it that I had always felt before.  We walked in and all of my mom’s siblings were there, but no Grandma; we had just missed her body being taken away.  I still wish we would have made it in time so that I could have had one more moment with her, but my mom said it was best that we had not seen her so ill and weak.

	I’ve never been a very emotional person.  I didn’t even realize I had tear ducts until junior high.  Crying just wasn’t something I did.  I remember watching everyone crying, and I wanted to mourn with them, but I just couldn’t do it.  At that moment, I remember her house seemed so full of pain and sorrow; it was not the house I was used to.  I ’m not a cold-hearted person; however, I just process my emotions in a different way.  I am certain my grandma understood.

	The next several days were hectic as funeral arrangements were being made.  All of my mother’s siblings and their children gathered in Grandma’s house to divide up her possessions. Every item had a fond memory associated with it.  Each grandchild was able to choose one thing they wanted to keep to remember grandma.  My prize was the yellow daisy cup.  My cup.  Every time I went to Grandma’s house that was the cup I used.  It reminded me of the bright sunshine that was in Grandma’s house.

	The funeral was held on the first day of school.  When I approached the casket to say my last goodbye, I wanted to hold her hand just one more time.  As I reached in to touch her hand, my cousin stopped me.

	“You might not want to do that.  She’s going to come back and try to kill you,” he said.

	Now what kind of person tells that to a child?  From that moment on, I couldn't even look in the direction of her casket.  I went from admiring and loving my grandma to being completely terrified of her.  I realize now how completely ridiculous that seems, but at the time I believed it. Even when we would drive past the funeral home I would hurry and look away.

	The next day I was walking to school, and I finally started to cry.  I'm still not sure if I started to cry because I realized that she was actually gone, or if I was sad because I thought she had turned evil.  Either way, I was not in the right state of mind.  My mom came and picked me up from school.  We headed over to Grandma’s house to finish up the cleaning and to get ready to sell the house.

	I walked in and I had to be on guard.  I no longer felt safe at her house.  I could no longer smell her sweet perfume, but I could still smell the formaldehyde and cheap makeup from her dead body in the casket.  I didn’t want to be there anymore, worrying about how she was planning on attacking me.

	“Mom I’m really not feeling well.  Can we just go home?”

	“In a little bit sweetie, don’t you want to look through some of grandma’s things?”

	“Nope.  I’m good.  Let’s just go now.”

	I started having nightmares.  Instead of my grandma being the one holding my hand, humming in my ear, she was the one hiding under my bed waiting to grab my ankles and take me away.

	They say that time heals all wounds, but as I'm reflecting on this experience my wounds have resurfaced.  It breaks my heart to think that I spent years fearing my grandma.  We all are going to face a death of someone we love at some point in our lives.  Even though I struggled with the loss of my grandma, I was able to learn more about what death really meant.  Luckily I come from a strong religious background where we learn that we will see our loved ones again.  I grew to understand where my grandma was and that she still loves me.

	I have been able to move forward in the grieving process and remember my grandmother for the woman that she really was -- the woman that loved everyone equally; the woman that raised my mother, who is just as amazing; and the kind of woman that I hope to be.  If I could have chosen a different path to have coped with my grandmother’s death, I would have.  I'm grateful for the learning experience.  Over the years, I’ve had more experience dealing with death and grief, but I'm able to handle it the right way.

	Now, every time I drive by grandma’s house, I remember the happy memories that were made there.

EMPTY

   - by Eric Williamson 
	The ship was dead, drifting in space like a corpse in a pond.  Even if the engines still worked, Molly didn’t know enough about them to move the ship.  She was only a recruit and didn’t know much about navigation or technical things like the ship’s engines.  The life support system was one of the few things left on the ship that still worked.  Since it was vital to the survival of the crew, it was very well protected.  Half the lights on the ship were broken, but Molly didn’t need them to know where she was going.  The sole survivor had been down the dark, silent corridors many times.

	The ship had been sent to patrol the nearest star system.  It and all the crew (sans one) died halfway there and it would be some time before anyone realized something was wrong.  The long-range transmitter was badly damaged, and try as she might, Molly couldn’t reach anyone.  Through the portholes, she couldn’t even see much in the way of space debris.  She was very much alone.

	She spent most of her time delving into the personal lives of the dead crew.  Reading diaries, rummaging through personal effects, and trying on their clothes were just a few things she did with her free time.  Free time… she’d always loved having it when the crew was still alive and she still had a job.  Now she had so much it overwhelmed her and she felt it was driving her to madness.  Perhaps it already had and she just wasn’t aware of it.

	This time she was going to the captain’s personal quarters.  It was her favorite place because the smell of the man she loved still lingered in the air.  She had personally gathered every last corpse and cremated them in the ship’s incinerator in order to keep the stench of death from adulterating the scent of her beloved captain.

	Molly cursed the events that lead to the death of her captain, but she felt as though it had somehow brought them closer together.  His personal effects, journal, and his hypnotic smell remained behind.  She learned much from reading his personal journal, and she had read it many times.  He was single and wasn’t seeing anyone.  This made it easier to pretend she had been his lover, as his smell made it easier to pretend he was still there.

	Molly was there for a dinner date.  She wore the finest black silk dress and jewelry she could find.  She spent extra time preparing her long, red hair and took care to ensure her nails were as red and perfect as her lips.  She knocked on the door, feeling it more intimate than using the intercom, and imagined his tall, elegant form answering the door.

	“Molly, dear, I’ve been waiting,” she thought he might say.

	“Not long, I hope,” she said to the empty doorway.

	“Not at all, but if it were for you, I would wait ‘till the stars fell from the sky.”

	Her face blushed at his pretend words.  “N-no Captain.  A lowly recruit like me couldn’t possibly be worth waiting so long for.”

	“You underestimate yourself,” he said.  “A man would wait his whole life and more for a woman like you.”

	“I-I don’t know what to say,” she said, blushing more than ever.

	“Come inside.  I’m sure we’ll find lots of things to talk about.”

	Molly pretended he warmly invited her into his quarters, gently placing his hand on the small of her back as he lead her to the table.  The sight was beautiful.  Lit mostly with candles, the aroma of fine food and the sounds of classical music filled the air and made the simple room exquisitely romantic.  Even though she had prepared all this herself before retiring to her room to change, she acted surprised at seeing such an intimate setting.

	She imagined his gentle touch as he seated her at the table and poured her a drink.  Her one-sided conversation with nothing continued through all four courses of the meal.  She pictured his charming smile and loving eyes existing only for her.  She basked in his ghostly presence and treasured every phantom word.  The conversation got more and more intimate until she had completely forgotten he wasn’t even there, or perhaps she had forgotten from the start.

	“There’s a reason I called you here tonight,” said the captain.  “There’s something I wish to talk to you about.”

	“Yes?  What is it?” Molly asked, her heart quickening with anticipation.

	“I love you, Molly.  I love you more than words can express.”  He leaned over the table to take her hands and looked her lovingly in the eye. “I want you to be my wife.”

	Molly’s heart flooded with feelings of disbelief and delight.  “I-I don’t understand.”

	“What’s not to understand?  I love you and I want to marry you.”

	“But… But I’m nothing.  I’m not pretty or rich.  I’m not even interesting.  I’m just a recruit with no future.”

	“You sell yourself so short.  It pains me to see it.  You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known and if you were any more fascinating, I’d quit my job as captain and spend the rest of my days studying you.  Regardless of how you feel about yourself or what anyone else thinks, I love you and I’d do anything for you to love me, too.”

	Her heart was beating so fast she felt like it would burst.  She wanted to hear those words so badly her very soul ached.  She needed to hear those words.

	“I… I do love you.  I love you so much I don’t know what to do with myself.  That’s why…”  Tears began to flow freely down the sides of her face.  “That’s why it hurts so much.”

	The image of the captain faded and Molly was left alone, looking at an empty seat.  All the food was still laid out, untouched, but she continued talking all the same.

	“Why did you die?  How could you have died?  You always seemed invincible to me.  No matter how bleak the situation became, you always pulled us through.  You defied death so many times… why did you give in now?  Don’t… don’t you care how I feel?  I loved you so much.  I dreamed of us being married.  I dreamed of us living on a nice, quiet planet away from danger and turmoil.  I dreamed of our children and our happiness.

	“Even though we hardly ever spoke when you were alive, I always felt your warmth and gentleness when we did.  Even though I was just a recruit, you still treated me with respect.  You had more confidence in my abilities than I did.

	“Why?  Why did you die?  Why was I the only one to survive?  I’ve never been so alone before.  This loneliness… it’s unbearable.  The emptiness… it hurts… so much.  I want you now more than ever.  I need you.  Why?  Why is it like this?”

	In her despair, the “why” she kept repeating was echoing inside of her.  The injustice and senselessness of it all was bearing down on her.  Her head was bowed and she tightened her hands into fists, as if she could crush the injustice with them.

	“I’m going to die you know?!”  She pounded her fist on the table, her anger and fear mingling in her voice.  “I’m going to die alone and empty like this ship!  I’m going to die a virgin who’s never even had a boyfriend!  I’ll die like this… I’ll never get rescued.  No one would look for me here.  Even if they did find me, what’s the point of living if you’re not there?  How do you expect me to live without you?  I can’t… I just can’t live without you!”

	Molly cried uncontrollably.  She buried her head in her arms on the table and wept.  All the crushing despair of having been alone without her beloved captain had come to a peak.  A full hour she kept crying, releasing all the emotion she’d been holding back.

	Her sobs started to slow, and after a while she rose from the table.  Exhausted, she slowly walked to the bedroom and looked down on the bed with her puffy, red eyes.  She picked up the sheets and held them to her nose.

	It still has his smell, she thought.  She curled up into the bed, inhaling deeply to take in the scent.  Just before she fell asleep, she said, “If only I had died with you.”

The Christmas Party

   - by Hana Jabr 
	It’s your work Christmas party and you have to go. This year they’ve decided to have it at a bowling alley so all your co-workers could bring their kids. You resolve to make the best of it even though you’re coming alone. You team up with some of your work friends and you start to toss a greasy ball down the alley. You can smell those burgers frying and it’s making you pseudo hungry because you’re not really hungry. You purposely ate before you arrived so you wouldn’t spend good money on not so good food.

	Over at the bar, a group of somebodies are sitting close together nursing a few beers. You pick him out amongst the gang and you feel a pang of longing or jealousy, you can’t really tell which it is; maybe both. You toss your neon orange bowling ball into the gutter when it’s your turn and casually wander over to the bar. Their beer is pungent and your mouth waters as you imagine how those golden Coronas with lime must taste. The gang greets you and the pretty girl sitting next to him cracks a joke about how you aren’t old enough to sit with them and have a beer. Ha ha. You want to kick her stool out from underneath her. He catches your eye and motions for you to go outside with him. Your heart skips a beat and you follow him out the front doors.

	You stand in the icy dark under the fluorescent lights of the bowling alley that illuminate you like spotlights on a stage. You shove your hands into your coat pockets, wishing he’d sneak his arm around your waist in a simple affectionate manner. He lights a cigarette and the warm scent of the nicotine hits your freezing nostrils. When he tells you that you look beautiful, you quietly praise yourself for this small victory. You feel the urge to press your lips against his, warm with smoke and tasting like fresh nicotine. You want to wrap your arms around his lean frame while he rests his chin on the top of your head and tells you that he loves you with all his heart. Of course, this doesn’t happen. What does happen is he finishes his cigarette and turns to go back inside. You’re thinking about all the possible secret conversations the two of you could have had in that icy dark under those flickering fluorescent lights, while all he’s thinking about is his unfinished Corona.

	As the night progresses and your co-workers begin to herd their cranky, sleepy children into mini vans, he finally picks up a bowling ball. The employees have turned down the loud, overbearing music and the lights have been brightened, though the effect gives the opposite impression. You sit on one of the hard plastic chairs and you watch him throw strike after strike. He can probably see you watching him, but he doesn’t say anything. You feel something harden in your throat and you beg yourself not to cry. Not here, not now.

	When the scratchy intercom message is heard overhead about how the alley will be closing in five minutes, he simply disregards it and takes another swig from his beer. Later you’ll walk out to the empty parking lot together and he’ll give you a quick half hug as he climbs into his run-down jeep. You’ll get into your freezing car, blast the heater, and drive home blinded by the inevitable tears and feeling that familiar heart-breaking maze of frustration wind itself through your chest.

I am…

   - by Isaac Robertson

I am a snowy mountain-top
Weathered,
Beaten,
Yet strong,
Impenetrable,
Immovable.

I am an injured golden eagle
Fallen,
Desolate,
Yet powerful,
Intelligent,
Magnificent.

I am a simple singularity of coal
Faulted,
Seemingly insignificant,
Yet resilient,
Firm,
Full of potential.

I am a pathway
Rugged and torn,
But fresh, straight, and unyielding.

I am a musical note
Small, quiet, unaccented
But significant, deep and crescendoing.

I am the color of early spring
Gradual, rather monochromatic
But vibrant, lush, and inviting.

I am an individual
Imperfect and insecure
But important, unique, valued.

Irish Rose

   - by Jacob Mark Meyers

Crimson soft petals
And emerald leaves
Dancing in the wind
Their dew gathering perfumes
Merge to make magic
That sweet Irish Rose
My Irish Rose
Her windblown crimson hair
And burning emerald eyes
Her lips are softer then the softest petal
She dances in the wildest storm
Letting the raindrops cleanse her unguarded skin
Her feral soul sings to mine
As she makes magic in the moonlit night
My beautiful Irish Rose

Mustang Man

   - by Jacob Mark Meyers 
The wind blows west,
And the sun burns a wakeup call in the east.
The crisp liquid silver air,
And burning need to run.
Thunder rolls over fields,
And crushed sage fills the air.
No bird can truly soar like, 
A Mustang can.

Muscles flair,
And lungs scream,
But life soothes their pain.
The wolves and eagles,
Feel the joy,
But no king of beast,
Can taste freedom like,
A Mustang can.

A boy turned man,
With gun in hand,
Stands with immortal strength.
His fight and plight,
Urge him on,
To free his savage heart,
And run his pain away.
His true name, 
Is lost to the land,
But we know him as,
The Mustang Man.

The Watcher

   - by Jacob Mark Meyers 
	I sipped at my raspberry hot chocolate while eating outside the little café.  The hot liquid melted down my throat and warms the core of my body as I sat under the fall sun.  It has been nearly two full millennia since the cold has touched me so deep but the foggy feel of my inside is worth the added heat.

	I’m not the only one who sits in the biting cold and enjoys a fine beverage.  I watch a small family at the far table and a single young woman reading a novel near the eaves of the café.  The family, with children playing in the leaves and indulging parents, was a pleasant change in my day.  The woman, who made my heart sing, is the reason why I came to Salem.  She is in her late twenties, with long black hair, and stunning pumpkin colored eyes.  Her eyes had haunted my dreams from the early days of my monstrous life.

	I remember the early days of my new existence.  Surrounded by war and death I was visited at my hovel by a man begging for food.  I had almost nothing but I shared what there was.  The man ate the stale bread and half rotten cheese with gusto and offered me a gift for the food: near immortality.  I had no family.  I had no woman.  I was nearing thirty and the only chance I had for work was to leave my homeland to serve in a war that was not my own.  So I accepted his offer.

	The man transformed before my eyes into a giant wolf with a grey coat and diamond like teeth.  Before I could move an inch or sound a squeak he lunged.  I fell and my world was darkness.

	I woke on the floor in a pool of my own blood.  I went to the barrel outside my door and splashed icy water in my face.  I looked for the wounds that the beast had left but there were none.  The sun was setting.  I have seen only one other like it.  Pale jasmine clouds, with burnt blue ridges and silky gold flecks, were laced with the angry colors of blood painted the sky.  The full moon arose and brought my first change.  I woke in a garden of leaves still seeing those beautiful jack-o-lantern eyes from my dream.  I spent a hundred years hunting Ireland, Europe, and Asia for those eyes.  I never aged but my body became hard and powerful.  And still her eyes watched my dreams.

	I joined with a band of solders and learned to wield a blade.  I was in Wales when I met the man that calmed my need to find those eyes.  He was a rare breed among men.  He knew the truth of me and the world around him, though he was no more than human. His name was Arthur.  The forces of evil were fighting to destroy mankind and he was the only hope they had.  His wizard, Merlin, was a fine man too, but Arthur taught me how to focus my dreamsight.  I became his knight, the first of many, and we fought for the glory of man.  When he was slain in battle he came to me in my dreams.  He told me to watch over man and destroy evil when it tried to gain the upper hand.  Over the centuries I had many dreams but always I saw her eyes. I resolved to wait for those goddess eyes.

	I have done what Author asked.  The blood of many stains my hands but always I have killed to protect innocents.  The laws of man have changed so that they are lax when it came to evil.  They call it different names and try to correct its ways instead of crushing out its life.  They think that murder is the worst evil but I can smell the truth.  So I watch it stalk its prey and hunt it in return.  I am a patient hunter and watch for the scent of fear to stain the land once again.  Before it strikes the last it sees is my blade cutting its heart in two.

	Many would think that I would use my beast to fight darkness but that would drive me insane.  The beast within despises evil as much as I but often times evil controls a man.  Madness awaits any wolf that devours human flesh.

	I sip my hot chocolate again.  The feel of its warmth is nothing to the feel of hunting an unstained soul.  Her eyes meat mine and a smile touches her lips.  So she is watching me as well.  She sits and reads her book but from the corner of her eye she watches me.

	I let her catch me catching her stare and red brushes her cheeks.  She gathers her things and comes to me.

	“I know this seems strange,” she says with an embarrassed flicker in her eyes.  “I can’t believe I’m going to say this and you’ll think that I’m crazy.  But I’ve seen you so many times and in so many places.  Who are you?  Have we met before?”

	I let a smile cross my face and my native Irish slip to my tongue.  “Why, no love, I’d be knowin’ if we’d met bef’re.  And, as to the question of who I am, it’s quit simple.  I’m the man of your dreams and y’re the woman of mine.”

	Her orange eyes were spiced with golden flakes that flashed as they went wide.  She smiled and said, “I think you may be right.”

Homeless

   - by Jeannie Miller 
As I came out of the church house the frigid air took my breath away. I had come out of the warm church house with loaves of whole wheat bread to put into the trunk of my car. I felt so good that the demonstration had gone well. The bread’s aroma had filled the church house. I was pleased with the night’s events.

I watched him trudged along the sidewalk, eyes so weary, skin wrinkled by weather exposure. Another night to find a place to call his own, a small place down by the river. How many others had I seen make this pilgrimage to the river? The homeless shelter was full; they took the women and children first. Even though so many had high hopes of getting in, tonight was severely cold and the chance was if one got in, another would not. He had found a piece of plastic and tucked it into his backpack. The plastic would keep him dry, something he could roll in for the night. How many other homeless had searched the piles of discarded waste, and walked away with something they considered their treasure?  He carried with him a cup of coffee to warm his hands and especially his fingers. His nose was red from the cold. I noticed his shoes had been duck taped together and were slightly too big for his feet.

I went up to the stranger and asked if he would like a loaf of bread. The hollow look in his eyes came to the present as he recognized a small touch of humanity. He said quietly yes. I told him I would be right back. I ran to my car to extract two loaves. As I gave him one he tore into it, not speaking.  After a few moments had passed I gave him the second.  He put it inside his coat to get warm.  His weary eyes showing gratitude and lips that mouthed thank you he took up his journey to the river to find a place to sleep.

As I drove home and parked, I watched my children laughing and throwing snowballs, running around the car to catch each other.  A warm feeling of gratitude filled me as I counted the blessing that we had a warm shelter. I wished, as so many times before, that I could do something for those who were truly in need.  Perhaps my writing might bring awareness to those who might listen.

The Pantry

Today, much like other days, we completed the school assignments for our little home school and packed up to go get the Pantry Food from those who would donate. The Pantry had been started by a saintly woman down the street and around the corner. She had wanted to find someone who would take it over on account of her age. I think there is a place in Heaven for her. She cooked meals under bridges for the homeless from the “fresh vegetables” donated to her, the day old bread used to dip the warm soup.  During her 20 years of running the panty, she fed thousands.

My children usually would come to help sort out the useable food, my oldest daughter especially.  She had a kind heart when it came to the poor and homeless, although she was somewhat shy.   She was always generous with her time when it came to helping me.

As we drove up at the appointed time, boxes were set out the back door for us. The homeless gathered to help sort the good from the unusable.  It was an unspoken rule that the homeless were always served first. Their predicament was more tenable. Those that came to help usually took enough for themselves and their friends that were ill that day and could not make it. Their community was amazing. They looked after one another. Sometimes, things beyond human understanding would happen to one of them that affected all of them. One middle aged man who had epilepsy had been attacked while sleeping in the park. The attacker wanted his coat. Dave has worn a scar on his face ever since. But Dave was a kindly man, always looking out for others. One especially cold winter day he and his companions came. It seemed as they could not get warm. Without shelter they had slept cold. I asked if there were anything I could do for them.  He asked if I could run the heater in the Suburban and they could climb in and get warm for awhile.  Taken aback for a moment, I realized it was reasonable. My heart melted to know what these men faced day to day to survive.

Dave had told me his story of being married and having two young boys to care for. Dave was enrolled at the University of Utah. Dave had epilepsy and required medication on a regular basis. He would have Grand Mal Seizures without the medication.  One day a choice of whether to pay the rent or buy his medication had to be made. He chose to pay the rent. He woke up two weeks later in the hospital. Missing college deadlines and his wife left him because she couldn’t take it anymore, he found himself homeless. This was a man who had the world before him one day and was homeless the next. Because he had no job, no transportation, and no way to buy medication he was subject to problems beyond his ability to change.  I directed him to a LDS Transient Bishop who helped him during the winter months and helped him with some of his other needs.  There are so many who find themselves in a predicament beyond their control.  Society labels them and they start to develop psychological problems. Believing they don’t fit in etc.  Sometimes all it takes is someone willing to listen and help to get people back on their feet.  We now live in a time when there is such need for people to care and be aware.

