Pressions 2013 - James Madison Memorial High School

Pressions
2013
PRESSIONS
Volume 31
Spring 2013
A Journal of Creative Writing
James Madison Memorial High School
Editor
Zoë Townsend
Assistant Editor
Monika Hetzler
Art Editor
Jenny Vang
Technical Assistant
Mike Peterson
Faculty Advisor
W. R. Rodriguez
Our first magazine appeared in the spring of 1983. It was modeled after the
independent literary magazines of the 1970s. Our mission: to showcase poetry and fiction at a school which does not offer a creative writing elective.
For three decades, most of the work Pressions has published was written not
for a grade, but for the sake of writing. After thirty-one magazines, I remain
impressed by the creativity of our students.
I thank Memorial for supporting the arts and for enabling Pressions to thrive
for so long. It is an honor to have served as its advisor. When I retire at the
end of this year, I will take with me many fond memories of the students
who participated in our workshops and who worked on our magazine.
My best wishes to the Pressions alumni: may you be blessed with peace and
happiness.
—W. R. Rodriguez, Advisor
"
Back Issues of Pressions, volumes I – XXX, are online at:
https://memorialweb.madison.k12.wi.us/pressions
An Index of Authors appears in volume XXX (2012).
An Index of Artists and An Index of Chapbook Authors appears in this issue.
"
© 2013 Pressions Press
Authors
Rebecca Anderson.................................................................. 5
John Paul Martinez................................................................6
Monika Hetzler...................................................................... 7
Autumn Battaglia................................................................. 10
Jenny Vang.......................................................................... 14
Margot Wulfsberg................................................................ 18
Gabe Jackson....................................................................... 19
Griffin Webb....................................................................... 20
Morgan Snow...................................................................... 26
Zoë Townsend..................................................................... 27
Sarah Tolmie........................................................................ 46
Kimberly Chubaty............................................................... 49
Laela Ezra............................................................................ 50
Kristin Foglestad................................................................. 56
Grace Olson........................................................................ 58
Artists
Morgan Spatola....................................................cover, 36-37
Joan McCarthy.......................................................................4
Jenny Vang....................................................................25, 55
Josie Bratt ...........................................................................64
Kristin Foglestad................................................................. 72
Copyright reverts to authors and artists upon publication.
Pressions Press reserves the non-exclusive right to reprint.
Pressions Press
W. R. Rodriguez, Advisor
James Madison Memorial High School
201 South Gammon Road
Madison, Wisconsin 53717
Index of Artists 1983 – 2013................................65
Index of Chapbook Authors...................................69
Rebecca Anderson
Untitled
You whisper in my ear come with me
I try to resist the pull of your voice, calling, calling
Constant temptation on my shoulder
You can destroy me with just a thought
I feel your weight crushing me, obliterating me
Falling deep into oblivion
You are a seething, staining darkness
I succumb, forever weak to your shadowy grip
Twisting and tainting my very soul
Until I am lost
5
John Paul Martinez
Monika Hetzler
Untitled
Floating
He submerges his face into the still, cold water and screams, letting out all the frustration that has built up inside. He screams
at the top of his lungs until all air is expelled, and then some
more. He screams until the melancholy in his voice dissipates
into the water and the bubbles of despair rise away from his
delicate mind. He screams until no more bubbles surface and
then remains there; the tears amalgamate into the once again
still water. He comes up for a slight huff of air and repeats the
procedure. Th e muted and muffled cry of agony transforms
into pleasure, in the euphoric sense, and, for a slim, slender
moment: bliss. And in that millisecond, all worries are lifted,
all pain gone. No troubles, no fears, no emotion. He becomes
detached from mind and body, from soul, and simply exists.
A smile appears under the beaten water. Breaching from his
damp heaven, he looks down into his rippled reflection until it
is once again still.
A husk of a home.
Crumbs of bread are chairs
and spider webs, the drapes.
A sofa made of dust
and the , a pebble.
We are tiny ashes in an effervescent sea,
ripping from the whole
and wandering
so small
and insubstantial.
No one cares to notice
we are gone.
The smile remains.
The Bottom of the Pillow Case
You were my marshmallow
my peanut butter cup
so sugary sweet you made my teeth ache.
I looked at you wistfully
with salivating lips
only to find you had gone stale.
Milk chocolate turned to flaky powder
crumbling to my touch.
So I picked up the wrappers
dusted off my jeans
and threw you out.
6
7
Monika Hetzler
Monika Hetzler
Observations
I.
He was a tall man
with a short temper
and countenance.
His furrowed brow rested just below the brim
of his felt hat,
his white shirt stained
with coffee and sweat.
He swore
at the pigeons who were pecking at bagel crumbs by his feet,
emerald green and red eyed.
He noticed the mud on his shoes and dust on his jacket.
Popping his collar he opened the door
and craned his neck listening
for the voice he dreaded most to hear.
III.
She sat in the salon chair
tiny pieces of hair
hugging
the nape of her neck.
The room was cold and bare besides an old dusty mirror
and a pair of office scissors.
She looked at her reflection
and wondered
how by only looking at herself
could she feel
so
alone.
II.
She was an old woman sitting by the radiator
hands shaking
hair grown past her shoulders as
wispy and white as
spun sugar,
candy floss.
She put her scalding mug of coffee to her lips.
Out of the corner of her eye a pigeon was building a nest
of moldy newspaper scraps and doll hairs.
She watched the tiny people scurrying
below her window like beetles
in black, bottle green, and raspberry red coats.
She looked for the face she knew she would never see.
8
9
Autumn Battaglia
Autumn Battaglia
No Soul
My Ocean of Thoughts
No soul in his eyes
She is craving pain
No soul in his eyes
She feels insane
Phenomenon
Beautiful
Life so simple
Happy living
Wishing, wanting, loving
Beneath the surface
Vivid colors
Extravagant
Dream life
Wishing, wanting, loving
Water flowing
Wave’s distinct sound
Fish ignorantly living
No hate
Wishing, wanting, loving
Mind is lost
Dreaming quietly
The ocean is my wonderland
No surface trauma
I do not suffer
I just keep wishing, wanting, loving
No soul in his eyes
How can she survive
No soul in his eyes
Feeling sick to be alive
No soul in his eyes
The voices fill her head
No soul in his eyes
Her blood is scarlet red
No soul in his eyes
Why won’t they help her
No soul in his eyes
Love is the only cure
10
11
Autumn Battaglia
Autumn Battaglia
Anxiety, My Enemy
Teachings of Hate
I do not know why I am crying
There is fierce pounding in my heart
It feels like I am dying
Begging my lungs to start
I will never forget
Angst fills my soul to my fingertips
I remind it to stop
Why don’t you care
I need to refocus
How uncontrollably ridiculous
I must not live life hating
You will not turn me into this
I will never be a monster
Though you have filled me with demons
I have to be stronger
The chills through my body
The lump in my throat
I cannot think of you without physically hurting
Your torture
I will compel you
I restrain from violence
You taught me everything I should not be
Evil passion will not take over my soul
I let love wash away my sins
I will never be you
I feel so stupid now
Telling myself to breathe
Please just take a bow
I beg of you to leave
This silence makes me crazy
My head brutally spinning
My eyes are getting hazy
Depression you are winning
I am in a room of many
Oh, misery makes me alone
Tears, feeling no company
I must be sorrow prone
As I slowly start to adjust
Air now can be inhaled
Mirrors view me with disgust
I feel that I have failed
I know I cannot stop it
I know that I must try
This disorder, how I hate it
Someone hear my cry
12
13
Jenny Vang
Jenny Vang
Absence
Passing Moment
There are no voices inside my head
just my own
a single voice speaking in many tongues
my single voice growing louder within the confines of my skull
the echoing words become tangled within themselves
colliding in a chaotic mess and twisting into unknown shapes
there are no voices inside my head
just a lonely whisper
speaking in a tongue I no longer understand
Sunlight on my face
the cool grass beneath my hair
I can feel the wind wash over me
let me drown in sunlight
with nothing but your breath beside me
Regrets
A Symphony of Years
Bitterness in my heart
a cold comfort I do not want
monsters in my head
whispering lies I already know
little claws scratch at my throat
as if I still have a voice left to scream
So many years of silence
and the whispers in my head grew louder
Quiet days flew by
and the nights grew noisy with echoes
Hush, symphony
Hush, storm
a nova of sound tightly packed inside a tiny heart
14
15
Jenny Vang
Jenny Vang
Presbyopia
Broken Pocket Watch
An eye in the palm of my hand
delicate and fragile, it shines like glass.
