Cedar Valley Divide – 2011

2011
Cedar Valley Divide
Here at the Cedar Valley Divide, we have set ourselves outside the norms of
previous issues. This year, inside the C.V.D. headquarters, there was an
overhaul of epic proportions. All limitations and boundaries were leveled
and new blueprints were drawn, tracing the pulse of the college community.
The eye of the photographer, the hand of the artist, the busy mind of the
poet: all crucial instruments for assembling our greater vision.
So wherever you are now, and however you came across our magazine; whether
this is the first C.V.D you’ve ever opened, or you tune in every year….. Kick
back, have some coffee, forget about everything else, and dive in to the world
of tattoos and more.
You have never read, or watched, or breathed in, a Cedar Valley Divide like
this one!
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Cedar Valley Divide
2011
Editorial Staff:
Lindey Anderson
Don Arenz
Christopher Crissinger
Kayla Dotson
LeeAnn MacTaggart
Nathan Miller
Jess Musgrave
Michael Winkowski
Tonja Robins, Advisor
Kirkwood Community College
Cedar Rapids, Iowa
Cedar Valley Divide
copyright 2011
All rights reserved by
individual contributors
Charcoal Drawing by Liesel Kayser
Nude with Chair
Photo by Michael Winkowski
Ferns in the Forest
1
Full
I feel like my bedroom closet
Crammed with miscellaneous junk
Assorted thoughts and ideas - filed away by chaos
I should sweep it all out
Give this madness some order
But not today - today I add more
Just shove it back, and push it in.
I know that someday
it will be too much and the world
will fall
down
on my head
LeeAnn MacTaggart
on
d
s
er
ey
d
in
L
by
g
e
in Lov a
t
in e
di
Pa ang Me
Or xed
i
2 M
An
Dream
City’s light clouds
long passed dust storms,
the heavy price of gravity
fever: my armchair penance.
I drew the long metal
stalks from the corners
of your mouth
flooded river, drink
me in.
Russell Jaffe
Photo by Jennifer Evans
The Hill of Tara
3
Photo by Kayla Dotson
Sailor’s Delight
Jupiter
She’s not the balancing of check
books
or prime time TV.
She’s not the picking out of furniture,
or sippy cups
and grocery carts.
She is not the one I’d take home to
Mother.
She’s not the paying of bills
or tax returns.
She’s not my side of the bed
alarm clocks
or Thursday meatloaf.
4
She’s not photo albums
and birthdays,
or Monday through Monday
through Monday again.
She is not the other end of the
couch.
She is Water
Earth,
snowball fights
when you’re supposed to be at work.
Lightning crashing thunder,
electric air.
She is the ocean
that supports Us.
She is wind
dancing leaves
down the street
on a day
when sweatshirts
and football
are all in life
that matters.
She is the constellation
across the sun,
holding me
in sublime universal balance.
She is Jupiter.
Leah Wolfe
ey’’ g lot
n
o
M
l, parkin
l
A
e
ov store
b
A
t
“Bu rd in a
a
e
h
r
e
v
- o
Kina twitched her whiskers. There was food nearby.
She could smell it. She ran
swiftly past the safe places,
the dark corners under the
old dwellings of the people,
towards the scent. It was inside the big metal thing again.
She jumped up and in. One, two
slashes and the thin, crinkly,
dark skin they tucked that
wonderful smell inside was
ripped. Dig, dig, and out came
the strongly scented carcass of
whatever it was. It wasn’t prey,
but it tasted so good.
“Eh! Get the hell outta
here!! Damn cats, always digging up my garbage!’’
Kina jumped and bolted.
It was the same voice every
time. The person didn’t bother
to chase her. People, hobbling
around like that on just two
legs, weren’t nearly as fast as
Kina.
She scooted around the
flat woods by the rocky path.
They weren’t trees, but they
smelt like them, under the
Sharon Rose
noxious scents the people coated them with. Stuff made of
trees, then. People. People make
things from things that were
already made. Weird creatures.
She could hear the kits
mewling. She’d been gone just
a short run, one or two hunts.
They needed milk. She crouched
and scooted into the safe,
dark place. Their eyes shone
in shades of red. She sniffed
them. They still smelt like
her.
She flopped. They suckled
a bit. She tried to clean them,
but they were off, to play.
More active every day. She’d
have to start bringing mice
back to let them play with,
take the teats away soon. She
had heard the males, hunting
around, yowling for her. She
could feel the cycles again.
She’d want to mate soon.
Kina cleaned herself. She
stared up. There was rot in
those flat woods. The water had
come and gone past two shifts
of cold now. The people didn’t
come back. They let it rot.
Perfectly good safe places
and a little water makes them
run. Makes me run. I don’t like
water. But it’s dry now. Safe.
Warm. Good sleep. Good kittens.
Good males. Good nights and
days. Sun to bathe in, puddles
to lap from, food to eat just
a short run away. This whole
place is so full of everything,
but they still left. What else
do those creatures want?
Kina’s runt bit her ear,
shaking her from her thoughts.
She swatted the obnoxious little kit away and rolled over
to sleep. I do miss the way
that one would pet me, though.
He was nice, even if he was a
weird thing.
5
Death
6
I hate funerals. And it’s not
because I am unfamiliar with death,
actually it’s quite the opposite. I
just refuse to let fear of death consume me. As sure as there is life,
there is death; it is what keeps the
world in order and balances power.
The one thing no person can escape
is death, despite status, wealth or
sex.
But for some reason, the most
recent death I am dealing with still
really troubles me. There is no blood
relation between me and this person, and, even if there was, death
in the family is something I am far
too familiar with. I am only twentyseven and have already experienced
the death of parents, step-parents,
grandparents, siblings and numerous
other friends. So we will just say
this wasn’t my first rodeo.
She was my neighbor. A regular working woman with three girls,
one in middle school, one in grammar
school, and one still too young to go
to school. But it is not the thought
of her death leaving her three girls
without their mother that bothers
me.
The beginning of this summer
she found out she had leukemia. This
would be the ultimate demise of my
neighbor, although she did not seem
doomed from the start. She went to
the University Hospital in Iowa City
to the cancer ward to fight it off.
Riddled with holes from IV’s and bald
from the chemotherapy, she spent
weeks alone without her girls there.
One week she’d get out, the next she’d
be heading back to the cancer ward.
But she remained strong. Every
time I would see her she’d be smiley
and full of hope. ‘’Next summer you
will see me back out here chillin’ in
the sun with a full head of hair,’’
she would say jokingly, and I believed it.
Then a virus spread through her
body killing everything that the
cancer wasn’t already eating. Things
got worse, and quick. Her doctors
told her she wouldn’t make it until
the end of the year. They gave her
the option to stay at the hospital,
or go home and wait it out. She chose
to go home and spend her remaining
time with her girls.
The news hit me like a bag of
bricks in the chest, ‘’Damn,’’ was the
only thing I could think to say.
My mind spun, grasping at the reality of the moment. I played with the
words in my head, attempting to find
the deeper meaning in this mess of
words. ‘’Mindy is dead.’’ She is gone.
So here is what is bothering
me, here is what I cannot let go of.
When her funeral ended, a grueling
ceremony that did Mindy no justice,
helped heal no wounds or settle any
hearts, a terrible song poured quietly out of speakers overhead. Those
on the left side of the funeral home
got up row by row from front to back,
stood and walked past Mindy’s open
casket. One woman burst into tears
as she approached her deceased loved
one (to be expected at any funeral).
It was finally our turn to go.
My party stood, filed out into the
aisle and began the walk towards
Mindy. I stopped by her girls and
hugged them one by one, a gesture no
one had yet extended to them. I didn’t
care if I was holding up the line
behind me; besides, a funeral is for
the family. The corpse doesn’t give a
fuck what you do with it. Finally I
reached Mindy’s casket. Looking in I
was crushed. This was not my friend.
This was not the woman I’d known. She
looked like they had wheeled her in
from the hospital and thrown her in
the casket as-is.
Her face was swollen and miscolored. Eyes slammed shut in a grimacing expression as if she was still
in agonizing pain. Mouth clenched
shut and lips still blue. No wig, no
makeup, no dress or beautiful jewelry. Just sick dead Mindy. A woman
whose life-work had been making
other people beautiful, and this is
how they leave her for her children
to see for the last time.
Every day I see her lying in
that box and my heart bleeds for her
and her family. I think about how
little time we have and how quickly
we can be wiped away. I think about
her kids looking into that box and
looking at their mom with the same
horrified expression. I think about
my children looking into my box. The
same box I never feared now haunts
my thoughts. The swollen endless
death that all must face.
r
e
ng
i
r
he
ss
ri
C
p
o
t
is
r
Ch
7
Blind
Alicia McMahon
I hate most days. I like
her so much that I can’t stand
her, her and this hold she has
over me.
I see her, put on a fake
smile just for her, and make her
think I’m fine-I’m not. I want
to scream at her. ‘’Hello, I’m
right here! Don’t you see me?
Don’t you care?’’ She doesn’t, I
know she doesn’t. Still, I waitand wait, and wait, and wait;
but, it doesn’t matter, she’ll
never see me. She’s blind to me.
I listen to her talk about
him for hours. I don’t know why
I torture myself; I don’t know
why I care.
‘’He’s leaving her!’’ she
says, her megawatt smile on
full display. ‘’He swears he
wants me.’’
She’s happy, I’m miserable.
‘’That’s great,’’ I answer,
swallowing hard.
8
No one wants me to like
her; but, they all know just
how truly gone I am for her.
They’re looking out for me. I’m
the one who will end up crushed
by this, not her, and they all
know it. They tell me to forget her, but they don’t know her
like I do. They don’t see it.
How can you leave someone that
seems so right, so perfect?
I can hear my friends
warning me; they can see where
this is going, and they see the
disaster zone straight ahead.
But the second she speaks, the
second she smiles, the second
she laughs-I can’t escape her.
I can’t tear myself away from
that; I melt.
‘’So we’re still hanging out
this weekend, right? I think
he’s going to come.’’
She’s bringing him up to
make me jealous. She knows,
she’s always known.
‘’Of course,’’ I say too
quickly. I’m torturing myself
but I don’t care. I won’t miss
the chance to see her.
