a PDF file of the 2012-13 Wire Harp

The Wire Harp
Spokane Falls Community College – 2013 – Creative Arts Magazine
Wire Harp Staff
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Literary Editor
Rachelle Bradley
Graphic Designer
Jennifer Fanto
Literary Staff
Mikayla Davis
Sharon Goff
Hannah Michaelis
Claire Neumiller
Literary Advisors
Laura Read
Connie Wasem Scott
Graphic Advisor
Doug Crabtree
Special Thanks
Richard Baldasty
Glen Cosby
Bonnie Burnt
Shelli Cockle
Lloydeen Jensen
Carl Richardson
Erik Sohner
Heather McKenzie
Wire Harp
2013
Richard Baldasty Awards
Richard Baldasty taught philosophy and history at SFCC from 1984-2007,
and during his tenure, he was regularly published in this journal and
contributed significantly to the arts on our campus. Upon his retirement, The
Wire Harp honored the spotlight he shone on art by naming our poetry award
for him as he himself is a poet. Each year, The Wire Harp staff selects what we
consider the most artistic poem as the recipient of this award. We also honor a
work of prose, a photograph, and a work of fine art. Each of these four student
artists receives a $100 prize, as a result of a generous gift from Richard. We
appreciate Richard for supporting students in their creative arts.
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Contents
Fiction
Poetry
In His Shadow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Sarah Dyer
Canoodle/Smoke Kisses/No Bomb . . . . . 7
Rachelle Bradley
The Artists’ Hostel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Tim Greenup
Soap Sestina . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Caitlin Houghton
Blu Andrews
* As Time Goes By . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
Yukihiro Furusho
NonFiction
Her Coastline . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Octupus Information for the Discerning
Reader . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
Not Long Enough . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Life in C Minor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
Marc Harvey
Sharon Goff
The Encounter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
Tim Greenup
Health Insurance for Beginners . . . . . 34
Derek Annis
How to Be a Hipster . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
Rachelle Bradley
It Helps You Sleep . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
Caitlin Houghton
The Space In-Between . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
Michele Burkey
The Admirer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64
Mikayla Davis
On the Ward . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
Julia Weber
The Yellow Dances for August. . . . . . . 75
Sarah Dyer
Thanks for Flying . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
Richard Baldasty
* 10 Ways to Wow French Existentialist
Jean-Paul Sartre in Bed . . . . . . . . . . . 79
Jai Blair
Remember Where We Bleed . . . . . . . . 92
Jai Blair
After Everything Else. . . . . . . . . . . . . 95
Tim Johnson
* Baldasty Award Winner
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Tobey H., Remedial English,
Period 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
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Patrick “Ferdinand” Michaud
Claire Neumiller
Contents
Photography
Country Road . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
Bird House . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
Frosted Barn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Heading Home. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
* It’s Hard Being a Woman . . . . . . . . . 9
Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
Trees 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
Big Sky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
Almira Shack . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
Fire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
To Explore . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85
Classic D and R . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Unknown One . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
Fort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
Double Bridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
Heather Biggs
Heather Biggs
Heather Biggs
Marc Harvey
Chris M Thompson
Julie Rajcich
Julie Rajcich
Cassie Grauert
Cassie Grauert
Heather Biggs
Chelsea Mackey
Mike Busby
Mike Busby
Mike Busby
Kenia Uribe
Nicholas Grauert
Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
Clara Wilson
Hipster Days . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
Makenna Haeder
Mystical Pines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
Cara Allen
Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
Clara Wilson
31 Emphasis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
Marc Harvey
The Other Side of Change . . . . . . . . . 52
Makenna Haeder
Skeleton Key . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
Heather Biggs
One Tree . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
Mike Busby
Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
Chelsea Mackey
Carousel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
Mike Busby
* Baldasty Award Winner
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Contents
Fine Art