Feeble fingers curl around its surface
and crush it into sand.
The grains scatter.
Will the wind take them far
and allow me to see the world?
Or have I just become blind
by my own ignorance?
I’m late said the rabbit
I’m so terribly late he whispered
But Alice was already too far ahead
I’m late the rabbit murmured to himself
He had not moved an inch
I’m late, so terribly late
And Alice continued on farther
away from the rabbit’s sight
He had not moved an inch
What was the point
When Alice had already moved so far ahead
I’m late whispered the rabbit
as he stood alone
16
17
Margot Wulfsberg
Gabe Jackson
Winter Angel
From Life Ain’t No Joke
The deep shadows darkened under his eyes
as he looked out at the snowfield, barren and cold.
A place once so pretty and green and alive
had now become weakened, all shriveled and old.
Getting older.
Be grown soon.
Where to look for a clue
To what I should do?
Long forgotten pain…
Just can’t shake
What I’ve awakened to.
Life’s sorta new.
What will I face as I cruise through?
Old news?
Getting older.
Wish I could go back and erase
What I knew I shouldn’t do.
People are gone.
No one left
To talk
Life through.
Life ain’t no joke.
He remembered the birds who once sang in the park
but they’re gone, fled the cold, went farther south.
He lamented the girl, now forever in the dark
and a whimper, then a wail came out from his mouth.
For the girl, like the birds, left winter’s harsh reality
and with a rope and a chair, grew her own angel wings.
She flew far away, never to return he thought sadly
not even to snowmelt and flowers and spring.
The tears streaked down under his eyes
and the snowfield remained frozen under his feet.
The beautiful girl he had loved left his side
without a hug or a kiss or a single goodbye.
18
19
Griffin Webb
Griffin Webb
Typical
Anxieties
That chair is looking at me funny
It is!
It’s trying to throw me off balance
Make me look ridiculous
Crazy even
But I’m way ahead of it
I stared it down
I told it
You’re the one that’s crazy
Because everyone knows
That chairs aren’t nearly as scary
As phones
The phone looks surprised at this
Typical
Everyone has them
You don’t see them
But you have them
Some of them ride around on shoulders
Tugging your ears impatiently
Some are more subtle
Clinging to your foot
Weighing your steps down
Until you have to stop and think about them
Some even grip your neck
Throttling you
Until you collapse on your back
Gasping for air
Then they sit triumphantly on your chest
Demanding your undivided attention
No matter what kind
You always have at least one
A small one clinging to a lock of hair perhaps
A pair jumping around in your belly
Pounding on your teeth
Chomping on your nose
Somewhere
They are poking
Prodding
Pinching
Waiting for one thing
A reaction
20
21
Griffin Webb
Griffin Webb
Linoleum Domination
Screeching Past
Sometimes I sit and stare
I sit and stare at the floor
Or so it seems
But I don’t see linoleum
I don’t see cracked, dusty tiles
I can see anything
Really
But sometimes I see things I don’t want to
My failures stare me down
I can see them smirking at me still
They mock me
Their hateful eyes burn orange
Laughing at my inadequacies
But someday
I will laugh at them
I will tower above those tiles
And tell the dust I have won
Everyone else will stare
Declare me insane
But the linoleum
Will cower in fear
The past is gone they say
Left behind and forgotten
How so?
The past is not gone
Its unseen claws grip us all
Its glowing eyes stare into the future
Glaring into the night
Its fluorescent eyes fixed on a single path
That of the past
When we waver
When we try to resist
We feel the claws tearing at our shoulders
Reaching through the undergrowth
Hauling us back
Onto the highway
Flat and naked
Buffeted by the winds of raw emotion
We struggle vainly towards the side roads
Our knees weaken
Our backs buckle beneath the weight
The weight of that screeching monkey called
The past
22
23
Griffin Webb
Eyes
Everything has eyes
Some people don’t see them
The eyes watch everyone
Seen or unseen
Some people try to hide
That’s how the eyes know
If you hide
You can see them
Then they watch you all the closer
They stare from inside your very skull
Your hand watches you write
Nowhere is safe
Everywhere
You are afraid
Afraid of the wide
Undying
Eyes
24
25
Morgan Snow
Zoë Townsend
Tell Me a Story
Morals
Tell me a story of days long past. Of the days with kings and
queens doomed not to last. A story of spirits and knights, of
magic and fights, and the maiden with the heart of gold.
Tommy McCabe had carefully cultivated a set of morals based
on eight years of observing his brothers. In fact, Tommy had
a much more fully developed set of morals than anyone else
his age. He used these morals to guide almost all of his daily
decision-making.
Tell me a story of goblins and ghouls, of blood flowing into
its own little pools. Of the creature that lives under the stairs.
Come on! I’m in the mood for a scare.
Tell me a story full of wonder and grace, of a room full dancing
at an extravagant pace. Of high class and low class falling in
love, struggling to find the one that fits like a glove.
Tell me a story, any story, please. I want to hear your voice. I
don’t want to go to sleep. Not now, please?
“All right,” you say, “But just one.” You sit on my bed, wrap
your arm around my shoulders, and spin a tale just for me. I let
my eyes droop and dream.
Unfortunately, these carefully cultivated and well-developed
morals were not necessarily good ones.
“You’re cheating offa me!” Susannah Malone hissed.
“Yeah-huh,” Tommy replied. “How come you put a B at the
end of comb?”
“Cuz that’s how you spell it!” Susannah huffed in response.
“Don’t sound like it,” Tommy muttered.
“Shuddup before Ms. Keegan comes over here.”
“Number seven: Peach,” Ms. Keegan announced. “Billy ate a
peach with his lunch.”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t!” Billy Camden replied. “It’s November.”
“I got cake in my lunch,” Tommy told Susannah, “cuz my
brother Pete turned twelve yesterday.”
Susannah did not say anything in response; instead, she wrote
p-e-a-c-h on her paper then started to chew on her eraser.
“Peach don’t got an A in it!” Tommy whispered. “It’s E-E.”