Sweet Surrender

   - by Jennifer Evans

There’s something I need to tell you.
Please listen with your heart, body, mind and soul.
Because, I’m not sure I can tell you this again.
In this sweet surrender of mine.
I need you to live within my soul.
I need you to clothe me with your strength.
I want surrender my life to you, please be careful with it
I’m willing to surrender my heart to you; I beg you please be gentle with it,
I’m needing to surrender all my words, my deeds, and my many needs to you
I willing give it all to you.
In this sweet surrender of mine.
I ask you remove to the chains that cloak my fragile body.
This dwelling place holds me causes too much pain.
The hour is coming near.
To reveal my true self to you.
I’m willing to now surrender my life to you, please be careful with it
I’m now ready to surrender my heart to you; I beg you please be gentle with it
I’m now surrendering my words, my deeds, my many needs to you.
I give it all to you here and now.
In sweet, sweet surrender of mine.
I’m alive with you.
In this new found dwelling place, I give it all to you
In this sweet surrender of mine.

Summer

   - by Jessica Ash 
Summer
A basket of happy
Wrapped in warmth

Understand young one

Autumn is over
It is time to sleep

One day you shall see
With golden eyes
That what you do
Is up to you

I can guide you only so long
And, then
It is time
To write your own song

My child
My saving grace
It is time
With a smiling face

To walk alone
Summer is here
Breathe deep 
Have no fear

With the wisp of a daisy
And, a freckling 
Of ripened colors

It is time

To walk alone
Hello dawn 
I am summer.

Was

   - by Jessica Dora Olin

He was a good man,
With a child and a wife,
He was a smart man,
Who grew up strong and bright,
He was a proud man,
Who served blue, red and white,
He was a feared man,
To those who were not right,
He was a just man,
Who fought the better fight,
He was a hero,
To more than only one,
He is a dead man,
With honors in his name,
But still a dead man,
All the same.

Introspection Through a Series of Sketches

   - by John Reay 
	He wakes up early in the morning to lit cigarette on front porch – taking long drags as the sun begins to peek over mountainside in distance. His hair, as always, is a mess, and when the sun shines down the gold shines through, like a lion of the sun, smoke curling from nostrils. It doesn't matter where – each morning he shines, standing on worn wood or worn asphalt – in the city or on stretch of highway – in rain or shine, he is smiling, greeting the new day with eyes full of wonder. He flicks cigarette butt into the grass and walks back into the house, or up to underpass – ready for the next adventure.

	Highway lines sped over, watching pass in back window or back of bed, disappearing with the curvature of the earth. On the coast one can see the curve of the earth due to the vast open blue outlaid ahead; this is the same on certain stretches of highway, high up above the mountain-tops and sometimes so far below.

	In certain places the clouds feel closer than in others. In certain places there is infinity in a finite moment.

	The sound of sad harmonica brings one back to present time, and sometimes instead, a time passed. Dirt blowing up from dusty service road. Two unshaven souls with heavy packs walk through dust. Ahead of them, thousands of crickets leap from grasses, leading way. Sometimes things most beautiful ride on the backs of locusts, beatific souls carried on by chaos.

	Giant cranes –  the industrial kind – the kind with metal beaks – the kind that never breath but instead blow black smoke. They are tearing the old buildings down to build new ones. No room for the old – we destroy old objects and forget about the living old in retirement homes.

	A lot of church tops seen when walking around here. None of them as large as this one. The tallest point; its face reflected in the pool.

	The trains are new. The paint on all the brick walls down the line is new. They covered the graffiti with drab earth colors and no longer does the bright shine through…

	This house is haunted by a ghost that breathes warm breath. It sits in living room and muffles sorrow. It hides its sad eyes when guests arrive. It is rare that guests arrive.

	The other who occupies the house hides down in basement. A pack with frame leans against white wall, empty – contents placed on shelves and scattered out on floor. There was a time when everything in room could fit inside that pack –

	The spirits are getting restless…

	The piano is a tomb he found and decided to drag home. He stares at its silence, imagining the ghost placing him inside, a place for them to go and die – Will the keys cough sounds as they throw the dirt down and stones strike the blacks and whites?

	 Plate glass windows leaning, everything attached to wire. Mesh metal tables, metal/glass elevators, metal metal everywhere – and a cafe called the Hemingway. In the coffee shop there is a girl with big green eyes and a smile special-like when she pours the coffee. She is there every other day.

	Across the street some sort of city hall, city management; the building made of stone. Carvings or pressed concrete sticks out from ledges, building probably has a hundred years. The big bell housed in the topest tip rings every hour, and at a quarter til. On top it all, a statue of some sort – does it stand with hand up?

	The blue sky outlines silhouette and from right angle, peering from the library, it looks as though a person is standing atop the building, ready to jump…

	Sit out here in the grass – the sun shining on sprinkled greens. The leaves are starting to fall, for Fall it is – Autumn. Buildings in distance, some familiar, similar sort…

	And all the people walk by.

	Though they're falling the leaves have yet to turn. Still too early autumn? The weather not quite cold. When winter comes, the greens will all be gone.

	Not gone. Still somewhat living, tucked under the snow – white over brown and green and yellow. Some prefer the snow, but one wouldn't wish to sit out in it…

	Sit out here in the grass –

	Right now young boys in baseball caps smoke cigarettes and check out ladies. Girls in short skirts and big old fashioned glasses make way across the campus – Favorite are the flower dresses, cut below the knees, swaying in the breeze…

	Sitting out smoking cigarettes, blowing smoke into surround. Dark out early this time of season – the crickets chirp in chorus. There are dead branches and dried leaves between the house and fence – the new neighbors cut all the vines from out the wire mesh. One can look into their windows at night now, not on purpose but instead by accidental glance. Sometimes strange to live in city –

	Some nights the crickets cease their chirping and the sound of the cat, rustling in the field behind apartment is the star-lit symphony. The tall grass grows in back and bushes, one a rose, grow freely in the unkempt open. A hidden no man's land, tucked behind the aged buildings poorly built –

	Some nights the crickets cease their chirping and the sound of mariachi music plays and plays, late into the night and sometimes early morning…

	During the day the ants crawl in scattered patterns, making way across cement, carrying food back to burrow…

	At night a moth flies by, one of small size, fluttering up in scattered light, dully flashing behind the beat of wings, making way to lamp-lit porch above…

	There is girl on the train wearing low cut blouse. She is dressed as if for exercise, her shorts are short and show her legs. On her chest, revealed, she is decorated with small scars, pockmarks on lightly sunned skin. On anyone these marks would cause distraction, a defacement on the flawless – here this is not the case. Small scars shine in sunlight and refract the light, reminding one of snowflakes. It looks as though snowflakes have fell, to forever rest upon her chest,  reminiscent of winter, even here in autumn…

	– maybe something simple? A single rose on bush behind a rundown apartment? Catching light in morning dew, small speckles filled with spectrum as the light shines through?

	A single rose behind rundown apartment – It will wilt in winter and wither, petals falling down upon the cigarette ash covered sidewalk.

	She sings a song near-silently as she looks at papers noted with neat handwriting. Tucking binders into bag she makes her way off train…

	Sometimes when you know exactly what it is, it changes, as if sand shifts with breeze blow and the path leading back has suddenly disappeared; along with the path forward.

	We are sitting in this black desert and there ain't no path and all we have is this unsure compass and we're getting ready to go our separate ways. We break the compass in half, each carrying half in hands as we walk in different directions…

	Life is both fast and slow, a river which flows in highs and lows, water sometimes rushing and sometimes lazing lightly along…

	The sun rose again this morning, shining on those who slept alone…

	Awake to static television, confusing. All the blacks and whites and multicoloreds look like neon people rushing to the other side of screen. Does one stand in stream to test strength, to learn of place now fixed for a time? Or instead continue with the current flow, carried on perhaps to void?

	Should one be the stick or stone; to float or stand in speeding current? …

Touched By God through Tradition

   - by Jordan Myers 
	“You ready buddy?”

	“As ready as I suppose I can be.”

	My closest friend Keith pulled me close and gave me a very long hug. All eyes were on us (350 sets). Keith (my sponsor and spiritual advisor) had become my closest friend over the last few years. Most of the people in AA are not blessed with the Sundance in their lives, but I was lucky enough to have been involved in ceremony before I got sober which gave me the advantage of already knowing people who played a role in both ceremony and AA. We had been through many emotional roller coasters battling with my sobriety; but this week had definitely been the clincher. We were at a Lakota Sundance, and I was about to be pierced and tied to the tree of life. Keith--being the Sundance Chief--was the one who would be doing the piercing.

	“Would ya like a stick to bite down on?”

	“No.”

	“Suit yourself. It hurts like hell, you sure?”

	“Ya, just do it.”

	“I appreciate the sacrifice you are making for the people.”

	“Glad to do it. I’m guessin’ I’m gonna get more outta it than them anyway.”


	“Probably. Well, here we go.”

	As I lay there on the buffalo rug in the scorching noon day sun, I couldn’t help wondering how the hell I had ended up in this position. Then I remembered: a lifetime of poor decisions involving drugs, alcohol, and incarceration. I needed a new approach to life, one with love and caring and of course, sobriety.

	Even though I had known Keith for many years and attended sweat lodge on a regular basis, I never fully understood what it all meant. It is impossible to go to a sweat lodge ceremony without hearing talk of sobriety and God’s helping hands. Although when you are still in your addiction, none of that makes sense or even matters. At that point you just attend lodge for the mere reason of sweating.

	March 12, 2009 is the night that changed my life forever; that was the night I picked up DUI number five, heading home from the bar. Even though it was obviously not my first, it was the worst. I had never spent any time away from my kids, but now it seemed inevitable. I was right; three long months I was gone, sitting in a cold concrete cell wishing I was home. With all the time I had to think, I decided that would be my last time in jail: I needed to change my life. Luckily I knew Keith, which made the initial stages of change possible.

	Alcoholics Anonymous was very difficult for me in the beginning. I mean, who the hell wants to stand up in a room full of people and admit their shortcomings? Not me. But the fear of being taken from my wife and kids again was overwhelming; I had to do it. So I went almost daily for months, standing up and introducing myself as an alcoholic. This became much easier with time, and I even began to look forward to going. Attending meetings can be quite an enjoyable experience, but it isn’t enough to make sobriety last, so that is where the twelve steps come into play. Crap. This meant more uncomfortable time was to be spent observing how I had failed at being a normal, productive member of society. Why can’t it ever just be easy? My father had always told me that, “Anything worth having, is worth working for.”  My sobriety was worth working for, so I began to work the twelve steps with Keith at the helm.

	Step number one: “Admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.” Well this was an easy step; obviously my life had become unmanageable thanks to alcohol: I was in AA wasn’t I? Unfortunately, not all the steps are as easy as the first.

	Step number two: “Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.” This suddenly became a very difficult program. Now I had to believe in some supernatural force? “OK” I said, “I believe in God.” Keith however, was not about to let me off the hook that easily. He wanted to know why I believed in God, and what, or who I believed God was. I could not answer these questions, because I had never actually taken the time to think about it. So we went back and forth for a couple of months. Eventually I was able to convince him that I did in fact believe in a “Higher Power.” He was satisfied with my answer. This took us to step three.

	Step number three: “Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him.” Why do these stupid steps just keep getting harder? “How am I supposed to do that”, I asked. Keith said, “It’s easy, just pray.” Pray? Prayer is for people who are scared. I ain’t scared. Hell, after three years in jail, I wasn’t afraid of anything. Or was I? I was scared of being taken from my family again, but how could prayer help me with that? I thought about it and decided that I could not honestly remember the last time I had prayed; maybe as a kid. I just didn’t feel comfortable with the whole concept.

	“I just can’t do it.”

	“It’s not as hard as you’re making it. It’s your prayer, do it any way you like. You don’t have to get on your knees; shit, I do most of my prayin’ as I’m drivin’ down the street anyway. The point is just to do it.”

	“I’ll give it a shot.”

	I don’t think that I ever gave it an honest chance though. I tried, I really did, but it was just so difficult for me to talk to somebody I couldn’t see. So I continued going to meetings and sweat lodge, at least in lodge I didn’t feel out of place when I prayed. After all, everybody was doing it. The more comfortable I became with praying, the more I wanted to do it; so I began to attend every lodge I could find. I started going almost every single week, but it still just did not feel completely right to me. I did not have a solid belief in my higher power. I needed something more, some sort of definitive proof; the Sundance was the answer I had been looking for. I asked Keith if I could attend. He of course said yes, but wanted to know if I would be dancing, or just supporting. I hadn’t given it much thought (except that four days of starving myself and dancing did not sound too inviting) ,so I said “I didn’t think I was allowed to dance, I haven’t prepared.” He laughed and told me I was ready.

	This surprised many people, because normally a person can’t dance until they have attended a Sundance, (which I never had). “Don’t worry bout’ what they think” Keith said, “It is all about your prayer, not theirs.”  There’s that word prayer again. “I don’t understand what dancin’ has to do with prayin”, I said. Keith just smiled.

	So, here I am at a ceremony that I had never attended, with the task of playing a key part, and no understanding of what was going to happen, or what I needed to do. I was truly scared, scared that I would somehow screw up and ruin it for all these other people. That was a lot of responsibility for me; I couldn’t understand how Keith felt I was ready for this. As I sat there watching all the hustle and bustle around me I became concerned; I was as far from ready as any person could be. I still didn’t even have a solid belief in God. I just knew somebody would catch on to my predicament; after all we had tribal leaders there. These guys are as spiritual and powerful as anybody could ever be. If anybody was going to see through me, it would be them. Whether or not they saw my fear, nobody said anything about it.

	“You gonna pierce?”

	“What do you mean?”

	“Not everybody does it, and you certainly don’t have to. It’s just a stronger prayer, because you are physically connected to God.”

	Finally; some sort of tangible evidence in the existence of a God! Of course I would do it; I needed proof that there might actually be a God. What better way to find proof than to actually touch him? So my friend Tim gave me a set of wooden stakes, and helped me make a harness out of rope. Stakes and a harness!? What in the hell was I getting myself into? Now I was terrified, but my stubbornness wouldn’t allow me to back out. I had to find out if God existed; my sobriety depended on it.

	This takes us back to the beginning, with me lying on the buffalo rug in the scorching heat. It was day two in the ceremony, and I was hungry and thirsty. A dancer is not allowed to eat or drink for the length of the ceremony; on top of that, you have to dance in the sun all day long, every single day. Even though it was only day two, I was already physically and mentally exhausted, and now I have to pierce as well. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was actually going to be worth it.

	One thing I had failed to realize was the excruciating pain involved with the piercings. As Keith and Dave came at me with the scalpels, I knew it was going to hurt. Boy was I right. The initial pain sent me into another world (part of the “prayer”). In traditional Lakota beliefs, prayer can mean many more things than just getting on your knees, and in this case it refers to a kind of forced change of consciousness. It didn’t last long, and soon I was attached to the harness and rope, which were attached to the tree. Oddly enough, I had never felt more at peace than I did at that exact moment when I realized I was connected with God.

	As I leaned back with my chest skin stretched out–dancing--I went deep into my personal prayer. The amount of time a dancer is tied to the tree varies greatly; there is no set time. I was later told that I was there for three to four hours, although time meant nothing to me; I was in pure ecstasy. When it finally came my time to be removed from the tree, I was ready. Although being removed from the tree hurts more than the piercing, because there is only one way. It involves breaking the skin at the piercings. The dancer walks up to the tree four times saying a prayer each time they reach the tree and on the fourth prayer, they run backwards as hard and fast as they can, forcing the stakes to break the skin. 

	As I reached my fourth prayer, the fear began to rise again; I didn’t think I could do it. I was truly terrified. I had been pierced, tied to the tree, and even thought I had found God. Even still, my belief wasn’t as strong as it should have been. After four tries on my own, I was still attached. Two fellow dancers came and grabbed my arms and dragged me, trying to force the break. Still nothing. So the tribal leader came out, and with the most compassion I have ever seen, cut part way down on each side. The next time the men dragged 
 me, I finally broke free.

	As horrifying as that may all sound, it was truly a beautiful experience. It was when I finally broke free that I honestly felt God. I now knew he was there; I had touched him, and he me. It was at that moment that I knew my sobriety would last. I had endured dehydration, starvation, and my piercing. Keith later told me that my break was the worst he had ever seen; all the women were crying for me, and the men were all cringing. He told me my break brought on a feeling of spirituality that truly was the heart of what the Sundance is all about. After that, sobriety seemed easy; I could do it. I could do anything.

Tragedy Encourages Change

   - by Joshua Hammond 
	January 8th, 2008, just another day to waste some time in life. Wake up late and immediately smoke a bowl of weed. Then spend the rest of the day too high to care about anything. To give you a little background on my life, my name is Josh, I’m 20 years old and I have been addicted to drugs for eleven years. I lived a rough life growing up around drugs and violence. Both my parents were drug addicts and it was just the normal thing to do. My brother passed away young, my parents divorced and I was stuck in the middle of everything.

	It was just another lame day smoking pot, being a couch potato, enjoying my day off. While I was smoking the phone rang. It was my friend Bryce. When I answered he was hysterical, making no sense whatsoever. I finally told him, “Calm down, what’s going on”? He gasped for breath. I was freaked out; I didn’t know what was going on.

	“Josh, Ryan’s gone.” I didn’t quite understand him.

	"What do you mean Ryan’s gone? I talked to him yesterday.”

	“He committed suicide last night Josh. He shot himself.” It hit me like a load of bricks, and I didn’t know what to say. Ryan was my best friend; he was like my brother and now he’s gone. I dropped down into my chair feeling like I had just been crushed. My voice so scarce, I was able to mumble, “What happened?”

	“I don’t know.”

	“Where are you?”

	“Picking up Cody and going to see Ryan’s family.”

	“Do you have room for two more”?

	“Ya, I have plenty of room”.

	“Come get me, I’ll be ready”. I hung up the phone.

	I felt like my life was falling apart but I couldn’t break down now. I had to call my sister Whitney. She had to know. I picked up the phone to call her as fast as I could. She answered on the second ring.

	“Whit you need to get to my house now”.

	She was confused.

	“What’s wrong”?

	I was silent, it’s like my voice just wouldn’t work.

	“JOSH WHAT’S GOING ON”?

	“Ryan committed suicide last night Whit, he shot himself”.

	There was a pause on the line.

	“I’ll be there in five minutes”.

	I could hear the shakiness in her voice.

	When she got there we latched on to each other, holding on for dear life. We were both in tears; we had so many questions and nobody to answer them. We called our family and friends that needed to know, while we were waiting for Bryce to show up. After we talked to our dad we just couldn’t handle it anymore, so we went inside and loaded the pipe to calm our nerves. The HONK from the car outside made us jump; we rushed out and got in Bryce’s car.

	The drive to Ryan’s little brother Peter’s house in Provo took forever. My heart was beating a million miles an hour and it didn’t matter how much pot I smoked I couldn’t calm down. As we pulled into the apartment complex I couldn’t wait for Bryce to park. I jumped out of the car and rushed up to Peter’s apartment. I pounded on the door and it opened instantly. Lara, Ryan’s sister was standing on the other side. I latched on to her and didn’t want to let go. I had all kinds of feelings rushing back into my heart. Lara and I were almost married three years ago but things went bad. Now I can’t bring myself to let go of her. I loved her. I was scared; I couldn’t be alone through this. I needed her. I opened my eyes and saw Peter in the background in tears; I rushed over to him and hugged him.

	“I’m so sorry Peter; I’m here if you need anything.” I didn’t want to push him too hard, but I had to know.

	“Peter what happened”?

	“I don’t know. Lara woke up this morning and found him on the floor with the gun in his hand. She called the cops and they’re still investigating. All the detective has told me so far is that he was texting his girlfriend Kat. They were in a very heated argument. I knew they had been fighting but I didn’t know it was that bad”.

	I could see Peter shaking in his chair; I could only imagine how overwhelming it was for him to deal with the death of his older brother. I saw the lone tear run down his face; it hit me deep inside that Ryan was truly gone. I just broke down in tears as me, Whit and Peter came together in a giant hug of desperation hoping to fill the void of our lost brother. I don’t know how long we stayed like that. It seemed like forever but then it seemed like time froze to allow us all the time in the world to grieve for the best man we ever knew, Ryan Bell.

	The next two days were a blur of crying on an emotional roller coaster. I had never been good with expressing my emotions, so I did my best of trying to ignore them. I just wanted to forget about it. The more I thought about Ryan dying the more I wanted to die myself. I was so angry about everything, I just wanted him there so I could ask him why, why would you do this, why Ryan? I was scared and depressed; I just wanted the pain to go away. I didn’t know what else to do but get high.

	Whitney stayed at my house the night before the funeral. We didn’t sleep at all; we stayed up all night in this kind of weird sad happiness, remembering the past eight years that we had known Ryan and all the fun crazy times we had. I think that’s how we dealt with our pain. It may have not taken the pain away, but it sure did lighten the load and we definitely needed to have a good laugh. Eventually we dozed off on the couch cuddled together like we were kids again. We woke up to the blaring beep of the alarm clock. While we were getting ready I popped a mouthful of pills and washed it down with a big glass of rum. I didn’t care if I died or not I just wanted to be numb. I didn’t want to cry any more.