She smiles, and I know the
only reason I’m smiling is because she is. She giggles, and
says, ‘’What?’’
She’s too good of a person,
too nice, too pure; I can’t lose
someone like that. I can’t tell
her. I can’t lose my friend. I
can’t make this jump and admit my feelings. That’s not for
me to do. It’s the only thing
I want to do, and it’s the only
thing I can’t do.
And, like always, I shake
my head and lie, ‘’Nothing.’’
Girl
(Taken from “I Was Trying to Describe You to Someone” in Revenge of the Lawn by Richard Brautigan)
I was trying to describe you to someone a few days ago - trying for ease and found discomfort. I
was unprepared for this…this feeling. I was unaware at the time that I love you.
Yes, it’s strange. All the time we’ve spent together has been so “innocent”. So platonic. So…not
love. So what happened? You haven’t changed. I haven’t either.
Nope, I still think you’re too funny to be a girl, too sexy to be a dude, too cool to be an enemy.
I still think you hook up with douches (but I still want to get you in bed because I still think you’d
blow my mind). I will still tell you my sex stories to one-up yours (though they don’t even compare, nor
do they matter). I have been and will be forever tinted green from envy of every touch that isn’t mine.
After a cigarette (trust me, I needed one), I came up with this: You learn to love her.
I promise I wasn’t trying to be a dick. Just…misleading. I mean, I learned I love you, didn’t I?
Well, he’s no good for you anyway, just like the rest. Just like I’ve said too many times before.
I’m just waiting for one of them to prove me wrong.
Devin Tumpkin
Photo by Michael Winkowski
World in Miniature
9
But Two Negatives Equal a Positive
Oh my God. Oh my God. OH MY
GOD! This cannot be happening. Tears
surged down my face, pelting my bare
thighs. Two different brands, two
different stores, two different bathrooms. Same results. Are you frickin
kidding me?! The second one only confirmed the first and the first only
confirmed what I’d recently begun to
suspect.
How? I kept demanding. How
could this happen? Okay, the how
wasn’t the mystery. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now.
I must have sat there for a
long time, numb. My head and limbs
felt far too heavy to get up, my
brain incapable of forming intelligent thought, eyes closed, head
tilted backward, positioned awkwardly against the tiled wall behind. At
some point, my eyes flickered open to
the glare of a recessed flood light
directly above.
Was this the Universe’s idea of
a sick joke? A test of some kind?
I stared into the white hot
light. Mesmerized by the orb, I consented to it cauterizing the tears,
scorching my corneas.
What words of wisdom might
help here? I needed something. Anything. When life hands you lemons,
10
Carrie Barker
make lemonade? What doesn’t kill you
will only make you stronger?
A shoulder angel whispered, ‘’No
one ever has to know.’’
‘’There are options,’’ the other
chimed in.
Activity a few feet away
briefly interrupted the conversation
only I could hear.
‘’But could she go through with
it? Could she live with herself afterward?’’ the first asked.
‘’Dunno. She never thought she’d
be in this situation,’’ the second answered.
I closed my eyes and gently
rubbed the black blobs out of my vision. I dug the other contraption out
from a small brown sack at the bottom of my purse and discarded them
both in the receptacle mounted in
the stall.
‘’A little different than the
typical trash thrown in there,’’ a
shoulder angel observed.
‘’It is ironic,’’ the other agreed.
Go away, I told my shoulder angels. I don’t like you anymore.
I pulled myself together and
made it to the sink. The reflection
in the mirror wasn’t kind; twin mascara ruts flanked each side of my
face, eyelids swollen and naked, the
whites bloodshot and raw. The splash
of cold water stung my pores. Stalling, I wandered throughout the store
and tried to come to terms with this
new reality. My loitering terminated
in the baby section.
How will Scott react? What
will people think? What are we going
to do? I tried to put myself in his
shoes. We . . . will there continue to
be a ‘we’? I just didn’t know . . . .
I slipped into the house and
quickly scanned the rooms. Scott was
alone in the kitchen, cleaning out
the refrigerator. Damn, I had bad
timing. I quietly crossed the room
and erected myself alongside the
sweaty Tupperware and condiment
containers sitting on the counter.
I crossed my arms and erupted,
‘’You were right.’’
He backed out of the fridge and
shut the door, giving me his full attention. ‘’About what?’’ he asked.
Be strong, I told myself, and do
not cry.
The instant our eyes met,
mine started to well up with tears;
I looked down and away, focusing
on a few stray dust bunnies gathering in the corner. I hesitated.
Scott sighed impatiently; he hated
to be interrupted in the middle of
something. Briefly, my eyes met his
arched brows then darted back to the
corner again. For Christ’s sake, my
brain screamed, he’s your husband
not your father! I took a deep breath
and purged, ‘’You were right about
me being pregnant.’’ I stole another
glance; his expression was impossible to read. I took another breath
and elaborated. ‘’When you suggested
it earlier, I thought you’d lost your
mind. But then I got to thinking. . .
the dates, not feeling well. I still
thought you were nuts, but I took
a test. Two actually, and they were
both positive.’’
Just then, the patter of footsteps getting louder interrupted
my confession. ‘’Mom, can I have some
crackers?’’
‘’Sure, buddy.’’ I handed him
the box, trying to buy us more time
alone. ‘’Share with your brother and
sister, okay?
‘’Okay. Thanks, Mom!’’ and back to
the living room he went.
Scott’s silence was unbearable.
I forced myself to look directly into
his deep blue eyes.
‘’I haven’t cheated on you,’’ I offered.
‘’I wasn’t thinking you did,’’ he
countered calmly.
‘’You weren’t?’’ My brain couldn’t
comprehend. How does a man with two
surgically cut vas deferens not sus-
pect his knocked up wife?
‘’You remember the numbers the
doctor told us,’’ he said.
‘’Yeah, I remember joking about
our odds of having another baby being greater than winning the lottery.’’ And asking if I could do the
honors, I recalled. (After all, dads
were given the option of cutting the
umbilical cord after a baby was born;
it seemed like a perfectly reasonable
request to me.)
‘’I can’t believe I figured out
you were pregnant before you did,’’ he
said. ‘’What kind of woman are you?’’
He was teasing, but I failed to see
humor in the situation.
‘’The kind of woman who is
done with that part of her life,’’
I belched, sounding defensive. ‘’The
kind that gave birth to three babies
in 33 months and likes eight hours
of sleep a night. The kind that is
done changing diapers and washing
bottles and already got rid of every
bit of baby stuff we’ve ever owned.’’
I’m sure he was sorry he asked. ‘’Why
would being pregnant even cross my
mind?’’
If he answered I didn’t hear
him. My brain was busy cranking out
reasons not to have this baby: because I was done with that part of
my life, because I finally owned
clothes that were stain-free, because
I was a frazzled, overwhelmed mess
when the kids were babies. And be-
cause I was tired of feeling like my
sole purpose on this earth was to be
someone’s wife or mother. What about
me? When was it my turn? I stopped,
realizing Scott was watching me
shake my head back and forth.
‘’Scott, I can’t start over. I
don’t want to. They’re all finally in
school.’’ Guilt overwhelmed me. ‘’And
you know people are going to assume
I had an affair. Everyone knows you
got a vasectomy.’’
‘’I don’t give a shit what they
think,’’ he said. ‘’Ultimately, it’s your
decision and I’ll support whatever
you decide, but I think we’re in a
better position now than when we had
the first three. Things are better
now, right?’’
It was true; we weren’t exactly
living the high life but we weren’t
nearly as broke as during those early years. And I couldn’t remember the
last time we had an argument.
He continued, ‘’I’d say I’m more
mature now than at 25. And more patient.’’ I nodded. ‘’Care, it’s not like
you’re going to have three babies
again. Just one.’’
Also good points. Wait a minute
- what the hell just happened? Since
when was he the voice of reason?
That’s always been my job!
‘’Come ’ere,’’ he said, gently
pulling me into his protective embrace.
Wow, I thought, dissolving into
11
a blubbering train wreck. I had prepared for a whole slew of reactions,
but that wasn’t one of them.
Exhausted and relieved, I
agreed to let the idea of a fourth
child marinate a while.
I knew myself pretty well; I
was capable of talking myself into
or out of just about anything. I had
been known to rationalize, justify,
or just procrastinate until someone
decided for me. But I wasn’t a fan
of indecision either and the gravity of what Oprah called a ‘defining
moment’ weighed heavily on my mind
and gnawed at my brainstem. During
downtimes, my shoulder angels reappeared to duke it out; one would
throw out a legitimate objection
and the other would counter with an
equally valid rebuttal.
In the shower: ‘’She has no
baby necessities; it would be absurd
to start from scratch.’’
‘’She learned the difference
between a necessity and a gadget the
first time around.’’
‘’Has she looked at the prices
of the stuff? This is going to cost a
bundle.’’
‘’It doesn’t have to be brand
new; there are always garage sales
and second hand stores.’’
At a stoplight: ‘’Another child
is less than ideal in a three bedroom
home; the boys are already sharing a
room.’’
12
‘’Maybe it’s a girl. Her daughter
has always wanted a little sister.’’
‘’Yeah, till she actually has
one.’’
‘’People make do. Years ago, babies slept in dresser drawers.’’
In line at the grocery store:
‘’A new baby will totally mess up the
whole birth order dynamic.’’
‘’It will. There will no longer
be a middle child.’’
‘’The older kids may resent the
baby.’’
‘’Or maybe they’ll be old enough
to remember the experience of having a new little brother or sister being helpers, teaching new things,
reveling in all the firsts.’’
At night in bed: ‘’She lives in
a time where women can choose. She
doesn’t have to blindly accept whatever card life throws her.’’
‘’She considered all her options;
she feels too often people try to
control every aspect of their lives.
That’s not life, that’s a spreadsheet.
The bumps in the road are there to
teach things - about life, about adversity, about herself.’’
‘’But she said she doesn’t want
this.’’
‘’Well, it’s not always about
getting what you want. She wants
chocolate all the time. Wait, that’s a
bad example.’’
‘’But she said she was just
starting to get her life back.’’
‘’It’s true that the timing isn’t
convenient. But have you noticed
that things have a way of working
out pretty terrific, when given the
chance?’’