Balloon Suspension . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
270 Days . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
Resilience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63
Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Growth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Crow & Lilacs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Beauty of Fear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66
Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
1st Independent Painting . . . . . . . . . . 12
Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
Roots . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
* Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
Compromise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
Self Portrait . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Self Portrait . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
Mother & Child . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Peg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
Reclined . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
Two-Faced . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
Joslyn Cain
Steven Lambert
Elizabeth Supica
Robert Jones
Paris Reese
Juan Gayton
Katrina Walker
Paris Reese
Steven Lambert
Roy Lee Northrop
Tuesdae Butler
Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
Kaitlyn Kender
Chemical Dependancy . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Travis Knickerbocker
Headphones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
Krysten Parmley
Him . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
Katrina Walker
Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
Susan Morski
Dear Death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
Makayla Miracle
* Baldasty Award Winner
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Roxann Maier
David Miller
Joslyn Cain
Juan Gayton
Steven Lambert
Elizabeth Supica
Paris Reese
Yue Sophia Xue
Yue Sophia Xue
Roy Lee Northrop
Roxann Maier
Balloon Suspension
Joslyn Cain
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Untitled
Steven Lambert
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In His Shadow
Sarah Dyer
We marched single file
between the stones bringing
our offerings: gladiolas,
bailing wire and
a straw broom. Pulling
crab grass by the brittle fistful,
I wiped my face, smearing my cheek
with red clay. The cemetery was baked;
fire ants blazed
trails over angels,
attacked stone lamb and ate the insides
of wooden crosses. Over
his footstone, over my fingers,
water washed away the pollen
of flowers, tied to granite
altars desiccated by weeks of wilting
heat.
I lay down
on the family plot, in the shadow
of his accomplishments,
written in stone.
The ants worked building
temple mounds over his burned bones. Gasoline
sat waiting, and I asked,
“Are we going to set him on fire?”
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Country Road
Heather Biggs
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Frosted Barn
Heather Biggs
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Untitled
Elizabeth Supica
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Canoodle/Smoke Kisses/No Bomb
Rachelle Bradley
On his plaid indigo sheets
my back sinks into the golden lace ribbons
our nearly naked bodies not quite touching
and a romantic-comedy with Zooey Deschanel flickering
light into the dim room
his body spry and narrow next to my own plump figure
touch
maybe we could love each other the way America loved the bomb
in 1952
when the smoke clung to the air heavy,
like the kisses he leaves on my lips
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Crow & Lilacs
Robert Jones
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It’s Hard Being a Woman
Heather Biggs
Photography Award Winner
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Untitled
Paris Reese
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The Artists’ Hostel
Tim Greenup
Lately, this town has been so inundated with
politicians, line cooks, booksellers
(they’re all in on it).
I’m smothering my hands
in Vaseline every night just to keep the fissures
away. Adjudicators
in tailored suits and sunglasses
trample flowerbeds and peer up at our windows
through their cameras. Jiggling microphones,
they ask for statements. Naturally, I toss
out my overdue bills. Choke on these,
I scream. But before I can empty them all, I hear
a penny loafer kicking open French doors, a fox
yanking the head off a kitten.
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1st Independent Painting
Juan Gayton
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Roots
Katrina Walker
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Soap Sestina
Caitlin Houghton
The day slips down my back like ice
still frozen in the tray. It drops
to the skull of a bell
that is my bum, slumped. It’s shameful
how I shower in the evening, soak the soap
into my skin, nestled behind my collarbones like a necklace
woven by a necklace
sculptor, her fingers hard as ice
and nails white as Johnson’s soap.
While in the shop, when she drops
an opalescent sud and the sun’s shame
sets across her cheeks, the silence will be a bell
colliding with the bell
inside her. I wear her necklace
in the privacy of hot water, where shame
can drain like glacier ice.