	As we left we each took a big swig off the bottle and headed for the car. The whole way there I just stared out the window. My life is over. I just lost my best friend; I should have been there for him. I could have helped him through his problems and this would have never happened. Who am I kidding? I couldn’t have stopped him even if I wanted to, he would have found a way if I was there or not.

	I came out of my daze being shaken by Whit.

	“Josh, Josh, we’re here. Come on the family is waiting for us.”

	As I was walking to the memorial service there was so many people that I hadn’t seen forever. Over all there were about a thousand people there. All my old friends kept running up and hugging me, asking me how I was.

	What a stupid question.

	As I walked into the building Ryan’s family was waiting for me. They had saved me a seat in the front row right next to them.  All I could do was hug them and thank them and tell them how sorry I was.

	Ryan’s older brother Jason approached the stage and asked if everybody would please take their seats. He started thanking everyone for coming. He then told everybody that there would be a small video of Ryan and afterwards everybody would have a chance to speak if they wish.

	The lights dimmed and the movie started. It was a picture show of Ryan’s life. It was so beautiful to watch, seeing him, this young goofy child playing with shaving cream in the tub, grow into the man I know and love today. I sat there and held on to my sister and Peter. The more I cried the tighter we hung on to each other.

	As the picture show ended we all sat there in silence, then Peter rose and talked about his brother and how much he would be missed. After he sat I got up weeping. I took a deep breath, and began to speak.

	“Thank you all for coming, I see a lot of faces I know and a lot that I don’t. That’s ok though because that just shows how much Ryan was truly loved”. I had to stop for a second, I felt light headed.

	“I love you like a brother Ryan, and I will never forget you”. I walked to my seat like a snail with a river of tears running down my face.

	When all was said and done everybody started getting up and talking in crowds, while others were getting their food. How could you eat at a time like this? I was too sick to my stomach, I had to go outside to get some fresh air and smoke a bowl.

	As I was smoking all my old friends came out and started opening the trunks of their cars to pull out cases of beer. This was the best way to show respect. Ryan was the biggest drinker I knew and he wouldn’t have wanted us to sit around and cry over him, he would rather have us be happy and cheer to his memory. Once everybody was done the family and a select few gathered into the cars and went to the cemetery to bury Ryan and say our last goodbyes.

	As we arrived at the cemetery we all said a few more things in memory of Ryan, placed our own idea of flowers around him and said our goodbyes. The tears hit me with force; all I could do is bawl. I just wanted to scream at the top of my lungs. This can’t be the end, we are still so young. All I could say to myself was why.

	The head stone read, “Ryan Jonathan Bell, May 23, 1984 to January 08, 2008.” On the back the quote said, “A Great Soul is Someone Who Loves Even When it Hurts.” Ryan was the best man I ever knew. He would be missed forever and more. One day I will be with him again, but until that day all I can do is respect and honor his love filled life and live my life to the fullest. I know he would have wanted me to be happy.

	It was the toughest experience in my life that I have ever had to deal with. That night I sat on my bed all alone thinking about my life and if this was how I wanted it to end up. He wouldn’t have wanted me addicted to drugs, going from one fix to the other, never caring about my life or the people around me. Ryan would have wanted better for me. Why waste it on drugs and a life of pain? It would be the hardest thing I ever did, but it would only get easier over time. It just takes one step after another, one step at a time. I started emptying my stash of drugs onto my bed; I stared at it for probably about ten minutes. I can do it! I grabbed a trash bag and threw it all in the trash. I won’t live my life like this and I’m going to use the rest of my life to be happy and succeed, like me and Ryan always talked about. I will live our dream for the both of us.

Death to One

   - by Justin Watson 
To death the one to death the one to death to one the death
 
To death the one who walks through winters on backs of words
words that rise like oceans 
words that sift through the mind like an envelope that opens and announces
the arrival of You from the past.
 
You from the past who opens those doors that creak when closed when words in the form
of mountains converge and quakes the ever-trembling hands of 
one from the past who
never wondered to walk through the future who 
never dreamed of stars and circles
the dots now focus on my pupils looking at the stars
formulating tears as they droop to the horizon where
a light radiates where moon touches earth and
I lower myself in looming shadows to kiss dirt and
clench root growth and 
I feel the moon oscillating
where earth touches moon
and hunting shadows eclipse me
shadows
that fold and hover on the edges of grass blades.
 
Silence is my ally in this future of futures or relative future of a past that never became and I live
my debts and rewards in silence
and inject myself with words to tame the light that you labeled
 
So I come to find darkness is your light
and who I was is only who I could be
rhetorically—
rhetorically—
rhetoric messages you left me in your envelope you sent me from your past where your hand
breaches my brain tubes and with a finger you trace a scar that 
lingers and lurches on park benches and I drift my lips to epochs and eras
while you lip-sync and rehearse the future in plastic 
And.
And.
'And' was not the conjunction of your dedication as my lips crossed decades
generations
hearts/blood/thoughts glued to the sleeves of my shirt
And.
And the future in plastic and
factories that grow plastic forests where I will rest in my polymer prison and sort out
one year from the next and we can
speak of truths when we are long dead
or when we meet on off chance lives and
the sheets I wear over my faces shall envelop my hearts and I will burn
the envelopes I mailed from my past and wander
corridors of ice blocks and snow people
and discuss—
and disgust myself in rapture 
and pluck notes from follicles
to remind myself where I am going
when my eyes and lips synchronize with the ghosts of images.

dollar.servant

   - by Justin Watson 
The streets
cover their manholes to
fend off their nuclear depression
 
And I walk over the gilded streets 
with arms like scissors
clipping off store-front price tags
stripping away doors banners and alleyways
where twisted dogs sing
and I hear their voices waver and vanish
like the turn of a ghost through a wall
 
I always wanted to fend off your--
nuclear depression,
our personal holocaust
that you ignore with exercise and holistics
and you prescribe yourself a diet to measure the
keyhole size of your waist that I peer through
and find nothing
no unlocking doors
no shambling hallways
nothing throughout the circumference of your skin
that touches mine and the two of us freeze
when contemplating our beginnings
 
perhaps I'm mistaken of my soul
that merged in a puddle you stepped on
when you made your way to your grave
that I feel when an eclipse blinds my eye,
and I return to that 
house we filled with kisses and purgatory
and where we wrapped around each other like highways
 
So let two ghosts wander the arm of the country
let them converse in economy while they
lay stone age bricks on their mount
 
and perhaps a puddle isn't so bad a thing
in a world of monetary echoes
where dollars spill like soldier's blood
and engrave on our foreheads
with the stretch of a finger
 
perhaps it’s not so bad a thing
to live our days in an ocean
and scuba dive to the seafloor
to hear the bleakest of sounds
the whirring of the earth
if we hear a sound at all. 

[im]Mortal Chemistry

   - by Justin Watson 
onetwothree
onetwothree
onetwothree
 
I am the chain links fastened to the feet of a chain gang that carves through your mind when your heart dissolves in
HCl
 
I am the breath that leaves your mouth when you blow a kiss to the stars hanging in the sky like chandeliers
 
And I am a fool that dangles from these chandeliers, counting down my hours, my days, my minutes that are not mine, and
 
These are the moments we share between distances that shift when you phone dial my thought patterns and leave a somber message.
 
I am the titrant you mix in your cup of coffee to gauge your happiness when the days stretch from morning to night and the two times interweave like two conjoined knots and when those moments are sheets pulled across the eyes they crystallize in our brains and the image of me imposes across the inner lining of your skull where you sleep and ponder where I rest when the streetlights dampen under the night rain; when the water rises to the tips of skyscrapers and all that’s left of me is a silhouette on a submerged wall next to a Rimini café.
 
My silhouette converges in your nightmares and dreams where we luncheon on a boat floating over an impressionist Rhine and we discuss the impossibility of death when considering the infinite permutations of life and how we live and breathe through one another, how we join by
Thoughts
Particles
Poetry
And how we are spires rising from oceans
We are
Words translated into ghosts that wander 
Virtual chromatics of existence where I find myself
floating and exploring your mental corridors 
where I find your heart
 resting on a table
 
Thumping
 
onetwo
onetwo
onetwo
 
And I lower my obsolescence into the dark pools of tomorrow where
You cry as you sit at the side of your bed while staring at the swirling moon
And I am there, you think
Amidst the clouds and mountains
I am there
One amongst many
One in the dirt where we tread
Where permafrost forms in winter where
You lay a wreath of flowers when you long
To wrap my fingers with yours.
And I am
 
one
one
one
 
One amongst many
Floating over the concrete steps of tomorrow
And when we peer through the telescopes of our lives
We see we are
Spires rising out of oceans
And holes no longer guide my longing soul
Absence is a curve
A curve to nowhere
But nowhere no longer bothers me when I know
 
We are.
 
onetwothree
onetwothree
onetwothree

Grand Canyon Flight Paths

   - by Kat Zimmerman 
I can't stand not talking to you.

The silence that stretches between us feels larger than the oceans, the mountains, and the sky combined.
There's an endless, echoing chasm not even the bravest of friends are willing to try and cross that stretches from you to me.
I don't know who pulls away more, but the snarky, anger fueled pushes and inarticulate yields are just adding more distance to an already gaping wound.
I could toss words, toss thoughts, toss phone calls and e-mails into the growing gap and never hear them hit rock bottom.

They can’t seem to reach the other side, either.

Sometimes, I stare at my phone and dare it to ring until I remember that,
In a distressed and unstable fit of rage,
I blocked your number.
No call or text will appear at my fingers seeking forgiveness and offering apologies.
Other times, most of the time, no, all of the time, I hover my cursor over "send message" and wonder if you'll reply,
If you feel this aching silence as much as I do. 

Would our doves survive the flight or would the miles upon miles of radio silence send them plummeting to their deaths before they can make contact?
I know mine don't even launch, but instead sit on the ledge looking down, straining to look across and wondering how far the canyon goes.

I spend my time filling it in with memories of you, of me, of you and me.
Our good times are down there somewhere.
I like to pretend I can see them.
That I can feel and touch and taste them.

I think of your smile, mischievous and full of secrets,
Of the way you spoke like I was your equal,
O the way I felt when you wrapped your arms around me fast and let our fingers trace each other.

Do you remember whispering to me?
Softly telling me that holding hands is the most intimate thing two people can do
Before slotting your fingers next to mine and holding tight?
I'd like to think you do.
That you spend your time on your side thinking of me, as well.

What I think of the most, though, is that maybe…
Maybe we could just pretend that it's okay?
I'm sure I have some duck tape or a needle and thread hiding away over here.

We could slingshot them back and forth
Until the edges start to close in and meet up
Cross stitched together.
We could reach out and touch.
Share our worlds once more.

I think I'll start tomorrow.

Untitled

   - by Kat Zimmerman 
we met on the waves of
the world wide web
fellow surfers looking for the ultimate ride
and instead
we found each other
two lost souls, unconnected and unplugged
until the electric currents
				sparked, jolted
into life
friendship so deep and so true
that we traverse the continent
To:	see a smile;
	hear a laugh;
parked our boards and picked up phones
with connections hardwired deep
spanning long summer days and crammed,
hurried finals, weddings, divorces
	cc: could haves; should haves; maybe nots
online with each other 24/7
until the final day we both
user has: logged off

BLESSED AWAKE

   - by Keaton Charles Butler 
Morning, in soft light a

mountain driven up by
earth’s power,

the small light
of approaching sun
cries over the clouds,

and leaves the small caress of
a lover on your shoulder,
slowly evolving
as touch gains comfort.

MOVING

   - by Keaton Charles Butler 
Our covered feet take
solemn steps while
the sky is decorated
with sunset orange
streamer clouds
for our going away party.

We thank you for
loving us in all those ways,
like when I would walk
in the rain,
a feline mother licking
my narcissistic wounds,
and go as far as I could
away from my scariest places–
where I didn’t belong.

My footsteps, like cobblestones,
and thoughts, like graffiti,
cover most of these
gray yarn sidewalks,
and Timpanogos’ radiant tip
would cradle my heart
between it and each passing sunset,
spraying gold and red
above my sprouting.

POEM

   - by Keaton Charles Butler 
a dandelion’s
wish-blown seed
hovers, calling
to creators and
scrambling to do its job
of messenger.

Be…

   - by Kimberly Carter 
		Be the one that stands in between the masses,
		Be the one that whistles as you pass through the grasses.
		Be the one that stands tall when others fall.
		Be the one that listens for when friends call.

Be the open field, with the plant in the middle,
Be the bluegrass playing fiddle.
Be the outstanding person that you are,
Be that big bright shining star.

		Be…Just be.
		Be…Go and see.
		Be…C’est la vie.
		Be…Don’t be empty.

Be somewhere.
Be here.
Be there.
Be everywhere.

		Be one.
		Be two.
		Be three.
		Be happy.

Be the one you wish to see inside yourself.
Be that book you have never read on your bookshelf.
Be the flowing sentence that changes the times.
Be the beautiful twirling wind chimes.

		Be something new and exciting every day.
		Be some one who never lets the string fray.
		Be a productive person; don’t let it get away.
		Be the person who means what they say.

Memoirs of a Struggling Person

   - by Kimberly Carter 
Letʼs just wash them away,
Those blue sorrow days.
Where everything feels itʼs in a haze.
Letʼs just get out and play.

Sometimes you feel like you stuck,
and youʼve run out of luck,
But you canʼt be a lame duck.
Youʼve gotta get through this muck.

When you feel like youʼre down,
And everyoneʼs laughing like youʼre a clown,
Just get ahead.
Rise up and make your bed.

You arenʼt the only one,
Who can feel the strength of what youʼve done.
There are people all around,
That can feel you’re freedom bound.

Just rise above the rest,
Yes, thatʼs right, push up your chest.
You know you have it right,
When you feel like youʼre flying that giant kite.

One day everyone will see,
What a beautiful person you can be.
Just keep on shining through,
Like I know you always do.

The world will see your way,
Just donʼt let your string fray.
Just fly on by,
And reach for that big blue sky.

The Man who Kissed the Grass

   - by Kimberly Carter

Once upon a time on a hill not far from here
sat a man all alone looking at the grass on his side.
With his magnifying glass close by, he examined each
blade with precision and positioned
them in a long line with one stroke of his arm.
It was then when he looked at the grass with a strange
kind of obsession; and bent down to kiss the grass,
I soon found myself running to hide.
Did I see that correctly? The man clearly kissed
the grass, and didnʼt cause any harm.

As I watched from behind a tree, a woman with red
hair walked by looking awfully lonely.
He noticed her and his eyes went bright.
She walked by, noticed him and
all at once her eyes became glossy.
He walked down the hill half hesitating,
half excited; like a drunk man might.

They talked for a while before sitting on the grassy hill.
His infatuation for grass was expired
They rolled down the grassy hill which
gave them a wonderful thrill,
and at the end of the night a kiss had transpired.

Count to Six

   - by Kimberly Dearr 
Float sweet incense smoke
Fill my room with summer rain
The Downward Spiral

I don’t feel anything
Soaked inside my illusion
Avoid the outside

Up with emptiness
Lucid dreaming, Inception
Awake to all fear

Turn your back on me
I can see it in your eyes
Turn and face me now

Sweet kiss, don’t deny
I cannot help myself, no
It’s a heart race now

Swallow me whole, deep
Entwined, windows open breeze
Reborn, spread your wings

A Memory Written

   - by Lauren Miller 
Everything she drew (that's you) was happy. 

Everything we saw (that's you) was hysterical.

So, I pulled over to the side of the road, so I could stop, crack open my skull
and examine my thoughts.
They were all sorts of blue. 

I got that feeling where I want to yell at someone
but I can't.

So, I went home, and I remembered,
OH HOW TERRIBLY CRYPTIC.
and, OH HOW TERRIBLY GROTESQUE
AND OH OH OH OH HOW TERRIBLY WICKED. (THAT'S ME)

and then I remembered that everything she drew (That's you) was happy.

Stories in the Stones

   - by Leslie Bishop 
	The cemetery in my city is very old.  The trees were barely twigs when city gardeners planted them, young, green and fragile.  Not all of them lived, but the surviving trees reach high into the sky, with branches perfectly angled for climbing and sitting and thinking.  In the afternoon sun, the shadows are odd, distorted shapes of trees melting and stretching in the summer heat, cooling a perfect carpet of green, lush lawn.  Even the veteran’s memorial is faded and scraped from generations of children climbing in and over and around it.  It is quiet and peaceful here, like a park. But the stones would not be found in a park, and the stones are where the stories are.

	The stones are gray and white and tan.  An obelisk stands tall and straight here, an arched stone leans slightly there.  Newer stones lie flush with the ground.  Behind the path, very old stones stand together, chipped and cracked, their corners worn smooth and rounded.

	The stones only give the smallest details—names and dates, sometimes relationships—but entire lives are in those sparse facts.  One very old stone is a love story: ―John Owen, May 1800 – July 1890.  Martha Owen, August 1802 – February 1891. They were together all their lives, and even death didn’t separate them for long.  Another stone is a tragedy: ―Baby Boy Widston, January 5, 1910. Baby Boy Widston, April 7, 1911. Carol Widston, August 23, 1912. Above those babies, ―Alice Hope Widston, December 12, 1890 – August 23, 1912, a mother who wanted babies, and lost babies, and lost her life for her youngest, a daughter, who died the day she was born.

	Near the gardener’s shed, and old man sits in the grass.  His cane snuggles into the grass; it will be here a long time today.  The sun is warm and friendly on the man’s stooped shoulders, and the grass is soft and inviting.  He is talking softly to—to whom?  No one is beside him.  No one can hear him.  But the stone under his hand tells his story, too.  ―Robert Taylor, April 14, 1925 - . Gretchen Taylor, June 17, 1926 – October 5, 2005.  Robert is sitting on the grass carpet talking to his wife, just as he used to sit on the living room carpet when they were young and hoping to grow old together.

	A stone angel child sits on a stone bench that is too big.  His chubby angel feet dangle, his small wings are folded flat against his back, and his chin rests on one dimpled stone hand.  In the shifting shadows, he sighs and blinks his eyes.  He watches over a flat stone: ―Francesca Roncalli, April 30, 1987 – August 7, 1988. Francesca would like the angel, would touch the wings, pretending she could fly.

	In one corner is an empty space where there is no stone yet.  The smell of cut flowers is overwhelming, there are so many of them.  A rectangle of new grass puts down roots under the dying flowers.  Soon, someone (a mother? husband? daughter?) will choose a stone to rest at one end of the rectangle, and a new story will be added to the cemetery.  It will be a sad story.  All the stories here are sad at first, but healing comes in the telling.

	The sun stays up late in the summer, but it must sink sometime.  The shadows lengthen, and bleed together.  The air cools and the grass is too cold for comfort.  The old man struggles to his feet, and he and the cane limp across the lawn to an old sedan.  The flowers fade to grey in
the dusk, their heads drooping, their scents carried off in the wind.  The tiny angel sits still, gray, forlorn, alone until the morning brings new visitors to touch the stones and read the stories.

The Boy with the Blue Car

   - by Leslie Hall

The boy with the blue car was filled with dreams
He could be anything, and he quickly became everything to me
As he held me close he set me free

The boy with the blue car was not afraid of anything
He took my hand and never left me behind
He taught me how to let go

The boy with the blue car came along with the newness of being sixteen
He came along with the hot heat of summer
He protected me teaching me how to fight

The boy with the blue car charmed me into our junior year
He kissed me in August; I tasted the heat of the day we met
He stayed right beside me while the world began to change

The boy with the blue car swept me off my feet during the cold months
He kept me warm and melted the snow
He felt farthest away from me right before we became the closest

The boy with the blue car brought me a fairy tale with the new year
He transferred schools
He left all he had ever known to come into my unknown
The boy with the blue car stuck through all my abrupt change of moods
He was waiting with each sunrise
He would sit across the room from me as we became closer each day

The boy with the blue car one day got on one knee
He asked Will you marry me?
The answer I thought he had always known, when I said yes we were home

The boy with the blue car is still the man of my dreams
He works, he schools, and stays up twenty four hour days constantly
He fathers, he husbands, and still plays the role of son

If I could, for a moment in time take him back to that time
To that summer that was his and mine
Freezing time and giving him a break

From all the tasks that in being mine he has needed to take
Fondly remembering the time we had no worries
While the world would go on around us

Then for the moment, just a moment mind you
Because we work hard for our life that we have
But in that I could give him one day for the millions he has given me

People Watching

   - by Linsy Hunsaker 
	People watching: one of the more fascinating sports known to mankind. Now, there is a great difference between people watching and stalking. People watching can be informative, interesting, and you are not just following one person around and documenting their every move; like stalking. And stalking is just plain creepy. People watching is very interesting for the writers of the world. They see more than just the hustle and bustle of everyday life, they see a story. Take this lady over to my right.  She’s from my church congregation and lives what I would call a seemingly perfect life. Perfect kids, husband, clothing, home, well, you get the picture. But what most others don’t see are the frequent phone calls that her husband makes even before the meal has started and the forlorn look she gets on her face every time he steps out of the room. He’s a workaholic and while his devotion to his job pays for their perfect life, it comes at a price.

	Now, there’s the lady behind me to my left; furiously inhaling her food while she devours a good book. While most just see a nerdy bookworm, the writer sees an adventurer. From the looks of it, it’s a fiction—most likely fantasy—book. Reading that book is an escape from real life and a jump into an adventure of wits and daring that she only wishes she had the courage to take. And hopefully, one day she will.

	Or the guy walking up in a white shirt and black tie with jeans; sophisticated, yet understated. Like he wants to be considered classy and important and yet still young and current. His haughty manner suggests that he feels like he’s above most of the café goers. And yet, he’s grabbing a pastry to go. Now, why would he take a pastry to go unless he was taking it to someone else? This is in direct opposition with his haughty manner and suggests that he has a soft spot in there somewhere. Who is he taking it to? A girlfriend? Sick grandmother? Maybe he’s not a softy after all but married to his work like the guy to my right and is taking it to his boss. Who really knows? I sure don’t, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t fun to think about and try to figure out.