‘’Wait, does this mean she’s having a baby?’’
‘’She’s decided; they’re having a
baby.’’
‘’I still can’t go to sleep.’’
‘’Maybe it’s because you consume
too much caffeine.’’
‘’Maybe. Or maybe it’s because
I can’t turn off my brain. How is
it that he can be lying next to her
snoring sixty seconds after his head
hits the pillow? She’s been lying
here for more than an hour.’’
‘’She’s gonna have to get up to
pee soon anyway, so she may as well
get used to it.’’
‘’Hey, what were all those girls’
names we had picked out? Do you remember?’’
‘’Oh, the girl names were a
piece of cake! We found lots of names
that we loved. It was the boys’ names
that were tough . . . they had to
sound masculine, but not too macho. ‘’
‘’Hmmm, I wonder where she put
that name book.’’
Shut up! I scolded them. I’m
trying to fall asleep. Maybe I’ll look
for the book tomorrow.
s
d
e
M
w
e
N
New meds, can’t sit still
Antsy feet, ok though
I get good sleep
Gotta’ keep moving
It’s in my blood
Goddamn, but my head feels good
Twisted thoughts, all gone
All done, now what fun?
What a sword the world yields
Chopping, cutting, slicing
Racing around - fucking twirling
Like a tweakin’, geekin’ freak
Money comes, rent comes
Out it goes - in stress comes
Plus some more, whatever it is
It’s a seizure
It was a childhood feeling, you know?
When I was playing retard, you kicked me
A big ball of foil, a life’s worth of Reynolds
Rolling through the halls, all out of control
Wack, no meaning
Sweating like a fish - numb, blind, sick
Somehow more thankful
The kidnapped - in love with the captor
Scott MacTaggart
Photo by Lance E. Hanson
I Taught John Wayne How to Shoot
13
e
h
T Minotaur Duane
Tonja Robins
ble,
friend’s Formica ta
rl
gi
s
hi
at
ts
si
He
grease,
smells of motorcycle
motocross boots
ue
bl
d
an
k
ac
bl
s
hi
hen door,
slumped by the kitc
s custom helmet.
hi
ng
li
ad
cr
p
la
s
hi
s a long-necked
ip
gr
nd
ha
ft
le
s
Hi
little girl bones
of
le
pi
a
d
an
d,
Bu
his nightmares.
of
n
pe
e
th
in
ts
ro
He knows this
girlfriend’s da
ughter
carries a blad
e,
and once when
he’d shoved her
mother
she jumped on
his back, whisp
ering
she’d take that
edge across hi
s throat
with a slide o
f her arm
as if playing
a cello.
But he’ll be sl
ain by some fa
ther,
he guesses, or
some young man
seeking fame.
Red threads ha
ng
from his T-shi
rt, the seams u
nraveling.
14
He thinks o
f his mothe
r, a loud Li
thuanian
more loving
of her ambe
r than him,
her tiny wr
ists poking
through lac
e sleeves.
She kept hi
m from comp
any, raised
him
in a maze of
kitchen-bat
h-bedroom
because the
gods left a
fissure
in the black
top of his m
his unvoice
outh,
d anger sti
ll inflamin
g his brain
.
His horns g
rew early,
he owned a
cue stick by
10.
At least she
knew how to
name him.
er swig,
He takes anoth
othpick
bumping the to
is dentures.
h
n
e
e
tw
e
b
d
e
p
clam
ll of scars.
i
r
th
e
th
s
r
e
d
He pon
’ll put aside
e
h
y
a
d
e
m
so
e
b
May
or a BMW,
his Kawasaki f
for his Bud.
s
l
u
o
’D
O
te
tu
i
subst
it for death
a
w
l
’l
e
h
r
e
v
e
r
But fo
r or brother
e
th
a
f
d
e
m
r
a
t
a
by revenge, th
a beast’s
who will find
y to navigate
a
w
e
m
so
,
r
te
n
unsifted ce
rinth of ribs.
y
b
a
l
y
r
o
v
i
e
th
Lost in Time
Andrea Hanson
A Fossil encrusted with diamonds
Bound gently in sterling silver
Snapping its fingers into place
Though not very old, its face has
scratches
and is starting to show some age
Arms move freely, twirling above
roses which lay on an opaque bed
A hand keeps rhythm
with a Japanese drum
Moving in circles, dancing
to remind that time
Is slipping away
Photo by Kayla Dotson
‘Fading Memories’
15
y
r
a
u
t
c
an
S
16
In the day-to-day hustle of
life, we are tossed around in a world
of concrete, glass, and steel. Family, school, work, cable, Facebook,
artificial environments, and online networks restlessly bash into
us from all directions. Where do
you go to find quiet from the clamor? How do you escape? Do you
have your own happy place? I have
found mine. Three acres of beautiful country land, right here inside the city. Mentally bruised and
battered, I bump and bounce my way
down our street, seeing the clusters
of branches shielding my home. An
array of gossamer emeralds, their
line broken only by the rusty windmill. The grating thumping of each
slow rotation has been chained into
silence today, despite the constant
wind. I am eager to reach my little
patch of paradise.
The boundaries to my kingdom
are clear against the red and orange
sky, streaked with all of its fiery
glory. Trees define my yard; each
has a personality completely its own.
My home is placed in the back of my
yard. Several acres of grass and
classic hardwood trees separate me
from the gravel road. I am a peninsula among fields. This summer, the
fields bordering us will ripple
LeeA
nn M
acTa
ggar
t
and sway with golden stalks of corn.
Until harvest, I will have a natural
privacy fence to block this all from
prying eyes.
Guarding the sliver entrance
to my driveway - there squats a giant fat fir. Waiting, like a dark,
monstrous toad, grossly misshapen
with lumps and randomly spotted with
warts. I see him from the cul-desac island at the end of my driveway,
and he seems ready to challenge intruders. I imagine a slimy, serpentine tongue wrapping around a car,
slurping it in, and swallowing with
a sickening gulp. I am glad that he
is mine!
A fantastic relic of the midwestern forest - darting under the
thick needles, my daughter found a
matted, gray tuft of rabbit fur. The
hardy country rabbits have built a
nest here in the dead and discarded
branches hollowed against the roots.
For the small fuzzy animals, this is
a natural haven from the unpredictable weather and worse. We humans
spend much time seeking shelter from
the wind too. Yet, even in the comfort of our home, we can sometimes
hear the wind tearing at the walls
and tapping at the bedroom window
with wayward tree limbs. It reminds
us that whatever will not bend,
eventually will break. Militias of
giant pines in a row, gallantly attempt to defend the west side of the
yard, where the wind can strike the
hardest. Tall and ram-rod straight,
these pines reach their long branches for the endless sky. All the
while, they form a fifty-foot border between the world and my fragile
family. The tiny needles rustle, and
all is washed with the golden-green
glow of their filtered light. Unseen birds chirp and cheep in a symphony of chaos; their tone and treble
changes each moment. Nests sparkle
on branches like long-forgotten,
tattered Christmas ornaments. How
many lives thrive on this bit of
land?
Something about this warm
evening fills me with such humility. How seemingly insignificant are my worries and fears, my
hopes and dreams. All the baggage
I carry seems to fade away in the
light of these ancient lives. The
gnarled twists and knots of my wooden friends reproach my audacity and
remind me that they were here for
many years before my parents and my
grandparents. If left to their own
devices, they will be dancing with
the wind, long after I breathe my
last breath and my body is nothing
more than worm food.
I feel truly grateful to have
this heaven on earth. I have lived
in trailer parks with no more than
a three-foot strip for yard. There
were pink flamingos and stray cats
roaming in packs. I found a tree,
hidden behind the repair shed. I
have lived in apartments built like
prisons. Tiny cells, stacked on top
of each other, built into compound
brick buildings. There are times
where there is nowhere near to go,
nowhere away. I know that the unspoiled beauty surrounding my home
is not so common anymore. How many
trees are in the average yard? How
many on the average block?
We have 33 magnificent trees
in my yard, varying from apples to
pears to pines. We have trees to
pick, trees that bloom, and trees to
climb. To me this is the greatest joy
of rural Iowa. Seeds explode to life
in our soil. The wild can be found
in any creek, or in any field. While
I mourn the loss of the true wilderness that was once here, I worry even
more about the paved places invading. Yet, my sanctuary is safe for
now, and now is all we ever have.
Photo by Amanda Dake
New Hope
17
I’m going to plant.
When I’m done there will be a harvest after this-
I Will
With what I could do I will write this book
like an inky plume to itself goes back and forth on a page,
so do my chlorophyll hands get pepper smears on receipts.
I hold remotes like I squeeze nectar from peaches in decline
the day after they are the ripest
on these days your bright face over a pile on the bed’s the sun.
The sun itself: it dries my crops and I long for the rainy days;
when those come the sunny days are needed to pull out that moisture,
though I don’t only love you when you’re upset…
I’m going to in chasms,
likening what I do to irrigation tunnels,
I’ll explain it again and again, oh, though
I meant to yell at you “fruits need sleep! vegetables need sleep!’’
I was rational, I was expository, I was divisiveshould have been gentle. Should have climbed
those hills under your eyes,
18
oft-watery consternation
come on,
I can’t even take them.
Russell Jaffe
The Iris
A purple Iris such a simple thing
Beautiful, yes, but nothing extraordinary
How greatly that idea has changed
A purple Iris, magnificent, gorgeous, life
Joy, sorrow, and hope all mixed together in this flower by the road
In one day this flower went from nothing to all we had left.
Kayla Dotson
19
er
t
n
u
H
y
t
n
Bou
David
Hulm
Lust breaks me up, I’m bubbles in her cola.
I’m the lipstick on her glass, and I tap on her tongue like rain on thirsty seed.
Lust removes me from my skin, I enjoy myself inside and out.
Lust makes me forget yesterday’s white hot sunset shared with no one.
Lust shows me what life is like without it.
Lust is the bounty I collect on my enemies.
20
Skin Tones
Don Arenz
Caressed by soap and sun and needle
This magic organ
Holder of brain and heart and gut, and an
Ocean of water
and space
Becomes a continent of color
With passageways of pores
Breathing love and light
World in
World out
Photo by Lance E. Hanson
This May not Float Far...