Susannah sighed.
“You better change it,” he warned, “else you won’t be the best
speller in the class this week.”
26
27
Zoë Townsend
Zoë Townsend
Susannah drew a flower next to her name at the top of her
paper.
Susannah wondered briefly if Tommy was actually a nice person, and not the scum of the earth as she’d been led to believe
all McCabes were.
“Then you won’t get to choose the story for next week.”
Susannah added a butterfly next to her flower.
“Number eight: Speck,” Ms. Keegan said. “I have a speck of
dirt on my dress.”
Susannah abruptly stopped all wildlife drawing activity and
scribbled s-p-e-c-k on her paper under peach.
“I can steal Dan’s outta his lunch box cuz the fifth graders
don’t eat ’til noon thirty,” Tommy added, “so we can both have
cake.”
Never mind, Susannah thought.
“Number nine: Waltz,” Ms. Keegan continued. “They danced
a waltz.”
“I’m tellin’ you, Susannah, there’s no A sound in—”
“Lookit,” Susannah hissed, “if you’re gonna be copying my answers, don’t go correcting me. I’m not the one who’s gotta borrow someone else’s smarts for a spelling test!”
“Susannah,” Ms. Keegan asked, “is there a problem?”
Susannah hesitated, the pencil eraser still in her mouth. “No,
ma’am,” she replied.
“Don’t chew on your eraser. That’s a nasty habit,” Ms. Keegan
hmphhed.
Susannah bit her lip and set her pencil on her desk. Th e butterfly stared mournfully back at her from the spelling test.
“Not fair of her snapping like that, seeing as you’re the best
speller in the school,” Tommy remarked.
“She wouldn’t of said nothing if you weren’t talking!” Susannah
retorted.
“I’ll share my cake with you at lunch,” Tommy said.
28
29
Zoë Townsend
Corey N. Stein, Sixth Grader:
On Logic, Compassion, and Cats
I don’t usually do real dumb stuff, just mostly dumb stuff. So,
since this has been a pretty usual Wednesday, all the logic I can
logicify points to me being just kind of dumb today. See?
Doug says I don’t think things through enough, but I’m pretty
certain that I just thought stuff through. Right there. Did you
see all that thinking through I did?
And so I decided I should save the cat. And, let me tell you, it’s
not a nice cat. The ungrateful orange thing scratched me. Me!
Its savior! It should have been giving me cat kisses or something.
Oh, and worst of all, as soon as I get to the diner, I’m going to
have to explain myself, since normal folks don’t bring feral cats
into eateries. (Feral means wild, and an eatery is somewhere
you eat, in case you couldn’t figure that out.)
“Hey, Jake,” I hiss, sliding up to him as he sets down sodas for
a couple of high schoolers at a booth, “do you want a cat?” Jake
looks down at me and the cat, then jumps backwards, yelping.
I hope he quiets down, since I don’t see Doug anywhere, and
I don’t really want to hear what he’ll have to say about Mangy
Orange Claw Devil.
“Dang, Corey!” Jake gasps—except he doesn’t actually say
dang—“Where’d you dredge up that thing?”
“Um, a couple blocks from my school,” I reply tentatively.
Jake snorts. “Hey, Doug!” he calls out, and I would’ve slapped
my hand over his mouth if I wasn’t already holding Mangy Orange Claw Devil. “Come look what your brother found!”
30
Zoë Townsend
Doug pokes his head out from the kitchen and raises an eyebrow.
“What’re you talking abo—holy crap, Corey!” he exclaims, except, just like Jake didn’t say dang, he didn’t say crap.
“The bus was going to run him over,” I say in my defense.
“We can’t keep—” Doug starts to say, but I interrupt him.
“I know, but Jake likes crazy animals.” Mangy Orange Claw
Devil’s got enough crazy to last Jake the next few years.
“Sorry, kiddo, but no,” Jake replies.
“Well, Corey, go give it to someone,” Doug tells me.
“What?” I ask, because you can’t exactly go dropping cats in
people’s laps and saying, “Happy early birthday, I saw this on
the side of the road and thought of you.”
“Get up by the counter and ask people if they want a cat,”
Doug says, and heads back into the kitchen.
“Excuse me, folks,” I say to the people in the diner. I’m thinking this must be the official Humiliate-Corey-Because-HeTried-To-Save-A-Cat-Day, because it has got to be some sort
of cruel and unusual punishment to make me stand up here.
Someday I’ll make Doug embarrass himself and he’ll see what
it’s like. Nobody turns to look at me, not the three guys on the
stool behind me, and not the people at tables either.
“Excuse me,” I say again, a bit louder, “uh, I found this cat.” I
look down at the rip it made in my blue striped shirt. “It looks
kinda mangy, but actually it’s nice. I think it’s a he cat.” Most
of the people in the diner are looking at me now, so I hold up
Mangy Orange Claw Devil for them to see.
One of the guys walks over from his stool and peers at the cat’s
underside, and I feel kind of almost bad for it.
31
Zoë Townsend
“It is a boy,” the man says, and shuffles back to his stool.
I grit my teeth and look around the room.
“What I mean is, does anyone want a cat?”
There’s about thirty seconds of silence. Everyone just looks at
me, and I lift the cat up a bit more.
Zoë Townsend
boy cats and they were real calm and good with kids.” I don’t
mention that my neighbor had seven orange cats who he called
the Orange Boy Brigade and that we called him the Crazy Cat
Man behind his back.
“Mom, look!” a little girl squeals, pointing. “It’s a cat!”
“Well, aren’t you the little salesman,” the mom says, smiling.
Smiling is good! It means she’s going to keep Mangy Orange
Claw Devil.
“You said we’d get a kitty,” her sister adds.
“Please, Mom?” the younger girl begs.
I haul myself and Mangy Orange Claw Devil over to the corner
booth real quick, because if these folks are looking for a cat,
what’s better than a free one?
“Look at him, Mom,” the older one whines, “otherwise he’ll
have to go to the shelter, and he’ll be crammed up with a bunch
of mean cats with chewed up ears.”
“You can pet him,” I tell the girls. “He doesn’t bite,” I say
quickly for their mom’s sake, since normal parents worry about
that sort of thing. “I don’t think he’s got diseases or anything.
He’s just wet.”
I don’t mention that at the shelter they euthanize cats after
three days, because I don’t want to scare the girls, and I don’t
really want that to happen to Mangy Orange Claw Devil.
“What’s her name?” one of the girls asks.
“Whatever you want it to be,” I tell her, since Mangy Orange
Claw Devil isn’t really the sort of name little girls like. “Except
this cat’s a he,” I add. Once these girls name the cat, they’ve got
to keep him!
“Mom,” the older sister leans across the table, “can we keep
her?” No! You’re supposed to name the cat first!
“Let’s name her Princess Elizabeth Cherry Blossom!” the
younger sister exclaims. “It’s the perfectest name!”
“I think he said the cat’s a boy, honey,” her mom says, not answering the older girl. “It’s a boy, right?” she asks me.
She doesn’t say anything, so I keep talking. “He’s real, real calm,
see. I held him for like ten minutes on the bus, then walked
with him all the way back here, and he wasn’t that squirmy at
all.” I shift my grip on the cat so that he hides the rip in my
shirt. “Like holding a pillow.” A scratchy, smelly one.