	My name is Linsy. I love to analyze, write, and fantasize. I have a father like the guy to my right, a mother like the guy walking up to the café, and I am the girl behind me to my left.

Forgotten

   - by Lucia McKeag 
	I am sitting, trying to block out all the other screeching sounds around me. I am used to it now, even though sometimes it drives me insane. I know why they cry, and why they whine. It is a feeling of loneliness they are tired of. Tired of being cooped up and forgotten. I was forgotten too.

	I think quietly about that sweet old bed of mine. It was soft and fluffy, so fluffy sometimes I would pull on it with my mouth. It had a funny taste and it tickled my tongue. It was mine and no one else’s. Now I share everything with others. I remember the cold water I drank every day. The shock of cold would hit my mouth and I would revel as it took away the dryness of my throat. Now I have only warm water to share. I think back on the food and the toys that were mine. The family that used to love me. Now I am alone. They no longer love me. They gave me away. I am alone.

	I reminisce of the yard I had to play in, the happy memories with the children and their parents. Why can’t I forget? Did they already forget about me? Do they regret leaving me here? What did I do to deserve this?

	I have been here for months now. People walk past me and try not to look at me. I have heard them say they feel bad for me. I wish they would take me away and love me. That is all I want. I just want someone I can love and for them to love me in return. That would be enough.

	There are too many of us here, but not enough homes. Each time one of them gets chosen, I am happy for them but secretly I feel so much envy I feel as if I could cry out loud. I don’t have much time left. I will never find a true home. I know it in my heart.

	The lady with the jangling keys walks to me and stops. She looks at me silently. I stare back, my eyes searching hers, trying to pour my soul out to hers in this one look. Tears pour out of her eyes and she crouches down and sticks her hand through the bars. She strokes my face and tells me she is sorry. Why is she sorry?

	She opens the door and I get excited. Is she taking me home? Am I leaving for good? But then I can feel the sorrow around her, and I realize that I am not leaving, neither am I coming back. She leads me through a long bright hallway into a room whose smell I recognize. I stop. I do not like this room. I look at her and plead with my eyes. This room never brings happiness. She is not looking at me now, and I know her face is wet with tears again. She tugs on me and I keep walking.

	A big but gentle man picks me up and places me on a table. He pets me softly and tells me he is sorry too. He quietly touches the back of my ears, and I close my eyes enjoying the moment. The woman leaves, she says she cannot watch and she kisses me goodbye. She tells me she is sorry she never found me a home, and she is sorry that I have to go away forever. Suddenly I know what is going to happen and I begin to whine. Is it fair that I have to die? What did I do that was so terribly wrong that my life is now being taken from me? I try to picture my old home and the family that left me here to die. I wonder what I could have done differently so they would have kept caring for me. Did I not love them enough? Is that why I am here? I don’t understand why I have to die. And then I remember the kennels and the loud noises and the other dogs that are just as sad as me. How many will be brought in here after I am taken away? I want to live, I want to be loved. I feel something sting me and I see the man softly holding me down as he pulls something sharp away from me. Every fiber of my being begins to fight the feeling because I know I am dying. The man gently pets me and tells me it will all be okay. One last whimper escapes from my throat and soon I have no energy and my eyes close as I feel the energy drain from my very soul. Gone forever.

Authors Note:

	I had decided I was going to write a poem and I had a vague idea in my mind of several options. I started out the night by trying to become inspired. I listened to Phillip Glass’s violin concerto second movement to entice certain feelings to flow. I listened to music played by Jon Schmidt because it is inspirational and beautiful. For hours I sat playing different music and reading various selections of poetry and quotes of my own creation and of fellow writers. I felt the creativity flowing around me in the room in which I sat quietly pondering. In the back of my mind was a story of a creature that wanted to be heard. I pushed it to the back of my head because I could not bear to write it. Subconsciously I refused to write it because it was going to hurt to put together his story.

	I continued throughout the night feeling as if I had my own muse sitting invisibly next to me. I was certain I was going to be able to write what I had determined to write, but each time I prepared to type the words onto my laptop, no word or thought came. I took a small break from this process to help get rid of my writer’s block. I looked online and saw a post from an animal rescue center that I keep up with. They were being shut down and many animals were going to die because of it. I couldn’t take it any longer. I had to write it. The story was going to burst out of me at any moment and I was finally conscious of the anecdote burning inside my very soul.

	The moment my flesh made contact with the keyboard, the words began spilling out of me with almost no thought involved. Within minutes my heart was aching and I knew how the story must end. I had known it all along and it tore my heart into pieces. When I came to the end of the story, the part the reader and both the character come to a realization of what is going to happen, I stopped. My heart yearned and my soul ached as I silently wept for this animal. I quietly mourned the death of not only my character, but of all dogs that shared this story. My fingers were trembling now as they connected with the keyboard again. I silently pecked out the ending in hopes that this story would come alive in the hearts of others. His story had to be told. Even I could not bear to hear it because we as humans do not like to hear what makes us uncomfortable or somber. Which is exactly why I am submitting this piece. I only hope to touch the very core of the souls who read this story. It changed my heart and I plan to do whatever I can to make a difference. This is where I begin.

Apollo

   - by Lyuba Basin 
I have many lovers,
yet to you I am a slave year round.
For you, I could fill oceans with pining tears.
I could undress without seeming shy.

There is a stampede of elephants 
on this debilitated heart,
lungs gripped tight by musty air.
I am incapable of breath.

Your absence is the illness that binds me to my bed,
uncontrollable sleep only to dream of you, again.
Memories of us dissolve – now only photographs,
and summer dresses hidden in the closet.

What sacrifice to make? What Gods to pray?
To be in your arms at night, each night,
and to awaken with golden eyes and wet bodies.
My hair, dancing ringlets in your breath.

Nature is cruel and chooses death and dark days.

I have many lovers,
but imagine, 
a cosmic copulation with you,
Sun and Moon.

Thinking

   - by Lyuba Basin 
There seems to be two sides
to this story,
two endings
at least.

How can these mountains 
pass for freedom
while often caging in 
the beast?

How does one cup become a gallon
to leave me tangled in my sheets?
The way a stranger becomes a lover
when all we want is a release.

Logic; why bother?

   - by Mark Anderson 
What we perceive to be a logical fallacy may actually be a difference in a basic premise that creates a different type of reasoning process which leads to a different conclusion. Most conflicts in reason start with a difference in basic premise, whether in personal relationships, philosophical ideals, or international conflicts. By basic premise I include things as broad as a foundational belief system or as specific as the premise of a math equation.

Examples of contrasting premises are; all truth must be proved by the scientific method/ the scientific method is only valid for science not all truth, people are more important than capital gain/people are secondary to capital gain, since people are biologically the same as animals, people and animals are equal/ people and animals are not equal in status, the ultimate goal of life is self/life is greater than self. You can see from these classic examples what we call logic is really based upon our deeper perceptions of what we consider true. Then we find logic that affirms our basic premises and all that does not affirm these premises we call illogical, resisting the challenge to question our basic premises. We also may be selective in our interpretation of facts so that our selected facts affirm our basic premises. 

We should consider the proposal that many of our basic premises are derived from our culture which explains why there are so many international conflicts; we are just not starting on the same page. Advertising often uses these assumed premises. Advertising may appeal to people on the grounds of an assumption like “financial prosperity is always the best choice and your financial insecurity is a good reason to buy our product” or how about an appeal to women based on assumptions of what constitutes beauty? 

We have all had the experience of a conflict with someone and after a very long argument we conclude that there is just no way we will ever agree because we just don’t see it the same way. And how many marriage conflicts start as a disagreement over some issue and we think the other person just needs some facts clarified, or we keep trying to point out the fallacies in our mate’s logic. But after hours, days or months we realize that we are just coming from very different perspectives. This may appear as an issue of simple logic but I propose that it is actually deeper because these issues begin on a deeper level and even though they may in fact be partly logical and partly illogical our preferred type of logic is actually based upon our very biased basic premises of life. 

As egocentric humans we naturally assume our own basic views to be infallible and that all others should naturally see the pure logic of them. For example as Americans we hold freedom of speech as a basic assumption of freedom that really is accepted without question. But do you have any friends from China who see things differently? In China where Confucian thought has formed their foundational ideas, they consider the well being and harmony of society as more important than individual rights, including freedom of expression. So if we Westerners have a conflict with an Asian; either on a personal level, within a corporation or on the international level, both sides will appear very illogical until addressing the core foundational premises.  

We study and appreciate math and the sciences because their logic is consistent. That is the beauty of science: 2+2 is always 4. And many people attempt to make all of life manageable under these consistent laws of logic. But most of human experience is not so logical. Most of our relationships are not manageable under these principles. (I love the old Star Trek episodes that dealt with this paradox.) This is the human element of life that hovers below the ideals of pure logic.

The perpetual debate between the atheist and theist is a classic example of a basic premise conflict. If I correctly understand the basic premise of the atheist position it is that: the physical world is the totality of our reality and that all truth is subject to the law of scientific inquiry. True? - If I understand the basic premise of the theist position (limit here to Biblical model) it is that: our physical world originated from a spiritual creator and this spiritual creator is not subject to proof by law of scientific inquiry. Agree? Given the differences in these basic premises is there any ground for discussion at all? My personal conclusion is that I can never “prove” anything to an atheist but only possibly convince him to reconsider his basic premise. Of course he also would like to persuade me that my basic premise is faulty.
 
If this is truly the human malady, how can I ever say that someone else is using a faulty logic? How subjective is logic? I am on the verge of claiming that all supposed human logic is really subjective self justification. If we do not consider this dilemma will we ever be able to arrive at pure simple logic? It may therefore be logical to perceive humans as very illogical creatures. Can you spell “p-a-r-a-d-o-x”? We apparently move easily in and out of logic, often within the same sentence. We brush up against logic long enough to taste its benefits but retreat into our preferred state of denial. But mostly, we just wave the flag of logic claiming that others are illogical. Therefore, in our quest for pure logic our basic premises must be examined, for the fallacies of our premises will surely be reflected in the reasoning that follows.

Slice

   - by Mark Anderson 
I’m a knife, a sharp small smart knife, and I’ve got a story to tell. I usually lie in a drawer next to all the large heavy knives but my master prefers me for special jobs. My first and most pleasurable job was slicing a tomato, a ripe soft tomato, thin skin and deep red. The master’s hand pushed gently, piercing the skin, making thin slices for a sandwich, with mayonnaise on a fall day. This is my usual job, my favorite job.

One day all the big knives were dirty from a roast beef dinner the night before. The master took me to the cutting board. Skillfully we sliced cold beef for a sandwich. He pressed hard, plunged, pressing me firmly to the board, a thin clean slice. No cries from the beef.

Another day, very early in the morning the master grabbed me and dropped me into a box full of fishing gear. I spent all day in that box. I came out at lunch to slice some cheese, not my favorite. Then late in the afternoon the master brought me out and to the side of a river. Three large trout lay nearby. Firmly, in his left hand he held the fish belly up. Then in his right fingers he took me, smoothly inserted my razor sharp tip into the soft golden belly, he pulled a straight line up all the way to the gills of the fish. The entrails spilled out into the water, three times. He then rinsed, bathed and purified me in the river from all evidence of blood. I went clean back into the box and back home into my drawer. I must be my master’s favorite knife.

Many years went by, my handle chipped, my face sharpened many times, always ready for a tomato sandwich. But one evening, without warning I was removed from the drawer, wrapped in a small cloth and placed into the master’s pocket. It was strange but I complied, eager to please. We went for a ride, then stopped and waited, sat in the car for a long time. I heard another car arrive. We got out, we were moving quickly now. The master grabbed me, tighter than ever before. Then something I had only experienced once before, and that time was just an accident, human skin, human blood, soft but not delicious. Now I lay at the bottom of a lake, discarded, not cleansed.

Words

   - by Mark Anderson 
Words wiggle free
Cannot be confined
imprisoned these 
words that escape
floating freely
above intellectual
libraries of doom

words wiggle free
when held tightly
to confine floating
freely above all
human entrapment
singing they float
above, ascending
in circles to heights
where humans cannot

Untitled

   - by Marta Reeder 
	I’ve never been one to ever converse with my neighbors, ever. But that’s only because most of them are losers, either being white trash wangsters (white gangsters) who rap about my boots as I walk to wash laundry or old people with no voice boxes that blast their television at wee hours of the night. But things change.  My old upstairs neighbors became senile and were moved into an old folk’s home and were replaced by a very mysterious character.

	For the first day I watched intently trying to figure out who was about to be the moving figure above me that I would never choose in my right mind to talk to. (Call me an unsocial loner if you must- I suppose that’s what I am.) I watched as movers carried the boxes up the stairs but not ever seeing a face clearly. I knew it was going to be a female because the name on the mailbox was a Ms. Daisy Holt.
	Then I saw a pair of feminine legs carrying quite a large box. Then a short moment later I realized she was not carrying the box at all, in fact, the only thing in the box was this “Ms. Daisy Holt.”

	It pains me to say this, but I had to resort to leaving my apartment to understand the oddity, looking through my blinds just wasn’t cutting it.

	“Excuse me?” I asked one of the men carrying a box, “Who is moving in here? Are they here?” I was sure they were there, and underneath the box, but I just couldn’t fathom the words.

	The man, as I predicted, pointed to the box with legs. I walk over to it/her, “You need help with the box?”  I joked.

	The box turns and a slit with a pair of sunglasses responds to me, “Oh no, I’m actually in here,” she said awkwardly not understanding my joke, “So you can’t help me.”

	I didn’t know what to say, “Oh… ha. Well I’m Sarah your downstairs neighbor.”

	“Daisy.”

	“Yeah I know. So… What’s with the box outfit?”

	She answered quickly without any hesitation; almost as if she was a cashier declining my credit card, “Heliophobia,” She then walked up the stairs with outrageous grace for anyone, especially someone wearing a box.

	I googled it of course, “the fear of the sun,” was the answer.  My only thought was, “She must be albino.”

	She’s lived above me for a month now and I have never seen her leave her apartment. She has black curtains over her windows. She has people deliver everything she needs to survive.

	I’ve never been so intrigued by a human being before (that includes the hot bodied soccer player that lived next door from me for a month, not that I talked to him). I have even resorted to facebook stalking. Unfortunately Ms. Daisy Holt is too cool to have a social network account. But really, she never leaves her apartment, how can she not have one?

	Today, after watching old 1950’s television shows I’ve come up with a bullet proof plan. A “welcome to the apartments” batch of cookies. They aren’t homemade but it’s not like I’m going to spend five hours making cookies, that’s ridiculous. She’s probably afraid of chocolate or something.

	I gingerly walk up to her door and knock. A note is soon shoved between the black curtains that cover the window on the door, it reads: I only accept visits after dark- sunset is at 7:11 tonight, come back then.

				-Daisy

	I walk back down to my apartment befuddled, “She must be a vampire.” I think about wearing garlic upon my second visit but if she isn’t a vampire then I’ll look like a total idiot.

	I wait.

	I go back around eight, just to make sure no sun was lingering. I knock once again, this time with an answer. I am taken aback by her normal appearance. I suppose I imagined her to be an older woman with pasty white skin and red albino eyes. Daisy is a fresh young lady with olive skin and golden eyes. She doesn’t appear to be either an albino or a vampire.

	“Daisy?” I ask to be sure that the person in front of me was in fact the lady in the box.

	“Yes. Come in,” She opens the door wide, “Are those for me?” She takes the cookies (obviously not afraid of chocolate) as I am frozen in the sight of her incredible living room. The walls are painted with clouds, and even… a sun.

	“Wow,” is all I can muster and then I see what occupies the room. Cages full of spiders, snakes, rats, and other such vermin. I back away as far as humanly possible without becoming one with the wall. Instantly I feel the creatures crawling all over my body, laying eggs in my brain, infecting me with the plague, filling my body with poisonous venom. This woman who is afraid of the very thing that sustains life on this planet plays mommy to the horrible.

	“Do you like my collection?” she asks.

	I look at her wide eyed (so wide eyed I am sure my eyes have fallen from my skull), “Uh, NO! Why in the world do you have these?”

	She shrugs,” I just like them. Are you frightened?”

	I am seeing all my fears displayed out in front of me, let’s see her reaction if I put her out in an open field at noon on a sunny day without a box, “Yes! You are afraid of the sun but just fine and dandy with housing these disgusting… things?” I shiver.

	“The sun is made from molten energy. Solar flares are happening all over the place. Hello, skin cancer. UV rays blinding people,” The way she talks is almost convincing me that fearing the sun is rational, “They aren’t disgusting, just misunderstood. If they harm you it’s just because they are defending themselves.”

	I stand, being put in my place by a girl who is afraid of the sun. The most seemingly irrational human being seems to have everything in order in that odd brain of hers. I can stand outside without a box protecting me and yet, I end up being the ridiculous sounding one. How ironic.

Watch the Storm

   - by Maxx Chan 
A thin sheet of glass separates you from the outside world.
It’s so easily broken,
Not a mirror image, a barrier.
Your hand presses against the cold glass.
You slip through, a wraith against the silent black of night.
Watch the storm,
God’s tribute to the insane, secret world.
Purple, black, and gray clouds roil opaque, replacing His sky cloak.
Shrouding the world with mystery and tainted wonder,
Misery is man’s best friend.
Thunder crashes like the waves of the sea,
Wordless protests too low for you to hear.
Anger rolls across the sky to the beat of a never-ending drum.
You barely catch the faint echoes bouncing back.
Lightning dances, revealing the fury in His flashing eyes.
One after another, they blind you but not before you see.
Each split second image seared into your mind forever with painful clarity,
You will never forget as you struggle to remember.
Rain falls, invisible, with a feeling you cannot touch.
His precious diamonds plummet to the ground with tragic indifference.
Watch the storm.
God is angry while He weeps.

CRACK’D IN THE NOGGIN

   - by Michael Euler 
	I was shopping and about to head to the checkout when I collapsed to the ground from a seizure. The left side of my head hit the concrete surface and was bleeding profusely. I was transported by ambulance and had another seizure. At the hospital they did a CT scan which showed a hemorrhage on the right side. Still unconscious they called life flight and transported me to a trauma hospital. I was pronounced dead while in flight, and rushed inside the operating room.

	I underwent a craniotomy to relieve the swelling. My skull was reattached with twenty-nine internal and sixty-nine external titanium staples as well as a 1.5” plate. I spent four days in the hospital and then was discharged to recover on my own.

	Mind Body Bridging is a unique method of healing that represents a new paradigm in mind/body medicine that recognizes and uses the five major senses sight, sound, taste, smell touch. It shows a way to connect to see that each person is filled with infinite healing goodness and wisdom.

	If you find yourself with a busy mind and, as with many, it interferes with daily tasks.  Simply take a moment to clear your mind by coming to your senses by feeling your feet on the floor and experiencing gravity. Listen to the background sounds like the humming of the fridge or the sprinklers going off in the distance, or feel what the fabric of your jeans or your shirt feels like. When you have thoughts that come to mind, simply label that thought. For example you have a thought like I have too much math homework tell yourself “I am having a thought I have too much homework”, and concentrate again on your senses. When you label your thoughts you are identifying with your identity system and if you get caught up in a thought and it won’t go away take a moment and feel the tension in your body and then use your senses to come back to the now.

	Maybe you have a knot in your stomach, and at that time, know that your identity system is active and to come back to your senses. When you feel anxiety maybe in your stomach or you feel like your heart dropped, become aware of and notice the background sounds again. Concentrate on your breathing and spend a moment in that place. Come back to the now and notice how you’re breathing eased or the knot in your stomach is gone. Now a lot of people may ask “Is this just meditating or like the practice of meditative forms?” Some of the techniques are similar but there is a distinguishing factor that sets bridging apart. That factor is that we now know a way to communicate within our mind and identify with it, recognize and come to our senses and stay in the now. We can’t change yesterday or anything about 5 minutes from now but by bridging you stay in the moment, you live in the now. You can identify with yourself and, with practice know what your body senses are feeling and trying to say to you.

	When we have these thoughts of negative self-talk they begin to spin story line after story line and cause body tension and discomfort and that leads us to believe that we are a damaged self. Mind body bridging allows you to not only come back to the now but identify yourself and then using your senses to come back to the now. We eventually learn to quickly identify thoughts and storylines and know how to combat them. Let’s say you have a large grocery list and your mind is so busy about what to have for supper, that while you are in the car on the freeway you look up and notice that you missed your exit. That shows your identity system active, and where did the last five miles go? We can get so lost in our busy heads.

	Mind-body bridging was discovered and developed from the author of Come to your Senses: Demystifying the Mind Body Connection by Stanley H. Block MD (March 28, 2005). He has been in the process of developing mind body bridging program since 1994. After a lengthy time spent in research labs there is scientific evidence that Dr. Blocks techniques are successful. Mind body practitioners formed a group called mind body bridging butterfly project with the goal to inform others of the unique practice of bridging. They also to meet together to discuss and share new ideas and different techniques everyone uses. The butterfly project consists of doctors, students, counselors, and various other paraprofessionals.   

	A big part of MBB is the work done with Veterans in the VA hospitals across the country where post-traumatic stress disorder and drug and alcohol abuse are of high concern. Some of these soldiers had been struggling for years and were now finally able to find some answers and success and able to address and deal with underlying issues.  By using the MBB practices the recidivism rate went down drastically as people were able to manage their diagnoses with the methods they had learned, and begin to heal.

	The Mind body bridging community and practitioners involved has been fortunate enough to appear in television and radio programs across the United States to spread the practices of MBB and explain “the identity system”, being in your I system or in your natural free functioning self.