21
LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ,
aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roXaNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt,
schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn, briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel,
maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers, aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsi
brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh schMinkey, amBer shePparD, ste
chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew,
aNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler, brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes m
briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela co
STude
LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ,
aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roXaNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt,
schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn, briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel,
maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers, aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsi
brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh schMinkey, amBer shePparD, ste
chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew,
aNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler, brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes
braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers,
petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler, brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh
, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH,
ica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roXaNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler,
eNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn, briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs,
, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers, aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roXmyerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn,
oNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gEr
ent Body Ink
braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers,
petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler, brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh
, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH,
ica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roXaNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler,
eNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn, briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs,
, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers, aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roXmyerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUgh
24
k
n
I
y
t
i
n
Commu
We turn right at the looming garage-like building. I see the familiar
gargoyle acting as protector of the building and rolling cemetery as its backyard.
Walking up the ramp to the dark blue
metal building, the glass door is opened.
There it is. A skin-crawling buzz known
to make my heart skip a beat. The sterile
hospital-like smell invades and makes its
presence known. As my eyes adjust to the
dim room, a quick glance to my left shows
a long-haired brunette. Several visible
piercings and completely covered in tattoos. Still holding the tattoo gun, she
gives a quick wave hello with her black
latex gloved hand. ‘’Hey girls, thanks for
coming in, you the one’s that called?’’ she
asks over the monotone buzz.
As the brunette begins to inquire
about our presence inside the shop, my
mind starts to wander. I look around
the room; a dark-haired man, black baseball cap turned backwards, is bent over
a woman’s back. Amongst the buzzing from
the tattoo gun, I listen to this woman explain how she originally got the cross on
her back; it wasn’t done the way she wanted. She had been saving up for a coverup. One of the more enjoyable parts of a
tattoo shop is being able to see everyone’s
ink and learning a little about their
life. I start to roam. I make my way
closer to the young girl and her baseball
cap wearing tattoo artist. I walk across
Misty Purifoy
the carpet and lean over the counter.
From shoulder blade to shoulder blade,
there’s a large cross with angel wings. I
try to continue eavesdropping but my mind
is swiftly brought back to reality. I am
here for a reason.
I look over my shoulder towards
my friend Nichol, who also came in for
a tattoo. Nichol and the brunette are
deep in conversation, mostly with their
hands. Gestures measuring size. Pointing out certain parts of the body as possible placement. Even across the room I
understand it all. My stomach is filled
with human sized butterflies as I question
myself. Should I be getting this done? I
start to sweat. I’ve heard the foot is a
terrible place, so what am I doing?
I breathe in deep and exhale, ‘’I am
ready for a tattoo!’’ The brunette, Megan,
explains the 75 dollar minimum charge.
She needs to know what we’re getting tattooed and where we want it done. After
she receives the details she can give us a
price. I already had decided on my right
foot. My friend decides on her right
thigh. Ouch. Normally the fun in going
with a friend is watching the different
methods used in creating different looks.
Today, that’s not the case. Nichol and I
decided 2 weeks earlier that we should get
the exact same thing tattooed, the Three
Days Grace symbol.
Going back to the day the decision
was made. No persuasion needed, the choice
seemed to be made for us. Being two women
with busy lives, we usually reconnect and
catch up through text or phone calls once
a week. During the usual mundane catching up, we bring our conversation around
to tattoos. We both hadn’t had one in a
while and I had been thinking about one
I might get since our last road trip the
month before. ‘’I got to ask you something’’, Nichol blurts out. ‘’Would you ever
get the Three Days Grace symbol tattooed?’’
Nervousness kicks in, is she going to
think I’m insane because I indeed HAD been
thinking of it? My friend will understand me, she always has. So I laugh and
say, ‘’I want it behind the left ear, and I
want it in black. I’ve been thinking about
this since we left St. Paul’’. Holding my
breath I wait for the response. ‘’I think
I want mine on my leg, I’m not sure yet.
When do you want to go do this?’’ she spits
out. Being weary to begin with I argue,
25
‘’Are you serious? We can’t do that! It’s the
dumbest thing we could ever do! Or the
smartest, should we do this?’’ After a long
drawn out debate weighing the pro’s and
con’s of getting our favorite band’s symbol tattooed, the verdict was clear. This
brings me to the sickening buzz.
‘’We can shade it in. We can add
color. Obviously the choice is all yours’’,
the brunette proclaims. Having decided
on black I was just ready to get this over
with. Nichol decides on red and black.
She saw a shading of red into black in
one of Megan’s books. I was thankful my
friend was on top of things. Usually you
want to take a look through your artist’s book. It’s going to show you photos of
tattoos they’ve done. You are able to see
their methods. Gauge them as an artist.
Most importantly, you get to see if this
person is a match for you. Again, I feel
like my friend might have saved me from
making a huge mistake. The photo of the
shading got me very excited. ‘’You blend
these perfectly; can you do more than two
colors?’’ With a yes response I immediately decide on my colors; Pink, Purple, and
Black; the colors of the latest Three Days
Grace album, Life Starts Now.
My friend decides to go first and
applies her stencil. The stencil is pretty
important when you’re getting a tattoo.
The stencil is placed on the part of the
body where you are getting tattooed.
Once the stencil’s applied you’re getting
the clearest picture of what your tattoo
26
will look like without actually getting
it inked. While Nichol looks at her leg
in the mirror, Megan begins to adjust
the chair. The chair folds down flat
and makes a comfortable table. Nichol,
satisfied with the placement, lies on the
table. Nichol’s leg is cleaned off and
Megan is ready to tattoo. As my friend
lays semi helpless on the table Megan
asks the million dollar question, ‘’Why
are you girls getting the Three Days
Grace symbol tattooed?’’ The question
always makes me and my friend glance at
each other cautiously. Most people don’t
understand. Even after explanation,
most are put off or think we’re a joke.
I go through my memory bank and
my heart begins to beat a little faster,
‘’to be honest, because of this band and
the people that work for them. We’ve
been able to experience some of the most
amazing things. We’ve met some of the
most amazing people and built lifetime friendships, in a nutshell’’. With
a smile the tattooing brunette says ‘’go
on…’’ I consider this an open invitation
to spill all the details of the rollercoaster ride I and my friend had been
on the last 4 months. By the time I’m
finished telling our epic tale to Megan,
she’s pretty excited. She understands
she’s another piece to our puzzle. As
our conversation lulls, she lets us know
she’s finished with Nichol. She does the
final wipe down of Nichol’s tattoo. Then
carefully applies a bandage. Masking
tape is used to hold the bandage down
to the skin. With Nichol off the table
Megan sterilizes everything. After everything is sterilized, there needs to
be a 20 minute wait until someone else
can use the area. So with 20 minutes to
spare, Megan, Nichol and I decide to go
outside for a cigarette.
While outside Megan and I have a
discussion on the Sugar Skull. Something I had wanted to get tattooed for
a while. Megan has three on different places on her body. While examining them and her discussing the different variations she had done, Nichol goes
up into the cemetery. The owner of the
tattoo shop had recently gotten into a
motorcycle accident. He was laid to rest
inside the hilly cemetery overlooking his shop. If you were someone lucky
enough to know Hank, you want to stop by
and say hello. Or those that have just
heard of the man also like to stop and
show respects. After Nichol gets back
the subject of Hank comes up and Megan
tells us that once a year, co-workers
from the tattoo shop, friends, and family go for a motorcycle ride in memory of
him. Never having been tattooed by him,
and never having been that close with
him, I feel bittersweet. I can understand that the world lost a great man,
and a great artist. I’ve seen a lot of
his work all over Cedar Rapids. After a
quiet moment in the conversation, Megan
decides to go back in and get everything
ready for my turn. I throw my cigarette
on the ground and step on it. I walk
up the ramp towards the gargoyle and
through the glass door.
My heart dropping through my
stomach, I sit on the chair. A red high
heel brought in by me sits next to me
on the long tattoo chair. I slip in on
and with an orange marker, Megan draws
lines on top of my foot to get the perfect placement. She takes the stencil
and places it on my foot. I ask Nichol
what she thinks. With a thumbs up, it
is time for sterilization. Megan prepares for my tattoo. Pink, Purple and
Black inks are placed on the counter.
Reaching into the bottom drawer of the
counter, she grabs a fresh needle. Her
cream colored hands now covered by the
black latex, this means it’s time to proceed. ‘’Don’t forget to breath,’’ she says
as she clicks the machine on. BUZZ. My
heart drops through my stomach. BUZZ.
The lump in my throat triples in size.
Finally it’s happening. She brings the
gun down onto my foot.
Sending waves of pain through
my body, the tattoo process begins. Being my sixth tattoo I felt like I was
greatly prepared for what was in store.
I was wrong. The foot is an extremely
painful area to get tattooed. I can attest to that. Every inch that she covers feels like a razor blade slice. Only
when the tattooist wipes the blood and
excess ink away with a cool towel do you
feel any sort of relief from the pain.
20-30 minutes of pure pain pass by. The
final product is ready to be seen. I
take a look at the symbol that’s going to
rest on my foot forever. I couldn’t be
more excited with the outcome.
Even though Megan didn’t have
the same tattoo that my friend and I
now had, or even the same story as ours,
she understood everything. Working in
tattoo shops has given her the ability
to cover a lot of her body. Some she’s
given herself, some her co-workers have
done for her. The meanings seem endless. Her left hand has a black Labrador on it, the love of her life. A portrait of her grandmother sits on her
neck for the world to see. As she goes
on about her tattoos and what they represent, I smile at my friend. The feeling of being connected to someone in
this way is unlike anything I’ve ever
felt in my life. She contributed to a
piece of art that will be on my body
forever. She will be directly tied to my
tattoo until my time is up. And above
all that she was kind enough to let us
into her life a little. This, for me, is
what tattooing is all about, an amazing
way to express yourself without words.
It’s just out there on your body for everyone to see, or not see if you choose.