If it drops
from my neck too soon, I stick soap
beads between my toes, soap
bubbles that pop like a doorbell
and I answer it every damn time. The lock drops
without me remembering how, without remembering the necklace
still at my feet, scattered dreams trapped in ice
pouring out in a glimmering shame,
each ruddy cheek turned down in shame
from the melting inside. Another slab of soap
the size of my heart, it steams ice
but never shrinks. I still hear her nails, like bells
clanging against my ribs, the necklace
strung inside my veins drops
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pearls of hope in and out. They drop,
shivering away the birth of shame
from their backs. So many forgotten necklaces
snuck down the drain, not a speck of soap
left. Only these bruised bells
whose tongues have turned to ice.
I try to drop away from her soap
fingers plucking at the shame, this collection of bells
tickled into a necklace chiseled from ice.
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Compromise
Paris Reese
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Untitled
Steven Lambert
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Tobey H., Remedial English, Period 4
Blu Andrews
On the bus today I passed a white cross nailed to a tree. I saw it through the
window over the gentle red curve of a three-hundred pound man stuffing every one
of his big, smacking wet orifices with some of that impressive-ass modern technology.
I was on the 32 West Madison home, and when I jumped from the door it was like
some big showy hurdle off a cliff cuz the driver stopped so far from the curb.
I guess I’ll tell you that the best part of today was just after Ms. Neil gave us
our poetry assignment, when all the other retards were talking to each other about
what great ideas they were already getting. Well, I’ll tell you that I’ve seen great
ideas with those illiterates before, and I’ll tell you that very afternoon there were
about thirty assholes on big yellow buses waiting for the precise second the thing
started up to write some two minute bull shit they thought of while the teacher was
reading the example. Especially that red-headed girl with the bad teeth I saw smiling
and giggling away at the Shakespeare piece Ms. Neil read us.
Anyway. I know she told us to write a sonnet but I’m not too good with that
nice emotional shit and I’m not gonna try to be. And if you were primed up for some
clever stanzas, then you’re in for a bad surprise. And you’re not getting any of the
those really classy semi-colons either that are supposed to turn a run-on into a piece
of art, so I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, but it’s been five days and I still can’t
find my cat, and everyone I know is a narcissistic asshole and god won’t let me be
happy so you can just get over your stupid fuckin line breaks. It’s not your poem
anyway so why don’t you just shut the fuck up and try listening for a while.
Like I said, today wasn’t too great. But I don’t want to talk about that. I
just want to say that it happened to be the day after my lunch account at school ran
out, so I stopped off at home to eat some stuff out of the fridge. There was some of
this chicken in there—a couple of them—cut down to the bone but fleshy toward
the bottom where I could get some good stuff that wasn’t touching the grease so I
could eat it cold and get out of there quick to look for my cat. That was about the
time today it started to snow with some real force behind it, and wind spun around
in sharp, white wisps with some hail in the mix just to fuck your eyes and leave you
barely able to keep track of where you are. It felt personal as hell.
Anyway. So I’m out there walking up and down these neighborhoods of
asbestos-filled houses—both sides of the street because while I’m screaming and
screaming like some retard, I can barely hear it myself, and I figure the snow’s
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really muffling it and I gotta get the cat to hear me so it’ll come running to get out of
this cold—and I’m calling this cat’s name—his name is John R. Cash—and I guess
I’m the kind of asshole that walks around in the snow thinking about things cuz I’m
out there doing my calling thing with all the come-here-Johnnys and meowing and
shit (my mom said he liked that) and I started thinking about what I guess are all the
things people want, which makes me think about what I want and I made it all out
to be really important. Like that’s the only part of a person that’s ever really honest
and shit, when they do things to get what they want. I keep thinking about Johnny
wanting to run home—trapped in some asshole’s garage by accident where nobody
can hear him cuz of his stupid fucking meow.
Ms. Neil wants me to get better scores. My dad just wants to get high.
She tries to get what she wants through these real impressive looks on her face.