	Finally, a 21st Century mind/body healing modality that is neurologically based and scientifically proven! Mind-Body Bridging regulates what brain researchers call the Default Mode Network and activates the Executive Network, the healthiest and most productive state of brain functioning. When the Executive Network is active, our mind and body heal as efficiently and quickly as is possible and we experience our inner Source of healing, goodness, power and wisdom. We call this natural functioning.  In a state of natural functioning, we feel connected to ourselves, others, the environment and our inner source of wellness. We feel confident, grounded and equipped to handle any situation we encounter without anxiety, worry, inner conflict, helplessness or any other debilitating state. Our mind is clear and our body is relaxed and responsive. Natural functioning is our optimal state in every context of life and it is our birthright to enjoy it fully.

Three bottles down

   - by Michael Sharifi 
no day special, no day different than another
we talked and that was that
later more of the same 
three bottles down and a gun on the table
better said, the best kind of story
visually there when I woke up the next morning
a trail from here to there 
evidence of a night forgotten and remembered
hours later I reflect and smile
days later I reflect with a chuckle
a universal connection 
a heavenly disaster
over time we experienced one another
we talked and that was that
later more was given and more was taken
we talked and there was anger
time passed by one without the other
dreams said this and words said that 
three bottles down and now we are lovers
one bullet in and the rest laying down
shooting, the toy, all in one day
something is missing I left and went my way
something happen and back I came
 away to there and one stays here
how would we ever be together
right is wrong and wrong is right 
one thing leads to another 
with no reason, no why, no understanding of ones mind
hidden agendas, deception, and lies
hurt and broken the fixer can not make it all right
space and time, one day goes by, and its all over
one deep breath and a tear in my eye
scars and memories that stay for life
three bottles down and I reflect and I smile.

The Gypsy Child

   - by Michelle Rodgers 
	Sheer panic arose in her small chest. Her eyes darted around. She could not understand where she was. Her mother told her to run, and she did until the yells and screams stopped and silence lay all around her. It seemed she had walked for days looking for her mother but she found no one, she could not even find the road she had once been on. Everywhere she walked the cold dry leaves crunched under her feet, and when she thought she could go no further, she heard voices. "Mama!" She screamed and ran towards the sounds.

	She froze not just from the newly fallen snow, but from the sudden despair when she realized this was a city. She had never been to a city.  Her mother had told her that their kind did not belong there. She was overwhelmed by all the busy people hurrying about. Finally she saw there was a happy looking woman talking to man. She wore red, bright red like her mother’s people. Tugging on the woman’s dress she asked.

	"Have you seen mama?"

	In an instant her happy face twisted into an ugly fury as she raised her arms up yelling at her to leave. These people were nothing like the smiling faces of her memory. She pressed on looking for anything familiar. Her feet ached no longer padded by leaves and grass. Until her stomach protested against her going any further. The intoxicating smell pulled her into a bakery. Once the door shut, her hunger took over. Grabbing the closest loaf, she shoved as much as she could into her small chapped mouth. The pleasure of food was so good she did not notice the first hit to her hands. The pleasure of food was finally broken, by another hard hit that forced her hands limp. She fell to the floor holding her hands over her head trying to protect herself. Each blow blurred with the next till she felt herself lifted from the ground. She looked up only to see herself moving farther away from the shop. It made her stomach wail in protest.

	"Shut up you little thief, how dare you steal from me!”

	She forced her eyes up to see a huge man holding her arm so tightly it began to go numb.  Panic rose as he called another armed man. The large stick the new comer carried made his small frame seem just as frightening, as the giant that held her now. The giant threw her towards the new stranger who raised his great stick and began beating her. After what felt like an eternity, the darkness took over her.

	The rest seemed to blur together, she awoke just before the pain would take her again. Warmth washed over her face as warm broth invaded her mouth. Her eyes perked open in hopes of familiar faces, only to be stricken with fear of the many screams that filled her ears. The loud eco of screams and cries seemed to flood in from all around her, as if the very walls were the makers. As she looked up there was an ugly man missing many teeth, he shoved the rest of the broth into her mouth. She did not care at the time, as it stopped the pain in her stomach. He then snapped big metal chains upon her wrist. The sheer weight of them made it almost impossible to raise her arms. The throbbing in her hands made it difficult to move her fingers. She shook her hands compulsively to sooth the numbing. The chain jerked her forward as she stared back at the toothless man begging for more.  The jerking did not stop; it pulled her forward through large wooden doors. The man in front of her did not look back nor did anyone else seem to notice her cries. She wondered if she was still making a sound. Her throat soon became dry again and felt horse and until she could no longer scream.  Confusion swept over her as she realized she was outside, unsure of where she was. Her eyes darted about in a panic trying to comprehend her new surroundings. There were masses of people everywhere, crowded together. Their voices swirled into one mass murmur and she understood none of it. Just ahead the crowd parted exposing a dark clothed man heating a metal poker. The man in front of her was held down while a piece of hot iron came down on his upper arm. His scream was muffled as he bit his lip. There was so much white in his eyes, as he stared down at her it was impossible to look away. It was that look, he had in that moment. She swore he grew ten feet high. The murmur of the crowds became a white noise. Her fear stilled, she shook her hands compulsively as if to dispose of it. She was seized by two men who held her in a confined position. The iron was bigger then her entire arm. Daring not move she bit her lip and held her breath. The instant it touched her skin she lost all control. She screamed and her body flailed all it could. The sound of the sizzling and smell of her own flesh burning was unforgettable. When it was over she was pulled up a ramp.

	All her breath had left her chest and with it her fear, mother, and her hope escaped her. The child in her died with the rest of her, she shook her hands again, as she was dragged into a line in front of a crowd.

	Gypsy child is what they called her and one a Thru penny was her price. Before she could get her bearings, she was shoved forward again. She finally stopped in front of a very tall man. He’s ice cold fingers grabbed her face pulling her eyes open, then her mouth, and then he pinched her sides before giving coin to the man who held her chains. She was lifted into a wagon with other girls, they huddled against themselves. She followed in line and held herself in a tight ball curling up to closet girl. Exhaustion and pain sent the darkness back. She awoke to the smell of something new, sweet and bitter. She stood up to see a blue horizon. A shake of the wagon forced her down. Then the wagon stopped and the cold fingered man pulled her down and walked her towards a boat. The boat was the last thing she noticed, it was the bright blue sea that held her eye. The moment was quickly over as when was shoved in the boat and then down steps. All thoughts were forgotten as a plump woman handed her a crust of bread and a mug of something warm. She didn’t care what it was, however it seemed her stomach did, and she fought to keep it. She was giving a small blanket and a corner. She awoke, only to loose the bits of food she fought so hard to keep. It felt as though she slept for days. Until she was forced awake by the ice cold fingered man again. He said nothing just pulled her upright and dragged her up the stairs. Her eyes squinted from the dim sun light. Cold rain poured down upon her, soaking her instantly. Still it was not until she noticed the sea again did her heart sink. The water was no longer bright blue, it was pale and sad. Everything seemed gray.

	The icy man showed no kindness, as he tethered her to the horse. She watched the ocean disappear into the distance as they rode off. All she could think was even the sea was looked sad to have to come upon these shores.

Cry Love

   - by Misty Harker 
Singing so sweetly your sullen symphony of tears
past the passing of the time of all your fears
for death denied me its fleeting ecstasy
damned to wander the living plane eternally.
Swaying to the motion of intangible rings.
long past the point of rationality
driven mad and hungry from longing
for just one soft moment of loving.
	Cry love
		one last time
			cry love
		your heart
	pleads my 
scream inside.
	Cry my love
		my soul quakes
			to the floor
		cry my name love
	least my soul
should shatter
	should i not see you once more.
Drive me into perilous pleasures
past any point of intimate measures
fall tears of joy once and again
never once meeting an end.
smile for my heart you've awoken
those three kind words you have spoken
you felled the great beast that laid its claim
an' cupids dart ne'er lost its aim
	Cry love
		one last time
			cry love
		your heart
	pleads my 
scream inside.
	Cry my love
		my soul quakes
			to the floor
		cry my name love
	least my soul
should shatter
	should i not see you once more.

HAND-ME-DOWN

   - by Molly Koeneman 
Jake, 1936


	Most of my clothes were shirts, pants, socks, and shoes that had been worn by others, repaired by my mother and given to me out of charity. The clothes were technically mine, I guess, but they had previously belonged to someone else in my family, and I could never shift the idea of ownership. Exactly one week before Hemmy’s thirteenth birthday, I put on my father’s red flannel shirt, which I cuffed to the elbow, and Nick’s faded blue jeans, patched on both knees. But I didn’t mind hand-me-downs when I was ten.

	I was the first to impose upon my mother that morning. Small but clean, Mother’s kitchen was a well-lighted place thanks to the open window above the sink. There, on the sill, my mother had placed a handful of sea lavender in one of her fancy vases. The day before Hemmy had come in for supper with the indigo blossoms in hand. When I stepped into the room that morning, she looked over her shoulder from her cooking to smile at me, and I habitually set the table.

	Sir came in minutes later with my brother at his heels. Nick was fifteen, the oldest, and nearly as tall as our old man. His pants, though new to him six months before, hit him right below his calf when he sat down at the breakfast table. Except for Mother’s perky ears, Nick looked like Sir. When he sat at the table he opened his book and tried to show Sir something on the page about horse birthing while Margaret, my seven-year-old sister, slid in the chair besides him.

	After setting the bacon and pancakes on the table, Mother handed Sir the pot of steaming coffee and then she called Hemmy.

	“Don’t call him ‘Hemmy,’” Sir said. “His name is ‘Henry.’”

	“Henry!” Mother called again, smiling jokingly at Sir as she wiped her hands with a dishtowel.

	Thunder rumbled the stairs. My thirteen-year-old brother was in flight. Jumping the last three stairs as he always did, he landed in the hall with a heavy and muted thud. Sir cleared his throat in his disapproving way when Hemmy entered the kitchen, and then he pointed to the refrigerator. Punishment for such poor manners was served standing with your face in the corner. As Hemmy walked to the spot where the refrigerator and cream-colored wall met at an angle, he grinned at me. He looked like my mother with his big gray eyes, thick smile, freckled nose, and sharp chin.

	Like Nick, I look like my father. My mother has no claim on my features. In those days, when Sir wasn’t in the house, she would call me to her and stroke my cheek, talking to me in a hushed whisper. She’d tell me things of little consequence, maybe the recipe to her grandmother’s cookies or the plot of her most recent novel, but she’d always stroke my cheek and study me with gray eyes. It made me feel hollow, as if she were gently peeling off my skin to find a piece of herself in me. I longed to show her what she was looking for, to dissect my every organ if our similarities were hidden so deep. But inevitably she would sigh, and I would know her search had failed.

	“Jake, would you say grace?” Sir asked me.

	I clasped my hands together and rested them on the corner of the table. Sir, Mother, Nick, and Margaret did the same. “Bless us, O Lord and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

	“Very pretty, Jakey,” Mother cooed.

	I scrunched my nose and filled my glass with milk.

	When Sir finished his first cup of coffee and cleared his throat, Nick and I had already started our second plate. “Henry, say ‘The Nicene Creed.’”

	“In Latin, Sir?”

	“Do you know it in Latin?”

	“No,” Hemmy answered. “I know part of the ‘Hail Mary’ in Latin, though.”

	“I asked for ‘The Nicene Creed.’”

	When I was ten, I never questioned authority. I figured everyone else knew better. I did the chores Sir told me to do, and the dishes Mother pushed me towards. I obeyed Nick and Hemmy when they wanted to use me against one another, and sometimes, I even played dolls with Margaret because she told me to.

	“Yes, Sir. Er—I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth and of all things—er—seen and unseen. And in one Lord Jesus Christ—er—the—the—”

	“Only begotten Son,” Mother added.

	“Yes, the only begotten Son of God, begotten…”

	Henmy continued to stumble through “The Creed” till finally he accepted the resurrection of the dead and of the life of the world to come. Amen.

	“Sit down and eat,” Sir said.

	Hemmy left the corner and took his seat next to me, grinning and nudging my shoulder with his as he sat down.


*


	Hemmy, the first out the door after breakfast, kicked rocks and dust out from under his feet. Quickly following, Nick treaded on Hemmy’s heels, finally causing one shoe to slip off.

	With a groan, Hemmy stooped to retrieve his shoe. “God, Nick.” He took off after Nick, who was laughing and chased him into the barn with the shoe held up and ready to strike.

	And me, I chased the brothers I never caught.

	Milking the cows, Hemmy told us the story of Ali Baba and the flying carpet. Nick fed and brushed the horses, explaining to us something he learned about horse birthing while stammering like Hemmy had during “The Creed” to make fun. Laughing at Hemmy and asking Nick questions, I tended to the chickens and contributed little else.

	Sir was not back by lunch; he had gone to town for his annual check-up. So when we finished all the morning chores, Mother let us take a picnic in the backyard under the whitening leaves of the dogwood tree. Margaret arranged a big blanket, and Mother brought out cold sandwiches, potato salad, and apple slices with sweet tea. We ate out of the basket without utensils and drank the entire pitcher.

	When we finished, Nick produced a deck of cards from his pocket, and we started to play bridge. Opening a book, Mother leaned against the dogwood; she was always reading. When she cooked, she hummed and read. When she sat by the fire at night, she read. When she tucked us, in bed at night, even Nick, she read something pretty—a poem, a children’s book, a prayer, anything.

	“Mother, what are you reading today?” Hemmy asked. He, like mother, avidly read. He read about flying carpets and maraudering pirates and ancient heroes. Late at night, when the house was dark and quiet with sleep, I liked to stay awake and watch Hemmy read by the glow of his flashlight. Sometimes he would giggle like Margaret, but mostly he would have a devilish grin. He never knew I watched. Nick’s snores convinced Hemmy the rest of the house was asleep. But I stayed awake; some nights I stayed with him till the flashlight fell out of his sleeping hand onto the floor.

	Closing the book over her thumb, Mother said:  “The Red Badge of Courage.”

	“Do you like it?” Hemmy asked.

	“It’s sad, baby.”

	“What’s it about?”

	“It’s about a young boy going to war.”

	“Is he going to die?” Nick asked.

	“I don’t know,” Mother said. “He just met a dead man under a tree.”

	“Met a dead man?” Margaret said with her voice rising at the end of her statement.

	“Yes, he runs away from battle and meets a dead man sitting under a tree, and he talks to him. The dead man reassures him that his reservations and his fears are legitimate. The dead man gives him courage.”

	We were silent for a moment.

	“Nick, what would you say to a dead man?” Mother asked.

	Nick pushed Hemmy so he lay flat on his back, hands crossed over his stomach. “Excuse me, mister, how did you die?”

	Hemmy answered Nick without hesitation. “I had a fever and a bad headache, and in the end I was nauseated and vomiting. It was like my insides wanted to become my outside.” Hemmy held his eyes half closed and rolled around the blanket as if he were in pain.

	Margaret and I laughed as Mother covered her smile with the book.

	“Hmmm,” hummed Nick. “Sounds uncomfortable.”

	“That’s not even the worst, Nurse Nick!”

	“Hey!” Nick pouted.

	“I had all these buboes on my neck and under my arms.”

	“The plague!” Mother giggled.

	“What would you ask a dead man, Hemmy?” Margaret asked.

	Hemmy rose from the dead and put me in a headlock, slitting my throat with his finger after messing my hair. The audience on the blanket gasped at my pretend murder, and Hemmy pushed me down and asked:  “What is it like to be dead?”

	A chill ran across my skin and I was completely still: to be dead. Well, I wouldn’t be here, I thought. My body would be, but I wouldn’t. I guess I’d be floating up in the air, watching everyone as they cried a little and buried me and eventually moved on. I’d float over the people I knew until they were gone, and then I’d find new people to float over and watch. I’d be dead, so there wouldn’t be any pigs to feed or cows to milk or meals to eat or fences to fix or races to run. I’d just watch because I’d be dead.

	“It’s like floating,” I answered.

	“Floating in heaven?” Margaret asked.

	“In the air,” Hemmy said. “Like floating in the air watching everyone you know.”

	Raised up on my forearms, I looked at Hemmy, and our eyes met. For a moment I saw fear strike his eyes. But just as quick as it appeared, it was gone, and he was grinning again.

	“This is a silly subject,” Mother said. She stood and started collecting everything in the basket, her hands shaking slightly. “Boys, get to the rest your chores, and Margaret get this blanket.”


*


	After Mother and Margaret had carried the things into the house, we decided to work on the broken section of fence in the east pasture. Nick carried a load of lumber in his arms like a baby while Hemmy did so across the back of his shoulders. I brought along the bucket of nails and three hammers.

	“I hate hauling lumber,” Nick said.

	“It’s not as bad cutting tobacco,” Hemmy said.

	“Sure, but I still hate hauling lumber,” Nick said, swinging his load to hit Hemmy in the back.

	Hemmy swung back. “In two years, you should be ready to go away to school. Thank God.”

	Nick smiled and threw the weight of the lumber back up in his arms.

	“How far away will you go?” I asked.

	“I want to go east; one of them big, northeast schools would be fine.”

	“That’s expensive,” Hemmy noted.

	“Sure, but I got the marks. Besides, they practically pay people to go to medical school these days.”

	“No, they don’t,” Hemmy snapped.

	“They do too!”

	“Maybe after you graduate, but you have to pay for school up front.”

	“Mother says I can get a scholarship if I study good and hard.” Nick gripped the lumber tighter to his chest and bounded forward two steps.	“What do you want to do, big shot?”

	“I think I want to fly,” Hemmy said. “Join the Navy and get on one of them boats that planes take off of. I’d get to see the ocean, all the oceans, and then I’d get to see Asia and Europe and Africa.”

	“Didn’t Sir go there?” I asked.

	“He was stationed in Italy. He fought in the trenches and ate the rats, slept in the mud.” Hemmy said these words just we’d heard Sir say them before. We had reached the section of broken fence, and Hemmy relieved his shoulders of the lumber before climbing on top of a section of good fence. “When I was growing up,” he said, mimicking Sir’s voice again, “I wanted nothing more but to be away from my father’s goddamn fields. I hated these hills and this tobacco and this house more than anything in the world. I got away. I got away and got myself into the United States Army, into a boat, and into a war. I was too young to understand that damn war. And what got me back state-side alive was this damn piece of land here.”

	Nick sat on the ground, laughing.

	I smiled in awe of my brother’s acting, yet wondering why he was making fun of Sir. Sir was trying to tell us to appreciate what he had, to be thankful.

	“Land is everything!” Hemmy pointed at me, scowling like Sir. “These hills and this tobacco and this house—it’s everywhere I ever wanted to be. I was just too much of a blockhead to understand that when I was young. Being a farmer takes heart, a lot of heart. Some people just don’t got enough of that. Some people run away if they don’t got enough heart to work hard.”

	“You sound just like him,” Nick said. “Now sigh and wipe your brow. That’s it! That’s Sir to a science.”

	We all laughed, me because they were, remembering the times when Sir would lecture us for being lazy and go off on a tangent, thinking he was inspiring us to love what he loved and be like he was. Back when I was ten, his speech worked too; I was sold on the idea of wearing other people’s clothes and loving what other people told me to love, even doing what other people told me to do. It made things simpler when you were obedient, so I thought it was better not to disagree.

	As a child, I thought the sigh after his breathless lecture was a gasp for oxygen. I look back at that speech and remember the sigh and the wiping of the brow. I remember it on my skin as if his words are resting there, telling me something more. The speech was Sir’s confidence, but the sigh conveyed his doubt. It was as though he was locked in a cage, a soldier afraid of dying, condemned to stay.

	We finished repairing several sections of fence before Nick looked at his watch, then at the setting sky and told us it was getting close to six o’clock. The rotten lumber we decided to come back for after supper.

	“Let’s race,” Hemmy said

	“I don’t wanna,” I protested.

	“That’s only because you never win,” Hemmy said. “Come on, don’t be a baby.”

	“I’m not a baby,” I muttered as I took my place in line next to Nick.

	Hemmy yelled, “Go!” and we ran.

	Hemmy pulled away.

	Nick followed.

	And I followed.

	As the heat of the late March afternoon swam around us, our coats and thick socks collecting sweat, we ran over fields still hard from the winter cold, breathing air that smelled of rain.

	Hemmy was far ahead of us; his face turned upwards and his arms held out mimicking an airplane.

	He began to make a circle.

	Nick followed.

	I followed.

	Ahead of us the laundry from the line waved in the wind and, from where we were, we could see the sheets dancing like flags. Home was so close. In a looping circle, the race became about catching Hemmy instead of winning.

	Then Hemmy stumbled and stopped, dropping to his knees. Nick tackled Hemmy, pushing him to the ground. I ran up beside them.

	Nick laughed.

	I laughed.

	Hemmy gasped and rolled over. My body jerked to an automatic stop, and I stood as if I’d been planted in that spot a yard away from Hemmy since God created the earth, unsure if legs where even meant to move. He was clutching his chest with his left hand, a hand full of fabric caught in his fist. With his right he was reaching up towards me. Nick was on his butt, pushing away from Hemmy with his feet and hands like a crab. The sight before me weakened by stand, and I fell forward as though kicked in the back of the knees.

	I took pulled myself to my older brother’s side, and I Hemmy’s hand, holding it to my chest. I moved closer and felt his neck for a pulse.

	“His heart is beating like a jack hammer,” I said.

	Nick was silent.

	“Nick, go get help.”

	When I looked at Nick, my big brother, I saw his face contorted in unblinking horror as he looked past me at Hemmy, who was breathing rapid, shallow breaths. Our eyes never met, we never exchange any unspoken realization, but I knew that Nick was thinking the same thing I was—Hemmy was dying.