Drawing by B.C. Vurciaga
Anarchy Butterfly
Pencil
27
Friend/Object Comparison
Trip Anderson
It never goes out of style, neither does he
Unlike the sweet sound that sings, he is nothing but a headache,
History was cut; he inks his story
Unlike the blackness that has been collected and calming
With him I find regret follows in suit
Forgetful world misplaced the circled blackness but it has no end.
A decade past he has been on my nerves and still called friend.
Photo by Rose Haley
Third Edition
28
Ode to C.O. Jackson
You strut down the unit,
Sick grin on your face.
With a nightstick tappin’ your palm,
And a pocket fulla mace.
I see you while you’re lurking,
You play a sadistic game.
He loves to hand out beat downs.
Action Jackson is your name.
You thrive on reputation,
Love your name brings fear.
I hear your boots a squeakin’.
Alarm that you are near.
But did you know
The trap set for you here,
When Geno’s sock of chilly
Rocked you right upside your ear.
Look at ‘em now he ain’t so proud,
Call him Jack-Ass of the year.
Cuz now when he come
He be sucking his thumb,
Action Jackson lives life full of fear.
Dio de los Muertos
Pencil
Poetry and Drawing
B.C. Vurciaga
29
Two Way Fight
It was back in the freshman days
of my life. You hope to god you make
good friends and you don’t come off
as ‘’scrawny’’ to anyone else, in fear
of becoming an outcast to others. You
have to be intimidating, but fit in
at the same time. What you wear has
to be acceptable for the clique you
chose, and your style must represent your attitude. Most importantly,
you have to back anything you claim
to do, and there’s no backing out. I
came to these realizations one night,
as my faithful friend and I walked
through the mall.
It was later in the day, and
there weren’t too many people around.
The Paddock Mall was quiet for the
most part, with the exception of us.
Nick and I came along with my sister
and her friends to browse. We weren’t
looking for anything really, but it
was something to do. We walked the
calming hallways, separated from my
sister’s group. Nick was wearing his
purple colored tight jeans, which
most people would find completely weird. He wasn’t afraid to stand
out, largely because he didn’t care
what other people thought of him. He
couldn’t care less. He isn’t the kind
of person you want to mess with anyway, given he boxes, wrestles, and
even gets involved in a fist fight
every now and then. At our school, no
30
David Richmond
one screws with Nick.
I wasn’t up to his level; I didn’t
know how to fight at all. I was
lanky, but my skinny effect was taken away by my jacket I wore around
everywhere. I had no experience in
actual fighting ever before. When
I was by myself at the mall, I had to
act shy, avoiding the other cliques.
If they wanted to screw with me, they
could and there would be nothing I
could do to stop them. Being with
Nick was fun because it didn’t matter if I was skinny or not. We could
do what we wanted and have fun doing
it!
We tore through some clothing stores to see if there was anything good, which there wasn’t. Some
shirts were between thirty and fifty
dollars. Others were cheaper, but
looked like crap. We grew tired of
the repetitive searching and failing, so we went to a game store instead. We were passing time really.
Soon, we would meet up with my sister
on the other side of the mall at a
shoe store, but not before the confrontation.
As Nick and I made a heading
for my sister, we walked past another clique. We fell under more
of the ‘’Skater’’ style, whereas these
four guys were more of the ‘’Gangster’’ style. There was one black guy
and three white guys, all wearing
similar clothing such as hats with
stickers on them, shorts that hung
down to their ankles, and some even
had chain necklaces, their ‘’bling’’.
They were walking around with one
leg stiff, and had, ‘’I’m a punk’’ written all over their faces. They
looked cocky, arrogant, and were
asking for trouble. We walked past
them, seemingly unaffected. I was
used to this, as no one really messed
with us most of the time. That all
changed, because when they walked by,
one of them whispered, ‘’Fag.’’
Nick heard, knowing automatically that they were talking about
his purple pants. We turned around,
and Nick was ready for anything,
unlike me.
Nick talked back, ‘’What did you
say?’’ They turned around as well, not
intimidated by us at all.
Their ‘’leader’’, as you might call
him, came back at us and said, ‘’I
didn’t say anything. What, ‘chu got
a problem or somethin’?’’ They would
not confess that they said anything
about Nick.
Nick stood his ground, ‘’I heard
one of you call me a fag.’’’
Their blond gel-haired
head of the group said, ‘’What, you
want to fight?’’ They began getting excited, echoing what he said in
synonyms. His posse stood behind his
back, as I stood behind Nick’s. Nick
was ready to fight. He wasn’t upset
or anything, for he was well focused.
Their main guy said, ‘’Let’s go
outside and settle this.’’
Nick asked me, ‘’Do we have time?’’
I really hadn’t been in this situation before, and felt rather nervous.
However, I didn’t show any weakness
to them. I knew my sister was expecting us.
I told them, ‘’We’re going to meet
up with someone, then we’ll go outside.’’ They began making fun of us,
believing that they had won. They
were doubtful that we would show up
outside. They headed towards the
door, clamoring like the punks they
were. Meanwhile, Nick and I went to
the shoe store where my sister was.
Truthfully, I was kind of glad
we were away from them, and I really didn’t care if we ever saw them
again. Nick, on the other hand, was
still eager to go at them. We found
Cherise, my sister, at the Finish Line shoe store as planned. We
filled her in what happened moments
ago, not making too big of a deal out
of it. We assumed they weren’t going
to do anything anyway, and that it
was over. When we looked out of the
store and around the corner, there
he was. The blond kid was knocking on the glass door, gesturing for
us to come out with a smirk on his
face. It was decided. Nick was going to fight someone, so I told my
sister we would be right back. I
stood alongside Nick as we made our
way towards them. I began planning
to myself what to do depending on
what happens. I didn’t want to fight
over something small like this, but
if they were to do something unfair
like double-team Nick, then I would
act. At this point I didn’t know what
I would do. I just knew I would do
something.
We walked outside, greeted by
the chilly night sky. It was all set
up, just their four and us two. They
stood adjacent to each-other, a couple of them taller than me. It wasn’t
intimidating any more than it was
awkward. I say this because these
guys acted like gangsters. Gangsters fight dirty, and don’t really
care about talking when it comes to
fighting.
The blond one told us, ‘’So you
two really wanna fight us?’’
Nick clarified, ‘’No, just me and
you, one on one. He doesn’t fight.’’
I was relieved Nick wasn’t forcing
me into anything I didn’t want to
do. They were shaken by Nick. They
stuck together and wanted to fight
together. They made their ‘’Pssht’’
noises and mocked the idea of one on
one. They weren’t sure what to do.
Something very satisfying happened. Something that made me feel
a whole lot better at that point in
time. As they were talking to each
other, I overheard what the black
guy said to the blond guy.
He whispered to him, ‘’We can’t
keep backing out of fights. We really need to do it sometime.’’ He was
hushed by the blond guy, because he
knew what I was hearing. I realized
what these guys were. They didn’t
have anything! They were just wisemouthed punks who have never been
in a single fight in any of their
lives. Now they were against the
wall. It didn’t matter that there
were two more of them than us, because knowing these guys were pathetic meant I could beat the crap
out of them too if they did decide to
fight. At the time, I kind of figured I had to start somewhere, why
not do it now? I was hyped up and
ready to win my very first fight if
need be.
The blond guy hesitated some
more, talking with his friends. You
could tell they were nervous. They
were stiff, not smiling any more, and
overcompensating by talking more
crap to us with curse words and such.
I didn’t care, because I was ready for
anything. I began picking out some
31
of their flaws to myself, how the
blond guy had braces, how the other
two guys weren’t saying anything
directly to us, and how ridiculously
they were dressed. Even though I was
in the moment, I didn’t do anything
to agitate them. In fact, both Nick
and I never said or did anything
that made fun of them. We were
both fair to them, and that gave me
enough reason for me to fight.
The blond guy finally decided, ‘’All right… let’s go over here.
That way no one will see us.’’ So we
followed right behind them, walking at a slow pace. We couldn’t tell
what they were doing, but they made
the situation really awkward. We
thought we were being led to the
back of the building, but we didn’t
turn the corner. Instead, they kept
going through the parking lot. We
kept following, but they picked up
their pace, freaking out essentially.
They didn’t know what to do, or where
they were going.
Out of nowhere, they told us to
go away, and asked us, ‘’Why are you
still following us?’’ They got away,
and we didn’t chase them or anything.
Seeing as they were being weird and
didn’t want to fight us anymore, we
let them go.
We began walking back to the
mall and talked about what just happened.
32
Nick said to me, ‘’Wow, what a
bunch of pussies. They didn’t do
anything.’’
I told him, ‘’Yeah, I kinda figured they would.’’
Nick asked, ‘’Why’s that?’’ I told
him what I had overheard the black
guy telling the blond guy earlier.
Nick was surprised, ‘’Really, he
said that?’’ Nick was going to fight
them regardless, even if they were
experienced or not, so he found it
funny that they actually said that.
We laughed about the whole thing as
we went inside.
We won, and they lost! We reported back to Cherise and friends
and filled them in on what happened.
We laughed about it some more, then
left the mall to finish up the day at
a nearby gaming place called, ‘’Easy
Street.’’ I felt better, experiencing what it’s like to almost get into
a fight. I knew now that I could
fight the next time if I wanted to.
I wouldn’t be discouraged at all,
because I had experienced the rush
and how to ignore it. By doing so, I
wouldn’t get nervous anymore.
After everything that happened,
the really funny thing was yet to
come. You see, when we were at Easy
Street, we spotted the four again!
This time, they were different. The
blond one kept his mouth shut and
avoided us, and one of the other
three guys came to us like a diplomat. Then he apologized to us. Nick
and I had nothing to say really. The
apology added to the comedy of the
moment, though. These guys who were
supposed to be big and tough turned
out to actually be the opposite. I
changed as well. I had both succeeded over my enemies and my own courage. I had won the two way fight.
Mouthwash
Whiskey to wash my mouth
And clean my head.
The less I speak the more
My words weaken
And soon I will be
The equivalent of a deadman
And tell no secrets.
Therefore you may stow yours away
Safely in my grave.
Never could I have guessed my fate.