“Pet him,” I encourage her, holding him out. The mom smiles,
shakes her head, and rubs Mangy Orange Claw Devil’s head.
“Please?” the girls whine, while Mangy Orange Claw Devil
starts to purr.
“He likes you already,” I say.
“All right then,” the lady says, “we’ll take him.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, “and boy cats are the nicest, especially
orange ones. When I lived in Detroit my neighbor had orange
I knew she’d be compassionate once she had a chance to think
it through.
32
33
Zoë Townsend
Corey N. Stein, Sixth Grader: On Laryngitis
Okay, here’s the thing: I’m a much better person than folks
give me credit for. Now, you may think that makes me sound
conceited, but that’s your fault, on account of you haven’t even
bothered to hear me out yet.
Doug is always saying I’m immature, but right here I have irrefutable proof that he’s just as bad as I am. In case you were
curious, irrefutable means absolutely positively true.
See, I got sick this week, and not only did my throat decide to
act like breathing’s the same as swallowing angry cats covered
in broken glass, but my vocal chords decided they wanted to be
jerks and not let me talk. I believe my innards are waging war
against me, but I’ve got cough drops and lime popsicles on my
side, so I think I’ll win.
But like I said, I lost my voice, and Doug is being a real jerk
face about it. He keeps telling me funny jokes, and not to cheer
me up, like a good brother would. He’s telling me jokes because
he knows I can’t laugh since I lost my voice. It feels real weird,
let me tell you, to try and make noise and have nothing come
out. Th en he says, “What’s that sound you’re making, Corey?
Sounds like you’re hacking up a furball.” I can’t even tell him to
leave me alone because, in case you forgot, I can’t talk.
If I want to tell Doug something, first I have to jump in front
of him and wave my arms or dance around until he notices me.
And even when he does notices me, most of the time he just
looks at me, grins, and goes back to what he’s doing, like he
can’t see me trying to get his attention, which he can. He can
totally see me. He’s just being a butt head. Sometimes I clap my
hands or bang on a table, because that always makes him jump
and turn his head, so he can’t pretend he didn’t hear me.
34
Zoë Townsend
Then, I write out what I want to say on a piece of paper and
hand it to him, but because he thinks he’s so funny, he never
reads it. No, instead he looks at it and says, “Oh, paper? Just
for me, Corey? Th at’s so sweet; I’ve always wanted a piece of
paper.” Or he “accidentally” drops it in the trash and goes,
“Whoopsy, I dropped your paper! Guess we’ll never know what
you wanted to tell me.”
Sometimes, if what I’ve got to say is extra important, I whisper
it, even though whispering is supposed to be even worse for
your vocal chords than shouting, not that I can shout. Screaming is just about what I feel like doing because Doug is being so
frustrating. But when I whisper, Doug just cups a hand around
his ear and says something dumb like, “What’s that, Corey?
You don’t want your mattress anymore? I guess I’ll let you sleep
on the ground. I can make the sacrifice and double up on comfort,” when he knows full well I’m saying, “Doug, can you help
me with my math homework?”
I think I’m handling this whole not-being-able-to-talk thing
very well. I want some credit for behaving much more maturely than Doug.
Or just for Doug to stop making fun of me. That works too.
If only I could talk. I guess I’ll just have to punch Doug instead.
35
36
37
Zoë Townsend
The Great McCabe Loogie
“Go on, go and beat each other up somewhere else!” Mr. McCabe declared, dropping his youngest son into his boots and
shuffling the boys to the door. “And maybe dig out a path to
the road while you’re at it.” After three days of snow, he was
ready to forget that he’d ever had children.
“I can’t even see the road, Dad,” Marty replied. Marty, the oldest child, had a blind trust in authority that would some day
wreck his life in horrible, horrible ways.
“You’ll find it,” Mr. McCabe assured him. With the boys gone,
the house would be quiet and he could nap away the afternoon.
Zoë Townsend
“Ay, Harry!” Pete called, whipping a snow chunk in the general
direction of his older brother. “Catch!”
“Ay, Petey!” Harry called back. “I couldn’t catch that if I had
extendable arms! You throw worse than a girl!”
“Least I can throw!” Pete retorted.
***
While his younger brothers squabbled, Marty rummaged in
the shed for a shovel. Trowels, rakes, a saw…he’d just used the
shovel a week ago. Where had it gone?
“Peeeeeeeete!” Luke cried.
***
They’re all right, Marty thought. Luke just likes to whine and
Pete just likes to antagonize him.
“This here is my snow!” Pete declared, raising a fist over his
wintery domain.
Marty stumbled out of the shed, and saw the shovel, half buried in snow. He pulled it out of the snow and began to dig.
“We can all read, Pete,” Harry muttered. “And that’s disgusting.”
***
“Yeah well, it won’t be if I cross your name out,” Dan replied,
tearing off his mittens and fumbling with his fly.
“You’re gonna freeze your doinker off. Don’t say I didn’t warn
you,” Harry grumbled.
“Okay, I’ll climb the tree, and when you sled under me, I’ll
jump in. Got it?” Pete yelled.
“Got it!” Dan replied.
***
Dan replied by smashing a snow chunk onto his brother’s
head.
Pete stumbled through the snow to the oak tree while Dan
trudged up the hill to where Marty was currently shoveling the
stone path. Marty knew that his father would be angry if the
stones were tossed out with the snow, so he left a few inches of
snow on the ground to protect them.
“I’m goin’ to the Malone’s!” Tommy called out, and received a
resounding lack of response from his brothers.
Maybe, he mused, he could ask Hazel O’Neill to the dance. You
can’t say no to a guy who spells out your name in the snow.
38
39
“You aren’t tall enough to piss in the snow!” Pete pointed out
gleefully, shoving Dan.
Zoë Townsend
Zoë Townsend
Dan waved for Pete to come down. “I can’t sled in this snow!”
***
“Hey, hey Dan!” Pete called out. “Don’t go yet, I’m having
trouble climbing!”
“You should build a luge run,” Harry remarked from the snow
cave he’d spent the past hour quietly building. Looking at Marty’s path, he added, “Marty’s almost done shoveling.”
“Whaddya say?” Dan called back. “You up there yet? Cuz I’m
going now!”
“What’s a luge?” Dan asked.
Dan took a running jump and threw himself down the hill.
Unfortunately for him, the three plus feet of snow covering
their yard was not particularly conducive to sledding.
“Don’t ya mean a loogie?” Pete said, spitting in the snow. “I can
make those. I got a lotta phlegm.”
“Okay, I’m up now! Dan? I’m ready! Go!”
“Mmmrrphmph,” Dan replied, stuck in the snow.
“Where are you? I’m waiting!” Pete whined.
***
Marty decided that after he finished shoveling, he would jump
Dan and Pete from behind. He could shove snow down Dan’s
coat and throw Pete into a snow drift. Give ‘em a good shock.
***
Dan pushed himself up and shook his head like a dog. “This
snow isn’t good for sledding!”
“Maybe you just aren’t good at sledding!” Marty remarked, joking.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t get anywhere. All I got was snow down my
shirt,” Dan grumped.
“What did you say?” Pete yelled from the tree.
40
“A luge run,” Harry corrected. “The luge is the sled.”
“Yeah,” Dan said, looking at Harry. “How’s that gonna help us
sled?”