	“Damn it, Nick, run!”

	Nick ran, scrambled up in a stumbling sort of cartwheel, he crawled to his feet as he took off.

	I could feel Nick’s steps shake the Earth. I envied him in that moment more than I have ever envied anyone in my entire life. He was smarter than me. He was taller than me. He was stronger than me. He was faster than me. Most of all he was faster. And he was fast enough to run away from that scene. It was then that my strength left me, and I became dizzy.

	I held Hemmy’s hand to my chest with both of mine, trying to steady us both. With deep purposefully breaths, I took in oxygen and blew a heavy gust of carbon dioxide into Hemmy’s face as thought the feel of the air on his face would compel him to breathe, too.

	What do you say to a dying boy?

	“Nick’s gone for help,” I said. “You’ll be okay.” But the words choked me.

	Hemmy was crying. “I don’t want to die,” he gasped. He was short of breath, and all the energy he seemed to have was clutching my hands and flitting his eyes towards everything around him.

	When I think back on my last moments with Hemmy now, I wish I had said I didn’t want him to die either. I wish I had told him he was the most interesting person I knew. I wish I had said I loved him.

	The unwitting thing I actually said was “I know,” and then I choked on vomit that didn’t make it all the way up my throat.

	Hemmy took a deep, steady breath and looked up at me with his sad, gray eyes and said, “Jake. Jake, please—”

	Then he closed his eyes and died.

	I still remember the weight of his hand as it fell limp in mine. Pressing my forehead against his body and pulling at his cloths with my desperate fingers, I beat his chest with my angry fists, trying to make his heart beat, trying to put life back in the organ that had stopped for no reason whatsoever. He had been running, running with his face to the sky and his arms open. And the night before he had been reading. Smiling. Breathing. Living. Minutes ago he was alive.

	Nick came back, the family in his wake, and then vomited when he saw Hemmy.

	Sir bent down and picked up Hemmy’s body, leaving me to slide onto the ground. He turned and walked back to the house, Margaret clinging to Nick’s arm as they followed.

	Mother, trembling, turned away from the funeral procession and looked towards the eastern fence. Her cheeks were white.

	Left with only Mother besides me, I traced the faint outline Hemmy’s lanky frame had started to impress upon the grass.

	I stood slowly and looked to the same faint point in the distance.

	We stood there, silently listening to the sky quake with a pregnant storm.

	She held a hand to me and said, “Come on home, baby.”

	I looked at her curiously, cocking my head to the side, considering.

	“No,” I said plainly. And then I ran, deciding to chase the vanishing point beyond that fence. I ran, and when I got to the fence, I beat its planks till my knuckles bled.

	At the end of our property line, pain took claim on my legs and my chest. I could not breathe; I could not feel my feet. Still, I ran.

	When I got to the end of the dirt road, I stopped and looked behind me. Back there was a boy who had died, a boy who would be buried in the family cemetery, a boy who used to read late at night with a flashlight, a boy who used to be my brother.

	I ran to the edge of town. Ahead of me was a long road, a road that led to bigger towns, cities even, and eventually—one way or another—the ocean. He would never see the ocean; Hemmy would never see or do any of the things we dreamed about. There, standing at the edge of town—the furthest Hemmy had ever been—I could decide whether to keep going or to turn back. All the things Hemmy wanted to do lay before me. I was alive, and I could choose.

	It started to rain. I stood there for a while, and I remember contemplating how far a kid with no money could get before someone called his parents. I wondered how much more running I could physically do. My skin was tight and wrinkled against my bones just as the skin of a baby left in the bath too long. Cold and a little hungry, I decided to walk home.

	When I got there, the storm had kicked up into a battle between the lightening and the wind. Cars—those of the police and of people from church—littered the front lawn. Shoving off sympathetic arms, I escaped to the room that three brothers had once shared and took off clothes that belonged to others. Crawling into the bed that once belonged to a lanky and freckled boy, I picked up one of Hemmy’s books, the one he had been reading the night before, and read until I fell asleep, the flashlight slipping from my hand and hitting the floor.

Cloudy Street

   - by Myra Karine 
I stroll upon a cloudy street
the sun hot on my head
it’s mushy under my bare feet
along this cotton bed

darker grays
brighter grays
shades of white
in the sun’s rays

blue chalk streaks
purple leaks
across the sky

pockets of brighter blue
the kind that make you smile
I step across the silver lining
and gaze below awhile

mountain peaks and river threads
look up to say hello
I wave to them from overhead
lakes smile from below

entwined
bright lines
all glowing in
the sunshine

sparkling vines
then combine
reflection

walk with me on Cloudy Street
the sun will warm your head
the air will cool your small bare feet
rest on this cotton bed

darker grays
brighter grays
shades of white
in the sun’s rays

blue chalk streaks
purple leaks
across the sky

The Men of Sardis

   - by Nean Michael Hawe 
How bright the sun on burnished bronze;
how loud the tramp of feet;
how gleam the tips of lances long;
the Foe we go to greet.

From Sardis fair, upon a hill, with
many a sigh we've gone. Come to
this field, to die and kill; to
forever be known in song.

The women wept, the children cried,
as we passed beneath the gates.
But go we must, with spears, decide
our city's lasting fate.

The Foe's unfurled 'cross the way,
and terrible is their might.
But many less shall see this day
as it fades into twilight.

The standard's snapping in the breeze,
and now the captains call;
"Tonight, men, we'll take our ease,
but the enemy must fall!"

Heartened, now we bang our shields,
and the racket fills the vale.
The Foe, they quiver 'cross the field,
those cowards weep and wail.

Though outnumbered, more than twice,
the Men of Sardis stand.
We have the courage to pay the price,
to save our sacred land.




Now the tramp comes louder still,
as we march unto the fray.
Of blood, the ground shall drink its fill
before we end this day.

Lances lowered we rush ahead,
eager to meet their line.
We'll cover the ground in foreign dead
and make their mothers pine.

The clash of arms comes all around,
as spears strike bodies through;
among the Foe the gods have found
the blood that is their due.

Now the cavalry charges by
to engage an open flank;
on their noble steeds they fly,
to break the ordered ranks.

Cries of pain fill the air
as the enemy breaks to run;
but no soul shall be spared,
the slaughter's just begun.

As night falls we march toward home,
triumphant for all to see.
Of the friends buried 'neath the loam,
we shall sing in victory

Sardis fair, she still stands
upon the holy hill;
we paid the price to save our land
but the wounds may never heal.

Unfinished Salvation

   - by Nean Michael Hawe 
Llia lay gasping on the floor, her blonde hair plastered to her face by vomit the red-black color of month old blood, her palms scraped and knees bruised by the long climb up the tower’s rough stone stairs. Several feet away lay her one time partner, Jared. The pupils of each of his brown eyes changed size independently as he tried to focus. On the other side of the overturned work table she could hear the hiss of caustic chemicals mixing, a sound more worrisome than the glass of broken phials and beakers digging into her face. The lab smelled of noxious death, like the inside of crypt wyrm’s second stomach, a stench that would have made her retch had the poison not already done so.

It was a humiliating situation for the two best alchemists in the city: to have been poisoned by the very concoction they had pioneered together. Ebon-rot was generally considered to be universally fatal, guaranteeing its victims a slow, excruciating journey beyond the grave.

Between the two lay a tarnished iron lockbox, graven with runes of sealing, bound shut by words they shared, but neither knew.

“Damn it, Jared,” Llia said, her voice rough with pain, “just tell me your half of the unbinding!”

“Why should I trust you? You sold me out to the Consul. I wouldn’t put it past you to fake your symptoms.”

“For the last time, Jared, I did not sell you out! And you know that the symptoms of Ebon-rot can’t be faked.”

“Then you poisoned yourself. I know you want me dead. You’d do anything to get your hands on the antidote now.”

Llia raised one hand to feebly swat at his face but missed entirely and only succeeded in cutting herself on the lockbox. The blood that oozed from the gash was the consistency and color of pitch.

“You’re the only person crazy enough to come up with a scheme like that,” Llia’s azure eyes brimmed with tears, “I think your paranoia has finally pushed you over the edge. I’ve never wanted to hurt you.”

Jared began laughing, a high pitched, manic sound which cut off suddenly as a bout of retching shook his twisted frame.

“I swear it, Jared,” Llia said, the words coming slowly. “If you vow to me that this isn’t some mad plot to avenge yourself for what you think I’ve done, I’ll give you my half of the unbinding.”

Jared stared at her for some time, and from long years of working by his side Llia could see that he was trying to find the hidden trap in her offer. After a few moments, moments which stretched into an eon for Llia, he nodded.

“By the Codex Apocrypha, I swear I did not poison you. By the Dictum of the Veiled, I vow it. May Azroxithum the Tormentor forever hold my soul in bondage if I speak untrue.”

“Sono sempre vero,” Llia whispered.

“Siamo mortali,” Jared croaked.

When Jared completed the unbinding the runes on the pitted gray surface of the lockbox burst into light, flashing crimson and amber before winking out of existence. There was a muted click and the box popped open. Inside a small glass phial lay on a velvet lining as black as the space between stars. The liquid inside was the deep red of heart’s blood, and shone with a dim light of its own.  Llia reached to take it from its resting place when a shadow detached itself from a dark corner of the room and strode smoothly to stand over the two alchemists.

“For two so gifted in the arts of poison, you are sorely lacking in the other arts necessary to an assassin. The guild is better off without you, now that I have this,” a black gloved hand reached down and plucked the phial from her reach, “You were so easy to play against each other. I was almost bored.”

With that, the guildmaster stepped over their prone forms, laughing softly to himself as he left the two poisoners to experience the horrific death to which they had condemned so many others.

Waste

   - by Nean Michael Hawe 
The dingy metal can seemed to hold all of Sarah Lee’s wretched existence: two crumpled cigarette packs, Marlboro Red 100s, complete with accompanying butts and a wasteland of gray ash; an empty plastic bottle which once held the amber relief of six dollar Canadian Host whiskey; a dozen tissues, wadded up and bound in snot and smeared makeup; the worn cover of To the Sea She Ran, which had fallen off the harlequin romance earlier this week, after perhaps her 20th read; and eight or nine times a day the picture of a smiling little girl, tattered and worn, and always retrieved despite her attempts to rid herself of the memory.

gOd

   - by oqwi7Limbo 
God, why does it have to be so hard?
           “wait, what?… sorry, i wasn’t listening”
That’s alright, I was talking to myself anyway.

Intrusion

   - by oqwi7Limbo 
	You wake from a pleasant sleep, dreaming of your former biological self on the hunt with your pack like your white blood cells running through the rough of your body, kicking with the beat of your heart to the distant sound of the door opening, slow and deliberate across the house.  The smell of spoiled fear and boredom perspiring out of clogged pores pushing through the hallway as the midnight air rushes in from behind the moaning door.  You lift yourself from the reminiscent slumber of your ancestors to investigate the odd disturbance coming into your territory.

	Your best friend—or at least all that you know of one, or a family for that matter since the day you were given away then later abandoned in a desolate alley behind a Chucky Cheese, smelling of rancid food and gasoline, watching your loved one fade out into the scenery —is in bed, blankly watching condensed people live lives encased in the illuminated-glass-box before him.  Since you met your friend, just short of a month ago and moved in with him, you have grown close, developed trust and respect for each other.  But right now, you wonder how your friend could be so detached from the moment, from the mood, from himself and his surroundings, but you know he is only human, and he’s your friend, so you forgive him for his shortcomings.

	You walk down the hallway, following the sound of footsteps pressing cautiously against the linoleum as the floorboards groan, critical of the weight bearing down on upon its spine.  The hunt, your primal state, despite all your domestication, sets into your muscles as you move through the dark shadows lying silently atop the soft shadows, precariously settling its crescent-moon-lit form around the furniture in the hallway.  You can smell the dirt and bluegrass from the last day you and your friend played in the park—its sifted aroma filling the house like the caged images of your friend on the wall— being undercut by the odor of a stranger crawling over the exhausted shag carpet.   You pause at the top of the stairs, cropping your ears and tilting your head to the left slightly, like a tree branch reaching for the sun, to fine tune the sounds crackling in the distance; you can hear the rustling of a plastic bag and the opening and shutting of cupboards in the kitchen. All your senses have become wild, electrified, as if you were directly plugged into the wall, vicariously extending yourself into the auxiliary static hanging in the air and ground around you.

	You realize that someone is in your ice box stealing your food: your precious food! Baring your teeth in anticipation, you run down the stairs and turn the corner to the right to see an ass peaking around the end of the open ice box door, as if it was keeping a look out.  With the adrenaline enveloping your body like a war mask you steadily move toward the intruder, growling and showing your teeth dripping with saliva like poison dripping from a snake’s fangs.

	The intruder slowly lifts his head over the top of the ice box; bit by bit he reveals his face: his forehead crinkled with bewilderment, then his eyes wide open and unblinking in paralysis, followed by his mouth covered in corn chips and bean dip falling to the floor as his lips lose traction and collapse toward the floor, as if chasing after the food.  You appear to have the upper hand and you waste no time taking advantage of this fact; you start barking at the intruder.  He jumps at the sound of your voice and falls to the ground spilling milk and food over himself.

	The intruder starts saying in a slow quivering voice “good dog, don’t bite… oh god… good dog” in repetition. Obviously he is trying to trick you, as you’ve heard those words before in more pleasant context.  You can hear your friend running down the hallway, knowing that he will back you up and it will all be over soon, your home will be safe.  You move closer and the intruder starts yelling “Mike, dude… help!”  At the sound of the hostile screams you lunge at the intruder.

	You have the intruder backed into a corner tugging on his pant legs. You hear your friends feet thump in a heavy bass upon the ground, behind the rhythm of the intruders tearing pants, as he reaches the kitchen.  Your friend runs over and… smacks you on the head!

	Your ears start ringing in a high pitch. You drop the intruder’s ragged and saliva covered pant leg.  You close your eyes, buckle your knees, crop your tail between your legs, lower your head below your shoulders and huddle close to the milk, chip and piss plastered ground as the ringing pulsates louder with each blow.  The intruder and your friend are yelling at you.

	Your friend drags you by the skin of your neck out of the kitchen and through the living room—the lamp light in the corner cutting the faces of the furniture in two, the deep shadows hiding on the backside of each object out of sight of the light: the coffee table half lost in sympathy with the night; the couch, covered with a sleeping bag and pillow, looks like a laughing dead eyed jackal melting from the heat of the lamp.  You are shoved into the desolate garage.  You don’t know what you did wrong.  You gaze into the pitch black room, the garbage smelling of rancid food, the grass-eater dripping gasoline in beat with the fading footsteps of your friend, slow and deliberate, from behind the closed door.

(without face)

   - by oqwi7Limbo 
My lone-
some soles sc-
		rape over the scenery,
standing still as the ground moves
		beneath me
like the undercurrent of the ocean:
Wherever I am, I am al-
						ways leaving.
Wherever I go,
		I have already been.
Walking towards the west
to meet the sun-
	rise on its death bed.
What is the fate of a destin-
ation without a face?
I will sed-
		ate the sun
and tie up the moon
to keep a h-
	old of this
fleeting tune.
I will dress you up before
		every
			night
& leave you
					wrecked by sunrise.
But we will live like humans
& die like gods.
When the clock for-
							gets its face
& dreams no longer belong to
the weak, we w-
			ill be free.

Conquering the Coaster

   - by Patricia Simister 
	It is a summer day that I don’t want to end.  Still, it is coming to a close. The dusk has started to settle, bringing a welcome cool breeze.  My skin is moist, hot from the warmth of the daylight hours.  The aching parts of my body reflect the fun which one can only have at an amusement park; miles walked, hours standing in line, and taking turns carrying little ones and their goods.  I smell hot dogs, popcorn and nachos lingering in the air. I feel a cool sensation of the soda going down my parched throat.  I can hear the music coming from the merry-go-round which orchestrates the atmosphere of the park.  The ultimate grandeur of the day is riding the attractions and seeing the delight in three little faces of golden-haired, blue-eyed boys.  Now, riding the roller coaster with my husband, Scott, our sons’ little blonde heads bob directly in front of us.  The roller coaster is a family favorite with its ups, downs, and bouncing side to side.  This twisting makes it exhilarating, thrilling, and scary, all at the same time.  How can this little family appear to be any more complete?  Except, this day is the opening of many rises and falls yet to come.

	The roller coaster has always intrigued me, and I am curious about it.  So, I do further research to find out its etymological history, and derivation.  This is what I have discovered.  The roller coaster has been around for years, since the 15th century to be exact.  It was used for transportation.  The term roller coaster means, “Russian mountains” (Harcourt p.635).  First, it was being built for a narrow road in order to coast around sections of the terrain.  In 1872, the Hauto Tunnel in Pennsylvania was completed and provided a new, easier way for miners to transport coal and men down the mountains.  For this reason, the roller coasters of today resemble the mining carts of yesteryear.  These tracks offered spectacular views of the mountains’ surroundings.  An inventive man, by the name of La Marcus Anda Thompson, is credited in being the father of the American roller coaster.  He believed that he could commercialize this thrill-seeking ride while the passengers could observe the magnificent views. As a child, he created prototypes using butter churns, ox carts, and other items he had in his surroundings.  Sadly, Thompson would die penniless, not seeing his vision come to pass.

	Some people are controlled by an intimidating fear of the unknown that awaits them on a roller coaster.  In spite of the cheers and smiles that come from the departing passengers, they still refuse to experience the fate of their own roller coaster.  However, I am completely aware of my unknown destiny.  I want to see the dream of my completed family.  A feeling of a little girl not here becomes a haunting low that will not go away.  Scott is happy with his three boys, and is not willing to look to the soaring possibilities of adoption.  How can I fill this void without Scott riding with me?  Where is the coaster that waits?

	On this June evening, our boys decide to ride the smaller bumper-cars for their last ride.  From the brightly painted cars, we can hear yells and screams of gladness filling the skies.  Scott and I are looking on, while recalling events of the day with great satisfaction.  At that moment, with his long, loving arm gently wrapped around my waist, he whispers in my ear, “If you want to go find her, I think you should.”  Did I hear him right?  Was this the moment I have been patiently waiting for?

	“Are you sure?” I questioned.

	“Yes,” he answered tenderly.  I knew he was ready to take the thrilling ride with ups, and downs.  I couldn’t believe the excitement I felt with the “go-ahead” for adoption.  The prospect of beginning is exciting, yet, almost instantaneously, terror of the reality brings me down.  Where will I find her?  How will I find her?  These questions are hitting me hard.  I feel as if I am plummeting in a downhill spiral.

	Handing the ticket to the ride attendant begins the thrilling ride.  The jitters you feel of the unknown, which are coming your way, can be intense.  Finding the adoption agency, and making the appointment, starts these same feelings of anxiety.  When riding any roller coaster at the bottom of the track, you can’t see how many turns or hills you will face.  Finding a child has these identical obstacles.

	The day is hot and dry.  The July sun beats down on us like a magnifying glass burning an unfortunate insect.  We arrive at the small, grey cinder block building.  It looks boring and lacks excitement.   We are greeted by a social worker, Tim.   He escorts us to his musty-smelling office in need of much repair. The carpet, paint, and blinds are out-dated.  I look up at this tall soaring man with a medium build.  His wavy hair was at one time all dark brown, now it is gradually turning gray.

	My stomach feels ill; I am anxious.  Tim is trying to make us feel at ease. He is listening intensely to our high hopes of adoption.  Looking down with his hazel eyes, I can sense he is perplexed in how to let us know he has heard our story a million times before.  Consequently, he proceeds to explain the high number of families versus the low availability of children to be placed in homes.  “The chances of you finding another child with three healthy, biological, boys of your own are slim,” he says. “There are people out there who are childless. They, of course, are at the top of the adoption list.”  While he is speaking, I find myself floating upward.  I am out of my body, looking down at the scene.  I see myself sitting below, looking across the desk at Tim.  Scott sits next to me.  I can’t hear the conversation anymore.  It doesn’t matter what he is saying.  I can’t explain it, but I feel at peace.  One way or another, I know I will find my little one.  Descending back down, I hear a question being asked of me, “It is $1,000 to proceed.  Do you still want to go through with it?”  Tim asks.

     Something inside gives me the high desire that I need to continue.  I answer with a strong and optimistic, “Yes.”

	He asks Scott the same question.  Scott replies, “Sounds good to me.  Do I pay now or after the paper work is turned in?”  Tim looks a little surprised at the eagerness and towering confidence we have.  Going on, he explains the beginning procedures.  We now know we are climbing our first rise. Rapidly, I complete the papers and turn them in.  Next, a strange turn of events occurs.

	The state of Utah approaches our Adoption Agency, and asks for ten promising couples to be foster parents.  These families will foster the child until adoption is possible.  The thrilling part is, we can bond while having this child in our home before the adoption is complete.  The extreme low and terrifying element is, the birthparent can be reunited with their child.  But we know we must go on, and finish the expedition we have begun.  If we get off the ride now, it will cause everyone else to stop as well.  We can’t have her wait, and we cannot postpone the trip any longer.

	The short, small tracks seem to be a never-ending ride with jolts, hard turns, and unexpected stops.  The baby is on the coaster with us, and we have been riding for two years.  It is as if she has always been here.  This once scared, abused baby is making her own transformations.  Now a sweet, lovable toddler with large, blue eyes and adorable dimples.  The dangerous twirls that come her way no longer concern her.  She feels and is safe.

	I can hear the Christmas music in the busy mall.  I am pushing her in the stroller; I’m answering exploding questions about all the festive surroundings.  It is November, and Thanksgiving has just passed.  There is so much to be grateful for this season.  However, I still want this ride to come to a close.  There is no end in view.  Walking into the house, from our excursion, the phone rings.  It is the social worker, Annie.  I have to tell her to slow down. “Wait, Start over.  What happened?  I can’t understand you.”