Rose Haley
Painting by Lindey Anderson
Green Love
Mixed Media
33
Reminiscing, I said Dubuque was surprisingly
beautiful
Sometimes on our better days in Dubuque we’d
look up to the tall hills chiseled to points the road can pass
and we’d watch for minutes at a time the cars
on lazy days and hope for a minute they’d be surprised around the bend,
the spot the road would twist past the factories sitting
like any heap of broken refrigerators and irreparable vacuums.
You said the hills were like a rhino’s horn, wild, but
they were like piles of beer cans enshrined with smooth,
pointed mountains
They lead littered to the train yards, only
eking out the slightest sound when you kicked them and
pulled yourself from the gravel to the rusted platform of a ruddy brown freighter.
The train cars were empty, forgive me
we ate strawberries and sang songs quietly
The stony gray of the hills make Dubuque today’s isthmus,
aluminum roofs shine intermittently and squeeze like a bottleneck
into what’s Iowa, white houses and bruise gray barns like lofted bubbles for miles
Hills surrounding Dubuque in lifelong occupation
slam closed the sun and we kicked those white, hot pebbles aside
On quiet days we went to gas station diners and poked at the runny
fluid in the center of the eggs, we’d twirl forks and look at the rowboats
frozen in place
The oceans are all drying up and wouldn’t you know it
you can’t tell out here, out here where
there’s only two types, those
embroiled in struggles with the land
and the ones who know they’re off to it
Russell Jaffe
Photo by Michael Winkowski
Abandoned by the Wayside
34
Ninth Cycle
Michael Leonard
I don’t believe she ever told me
her name, but I will never forget when
she pointed her thumb inward against
her chest and mouthed, “I’m dying.’’ But
wasn’t she more specific than that? “I
only have until 9.’’ It hit me hard. If
I hadn’t been sitting, I would have been
floored.
“How can you be so sure?’’ I asked,
looking up at her. I received no direct
reply. Instead, all I got was an uncertain smile and a shrug.
I guess I didn’t get a very good
look at her before, did I? Or maybe
I just wasn’t paying attention to the
cracks in her surface. She was certainly frail, certainly pale, certainly
… sickly. Her hair, the lightest possible shade of brunette, resembled frayed
and worn silk draped over her shoulders. She never paid it any mind.
Although we had met her in a park
earlier that day, my cousin and I, I
couldn’t shake this feeling that I had
known her long ago. Which is a good
explanation for why I accepted her invitation to come over to spend more time
with her at her uncle’s house. There
were three of them, and I didn’t question it. The two I had seen were far too
burly, far too intimidating, far too…
in control. Leave it up to my cousin
though. He was suspicious from the
start. That didn’t stop him from tagging
along, or even to go so far as to wander
the halls of the rather cramped house.
It was designed in order to ensure no
one could ever honestly call it a home.
She was staring at me like she expected me to say something. I’m not sure
if it had struck her how difficult it
is to follow up on “I’m dying.’’ I looked
down to my watch. 8:53. I wanted to ask
what her phone number was, probably
should have asked her about her name,
but that all seemed relatively irrelevant. She didn’t seem too bothered over
the fact that she had less than ten minutes left, just kept that same nervous
smile on her lips. I finally caved in.
“How long have you been here?’’
“Long enough,’’ she replied, settling
down on a blue plastic chair she probably used to be able to call her back
when she was younger. Her voice was as
delicate as paper on the wind. “Long
enough to call it home.’’
There was movement down the hall,
in the kitchen, where I knew my cousin
wasn’t.
“Just my uncles,’’ she reassured me.
The way she said ‘uncles’ didn’t settle
right, as if it took everything in her
power to force it out. I was beginning
to question, as my watch changed to 8:56.
“Will they be okay with us being
here?’’
She lowered her eyes to the ground,
separating us, mumbling, “I… don’t know.’’
“How do you not know?’’ My tone had
changed more quickly than the course of
a car swerving to avoid a brick wall.
When I was met with silence, I repeated,
“How do you not know?’’
Her eyes darted back up to meet
with mine. She was beginning to get
emotional, I could tell it as her voice
weakened and her shoulders slumped forward. “I have… lived in this house my
whole life….’’ She began to try and stand
but the arms she was using to lift herself up gave out from under her, “I have
never had anyone over. That… that that’s why I don’t know.’’
My cousin rounded the corner from
another hall, paying little attention
to us. 8:58. All he did was walk over to
the wall parallel to us and sat down on
the cold floor.
“Just wanted to see what it was
like is all,’’ she buried her face in her
palms. “Just wanted to be able to say -“
A knock on the wall behind me
caused us both to jolt up, if only to
crash back down. It was one of her
uncles, the one I hadn’t seen before. I
had an even more difficult time believing it now, this was the one that nailed
the suspecting coffin shut. He was a
behemoth, he was a man based off of fear
(seeing as though he got a good chuckle
out of scaring us), and he was as darkskinned as a man can be. Sure, he could
have married into the family, but that
flimsy idea soon slipped my mind when
the other two uncles came around from
the kitchen and grabbed her by either
arm.
I’m not quite certain why my reaction was to remain still, silent, complacent, but it was slightly justified when
I looked over to see my cousin doing the
same, and even more so as she made no
more than a groan when they dragged
35
her off to the kitchen. Perhaps it was
the simple fact that she knew and I knew
that closure is a rarity in this day
and age. When I finally turned around
and leaned over to see down the hall, I
got to watch one of the uncles shut the
door. It was then that I knew I would
never get to ask her what her name was.
My watch beeps.
It is 6 p.m. and I am at the park.
My cousin and I are rising and falling on a pair of swings; one of us forward and one of us back. A young woman
approaches us, walks directly into the
path of my swing, and forces me to come
to a screeching halt. I do not look
at her, but into her, through her pale
green eyes, and I want to ask her what
her name is, but refrain. My cousin
refuses to stop swinging. He is in his
own world, and I am in mine. We talk, we
laugh, it feels safe here. Here in this
park where everything is the lightest shade of orange. Where everything
around us is dying but still remains
beautiful because we know that this time
next year it’ll all be reborn. She asks
if we’d like to come over, and I agree
for the both of us. There was something
about her that made everything seem so
safe, so secure. Something I can’t quite
put my finger on. There is a shout from
afar.
A shout that brought me back to
reality, where I sit in a house that
can never be considered a home and my
watch alerted me that it had reached
the turn of the hour. At first, I didn’t
notice my cousin across the room. I am
only focused on the closed kitchen door
where I believe the awakening holler
36
came from. There is nothing more than
murmurs of men speaking. I had absolutely no clue what they were talking
about, and I still don’t, but I did know
I was wrong. Not just in guessing where
the shout came from, but also about a
lot of things that night. Luckily for
me, most of those wrongs stopped mattering when I shifted back, looking to my
cousin who was flailing and squirming
against the tile floor as a sudden gray
decay washed over his skin. For the
oddest of reasons, this is what compelled
me to finally move, leaping forth to try
and aid him. But on further inspection
I couldn’t bring myself to even touch
him out of fear of it spreading to me.
It bubbled and popped, it was under his
skin. It had no true point of origin, as
if it was coming from within instead of
from the surroundings.
The door to the kitchen broke from
its hinges as the three uncles stomped
from behind it. What surprise their
expressions shared as they found me,
stooped over my cousin, without a hint
of disease pumping through my veins.
Their surprise must have come from the
fact that they themselves had been afflicted, perhaps even infected, with this
most dire of problems.
“You!’’ the one in the middle called
out, a thick black slug pouring out from
between his lips.
It wasn’t happening, was it? It
had to have been a dream. Of course,
my luck, it wasn’t. I turned back to
my cousin, lying silent now and whispered a few parting words to him. Something along the lines of “I’m sorry, but
I think you’d forgive me.’’ There wasn’t
much time for sentiment, for the uncles
were charging fast. What was once the
magnificence of fall transitioning into
winter was becoming a dank, dark mess.
Everything was melting together; falling, pouring, collapsing. Closure is
a rarity. Perhaps that’s why it took
me by surprise, a firm palm slapping
across the face when I finally managed
to grab hold of what I believed was a
fragment of it. She was so indifferent to it all. She was so undecided as
time ticked away. Somewhere inside of
her, maybe right there for all to see or
buried deep within, she knew this would
happen. She knew some purge, some great
end would come when her life ceased at
9. Maybe she wanted somebody to tell.
Maybe she just wanted somebody to
save.
The Maquoketa Kid
Luke Shepherd
Attempting to cross through
Texaco I was upheld by a northbound train dragging timber and
coal. Dark grey smoke pouring into
the sky, the behemoth whistled news
of its simultaneous arrival and departure. One hundred and twentyseven graffiti-traced steel cars
flashed before my eyes. I was on the
highway formerly known as Route
66, two weeks deep into October but
the weather had yet to break in the
sunny southwest. Other than patches
of prairie grass submitting to the
swirling wind, the terrain was flatter than a playing card all the way
to Oklahoma City. I arrived at the
Ramada around dusk, kissed my mother and collapsed onto my twin bed.
Nothing brings family together quite
like a funeral, even more so than a
wedding. However, in lieu of your
presence, it is acceptable to send a
bouquet to both. My brother sat on
the adjacent bed, cleaning his Glock.
A week ago we had discussed over the
telephone our reason for being here
tonight, but now that we lay five
feet apart, we spoke not a word. I
rolled over to face the empty wall.
The next day, from the ringing hotel wake up to the long drive
back home, was without outward emo-
tion from me. So much so that it began to make me feel guilty. I raised
my arms in a powerful stretch that
spilled out over the shower curtain. When I was cleaned and shaved
and dressed, I followed my brother to
the breakfast bar downstairs. Many
of our relatives were also staying at the Ramada, and with them I
made stiff conversation while we
ate a complimentary morning meal
of bananas, wheat toast, and coffeeflavored water. We watched C-Span
and during commercial breaks they
asked me about my military life in
New Mexico. I used the expression
“grease monkey’’ twice and described
the High Plains as being “dull, dry,
and devoid of life’’ (the three D’s).
Finally we left, half of my family
squeezed into a rented white Corolla. The drive took fifteen minutes,
fourteen of which were silent.
I wasn’t allowed to cry during
the service, in my shiny dress shoes,
pleated pants, and blue suit coat
adorned with small rectangular ribbons. Every time I felt like crying,
I adjusted my necktie. Sometimes the
collar-which was way too tight!-and
sometimes my USAF insignia tie pin.