“A luge,” Harry answered with an exasperated tone, “is like a
sled.”
“Nuh-uh,” Pete retorted, hawking a loogie into the snow.
“That’s a loogie.”
***
Marty reached the top of the hill and sighed. Marty cursed at
himself. He looked past the gate and shook his head. What
had been the point of shoveling? The road hadn’t been plowed.
Heck, the road probably wouldn’t be plowed for days. He
threw down the shovel in frustration. He had just dug a path
to nowhere.
“Hey, Marty,” Dan yelled, “we’re gonna use your path for loogies.”
“Sure,” Marty replied, “it doesn’t go anywhere. Might as well
use it for something.” Dejectedly, he started to walk back to
the shed.
41
Zoë Townsend
Zoë Townsend
“Okay, go!” Pete flung himself and the sled onto the path, but
only skidded a little ways before he sunk into the inches of
snow Marty hadn’t shoveled.
Luke grabbed the sled eagerly. He couldn’t believe his brothers
were just going to let him go first like this. Today had to be the
best day ever.
“We should pour some water over it so it freezes and we don’t
sink in,” said Dan.
“No,” Pete said, “the sled’s gonna be too heavy. You might break
the loogie.”
Pete ran to get the hose.
“Yeah,” Dan added, “you have to ride the trash can lid.”
***
Marty dragged his feet through the unshoveled snow. He
couldn’t believe he’d wasted the whole morning digging a path
that could only be used for…loogies? He could have been writing his essay, or planning his grand romantic gesture for Hazel,
or throwing Luke into snow banks.
***
“Let’s send Luke down,” Pete suggested. “He can test it for
us.”
“Hey, Luke!” Dan called. “Wanna be the first one to ride the
loogie?”
“Run. It would be a loogie run,” Harry said, tired of explaining
the difference between a loogie and a luge.
“It’s a real honor,” Pete added. “You’re like, baptizing it.”
“Baptizing?” Dan asked.
“Ribbon cutting, then,” Pete replied. “You, Luke, are gonna be
the first person ever to ride the great McCabe loogie.”
“Run,” Harry added, and was, once again, ignored.
***
42
Luke’s face fell. He always had to ride the trash can lid. His
brothers never let him ride the real sled.
“But I’ll give you a push,” Pete added upon seeing Luke’s disappointed face.
“Okay!” Luke replied, scrambling onto the trash can lid. “Make
it a big one!”
***
Pete and Dan threw their shoulders against Luke’s back and
shoved him down the hillside. Luke shrieked gleefully as he
hurtled down the path.
Luke’s going to run straight into the porch, Marty thought as
he watched his brother speed down the path he had dug from
their door to the gate. He knew that Dan and Pete had not
bothered to look where the path went.
Luke, however, did not crash into the porch. The path curved
sharply right before leading up to the porch, and instead of
following the curve, the hose water had melted and frozen over
a path which led straight down the hill and off the McCabe’s
property. Luke continued to hurtle down the hill.
***
43
Zoë Townsend
With a start, Marty realized where his youngest brother was
headed. Just past the edge of the McCabe’s property, the hill
dropped off about fifteen feet onto a minor but well-used
county highway where cars made their own paths through the
snow.
Zoë Townsend
***
Mrs. McCabe took a sip of tea. It really was nice to have the
boys out of the house.
“Stop!” he yelled. “Luke, stop!”
“I can’t!” Luke called back, barely audible.
Pete and Dan looked at each other guiltily.
“One of you,” Marty commanded, “go get Mom or Dad. I’m
gonna try and catch Luke.” Marty tore off down the hill, and
both Pete and Dan scrambled towards their house.
***
“Mom! Mom!” Dan shouted. Pete flung open the screen door
and grasped the handle of the wooden door, yanking on it.
“Ya gotta turn the handle, stupid,” Dan snapped, shoving Pete
and tugging on the handle himself.
“I was! Mom must have locked us out by accident,” Pete said.
***
Meanwhile, Marty tried not to trip as he dashed down the hill.
“Luke! Luke!” he called as he ran.
“I’m here!” he heard.
Luke was sitting, dazed, at the base of an oak tree. Beside him
was the trash can lid, now bent beyond use.
“I don’t think I like loogies very much anymore,” Luke said.
***
Mr. McCabe snored through his nap. Mrs. McCabe savored
another sip of tea.
Boys were so loud, Mrs. McCabe thought to herself. Why
hadn’t she had any girls?
***
Mrs. McCabe was greatly enjoying her book, and saw no reason to interrupt her peaceful reading to sort out some petty
squabble between her sons.
***
Dan slumped against the door.
“Maybe if we yell louder she’ll realize we got shut out,” Pete
suggested.
44
45
Sarah Tolmie
Sarah Tolmie
Untitled
Untitled
Shh.
Let her speak
to the spotted blue butterflies
she blows from her hands.
She whispers first
of a woman and man.
She paints in the flowers
that smile at her sun
and cries out strong waterfalls
that infinitely run.
She colors the sky with black for the night
but when morning arises
she brings in her light.
She smiles at her world
so perfect and fair
as trees start sprouting
from roots of her hair.
And then come the children
daughters and sons.
As love grows around them
she knows
her work is done.
I have ten fingers
I have ten toes
I have two legs
and a body that grows.
I am still human
I am still strong
Forget all our differences
and stop doing wrong.
We are unique
but we are the same.
We both share a heart
a body
a brain.
I may be gay
and you may be straight
but that doesn’t give us
the right to hate.
Fifteen percent
of what I can do
is fifteen percent
of what you can do too.
We should be equal
not separate or wrong.
We should be able to all get along.
We have ten fingers
we have ten toes
we have two legs
and a body that grows.
46
47
Sarah Tolmie
Kimberly Chubaty
Our Hands
from Owls Fly Away
Our hands
Chase desperately after numbers
We can never reach
Running in circles
Never stopping
Always one
Running faster than us
Passing over us like a shadow
It’s funny how everyone
Depends on such a little thing
We make a face
At everyone who watches us
As they’re just waiting
For us to go faster
Or to slow down
But we never please them
Our hearts keep a steady beat
Barely audible in the night
But we’re the ones who wake them
In the morning
Following them throughout the day
Making them squirm
At our so-steady pace
We are the time keepers
Numbers written on our faces
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12
Repeat
We are the clocks
Why has he come to me?
Is he giving up?
If anything
He wants me to surrender
48
He is staring me down
But I am staring too
I cannot pull away
From those hypnotic eyes
But my eyes
My endless eyes
Fill with false hope
They give it all away
And today
More than ever
I wish I could fly away
49
Laela Ezra
What the Red Rose Queen Finds
That blasted duke! He does not have the proper respect for a
queen! First, keeping the queen waiting so long, then lacking
the manners to inform the queen of what caused him to be so
late! With these angry thoughts, the queen plots his demise, her
eye transfixed on something in the distance. Her cheeks turn a
rosy pink as bright images of the duke’s red blood oozing from
his corpse flood her mind. He will pay very dearly indeed.
***
The queen has quite a fondness for red. She models her clothes,
her policies, and her public persona after the Queen of Hearts.
She wishes to attain so much red, so much raw, red power that
it will be the only color her kingdom may see. Satin, red satin,
arranged in a bow, is seated on her head instead of a crown.