	Annie takes a deep breath, and tries again.  “We have an adoption court date with Judge Mc- Cully.  It is on December 13th at ten in the morning. She’s going to be a Simister.”  My feelings of exhilaration, happiness, and contentment are indescribable.   This Christmas we will be a family made whole.  We rode the ride to finish.  We have “Conquered the Coaster!”

	Funny, but as soon as you overcome the challenges of the roller coaster, you want to jump back on again.  I don’t know what makes one do this.  Perhaps it is the knowledge that you have ridden it successfully and, as a result, it gives you the confidence you need to climb aboard again.  So I find myself back in line, ready to hand in my ticket once more. However, when I get to the front of the line this time, I realize it‘s not the same attraction.  It has some of the same similarities as the one I have just ridden, yet it seems scarier to me.  Still, I must get on, and see for myself.  I can tell this ride will take longer than the last.  I find myself looking to see if a boy is getting on as well.  A baby boy who is alarmed, and frightened, because of the ride he has just been on.  He is searching for a home. We know he will make it with us, and we will continue to go on new roller coaster rides and have new experiences.  In some ways, it is easier knowing that we are all riding together, and the search of the first roller coasters have ended.




Works Cited


Adams, Judith A.  The American Amusement Park Industry: A History of Technology & Thrills. 
	Twayne Publishers: Boston, MA, 1991
The Harcourt Brace School Dictionary.  New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich,  1996.  Print.

Christmas Day Parade

   - by Rachael Kay 
	Christmas was on Sunday that year in 1977 and I was particularly thrilled with what I had gotten from Santa that year; I think it was my age. I was three and a half and just getting into the whole idea of that if you work very hard at being good for Santa you can sit back and rake in the loot. This year Santa left me a grocery cart that was just my size, a baby doll, a book, a puzzle, some new socks, pajamas, and a few other odds and ends. I was so consumed with my gifts that no one else existed in the house, just me and my presents. Finally, my mother had to pull me away from my fun and get me ready for church.

	There was a good turn out at church considering it was a Christmas morning. The family chose a bench way to the front of the chapel because my dad had to get up and down to play the piano and the organ for all the musical numbers and hymns that were to be sung that day. After the sacrament I told my mom that I had to go to the bathroom; I really did have to go. With my mom’s okay I walked up the aisle and out to the bathroom.

	After a few minutes my mother sent my brother David up the aisle after me to make sure that I got back alright. After about ten minutes, David returned walking down the aisle to report, “She hasn't come out of the bathroom yet.”

	She then sent my sister Lisa up the aisle to go look. Lisa returned down the aisle to say “She is not in the bathroom, and I have looked all over the church.”

	My mother was just standing up to go look for me when the door at the back opened. Here I came, walking down the aisle, a big smile lighting up my face, pushing my brand new grocery cart with the wheels covered in bits of melting snow and mud. The little cart was filled with my entire Christmas: puzzles, socks, and my doll sitting in the grocery cart where babies are designated to sit. Ward members giggled as I pushed on, and I waved to them knowing I was the head attraction in my own Christmas day parade.

	My family did their best to pull the cart and me into the pew and to continue through the service with reverence and dignity but it was over. Mom and Dad were laughing, the kids were laughing, ward members were laughing but I was not. I just smirked.

I Am

   - by Rachel “Raiya” Iverson 
I am a season of color and movement,
Beauty ever changing,… everlasting.
I am in the whispers of rainfall.
I dance in harmony with dawn as
	she kisses the sky with her
	hidden hues.
A spiraling masquerade with a
	soul of parallel depth.
I am a camouflage in brilliant color.
I give fragrant promise and captivate
	you in the bonds of a tender embrace.
I am a song, a gentle kiss, a written word…
I am Love.

Own It

   - by Samantha Liddell 
	Many people think they are clumsy, but they have nothing on me. In the entirety of my life I cannot count the number of times I’ve tripped, slipped, fallen up the stairs, and bumped, bruised, cut, and broken myself. My pinky toes are forever disfigured from the number of times I’ve jammed them on everything from an exercise bike to the very floor, but one day in particular I even outdid myself.

	Big pine trees lined the sidewalk on my usual route to work. The snow gathered on their thick branches; little clumps occasionally fell to the ground as I crept cautiously forward. I looked up at these branches to be sure a larger clump wasn’t going to fall off and land on my head in front of all these people on the crowded sidewalk, thus mortifying me which would result in my face turning red .  That plan backfired however, because I forgot about treading carefully on the potentially dangerous sidewalk.

	One minute I was walking upright looking at the branches above my head, and the next I lay flat on my back staring at the branches above my prone body. I was still in that stunned second after a fall, not hearing the creaking sound of a pine tree shifting, until it was too late and a pile of snow fell right on top of me.

	The snow seeped into my clothes, both from the ground beneath me and from the pile on top. My tail bone screamed in pain from the hard landing and college students on their way to class gathered around me to ask, “Are you OK?”

	I wanted to say, “Of course I’m not all right. My butt hurts, I’m cold, I’m wet and now I’m going to have to spend my entire shift at work like this.” Instead I just mumbled, “I’m fine,” gingerly rose from my fallen state, and continued on my way as cautiously as I could, without looking at any of the people who had seen my oh-so-graceful moment.

	That event first thing in the morning ended up being a catalyst for the entire day.

	When I got to my designated area of the soup and salad bar my sister was already working from the shift before.  She lifted one eyebrow at my disheveled appearance, “What happened to you?”

	“Don’t ask,” I grumbled back.

	“Did you slip on the ice again?” I hung my head in shame and nodded. She struggled to look sympathetic, but her efforts failed and a loud guffaw escaped her lips.

	“Sorry,” she gasped, before letting me take over so she could go to class.

	I waited a half an hour and then started to close down the soup bar. I carefully poured the hot soup into the drainage trough, nearly squealing in excitement when I manage to not spill a puddle on the floor. Then I proceeded to fill the big soup pots with water and scrub them out.

	“Excuse me?” one of the salad bar patrons asked. I turned around and lifted my foot to head in their direction. When I put my foot back down it landed directly into the sanitation bucket that I’d set behind me, sending a wave of water over the edge and across the floor. I lifted my eyes heavenward and heaved an exaggerated sigh. I tried to lift my foot out of the bucket but it had somehow gotten stuck inside. Everyone was staring and I could tell my face was probably the color of a ripe tomato.  Luckily my co-worker noticed my predicament and took over helping the customer while I tried to extract my foot from its prison. The only way to get the stupid thing off was if I sat on the floor, which was now covered in water, and pulled it off. My pants had finally dried from the snow incident, but because of the lake on the floor they got soaked again.

	Finally, I pulled the bucket off and stood up, intending to get a mop and clean up my mess. As I stood, my feet slipped out from under me and my apron caught on the handle of the big soup pot. The momentum of my fall caused the pot to overturn and I was covered from head to toe in dirty dish water. I looked down at myself and burst into laughter, so stunned that I didn’t quite know what to do. Then everyone, my co-workers and the students in line who saw what happened, started laughing as well.

	Prior to this event I was always mortified whenever something like this happened, particularly if it was in front of a large group of people. For some reason this clumsy moment taught me how to laugh at myself when all the previous ones had only made my face turn red. That was the moment when I realized that being clumsy was a part of who I am, and from that moment on I was going to own it.

A Falling Dream

   - by Sara Jensen 
Some kids go to the 
Salt Flats and 
Decide to Walk With Their Eyes Closed 
on the way back 
to the Car



	On miles of white salty floors under a velvet sky that seemed to be falling slowly, like an immense tarp punctured with stars, a small group of twenty something year olds wandered towards distant highway lights. An obstinately flat, chalky desert yawned silently in all directions, blanketing pieces of life for a seeming eternity of space, the disorienting levelness arousing the curse of dimensionality. It was that bizarre time of night that doesn’t yet have the blueish tint of a new day but is chillingly stale and no longer holds the mystery of a new darkness.  A wind, bloated on the past, ruffled their hairs and armfuls of blankets and crackers and then traveled on, keeping its face close to the ground as though it were searching, searching for more than the bits of salt that it picked up and carried on into the vast empty nothingness only to be dropped unceremoniously when the wind, its quarry eternally elusive, dissolved into the air.

	Someone looks up and feels the sky gently pushing down on their face, as if it were an old, leaden curtain. Inside their mind the sky keeps falling, slowly spiraling, dropping down to the white salt and then gently splitting vertically and parting to present a deserted white stage, set for the first act.

	A girl closes her eyes. Walking with eyes closed is freeing, for in the mercilessly bare landscape there is a trembling undercurrent of timeless quietus, the constant reminder of a heaviness in mortality, a reminder readily pushed into her brain by the dense wind. The blankness can be overwhelming, and she shuts her eyes in part to keep from blending into nothing. The wind moves through her ears as tendrils of air gently exploring the inner canals, and though she first resists it, their pressure changes to a numbing sort of hum, like vibrating microbes in water that lulls her fear. The tendrils move silkily over her face like water currants. They reach into the weighty sky as it settles on her as the weight of the ocean. Drowsiness of a day disintegrates and she bounces gently with every step. The salt in her nose, tangy like blood, becomes the salty water she breathes.  She reaches out her hands to brush against seaweed, soft and alive, slimy with the excrement of life. Her mind’s eyes open and she sees ripples of colorful bodies, shimmers of slithering tails fleeing into violet rocks, pink tinged coral, tangerined flowers. The sand glows with a rosy health, glinting softly as the light of a rippling sun splashes and spills all over the floor. This slanting light sometimes flares sharply and then dies as the water soothes its fragmented movement to the seafloor. The sea is silence, a silence forever moving, pushing, groaning and undulating, the rhythmic pulsation occasionally punctured by otherworldly echoes and yawning cries.  As the pulse of the ocean rocks the plants into a drowsy dance, but not quite to sleep, the girl smiles and is alive.

	Someone looks up at the glinting glaze slathered over the dense sky. Once it was said that the heavens created a sort of music or hum that only the poetically sensitive could hear. But poets are the least poetical of all creation and as the glaze pierces their eyes and pulls them in deep, a tuning fork taps on a star and the orchestra prepares for the second act.

	A boy closes his eyes. Every crunching step he feels vibrating from his feet into his chest, a shaking sort of pound that threatens to jar his heart from its delicate place between his lungs. He has felt this pound from the quaking wind, bloated with his life’s past, pushing on his chest, bending in his sternum so that his insides become shrunken and deformed. But now he lets the black under his eyelids close in around him and the pounding fades until only his heart beats dimly.  He breathes. In place of the cold, heavy wind a shimmering but indifferent heat gently enfolds him.  The air smells singed and the ashes of its cremation from the baking warmth cling to the fine hairs in his nose. The skin on his arms and neck prickles with the heat of a sun close and torrid. Softly his feet shuffle along a dirt road, the fine sand powdering his feet and rubbing between his toes. He looks up into a chalky blue sky and then into the sun. The glare is so real that he can almost touch the rays of sunlight as they fall from the heavens to redden his eyelids and lips. Their taste is at once as familiar as milk and as indescribable as salt; a taste like the smell of his pillows when they had been warmed all afternoon by summer sunshine through his bedroom windows. Traveling quickly across the languid air is the sound of a hand bell, rung slowly and deliberately. He turns to the sound and sees a Hindu temple, blazing gold and white in the sunlight, searing his eyes but holding them captive with its delicate beauty. Hovering just above the ground, it looks as though it had been built on fine filaments of gold each reaching toward the white fire of everlasting light. The bell sings out again, strong and steady, inviting him inside, pulling his feet toward the small black opening and without a conscious step or motion he finds himself inside semi darkness. Incense drips from the air, not only filling his nose and lungs, but his limbs and his mind. The calling bell envelops him and he is serene.

	Someone looks up into the dizzying swirls of the thick wind and gazes as it reaches down to their face to pull the breath from inside their nostrils. Inside their mind the wind gently takes breath from others, sometimes pulling just enough to gather a glowing human soul that momently satiates its ever-bloated belly. Slowly, gradually, the glowing lights dim for the third act.

	A boy closes his eyes. There was a time, in a dream, when the cool air pushed up his limbs and his belly and there was a sensation that the weight of hours was lifted, that really the only hindrance to his flight was the illusion of time. When he awoke he tried to hold the feeling in his stomach, the sparkling sensation of what he had experienced but he couldn’t recall the word, the word that would reconstruct his escaping bliss. But here, in this changeless, ageless patch of earth, an empty place that moans inexhaustibly of human past and present, he remembers. And as the thought rises, becoming clearer and more distinct as it rushes from his unconscious, the leaden wind, following the motion of his thought, lifts his hair and his navel. Filling his lungs in surprise, he feels that the air has become light, rid of any traces of mortality. The light in his chest, released as he exhaled, explodes in the indistinct space and becomes sky, alive in motion and loudly displaying spilled inks, splashed colors and dimension. He breathes again, smelling sweet dampness, and feels the spectrum of light bouncing around in his nose and lungs springing from the droplets of water he takes in. Light and deep blue moves on him, like hands of a gentle, practiced mother, urging him to release his feet from the ground that is no longer there. His feet float up behind his hips, his legs stretching to follow. He extends his arms far, far out in front of his eyes and sails away, enfolded into all the weightless space and he is nothing.

	The buzzing lights of the highway glow in a yellow, artificial way. The group stops and opens their eyes, their faces shadowed and jaundiced from being lit from above. The air is cold, but doesn’t seem quite the same. They look at each other with a new understanding, all feeling as if they had been jolted awake after a falling dream.



Imagine Georges Lemaître Gazing from his Bible
into the heavens and giving a nod to the old understanding
He Cannot Account For Existence
and then Suddenly, like a Flash of car lights illuminating some dark room of his mind 
Seeing in a Single
atom 
all of Creation

Salad Days

   - by Savanna Jones 
	All during the winter the girls I went to school with wore long pants. A glimpse of flesh below the waist was prohibited by the cold. Even ankles were too shy to peak out and smile at us from the bottom of a torn pant leg. Through the cold months girls dressed too modestly, almost like nuns. Winter was the cruelest season to the glory of our newfound manhood. Winter was a wet blanket on our virility because there was no outlet to express or even demonstrate the power we held inside ourselves. Winter was nothing more than a mass denial of our advances by every girl. The female student body acted as a whole, like they had congregated in autumn and decided to be frigid the entire next season. Surely it was a conspiracy against us. We waited ravenously for the arrival of summer to abbreviate hems and elongate necklines to expose the forgotten body parts of our muses.

	It was in May that our underground hunger began to erupt above land.  Then we knew it was impossible to continue pretending to behave as monks and curb our innermost desires. Since we were born, our blood had been cultivating the wealth of yearning that stays dormant until adolescence, at which point it explodes-- through our pores, out our throats and from the fountain of animation that sojourns in our body but can spend a lifetime in our minds.

	It was on May fifteenth, the day of my parents’ eighteenth year anniversary, that XX, the girl who sat in front of me in geometry class, pulled up her left jean leg to scratch her ankle. I was the only one who saw it: a tattoo of her gender symbol sleeping in the pool of her ankle. I averted my eyes when she looked behind her shoulder, not at me, but at the clock on the back wall. XX did this a lot, always checking the time like she had a better place to be than in her youth. She checked the clock like she had to get to maturity on time, instead of class.

XX sat in front of me, with her symbol of Venus dozing in a lake of soft skin and leg hair stubble. Surely she could contain the molten blasting lava and control the fire of the planet within her, but my much drier orb needed to be watered by the basins of her ankles, collarbones and palms. XX was good-bad, the kind that only girls her age could be.

	XX had a short frame of time to be a young girl before she would bloom quickly into the mold of a woman. She was already blowing on the mold to make it dry faster, while I was desperately throwing handfuls of water upon it in the futile hopes she might stay the way she is now forever.
She glanced at the clock again and I saw the cast of youth begin to crack. The bell rang and momentarily I sat petrified before I sprang up like the rest of the class and joined the mass exodus into the hallway.

	On Saturday, my parents renewed their vows at City Hall then drove home to begin receiving guests. Guests began to arrive, crowding the emerald lawn that was my father's pride. I could see the strain on his face when my mother's friends' high heels dug into his grass. Although the public objective was to celebrate my parents' long and loyal matrimony, every guest that attended had their private objective: to get drunk. I figured that with all the adults drinking and dulling their senses, I could indeed slip a few glasses of champagne into my coat and consume them myself. They wouldn't notice because I knew they would be drunker than me.

	When XX showed up with her parents I was astounded. Not because the possibility of her attending was astronomical, but because in the midst of my glowing state of losing my alcoholic virginity timed with the celebration of my parents’ anniversary, I had forgotten I was in love with XX. I laughed out loud, how I could have forgotten this creature, so effeminate and pulsing with young blood, blooming with hormones as crazy as mine!

	With tipsy confidence, I approached her and tempted her with what I had to offer in my coat. Certainly someone with a tattoo wouldn't deny the chance to get buzzed. She acquiesced and we stood on the outskirts of the party, the way young people do in a room full of middle-aged drunkards.

	My father's friend stood atop a picnic table and made a toast. “Let us celebrate this man and woman, now approaching their older years, but with a marriage in its youth! To another eighteen years!” To which everyone held up their glasses and yelled, “Cheers!”

XX faced me, with a droopy lower lip, and said, “The champagne is fizzing between my teeth. I've never tasted that before.”

	I smiled at her and wondered what she was really talking about. She had green eyes like my father's beautiful lawn. An emerald lawn so large it looked like a serene lake. It was warm outside and my eyes looked on everything with a hazy film that made the world glow.

	XX looked confused and bothered. I asked her what was wrong. She looked down at her bare legs, something I noticed immediately but had forgotten to mention until now. “Why is everyone obsessed with youth? It's not so great when you're in it, you know.”

	“I know,” I said, more to appease her than because I was actually listening.

	“Youth is an in-between,” she said, now stroking Venus. I liked the sound of her voice but I wasn't hearing the words she said. I should have tuned in because she was right. But that's how I was then, forgetful of emotions and deaf to meaning. The breeze lifted and from the corner of my eye I saw part of her evade the present. I didn't have the aching impulse to touch her now that she was close to me.  I just wanted to look at her and be near her. That was enough.

	“What I have is hard to control,” I said. XX sighed in agreement, her response more non-committal than my own. We were both selfish as we shared burgled champagne. Presently, I was ignorant to the intimacy of our exchange. I was tipsy and the world was very beautiful. I was regarding the loving bond of my parents. They had seen the ugly and the damned but managed to keep alive something more fleeting than youth.

	XX and I eventually leaned against each other in our sleepy intoxication and watched our parents and their friends laugh and dance. They had their backs to us because they knew what we looked like, but we continued facing them, unsure of how it was that we all came from the same place.

	What I remember most about this time in my life, besides the feeling of running no place and the abrupt end of boyhood, was the scent that emanated from XX. This odor, more than anything, defines the scent and taste of my youth.

	Fragrance of jasmine from her skin coupled with essence of eucalyptus bark from the tree she climbed before she came to my emerald lawn and hiccupped on my stolen champagne.

The Swimmers

   - by Savanna Jones 
	The summer of 1926 began in green but slowly faded to gray.  The house we kept for the summer swam in the shallow wake of the dunes.  Dunes that ran, ran, ran like emerald water to the last kiss of the drowning sea.

	Our cottage sat a giant's height away from the low tide of the ocean.  It was built on stilts into the sand.  Its foundation was just short of solid, my father admitted, but it had endured rather well during its 50 years of life.

	Through June and July Hollis would sit under the stilts, in the shade, and wave at us from behind her sunglasses while we made castles of grandeur in the damp sand.  I always wanted her to watch us from a closer distance because I was afraid she might elude us somehow and disappear into the vast darkness under the house.  I was always worried about her safety, though she knew how to swim.  We were the children whom she never taught to be swimmers, the way she was.  We always played in and around the water while she stayed dry under the stilts.  She was pale, like a wafer, but she had so much life.  Her blue veins were visible underneath her white skin.

	By the close of the summer, our castles were only made to ruin and our mother took to putting her feet in the sun while the rest of her body was shaded.  I began to feel the suspicion she was no longer watching us from her throne.  She stopped wearing her sunglasses and her eyes didn't focus in any direction, much less ours.  Her hands were never still.  She never worried the swift waves that always caught our ankles come evening might accidentally take my younger sister, Margot, away from us.

	It was the third week in August when Margot and I were playing tag a few feet away from the waves.  We were flirting with an enormous gust of water, tempting it; then it no longer found humor in our joking and swooped her pumping legs out from under her.  I ran to her, my heart pulsing from running and screaming with urgency.

	Margot and I always called our mother by her name; but in this emergency I could only shout, "Mother!  Mother!"  I didn't think about it— I knew by the way the ocean moved that my sister, my sweetheart, was being dragged by the icy clasps of the ocean, away from our womb of security.

	I didn't know how to swim.  I stopped where the water did.  I glanced back at the house and saw my father sprinting from atop our back deck.  He had long legs and gained much distance but it wasn't enough.  He turned his head and saw Hollis disappear into the abyss under the stilts— her white legs like the trail of shooting stars standing in complete stillness.

	Our mother was a fish, but she never taught us how to swim.
	
	Our father was a bird then, swooping down so quickly onto the beach that his knees looked as though they might buckle underneath him.  At the time he waded into the waters, desperately attempting to reach his beloved offspring, I was on my knees at the edge of the gaping mouth that swallowed my sister.

	I screamed repeatedly into the air that laid heavy against my chest.  I cried for Margot to come to the surface.  I ached for my sister to come back to us.