The “wings’’ of the pin would sloop
over and I was constantly checking
to make sure my uniform was in order. It isn’t stated in the Uniform
Code of Military Justice that an
airman is not allowed to cry during
a funeral. It’s one of those unwritten but ubiquitous rules, which are
more important than the official
ones. Holding in the waterworks was
hardest when the trumpet spat out
“TAPS’’ and the twenty-one gun salute
erupted in the courtyard. This concludes the military funeral. This
means Sergeant Martin’s ashes are
returning to the earth. What once
was him, the square-jawed broadshouldered mischievous-smiling
cousin of mine, now rests eternal.
It’s final. Standing at attention,
salute whipped out and held tight,
my aunt’s racking sobs of grief permeating the chapel walls, I stood
unflinching; a boulder. Just before the service, my aunt had sought
me out and wrapped her arms around
me. She said something about me being too young for this. I wanted to
tell her the same thing, but decided
it would sound foolish coming from
me. We stood there embracing and I
let her face burrow deeper into my
shoulder, allowing the soft fabric
of my suit to absorb her tears. ‘I’m
strong for you,’ I thought.
37
When the service was over,
I searched for a private place. I
wandered around the vestibule and
the foyer and throughout the halls
but all the doors were bolted. The
washroom was packed with loud, pubescent relatives I wasn’t aware of
ever having. Forced outside, I cornered the sidewalk around to the
courtyard. My younger sister was
there, sitting Indian-style next
to a spiraling limestone fountain.
She had little plastic flower barrettes pinning her hair up and her
cheeks were glistening. Still I kept
my hands tense at my side, and upon
leaning over discovered the fountain
was empty. Devoid of moisture, only
the iron and copper stains of wishing well coins remained, way down at
the bottom of everything.
“Hey,’’ I said. She bristled and
her back stiffened straight. Politely, she offered me a smile. I asked
if she was going to be ok. She nodded and repeated the question back
to me. Holding back, I said, “Sure.’’
Then I said, “There’s a lunch in the
banquet room. I saw miniature sandwiches and red potato salad.’’ My
younger sister got up and stuffed a
kerchief into her purse and together
we walked out of the courtyard. My
courage was a lioness and it gobbled
up her fears. ‘For you I am strong,’
I thought.
38
We sat on wobbly folding chairs
in the midst of our extended family,
nibbling at jello cake. There were
pictures of boy Jack, high school
Jack, Army Jack, husband Jack, everywhere. My brother shuffled over
and we talked about commemorative
tattoos we would someday get, but
nothing seemed adequate. I confess I
did not know how to honor my cousin.
“I like the motto the Army Special
Forces has. A couple of Jack’s buddies already got that tattoo,’’ said
my big brother, holding a sweaty cup
packed with ice and purple punch.
“De oppresso liber, to free the oppressed.’’ I’ve always loved Latin.
When you hear it spoken, it demands
your attention. “That’s powerful,’’ I
replied.
The loss we suffered made me
feel very impotent, but at the same
time filled me with a shocking sense
of pride. Growing up with my cousin, that rascal from Maquoketa, had
greatly enriched my life. How could
I be sad? How lucky I was to have
known him! Great memories abounded in my head, nostalgic moments of
snow forts and creek beds, freshly
cut grass stuck to our denim shorts,
looking out over ledges, learning, growing, living, being, having. I wished somebody would whisper
and tell me it’s ok to cry when your
friend dies, because then I could ex-
plain why it was also ok not to cry.
Slowly, effortlessly, my frustrations
diminished. I thought of John 15:13
and the Philippine Islands where
Jack was ambushed. I was free and
strong today and it was thanks to my
cousin, the hero. Toothpicks prying open my eyes, I drove home that
night, west by southwest, chasing and
grasping for the tail of the sun.
The Wor
kshop
Gentle laughter floated about
the three ladies sitting on a backyard patio. Warm wind blew softly
around them, making their pastel
gowns flutter like little wings.
Anne was the host and she was pouring tea for her cousin Marie.
Shulusine, a friend to both of them,
was daintily nibbling on a pastry
with sugared cheese filling. It was a
wonderful summer day and the three
of them were having a tea party.
‘’It’s been such a long time
since the three of us could spend
time together like this,’’ Marie said
with a smile.
‘’Ah, I apologize; I’ve been so
busy,’’ Shulusine expressed sadly.
‘’Oh, you mustn’t blame yourself;
we’ve all had hectic schedules lately,’’ Anne said warmly, as she poured
herself a cup of tea. ‘’I hope the setting is acceptable for you both?’’
‘’Cousin! How could your family’s
home be unacceptable? I have always
enjoyed visiting here, and you know
that I feel that the atmosphere is
pleasing.’’
‘’Yes, I know you think that….’’
Anne tilted her head to the side,
still clearly concerned that she was
not being a good hostess.
Shulusine smiled gently.
‘’There’s no need for you to worry in
such a manner. The arrangements are
truly lovely.’’
Anne smiled softly as she nodded her thanks to her guests.
Really, there was nothing
wrong with the area she had chosen for the get-together. The table
was placed in the middle of the patio, with the wall of green trees at
their back, and house at their front.
Off to the side, a little hidden under the shade of a large oak was a
workshop. It was nothing out of the
ordinary, if only a little out of
repair. All in all, the setting was a
perfect location for a small friendly gathering.
Everything was going smoothly;
the atmosphere was most gentle when
the back door slammed shut with a
great force. The sound echoed around
the patio, the ladies paused. Anne
was the first to move, turning in
the direction of the sound gracefully; she looked up to see her brother
standing awkwardly in front of the
doorway.
Peter was a peculiar fellow. Much to Anne’s disappointment,
he didn’t have much fashion sense,
oulet
Katy B
held up his end of a conversation
poorly, and rarely bathed. Most of
the time, he was to be found tinkering on something and making a lot of
noise. He was also very shy, and it
was clear that he wasn’t sure how to
proceed now that he was in everyone’s
line of sight.
‘’Hello Peter, it’s been a while
hasn’t it?’’ Marie was smiling softly
as she spoke.
‘’H-hello cousin M.’’ He was
slowly edging his way towards the
workshop as he muttered his greeting. He glanced nervously at
Shulusine. Identifying her as a
stranger, he literally leapt to the
workshop. Or he would have if Anne
hadn’t gotten in the way.
‘’Peter,’’ she said her voice
rather toneless, ‘’this is Shulusine;
we often call her Shula for short.
She’s a good friend to Marie and I,
you know. I won’t have you ignoring
her like his.’’
Peter made an unhappy whimper
as he tried to inch around his sister. He didn’t see what the fuss was
about, strangers were to be ignored;
they too often brought trouble.
‘’We met her in school,’’ Anne
continued, stepping in front of him
39
again. ‘’She’s a great person, but her
work keeps her very busy now days.
We don’t often get to spend time with
her.’’ She frowned; wrinkles appeared
on her forehead, pointing the way to
a menacing glare. ‘’You will say hi to
her.’’
‘’N-nice to m-meet you miss,’’
Peter stammered.
‘’Likewise,’’ Shulusine replied.
‘’Well enough, I suppose,’’ remarked Anne as she stepped out of
her brother’s way and back into the
sunshine.
Peter flung himself into the
shed, slamming the door behind him.
There was a very audible sound of a
bolt being set.
‘’Hmmph. I really don’t know
what to do with him anymore,’’ Anne
said regretfully as she sat back
down between her guests. ‘’I’m sorry,
Shulusine. In all honesty, I didn’t
expect him to wake up until much
later.’’
‘’I don’t mind.’’
‘’Are you sure?’’ Anne was clearly worried.
‘’I assure you, I’m not offended at all by his mannerisms.’’ A soft
smile played at the corner of her
lips.
‘’Thank goodness.’’
‘’Anne, I know it’s been quite
40
some time since I last saw Peter,’’ remarked Marie, ‘’but I don’t recall him
being quite like this. Wasn’t he much
more cheerful and outgoing when we
were younger?’’
‘’That’s right, it’s been about
ten years since you last saw him,
hasn’t it?’’
‘’I haven’t really been counting,
but that seems about right.’’
‘’Well, you’re correct; he used
to be much more….’’ She paused, as if
trying to find just the right word.
After a short moment she gave up.
‘’Kind, he was kind, gentle, softspoken, cheerful, upbeat, his laughter held so much warmth, he bathed.’’
Anne’s voice dropped an octave at the
last bit.
‘’What ever happened to him?
Bullies at school?’’
‘’No, not that….’’
‘’Go on,’’ Marie insisted. ‘’Shula
doesn’t mind, do you?’’
‘’Not at all, please continue.’’
Anne nodded, leaning over the
table, as if she was speaking of some
conspiracy meant only for their
ears. ‘’It all happened one summer.
Peter had been talking to some of
his friends from school, asking them
what their plans were. They all said
that they were going to attend summer camps, all sorts of camps; no one
was going to the same one. But they
didn’t seem to mind, all were quite
excited and they talked about it so
much that by the time Peter returned
home he had visions of summer adventures whirling in his eyes. He’d
never taken any interest in that
sort of thing before, so of course
Mother was very happy. She started
researching extensively, asked him
to write down a list of the things
that he was interested in, and she
used that to help find the ‘perfect
camp’. If such a thing exists, the
camp she chose wasn’t it.’’
‘’Eh?’’ said Marie, ‘’was it a
hellhole?’’
‘’Marie!’’ Anne was aghast.
‘’Clearly you’ve been spending far too
much time in the presence of your
neighbors.’’
‘’Oh, never mind that! Continue!’’
‘’Well, in response to your
question: No, it wasn’t a…a pit of
perdition. Not in the sense of a
place that is run down and poorly
managed anyway. But it really wasn’t
a place to which I would ever send
my children, if I had any. Actually,
I partially blame Mrs. Drunes for
the outcome of it all. Right before
Mother made a choice for where to
send Peter, she invited Mrs. Drunes
over for tea. Of course the topic
came up in conversation. Oh, it was
terrible! No sooner had Mother mentioned the idea of summer camps when
her guest started a tirade on the
subject. Apparently, the Drunes had
been having difficulty affording
camp for their children, and it was
clear that they did not want them
under their feet during the summer
holidays.