In fact, she had called upon the duke to make her a crown of
red. She labored day and night, sweating profusely and working diligently to illustrate her dream of the perfect red headpiece. After a fortnight, a marvelous painting of a red crown
emerged from her hands.
Laela Ezra
among the common people, some saying she wore it for decoration, some saying it hid a deformity in her right eye, or that
she had been cursed to wear the rose until she died.
***
Upon his arrival at the court, the duke takes up a handkerchief
and smooths it absentmindedly.
“Why does the queen wear such a foolish piece of eyewear? As
a member of the royalty, she clearly has no need to, as it only
proves a nuisance.” Th e queen’s narrowed eye, full of murder
and indignation, snaps onto the duke.
Chilling silence sweeps through the court. Th e queen fumes
with rage; the duke is cool and unfazed. With a huff, the queen
takes a bite of a red velvet cupcake, crosses her legs, and pointedly intensifies her glare.
“I do not think it a nuisance, oh blasted duke. May your impudence be paid back to thee ten thousand-fold. Now show me
what you have brought or be beheaded!” She spits the words as
a dragon spits fire, hot and flaming and red.
Proudly, she presented it to her kingdom, proclaiming: “To
you who make my crown, I bid enormous wealth and countless favor from my kingdom. I wish you luck; to build such a
headpiece is no easy task!” She ended the proclamation with
her signature kisses and adieus. Her people cheered with love.
As she turned, one could see that where her right eye should
have been, a crimson rose sprouted instead.
The duke smiles, bemused at the sauciness of this particular
queen. Bright blue eyes twinkle, revealed as he uses a whitegloved hand to brush away his silky, ebony hair. He bends
slowly to his left, to a black crate heavily laden with intricate
locks and latches to which only he knows the combination.
Click-click-click-click-clack-thud, click-click-click-click-clack.
The locks fall away one by one.
Why does she wear the eye patch? An ignorant child in her
court had asked such a thing, long ago, when she was still a
princess. Th at child was never heard of again. Rumors flitted
The queen tilts to her right, parallel to the duke. She strains her
neck to peek over the table at the crate while he opens it. He
grins widely. “Finally, my queen, the crown. For you.”
50
51
Laela Ezra
Laela Ezra
Slowly, the duke lifts up the crown from the crate. As soon
as the tip of the crown reaches above the table, separating the
queen and the duke, a brilliant flash of light stuns the eye of the
queen. By reflex, she quickly shuts her eye and covers her face
with both forearms.
“It is just as I had painted it,” the queen softly whispers. She
brings forth her other hand and gently slips the crown under
both, cradling it. They both sit in silent awe.
Oblivious to the queen’s reaction, the duke continues to lift the
crown and sets it gently upon a maroon pillow. Cautiously, the
queen uncovers her face and peeks at the crown. Her eye blurry
from tears, she takes a moment to focus and—
It is simply stunning.
It takes into itself the forest, the trees, the rocks, the river, the
grass, the birds, the rabbits, the insects. It takes in the court, the
chairs, the table, the teacups, the pink flower centerpiece, the
cake platters, even the palace.
And of course, it embodies the two humans so entranced by
its beauty.
The queen, mouth agape, eye wide, moves not a muscle. Her
eye roams over the large, beautiful, wonderfully-red jewels embedded within intricate loops and paisleys made of pure gold.
Red felt cushions the inside for the comfort of its wearer. Tentatively, the queen inches a shaky hand close to the crown.
The duke, now free from the spell of the crown’s intense beauty,
glances at the queen’s hand. Ever so slowly, her fingers connect with the gold. A sharp tingle flutters through her, abrupt
enough for her to shut her mouth, yet mild enough to allow
her to keep her fingers on the crown.
“So, my queen, thou art pleased, art thou not?” the duke
smirks.
52
Leaning over the slightest bit, the duke says, “My queen, had
I but foreseen your reaction, I would have brought my finest
painter to capture your expression.”
Nearly dropping the beautiful crown, the queen whips herself
back into her chair. She picks up her teacup, pauses to glance
at the crown, then the duke’s ruffled shirt, and finally rests her
eye on a porcelain statue a hundred yards away.
“I…I…I truly find it a treasure,” she quips embarrassedly. “I
forgive your insolence—just this once, mind you—because
you have brought such a beauty.”
Sipping her Earl Grey tea, the queen plasters a mask on her
face, devoid of emotion. Her thoughts run round frantically,
all of them centered on the rude duke and his beautiful gift.
She had just forgiven him, the one who had so recently driven
her to rage.
This man is not worth killing. Her cheeks burn hot when that
thought runs through her consciousness, grinding all other
thinking to a halt. Is not worth killing. She has never felt that
way before, not about her family, her pets, about anything.
Noting her odd behavior, the duke leans back in his chair,
crosses his legs, and begins to hum a tune. His mind, quite unlike the queen’s, maintains an orderly chaos of thought. She is
completely at my feet, he thinks to himself. And she should be,
for that crown took countless deaths to obtain. Bloody work, I
do not like it. It is a reminder of the color I abhor: red.
53
Laela Ezra
Blue, on the other hand, is the duke’s absolute favorite color.
He has loved the kingdom’s sea since he was but a lad, running
around in the liquid blue that would later become his to rule
over. After his coronation as Duke of the Sapphire Sea, he tailored all of his suits to have some element of blue on them. The
coronation itself had required him to spill the scarlet blood of
his brethren, as was canon in the Red Kingdom.
Oh yes, he hates red, but he hates the queen, the one able to
make such rules, more than anything.
He intends to enjoy turning her ruddy cheeks into the pale
blue ones of a corpse.
54
55
Kristin Foglestad
The Night the Mule Came to Visit
It was a dreary evening on the Leopold Farm. There were snails
moving slowly through the foggy crop field. Nana Fudge was
feeling slightly paranoid. She had heard a legend about a mule
that went insane and turned carnivorous after a farmer overworked it. It was rumored that the mule would haunt farms
where work continued too long. At the Leopold Farm, work
was supposed to stop at five for dinner.
Nana Fudge looked through her window out into the fog, trying to spot her granddaughter Emerald who was still working
in the fields. She saw something in the corner of her eye, and
she turned with her heart pounding. She relaxed when she realized it was a snail crawling across the window sill, occasionally
bumping into the glass with a soft “ping.” She felt sorry for
it, so she let it inside. She was shutting the window when she
heard a train whistle.
Kristin Foglestad
dropped the match. She hiked up her thick skirts and ran into
the grain field, her hat falling into the dust.
“Emerald! Where are you?!”
Her foot caught on something and she fell into the grain, nearly disappearing in the stalks. Her face hit something warm and
wet. She stood up and lit another match. The light hit the body
of her dear Emerald. Her abdomen had been ripped open, her
entrails spilling over the ground and her blood staining the
dust. Nearby lay her head; one of her eyes had been gouged
out, and her remaining eye was still open; her face was frozen
in an expression of extreme agony. Emerald’s eye suddenly fixed
on Nana Fudge and her mouth started to move.
“Don’t worry, Nana; the mule has a surprise for you too.”
There was a high-pitched animal-like scream, a flash of pain,
and the mule ripped out Nana Fudge’s heart.