	But she was gone.  She no longer belonged to us, to our landing, but to the landing that takes us all in time.

	I remember seeing my father's dark head bobbing up and down in the carnivorous waves, vanishing for seconds, in futile turns to catch Margot, wherever she was.

	For a long time he just bobbed there like a buoy, like a warning that beyond him was something more awful than seeing Margot eaten by the Atlantic.

	I knew where my mother was throughout this nightmare.  She was under the stilts that held our house erect.  But it was truth to me that she was never really there.  She was swimming in her own veins while we strangled ourselves against the inevitability of insanity.

	After long breaths that stretched into space and came reverberating back to slam our faces against the air, father emerged, defeated, from the waters.  His face was no longer his.  It was flushed and his eyes lacked any shape.  I ran to him but he pushed me away and I fell into the sand.  My knees burned from the force of being shoved down into the granules.  I was silent.

	He walked into the weeds of the dunes.  They stung his legs but it was pleasure compared to what he just felt— lost in the sea with his daughter's body somewhere below him.  My father approached the black that Hollis had retreated into.  He dragged her out by the shoulders.  He wrenched her in the sand, pulled her, pushed her and screamed at her.

	"Why didn't you do something?  You were right here!" he shouted, his voice flying into the acoustics of the stilts then flushing out into the open air.  "What's wrong with you?!" his hands tightened around her shoulders and he shook her.  He shook her so violently that her neck became limp and her hat fell off.  She didn't fight back because she was swimming in her own veins.

	My father had always been a gentle man, but the anger and subsequent violence I witnessed from a few yards away never left my memory.  I know he didn’t mean to hurt my mother.  But she was a fish and birds cannot be lovers to the small spines of underwater creatures.

	I realize now that my mother had slowly lost her mind. She was "a crazy," as the townspeople later called her.  My father knew it even before Margot drowned in late August.  Of course he didn't want to believe it.  He was angry at himself for disbelieving that his wife, his absolute love, could watch from the cool slumber of the auditorium under our house as the ocean abducted their daughter.  He wanted to shake himself in that darkness, not Hollis, but she was there and she was the easiest to manhandle.

	A schoolmate later told me that the easiest solution, and ultimately the prevention of my sister's drowning, would have been if our mother had just taught us how to swim.  This friend didn't understand.  My mother was a fish, and our father could only teach us how to fly.  Margot and I were children of the flesh, not the soul.  That is what set us apart from our parents.

	In my more sentimental days that were the effect of deep grief, I made bold in my mind that my sister was the ocean and that is why she didn't fight against it.  She was that object, that vast beauty that stretched to the horizon and permeates the earth beyond the view of humans.

	Left in my family was me.  I didn't know what I was because my time was spent reflecting on the tragedy of my kin.

	A week later, in the mean silence of grief and resentment, we sat in the couches of our sunroom.  An abrasive knock hit our door.  Hollis melted further into the couch as a reaction to a world outside her veins.  Father opened the door to find the exhausted and uncomfortable body of a police officer.  Although the officer attempted to muster empathy in his words, I only heard a harsh reality in the austere proclamation of the hardship bestowed upon his weak shoulders.  He was the condemned messenger of an ugly discovery.  He said the body of a six-year-old girl was caught in a local fisherman’s net.  He believed it was ours then corrected himself, "Excuse me, your daughter's."  But he was correct in his first statement, Margot no longer belonged to herself, she was more ours than hers, but mostly she was theirs—out there, the angels of finale who settled around her lungs, filling her with sweet death nectar.

	The officer eyed my melting mother and decided he should lower his voice.  He requested my father come with him to identify the body.

	Father eyed the melting and hesitantly acquiesced.  He approached me and rested his large hands on my decomposing shoulders.

	"You stay here with Mom," he said but the indecision of his shapeless eyes protested his request.  I nodded to him, feeling the vertebrates in my neck snap and pile into a hole somewhere south of my ankles.  I looked down at my feet to confirm my spine wasn't actually in a heap on the floor.  It wasn't.

	I waited until the door closed and the slim car puttered away onto the paved road where frogs came to die when it rained.  I didn’t say anything before I left.  I fled down the steps, braced the dune weeds and splintered sand until I reached the dock where the boats were buoyed.

	"Where's the girl?" I asked of the first fisherman I saw.  He stared at me with a question mark sealed onto his lips.  I asked a second time with a curt firmness in my voice that is sometimes frightening to the addressee.

	"Are you talking about the dead baby girl they found this morning?"

	"My sister."

	I saw the fisherman's impulse to hold me back and carry me home but I held out my hand in some sort of gesture that was so wildly desperate he let me go in the direction Margot was.

	After nearly half an hour of scouring the boats and their nets I found her.  They had discovered her this morning, the fisherman said, yet she was still floating, half in the water and half in the air, steadied against the net.  I may have been angry that they had left her there, like she was the ocean's bile.  Instead, I realized they who had found her were afraid.  Her skin was a greenish blue and her eyes were open.  It was nearly impossible to make out her irises, because her eyes were clouded over in a sick gray, the way the sky looks before a hurricane.  Margot was so absolutely dead.

	The salt from the water shredded the mineral deposits in her skin, leaving her to look more like wasted coral than a human being.  I wanted to pull her out of the water myself to hold her against me as I would have done if I had saved her.  Then I heard the authoritative voices of the police and the deep moaning of my father.  I knew him and I knew what he was going to do.

	"I can't do it," he cried, in the emasculated tone adopted by emasculated men when the product of themselves is ripped from their blood.  Father saw me first and he pointed toward me with a defeated finger.

	"Let him," he said.  The police turned their attention to my leaning presence.

	"This is my sister," I said. "Her name is Margot."

	I thought my sister was brave.  She died gracefully and so full of young blood.  I went to the end of the dock and wondered how it would feel if I jumped off the edge and went away like she did.  But I was too afraid.  Preparing for death is much scarier than letting it tow you away unexpectedly.  I looked down at the blackened water of late August.  I held out my arms, the way men do to catch women in movies, but there was nothing there to embrace but the solid emotion of unmatched sorrow and the hope that someday I could swim in the Atlantic.

Metamorphose

   - by Taylor Anderson 
I pierce the skin
of the brilliant sea stained air.
The wind flays
my feathered chestnut wings.
Beneath me lies
a murky, yet luminous
complexion.
A window
exposing its reflection,
composing of compelling
webs of existence
under the surface.  
I shave into
a shallow niche
of the warping tide.
The salty mist hisses
as I pass through.
Without contemplation,
I breach the tension
of the crisp surface tide.
I'm submerged,
captivated in bare bliss.
Seep through my pores,
embraced by the depths.
I never look back
at the hue washed sky.

Wake

   - by Taylor Anderson 
Dilating beams of light,
nourish like an awakening yawn.
A new youth is in sight,
from the dormancy undergone.

Multiplying veins interlace,
preparing for prime's recast.
They fill the gaping space,
left as the season passed.

Sweat pearled dew,
from decaying snow,
develop into,
a new stream below.

Green sprouts,
from the rooted foundation,
spread to fields throughout,
saturated in carnation.

I crave this breath of fresh air,
the relentless anticipation I cannot bear.

Word

   - by Taylor Anderson 
I peel 
the first consonant
of abrupt change of angles.
The wonder. 
The what, why, where and when
is indefinite. 
A  linguistic tool
of insight 
and expression.
Impregnated
with profoundness ,
or corpulent 
with profanity.
It dwells in my palms,
petite, yet powerful.

Carry On

   - by Tenessa Taufer 
We walked with a heaviness,
A certain weight we never put down,
The tools of our trade,
We carried from town to town,
Our weapons and our flasks,
Our worry under masks,
We carried all we could,
And then some.

We carried our ammunition,
As much as we would dare,
And we passed around our crosses,
That at times were much to bear,
Our courage and our pride,
Our secrets deep inside,
We carried all we could,
And then some.

And we carried all this weight,
Never sought to rest a while,
This heaviness the only constant,
So we carried it mile after mile,
Our courage was our fear,
That our strength would fail us here,
So we carried all we could,
And then some.

We carried all that we had,
Photos, food and shame,
Humor to make it lighter,
Jokes about our game,
Our words and our regret,
Saying, “Are we there yet?”,
We carried all we could,
And then some.

We carried all that we were,
And through the morning haze,
We'd all pick up our bags,
And carry all our days,
Our boots and our hopes,
Our pants and our coats,
We carried all we could,
And then some.

We carried all the ones we killed,
Their families and their friends,
Such a burden to be held,
And we all wished that it would end,
Our helmets and our knifes,
And one another’s lives,
We carried all we could,
And then some.

We carried ghostly phantoms,
Who haunted us in rest,
But even in the morning light,
The burden wasn't less,
Our moments day to day,
Our doubts we'd never say,
We carried all we could,
And then some.

And as is only inevitable,
In wars the time will come,
We'll kneel to lift a comrade,
And carry him all and one,
Our friend upon our shoulders,
This weight like stones and boulders,
We were carrying all we could,
And then some.

We carried the weight that night,
Laid him there to rest,
But even as we watched him,
His weight it never left,
And as if in a memory,
Determined and very strong,
We heard, “Carry on soldiers,
Carry on."

My First Motorcycle Trip

   - by Tim Thompson 
	I was soaring across Idaho looking sun-beaten, tired, and dingy. I was heading home in disbelief. I felt as if I’ve been living in a different dimension, I was living a life without bills, a job, or any obligations except to ride free with the winds.

	Ten days of flying high wasn’t nearly enough. As I came in for a landing, gathering my thoughts, I read the sign, “Welcome to Utah, Greatest place on Earth.”  It gave me a bittersweet sensation. How do I come down from this feeling of freedom?  Or can I? The feeling is scorched in me.

	It’s hard to believe that only ten days ago I was terrified in anticipation of my first major ride.

	It was one of the windiest days in Salt Lake.  Nervously meeting up with Dave, Jake and Crista aside the windy road, with our motorcycles loaded, we headed west into the blustery wind.  Starting my first motorcycle trip in wind storm was not my idea of how to start a ride.  The wind was blowing so hard the gusts forced our bikes all over the road making for a daunting few hundred miles.

	Overwhelmed, we pressed on into the dark desert sky riding toward a shadowing mountain range, brightly lit stars and the full moon gave us some light for the fast paced road toward Ely, Nevada, where we would stop and rest for the night and get out of the blustering wind.

	This small town had spirits of the old west - I felt like a rough cowboy riding with my posse on the wild and dusty trails atop our iron horses. We rumbled into town in search of a saloon, for a shot of whisky to calm our nerves from the grueling ride.  We’d given a silent toast, then lit up a smoke and went off to find a place at the card table. We relished in the moment with our fellow amigos, then rested up in anticipation for the blazing trail across Nevada atop “The Loneliest Highway” in America.

	Riding through the old mining towns on the loneliest highway, with hundreds of miles between each town, I would get lost in my thoughts, pondering on how I was hesitant to go on this three thousand mile ride. Being so far away from home on a bike, I had so many “what if”s and fears.  As I got two days from home, I noticed everything that had frazzled me seemed to just vanish, as if I left my whole life behind and was freeing my mind from all the clatter to living in the moment.

	Off in the distance, just beyond the mountain range, an enormous sunset that kept getting bigger as we continued west. We had to search for a place to rest and give our steel horses a break for the night.

	Mornings would always start out the same, with Jake belting out, “You guys alive? There’s plenty of time to sleep when we’re dead! Let’s roll!“

	Dave and I followed as we scramble for a coffee and a smoke before the ride. Crista, noting the smirks on our faces, would give us the look - the look a mother gives when she knows that we’ve been up to no good. Then we all awkwardly head to our bikes and ride off into the morning sun, excited for the new adventure that lay ahead.

	I was counting every mile across California, with my ass aching and my arms painfully numb, from days of riding. All my aches were catching up with me.

	“Anyone want to buy a bike?” I yelled out in agony.

	However, there was no way I could stop. The ride was too exciting.  I couldn’t wait to see what was around the next corner.

	Nine hundred miles away from home and I could almost taste the salt in the air.  Out in the distance I saw peering through the dense clouds a view of the Pacific Ocean.

	“We made it!” I said, surprised.

	The waves were crashing on the giant rocks, followed by whitecaps rolling onto a sandy beach. A rumble of thunder from our motorcycles roaring up the coast on highway 101 felt surreal.  Looking through misty goggles as if in a dream, I saw the Pacific Ocean’s waves on my left.  I then turned to my right and to the greenest trees on majestic rolling mountains.  I was in awe that this scenery went on for several hundred miles or more.

	We felt like a couple of rock stars, riding from town to town, seeking out a local bar to wet our throats. Drinking and sharing our stories of grandeur from our adventures on the road, and to impress the ladies, I would throw in a few tall tales here and there.  Then we’d finish off the night with a dip in the Pacific Ocean, or on an outing with the locals.

	I truly lost myself traveling on a motorcycle without walls or windows to block my view.  I was amazed to see the world in all the elements - seeing the beauty of the landscapes and creatures. I was smelling and tasting everything around me, good or bad. I had the feeling of flying high across the road, becoming as free as a bird, unleashing my soul and connecting with everything around me.

Temporarily Aligned Under Noon

   - by Toni Nichole Sanderson 
Two after noon o’ clock and the vessels are pouring polite bits of something
to fill in moments of nothing
with faces commanded aright,
accompanied by conscious laughs,
or sighs, depending.
None of the pouring affects, not even slightly is let.
Sincerely cannot connect as such:

A touch of discomfort,
yet so accustomed as to make it comfortable
there in the foyer where the pair of men stood.

“Blair,
good morning.”
“Alan.”
“It is Mike, actually.” “Yes, you are.
I’m Alan.” “Ah, my apologies.”
“Afternoon, more like.” “Pardon?”
“Morning’s already passed.”
“I see.  Both hands amassed below the twelve, as are we.  Now that I am oriented in time, might I ask how you
		are, in addition to correct?”
“Fine. Yourself?”
“Fine as well.“

For either party, neither embarrassment from mistaken identities
nor affronts taken from lack of inflection upon inquiring of possible afflictions.
Between chit and chat, a coffee sip caffeinated Mike’s mustache;
kept and saturated an upper lip.
His company oblivious to any obligation to say anything.
He will glance in a mirror eventually,
perchance wipe it clean accidentally
and unwittingly save his face.
A drop dripped back in the cup, absolved.
See? It has already begun
to resolve itself.

“The new decor is very nice.”
“Quite. This commercial flooring will hide the children’s
spills, especially of the deep red variety,
very nicely.”
“I meant the paint a story below.  You seen?”
“No,  I have yet been shown, but it is good too, I bet.”
Truthfully, he did see and, honestly, didn’t really think it so.
It just never occurred he might share his fastidious eye
and careful hands that could have lent their talent,
provided for its betterment.
But no matter.
He invented himself an inflamed appendix of more use disposed of, as to not spread infection.
Supposed an unsaid acceptance of the distance,
remaining restrained when an instance of proposition was upon his tongue;
reacting, in fact, in exception when weariness, cheerfulness, and all telling sentiments required retraction.
Those softer parts of the heart
withheld, though not fiercely,
only quietly tucked away;
laid down and leather-bound between gold-trimmed pages
right before entering stain-glass doors,
and so ensure offenses cannot be exchanged or betrayal provided for.

“Whatever happened to that older gentleman
who was in clockwork attendance this decade past,
whose fair wife escaped him, and name apparently evades me?”
“I believe we crossed paths,
		but not recently.”
“Was it Blair?”
“Calvin, I
think.”
“Maybe.”

It was Jacob.
He united six months ago with a more favorable climate
to await the termination his of prognosis.

“Did you hear about that tragedy yesterday?
Isn’t it saddening?”
“Yes. Very impressing.  I never did comprehend those who settle
where annual plane winds send houses and cattle places outside of Kansas anymore. I hope all will be well for them,
as it is for us.”
“I meant the Lone Star state.  It’s up in flames, you know.”
“Oh, then let us hope all will be well for them also,
as it is for us.”

After a bit more hub and bub,
the drifting converse led minds to wander
and ponder the television din of their respective dens.
Imaginations swerved to sieve through programming expectations
that could be recorded, stored up for a more leisurely midday,
but due to volition’s loss to conjure new discussion
they thus left one another with nowhere to be,
no errand or chore of import to say “busy.”
For distractions their interaction expired;
turned each with symmetry:
a drawn breath,
about face,
and suspire.

While that unevent transpired,
disconnect of another version occurred.
Not diffidence. Not indifference.
Not diversion.
It was
détente.

A trace of disharmony
yet so crafted as to make it harmonious—
the question of attire arose
there in the aisle where the pair of women stood.

“Claire, how are you?”
“Good, thanks.”

“I’ll want to know where you came about that blouse.”
“This one?  That I’m wearing?”
“No, the one beneath.  Yes, that one. What other presently traces your nape?

“Um,
it was given to me by
an old friend.”
“Are you certain it wasn’t procured at such-and-such a place?”
“I’m sure; an old friend insisted I take it on account she thought I wore it better.” “Unfortunate.”
“Sorry?”
“You may not be able to find another.  Look, your right side. There appears a stain.”

To the bystander, it seems superfluous to ask for clarification on the identification of that shirt
Perhaps Brenda asks in feign, its wearer thought, at first —
Being the benefactor, the inquirer ought to have known from whence it came —
until it dawned her eyes broadcast nothing pretending.
Given the past,
her forgetfulness came as no surprise
and after “ums”
Claire felt no purpose in apprizing her of an accurate memory.
So she responded with the same empty air appending Brenda’s face,
and the same blankness attached to the item donned; its shades of marbled jade
disassociated from its origins and affections doffed from its hems at last.

“A stain? Where?  It must have been a trick of off lighting.”
“You might glance again below your arm, in plain view.”
“Any chance it was a strange shadow?”
“No,  I see it unchanging as you move.  It is a sickly sulfur hue.”
“Well,  I don’t see anything.”
“Mustard, you think?”
“I don’t like the stuff and I haven’t had any lately.”
“Oh, but this blot of yours, it is truly unsightly.”
“I still don’t see it, not even slightly.”
“Then you are not seeing, at least not rightly. I have a hunch that this home remed—”
“Listen, enough.  I think that would be truly unnecessary.”

They spoke politely as could be through clenched teeth
amidst the tension in this trifle thing that irked each at each.
Undercurrents of strife in their speech foreign from remembrance of an earlier day, way back when,
when their markers ticked together.
The hour sped alongside the minute, as they’d talk.
Or perhaps the clock froze, instead, preserving its stirrings that all might be said
because above themselves they did not make out its tocks, or heard whether it whirred or fled.
Nonetheless, opportunity arose to interpret  amiss—
though one would guess precedent  proof enough to dismiss it—
a miscommune here led to miscommune there;
soon enough were misunderstandings of this, that, and this.
They slowly chose not to give out benefits of doubt;
enmity cowered amity, and lies reality,
and thereby no longer espied the spotlessness imputed unto their counterpersons.

“Nice day after those April showers brought May showers.”
“The weather, of course!
A regular thing to palaver with its seasonal wavers and overall dependability to always be.”
“It’s an influence worth mentioning, I think, especially in this instance.”
“Has its persistence pulled you under itself?“
“I’m not entirely over it, but I’m
well.” “You’re a little under it, yet not
ill?”
“It’s not a sickness, per se. This time of year reminds me of an anniversary I thought I
forgot” “Hmn.
But it precipitates it will soon be hot; summertime is almost
official.” “True, but I still hate thinking about milestones I’ve
missed;
It had just been making me feel——
		you’re right, summertime is almost official.”

Ceased, desisted and in keeping things superficial,
Claire knew better than to make a mess out of her shoulder
any longer.
Aware her listener would have refused effusions, anyway,
she exchanged her shoulder for a pillow:
Absorbent, armless.	Unable to throw away
or embrace.
A handkerchief waved with circumvent of subject,
and from her hand displaced
while her audience stepped aside, allowed it to float by,
followed it to the floor, and lifted it upon its landing;
the need to give or receive sympathy stowed out of heart until a safer day
comes on clouds with fire the world over, not just in Texas.
Tissue returned  civilly to its rightful owner:
“You dropped this.”
“Thank you.”

Topics too personal encroached upon safeguards;
familiar fears approached and began to unwind
synchronized gears grinding in each mind,
and found within their analogue cogs a pretext to exit.
Both relieved to speak of excuses to excuse themselves
until the next habitual reconvene:

“It was great catching up, Brenda, but I’m afraid I have a lot to do.”
“I understand.  I have also accrued a bottleneck on my agenda:
a meeting to attend, a rain check to tender, and a project to see through.”
“Have a nice week.”
“You too.  And I’ll be sure to find a removal recipe for
you. Adieu!”

Around these scenes the Spirit heaved a heavy grief;
at unity that did not labor to pursue sincerity and peace,
and so easily painted streaks of disfavor.
Its accord was shallow rapport,
disparate from the mandate “weep with those who weep
and mourn with those who mourn.”
Dispassion of Mike and Alan discarded the plea to act as varied cords of a single instrument
unsevered and cause together to feel each discouraged sting
and, as one, be buoyant strains strumming along if heartstrings purred
with gladness.
Purpose of Claire’s and Brenda’s was missed upon forgone mending,
so these saints went marching in triumphant futility
when they did not bear with and bear up, coalesce to buttress,
believe the best, find some sense of forgiveness.

Neither is it light nor life
when the disheartened do not unite.
It is void of love and sight
that we have joys, but they are not collective.
We have sorrows, but they are solitary.
“We” is merely for proximity
because while we are here, still we are not together.
And our apartness is not counted among those friendless sorrows.
Remember, we have no affect.
Only temporarily aligned under noon
like those rigid hands on a schedule,
lists to do,
and we come around again to pass, not stop, by.


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