‘’Mother was quite stressed.
She became very conscious of how
much she would be spending on possible camps, and in the end she
settled for the cheapest one. Mind
you, it still met all of Peter’s requirements/wishes. Nevertheless, why
Mother would do such a thing…. No, I
know the reason. It was because she
was rather fond of Mrs. Drunes, and
didn’t want to sour their relationship by sending her son to some hard
to pay for camp. But really, was it
wise? The outcome was so dreadful.’’
great time, and had been making lots
of friends. He was definitely having
lots of adventures. You know, he almost wrote to us every day. At first,
Mother was worried that they weren’t
giving him enough to do, but then he
suddenly stopped writing.’’
‘’Eh? Stopped.’’
‘’Marie, if you really wanted
me to continue with the story, you
wouldn’t interrupt me so much.’’
Anne sighed, ‘’I’m getting to it;
it wouldn’t be as exciting if I told
you outright what happened. Right,
Shula?’’
Anne looked smug as she continued her tale. ‘’Well, in the beginning everything went well. Peter
wrote to us that he was having a
‘’When we arrived, we were a
little late, because Mother was ill,
and all the other campers had been
picked up already. Peter wasn’t anywhere to be seen. This didn’t make
Father particularly pleased, so he
asked one of the staff members where
his son was. They looked uncomfortable, and asked him to wait a moment
while they got the camp director.
Mother had gotten quite pale at this
point. Ah! It was so bad; the director
told us that Peter was missing!’’
‘’Missing?!’’
‘’Why dreadful? Oh do tell us
what happened! You always stretch
stories out so long.’’
Shulusine smiled softly. ‘’That
is often believed to be the case.
Certainly my colleagues would agree
with you.’’
up came closer, she was quite upset.
Every day it worsened. Father rolled
his eyes at her behind his newspaper. He probably muttered ‘space case’
under his breath too. He’s been known
to do that. As it turned out, Mother
had been right to be worried.
Marie pouted.
‘’As I was saying, all of a sudden, no more letters came. Mother was
worried. Father told her it was alright, that Peter was simply too busy
to write. But Mother wasn’t satisfied.
As the day when we would pick him
‘’Yes! She told us that he had
wandered off during a campfire
gathering and never returned. That
he’d disappeared into the surrounding woods! Mother was beside herself.
But you know, I always felt that
their reactions to the disappearance were muted, like it had happened before, as if they were used
to it. Not just that, but the look in
their eyes that said, ‘you’ll never
see your brother again’ every time
they looked at me. I mean, no one
ever said anything like that, but I
felt it.’’
41
‘’That must have been so hard
for you,’’ murmured Marie.
signaling the continuation of her
tale.
‘’It was very hard.’’ Anne leaned
back as she shook her head remembering. ‘’I always disliked it when
I was younger, how adults felt that
they could keep things from you, the
thought that children are idiots.’’ At
this point Anne stopped in her story-telling to pour herself another
cup of tea.
‘’The director was very kind,’’
she sighed. ‘’She let us stay in the
main building free of charge. There
were guest rooms there, such a large
compound, and it felt rather hotel like. Of course Mother fainted
again, and I stayed with her as Father went to ‘sort things out’, as he
put it. Alone with Mother, I couldn’t
help but feel that the place was so
eerie. There was this uncomfortable
silence to the place. It was almost like someone was holding their
breath so you wouldn’t notice their
presence. Really very creepy. Marie did not look thrilled,
but she didn’t say anything this
time.
Up until Anne mentioned
her suspicion of the camp staff,
and their reactions to her missing brother, Shulusine had not been
paying all that much attention. Oh
certainly her friend was well known
for telling amazing stories, without fibbing, no less. But she was so
very dramatic. Back when all three
of them were in school together, it
could be said that Shulusine was as
dramatic as the other two, but that
had changed since she started working with her current employers.
However, as Anne slowly sipped her
tea, Shulusine was deep in thought.
If someone had looked closely at her,
they might have said that she was
frowning, but it was ever so hard
to tell. Her expression was ever so
light. Could it be…? she thought to
herself as Anne cleared her throat,
42
‘’When Father returned, he was
not in a good mood. He told me that
no one had searched the woods looking for Peter, and that they had no
intention of doing so. He’d caught
the half whisper of one of the councilors ‘Is he crazy? That’s suicide’.
No one had voiced any reasons as to
why a search of the woods was out of
the question. Needless to say, Father
was quite angry. He’d threatened to
call some of his government friends,
but that didn’t seem to phase them.
In the end, he was asked to return to
our rooms, they’d contact him if anything came up. Oh, he was so upset.
Fortunately, Mother was still unconscious.
‘’We spent several days like
that, Mother mostly sleeping, not
wanting to move; not wanting to go
home without Peter. On the fifth day,
when Father had enough and was preparing to leave, with or without his
son, Peter walked out of the woods.’’
‘’Eh?’’ said Marie, ‘’Just like
that?’’
‘’Yes, seemingly without a care
in the world. They didn’t want me to
see him at first, but I peeked anyway. He was splattered with blood,
but didn’t have any apparent cuts or
scrapes himself.’’
‘’BLOOD?!?!?!?!?’’
‘’Calm down, Marie. Like I said,
he wasn’t injured. When people asked
him what had happened he said some
guy had stolen him away, but that
the Lady had put a stop to it.’’
‘’The Lady?’’ asked Shulusine
quietly. She seemed just a little
pale, but her friends did not seem to
notice.
Anne nodded. ‘’The Lady, that’s
what he called her, always with an
honorific. Apparently she took care
of him while he was lost. And only
let him go, led him to the forest
edge, when he promised her something.’’
‘’What did he promise her?’’
asked Marie, still clearly shaken
from the mention of blood.
‘’Who knows, he won’t tell any-
one. All I know is that he can’t ever
return unless he finishes something,
but I don’t know what that is either.’’
She paused, and all three sat in
silence for a while, staring at the
table cloth.
‘’You know,’’ she continued, ‘’it
was quite odd. Right after Mother
rushed up to him in jubilation, she
asked him if there was anything he
wanted. He just stared at her, as if
she wasn’t speaking his language. She
tried again, saying that she was going to make rarebit and eggs for him
as soon as we all got home. He almost
glared at her and said, ‘I don’t like
that, it’s disgusting.’ Mother nearly
fainted again, that was Peter’s favorite dish, or it should have been.
‘’Maybe it was the weight of
the promise that did it, or just the
shock of the experience as a whole.
Whatever it was, he hasn’t been the
same since. And the doctor doesn’t
think that he’ll ever revert back
either. Mother doesn’t seem to care;
as far as she’s concerned he could
have changed color, grown horns, and
learned a dead language; she still
will love him. Sometimes I think that
she feels like Peter died, and that
he came back from the dead for her.
That’s the way she treats him anyway,
practically smothers him with love.
Anyway, please don’t mention any of
this to anyone, especially my parents, it’s a sore spot.’’
‘’Certainly.’’
headed towards the house.
‘’Of course.’’
Marie paused in the threshold.
‘’Anne, where was it that Peter had
this experience?’’
Anne sighed heavily. ‘’I still
think it falls on Mrs. Drunes. She’s
such a bad influence on Mother…. Do
either one of you bake much?’’
The unexpected change of subject threw Marie and Shulusine off
balance. Neither replied right away,
so Anne kept talking.
‘’Mrs. Drunes convinced Mother that the only way to shop was to
buy in bulk. She might have gone a
little crazy over it. We have more
flour and sugar then we have space.
I found a bag in my unmentionables
drawer, of all places.’’ At this point
Anne made a face with begging eyes,
and directed it full force at her
guests. ‘’Please, please, please take
some with you.’’
‘’Oh cousin,’’ said Marie, a
slight chuckle in her undertone, ‘’of
course I’ll take some with me. Actually, I need to be heading out soon.
Shall we go look at the supplies
now?’’
‘’Oh, ‘V’ something. I think it
might have been Vanrune Acre,’’ she
said with a shrug, as if there was no
importance in the name.
As Shulusine was pulling the
door closed behind her, she gazed
towards the workshop. She could see
Peter moving around on the inside,
deep in the middle of some sort of
project. As she turned away to enter the house, she thought to herself The Heartwood. I’ve only heard
of three or four people ever coming
out of there alive…..The Heartwood.
And with that she went to collect her
share of the baking surplus.
Out in the workshop, something
glowed.
Anne was clearly thrilled, she
turned to Shulusine. ‘’Are you interested in any?’’
‘’I suppose I could use some as
well. Your mother won’t mind?’’
‘’No! Not at all! She’s already
gotten a headache over it.’’
With that, all three got up and
43
Puzzle in Despair
Winston Rumsdale
Like a puzzle,
I lie on the floor broken,
And in despair,
Life has been hard,
I struggle to keep moving on,
But I’m scared,
That the next blow to my soul,
Will bring death to me, every day I wake,
Hoping it will be better,
Than the last.
Photo by Lance E. Hanson
Mirage at Lincoln Center
44
Two Bad Summers in
Time Check
Sharon Rose
Forgetting is a fire that lights itself,
whereas mud mingles only to
snuff out the sparks before
they can collect, so instead
dirt can destroy, delineate, redirect.
Water came thick, brown, crudded.
Fire came a year later,
an accident deemed reckless use,
a child’s mistake
criminalized and cordoned off from the
sanctity of suffering,
as if the scum-soaked, sun-dried,
left as it was when it was flood destroyed,
was more worthy of the sacrifice
than the innocence of a boy, equally demolished.
Heaven can’t save us from rivers and their rushes,
but Hell might save us from men and their ropes.
Ink Wash Drawing by Liesel Kayser
Bridget
45
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Cedar Valley Divide
2011
The Kirkwood Cedar Valley Divide openly welcomes submissions of original artwork, photography, poetry, fiction, and non-fiction from students,
alumni, the faculty and staff of Kirkwood Community College, as well as
friends and families of these.
Contact the English Department for submission forms.
Send inquiries and submissions to:
Cedar Valley Divide
English Department
Kirkwood Community College
Cedar Rapids, IA 52406
(319) 398-4998
or visit us at www.cedarvalleydivide.org