That’s odd, she thought. The train near the farm usually didn’t
run at this hour. Th en, chaos took over. Th e lights inside the
house and around the barn went out, enveloping the farm in
shadows. Th at was when she saw the mule, the thing of her
nightmares. Its eyes were a bloodshot yellow, and its jet black
sides were heaving. It opened its mouth, exposing dagger-like
teeth, and let out a bloodcurdling scream, almost like it was
screaming for revenge. Th en, it melted into the fog. Nana
Fudge panicked. She ran down the stairs and out the door.
“Emerald! Emerald! Come in! Please! Th e mule is real! It’s going to get you!” she screamed. She squinted into the fog, then
pulled out a match and lit it. The little fire was a small comfort
against the darkness blanketing the elderly woman. Th ere was
an agonizing scream in the distance. Nana Fudge jumped and
56
57
Grace Olson
Grace Olson
Untitled
My mother always told me
To avoid staring directly into the sun
But I always did
Because the violet orbs that appeared in my vision
Were irresistible
Fading away like regrets come winter.
When is it
That such beautiful mistakes
Begin to precede you
Permanently dwelling on the surface?
How many times must you strike a match
Before it begins to burn?
We are all born innocent
But somewhere along the way
The shadows of our pasts begin to evolve
To take shape and slither
Through our rooms while we fall asleep
Watching from the corners of our dreams at night.
In the old pictures she is smiling
But I can see it in her eyes
Never quite facing the lens.
It reached her before she was ready.
It brought her to the depths of hell and back again
And I watched as she became its indentured servant.
58
At sunrise we breathe steadily
But yesterdays prevail
And when it comes to meet you
Halfway between yourself and the light at the end of the tunnel
You will realize it’s always been there
Gentle and welcoming
And though you may fall slowly
The ground holds no pity.
In the back of her closet fragments of youth remain
Mountains painted in cascading brushstrokes
And words of hopeful ignorance.
One day she will find them
After Christmas perhaps
Searching for something important
But instead finding herself
Crippled with fear
Standing up slowly
Reliving the day she emerged through a mangled lens
Brought one step closer with the projector’s every click
To a beautiful place where darkness goes to die
But remains
In and out of focus with each trembling breath
To the beginning of the end.
59
Grace Olson
Grace Olson
The Awakening
Untitled
I took the width of my consciousness and divided it into eight
fragments, glistening in my mind’s eye, perfectly sliced edges of
chaos. With each breath my focus was repeatedly tainted and
reassembled, a fleeting meditation, unexpectedly fading into
lethargic bliss as the sea beckoned and the voyage began. With
one eye on each horizon the distance bloomed into a perfect
gradient, faded on the edges and richly saturated in the center.
The cold and rusty gears of the complex machine began to turn
rigorously, for I had found the perfect balance. Th e digits fit
flawlessly within the curves and crevices of the ship, yet I was
distant, staring deeply into the sun with infallible power.
Cowering inside
Her quiet, softly lit apartment
She waits.
For what,
She does not know.
The wall is darkened by her crippled shadow;
Battered and decrepit,
They reflect each other.
Blissful nights are far behind,
Howling as they pace and melt and tear themselves apart,
And then it is there.
And it is not light but the mere absence of darkness,
Crawling in through the vents
And through the edges of the drapes,
Void of color, void of pain.
Writhing and dancing like ink moves in water,
She burns brighter with each silent hour
Inside her quiet, softly lit apartment
Waiting to emerge.
60
61
Grace Olson
Grace Olson
The Void
I. Fire
III. Water
The void beckons.
The void is not a substance or something tangible, but an absence of all things concrete. It is colorless, yet magnificently
painted, dancing through the room like blood in all its morbid
decadence, and to the void, language and measurement of time
do not matter. Th ey are attempts to harness what is untouchable and free. It is alive in everything; in the corner of every
memory and every experience you have ever encountered. It is
a grotesque creature, an animal that lives in the depths of the
sea where light has never touched. It is the lump in your throat
that you let linger, an intangible tumor growing inside of you.
We await an explosion, a sudden flash, a thousand people
joined together praying and crying and bleeding, full of passion as the sun hits the earth with its blinding light. We pass
away with hands held, in unison. We hope to go with the taste
of our loved ones still on our lips, and our eyes closed with a
single tear running down and soaking into the damp, fertile,
silent earth. We wait to decay, to nourish the soil and grow new
life.
But this is a fantasy, the silver lining of a romanticized apocalypse.
The void will come upon us like a spreading affliction, a disease, and maybe at first it will even be perceived as such.
And even when its vessel falls, the void will prevail. It will consume its surroundings, and, drunk with power, it will run rampant.
II. Air
IV. Earth
It will start with one. One man or woman or child. You will
wake up one morning with artificial light coming through the
curtains, and you will step out of bed and realize that it is not
that you particularly want to wake up or go “outside.” You may
not even be able to gather whatever muddled idea you had the
night before about what you want in life. Or even why it is that
you care so much about this so-called “life.” And as you begin
to wonder these things, you will realize a strange sensation in
your head or your throat or wherever it may dwell. A presence,
but certainly not a human presence. Although you may not
realize it, you will have encountered the void.
Our bones will not decompose; they will remain, coated in
plastic tissue as they will have become throughout the years.
One last battle with the substance from which we emerged: we
will weigh down the planet.
62
63
Anderson
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
64
#
Index of Artists
Volumes I – XXXI
*Indicates Cover Art
Carl Anderson ........................... 2007, 2008, 2009
Jennifer Annen .............................................. 2007
Vukadin Backonja ......................................... 2001
Corbin Bartell ............................................... 2006
Kane Beaber ........................................ 2007, 2008
Luke Beaber .................................................. 2008
Ed Blake .......................................................*1997
Laura Block ........................................1999, *2000
Ethan Boehm ................................................ 2006
Chesli Bookstaff ............................................ 2012
Dilya Bouriakov ............................................ 2009
Josie Bratt ...................................................... 2013
Eric Brooks ......................................... 2000, 2001
Kristin Brooks ............................................... 1999
Elaine Brow ................................................... 2006
Sam Brown...................................................*2007
Pamela Bruskewitz......................................... 2004
Audrey Bui ...............................*1999, 2000, 2001
Samantha Burke ............................................ 2007
Emily Butler .................................................. 2012
Adam Carter ................................................. 2000
Siena Casanova .............................................*2012
Jessica Casper ................................................ 2011
Alice Chang......................................... 2003, 2004
Kate Conrad.................................................. 2007
Emily Cox ................................. 1998, 1999, 2000
Rebekah Dadds ............................................. 2010
Celia Donnelly .............................................. 2004
Maya Dorje ................................................... 2009
65
Duan
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
Ensch
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
#
Fangfei Duan ...............................................*2008
Catherine Ensch ............................................ 2009
Jeremy Evans ................................................*1987
Virgina Evens ...............................................*1997
Ming Feng..................................................... 2004
Janis Finkelman ............................................*2001
Trevor Fisher ......................................*2009, 2010
Kristin Foglestad ........................................... 2013
Arwen Fonzen ............................................... 2006
Carlye Frank........................................ 1997, 1998
Will Fry......................................................... 2001
Mai Fujiwara ................................................*2003
Bob Gander................................................... 1997
Meghan Geary............................................... 1999
Kelly Giles ....................................................*1996
McKenna Goetz ............................................ 2012
Taylor Gurl ................................................... 2008
Mike Hanson ...............................................*1992
Marisa Hellen ................................................ 2011
Derrik Henrickson .......................................*1990
Emily Houston.............................................. 2009
Anna Hutchcroft ........................................... 2008
Randy Jones .................................................*1984
Kelly Joque ...................................................*1986
Dana Joseph .................................................. 2010
Ariana Karp ................................................... 2005
Daniel Kazell ................................................. 2007
Justin Knoll ..................................................*1995
Julia Kroll ...................................................... 2010
Jon Kurtycz ................................................... 2003
Brook Lade.................................................... 2009
J Li ...................................................*2000, *2001
Pao Moua Lor ..............................................*1997
66
Luong
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
Maly
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
#
Rongjie Lu .................................................... 2008
Yvonne Luong ............................................... 2005
Somaly Maly ................................................. 1997
Silvie Marlette ............................................... 2002
Nicole Martinez ............................................ 2007
Michael Mawhinney...................................... 2006
Joan McCarthy .............................................. 2013
Hadassah McCloskey .................................... 2011
Holley McLlellan........................................... 2006
Taryn Meixner..............................................*2011
Sean Muckian................................................ 1997
Dan Myers ...................................................*1985
Cathleen Nairn.......................... 2009, 2011, 2012
Bill Nichols ......................................*1983, *1984
Anna Orcutt-Jahns ........................................ 2009
Tiffany Orr.................................................... 2009
Sarrut Ouk ...................................................*2000
Drew Peterson ............................................... 2002
John Phan ..................................................... 1996
Derek Puccio ................................................*2002
Pan Jun Rader ............................................... 2012
Andy Rifken .................................................*2004
Andy Rodgers .....................................*2010, 2011
Annemarie Rodriguez .........................2005, *2006
Robert Rodriguez .......................................... 2008
Kira Romashko ............................................*1993
Amelia Rossa ................................................. 2012
Erica Rubio ..................................................*1994
Andrea Rummel ............................................ 2008
Jeff Samuels ................................................... 1996
Rose Schneck ...................................... 2004, 2005
Laura Schott .................................................. 2004
Beth Schultz .................................................. 1999
67
Smith
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
Steurer
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
#
Andy Schutz .................................................*1991
Tony Sergenian.............................................. 2002
Alex Smith .......................................... 2000, 2001
Morgan Spatola ............................................*2013
Keith Steurer ......................................*1990, 1991
Dan Stevens .................................................. 2000
Tanya Tang ...................................................*1999
Neng Thao .......................................... 2009, 2010
Tony Thao ..................................................... 1997
Erik Tran ....................................................... 2011
Katie Tredinnick ............................................ 2010
Khiem Truong ..................................*1988, *1989
Tricia Ulrich .................................................. 2007
Ivan Valcheb .................................................. 1997
Jenny Vang .................................................... 2013
Ye Vang ......................................................... 1997
Jake Wagner .................................................. 2006
Daniel Wallace .............................................. 2011
Keely Walsh................................................... 2002
Comfort Wasikhongo ...................................*1995
Elizabeth Wendt ............................................ 2007
Jackie Whisenant ....................*2003, 2004, *2005
Lee Houa Yang .............................................*1995
Ryan Younger ................................................ 2002
Mariam Yukhananov ........................*1998, *1999
Joe Zhang.....................................................*2004
68
Zhang
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
Block
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
#
Huffman
Index of
Chapbook Authors
1985 – 2012
Laura Block
Mania ........................................................ 2000
Stephanie Boehm
A Mild Exclamation .................................... 1994
Rebecca A. Borlaug
Not a Nice Girl ........................................... 2000
Eric Brooks
A Suitcase Full of Human Hair .................... 2003
Kashana Cauley
Enigmata .................................................... 1998
Holly Chen
Running Forward to Chase the Past .............. 2000
Rebekah Dadds
Misunderstood Miracle ................................ 2011
Hal Edmonson
For Orion, In Winter ................................... 2005
Robin Giles
...Of Many Names....................................... 2002
Elspeth Gordon
Mirror to the Soul ....................................... 1986
Martha Gurtz
Pastrami on Rye (hold the mayo) .................. 1995
Seb Harris
A Selection of Writings from a Discontented
Citizen ....................................................... 2010
Marisa Hellen
Reflections in the Mire ................................. 2011
Emme Huffman
Cosas .......................................................... 2012
69
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
Kazell
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
#
Rideout
Daniel Kazell
I Refuse to Make Sense in Ways You
Understand ................................................. 2007
Elizabeth Lemke-Oliver
Like Magic.................................................. 2001
Tenzin Youdon Lendey
Offering of the Five Senses ............................ 2011
J Li
The Apostates............................................... 2001
Debby Loftsgordon
Never Give Up ............................................ 1990
Michael Lumelsky
Face Changing ............................................ 1994
Nona Mei
Shades of Resonance ..................................... 1998
Abigail Mitchell
Wanderlust.................................................. 2010
Cathleen Nairn
So Sings the Solemn Harper ......................... 2012
Linda Nutter
Innocence .................................................... 1986
DeAnna Patterson
If You Could See Me Smile ........................... 2004
Anna Pena
A Walk in Rumania..................................... 1985
Jane Pertzborn
Existing ...................................................... 1985
John D. Phan
I Wonder if Caterpillars Think Butterflies Are
Crazy.......................................................... 1998
Sarah Prescott
Parallax ...................................................... 2010
Molly Rideout
more like geoffrey ......................................... 2006
70
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
Riley
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
#
Hannah Riley
Underwater Amphitheater and Sadistic Russian
Novelists ..................................................... 2007
Stephanie Rohr
Dusty Windows and Foggy Mirrors ............... 2008
Emily Schmitt
Internal Stars of Space and Time .................. 2001
Jennifer Seese
A Love for Beauty ........................................ 1985
Jennifer Seese
Can’t Stop ................................................... 1986
Kavin Senapathy
Sound of a Crescendo ................................... 2000
Hannah Silber
Systole ......................................................... 2009
Elden Louis Steele III
The Declaration........................................... 1992
Kate Stroede
From the Eyes of Jupiter ............................... 2001
Christina Taylor
Of Light...................................................... 2004
Nina Trotto
Speakeasy .................................................... 2007
Elizabeth Updike
Umbrellas in the Sun ................................... 1995
Bryn Upton
Horizon ...................................................... 1987
Laura Warncke
Submersion ................................................. 2002
Katie Wylie
Playing the Game ........................................ 2000
Coming in 2013: chapbooks by
Monika Hetzler and Zoë Townsend
71
Wylie
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
!
"
P
ressions is James Madison Memorial High School’s forum for
creative writers. In addition to hosting fall and spring creative
writing workshops for Memorial students, Pressions publishes
senior chapbooks and an annual literary magazine.
Pressions workshops began in the fall of 1981. During the following year, the club made a commitment to produce a literary
magazine. The first issue was published in the spring of 1983.
Over the years, Pressions has fostered creative writing at Memorial High School in a variety of ways: hosting guest speakers (poets and fiction writers from the Madison community),
holding poetry readings in the Planetarium, and, for twentyfive years, promoting and sponsoring the Greater Dane County
Youth Poetry Festival, a poetry contest for high school writers
in Dane and adjacent counties.
72