Whenever I do something really goddam exceptional to where she has to interact
with me, she always gives me this face like all she wants in the world is to be able
to put some big fuckin A on all my papers. I got to thinking that what she wants is
to be popular—in a particularly colorful teacher kind of way. And I swear when
I’m thinking on this every time I see a pile of snow, there’s Johnny just frozen
underneath it. After knocking over a couple though, I get over that. What got me
were the kids out there. Every time I heard some kids screaming in delight, they
were all dancing in the blood of my kitty cat, tearing him apart and dancing on him
like a really great kind of game. Maybe they just got him tied up and play nice with
him but they’re forgettin to feed him or keep him warm. That cat fuckin hates the
cold. I’ll tell you that thought really gets me.
Anyway. I was thinking about this stuff and what I thought about next was
my mom. She wants her bible group gossip and her animal rights shows. Really what
I think she wants is to feel very fucking good all the time. She wants it so bad from
all those things, she can barely walk. It’s a real fuckin tragedy, sure as hell can’t be
asked to come and help a kid find his cat. Try and ask her about it. She’ll just get on
telling you about her anti-depressant pills and shit. God. I’ll tell you that every time
I see some white-haired old drunk climb out of his little blue Corsica to lull around
in the street, I swear to god I see a goddam cat under his wheel.
Anyway. I think what happened was that mom had a lot of expectations
about being a mother. She isn’t too good at knowing what things are really like, but
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she’s lived like her saintly self forever and all that shit, so I guess I got to bear that
for her which really seems like some bull. I know, my fuckin tragedy. Anyway. Then
there was ol’ thirty year old goatee man she had to marry, and I guess what he wants
is some pills and a skinnier girlfriend cuz all he does is sit up all night out there in
the garage playing his fuckin kazoo with bitches on the internet while my fuckin
mom sleeps with the TV.
Anyway, like I said, you get to thinking about this stuff. After enough of
your preaching you got to wonder about yourself. But I really don’t know. I just
want my cat back. You really should have seen him. He was six months old with this
really nice dark grey fur like his mother’s and this fucked up tail cuz somebody went
out dancing on it when he was little and the one part of him that was real white, his
whole right cheek. He was a really fuckin adorable kitten.
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Mother & Child
Roy Lee Northrop
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Trees 4
Marc Harvey
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Reclined
Tuesdae Butler
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Untitled
Kaitlyn Kender
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Her Coastline
Marc Harvey
You have always been
a path
to the ocean.
I move into your mist,
I love the taste of salt,
the air,
your skin.
Down your smooth
cliffs—
descending porcelain stairs
and past shallow beach pools,
I travel through waves of sierra grass
and brush against drifts
of your blond hair.
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Not Long Enough
Sharon Goff
I am wrapped in his strong arms.
Tattoos claim his skin. Loneliness
leaves when his warm eyes
caress me. His flesh
ignites my body, a crackling fire.
His scorching touch and smile,
his bare chest and arms
quicken me. His presence –
warm sage tender –
melts away the day.
Only he and I make up
this space and time, physics
of our reality.
I want this night.
We kiss and kiss a thousand
ways. The house is still, the silence
which is often loud
disappears tonight. May time
disappear tonight so that
his lips which press
on mine may always
press, always stir me,
quench my never-ending
thirst. I want to rest
bare flesh against
bare flesh, trembling. His eyes
the aphrodisiac, his
kindness that won me, if only
for the night.
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Untitled
Chris M Thompson
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Chemical Dependancy
Travis Knickerbocker
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Fire
Julie Rajcich
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The Encounter
Tim Greenup
Outside the downtown
haunted house, I waffle,
should I ask
for my 16 dollars back?
But Terry seems pleased,
so we check our phones
exhaustively for messages
and walk toward the bar.
Silhouettes
of young men head our
direction, coming
through the alley, onto Main,
but their bodies aren’t brightening
beneath the streetlights. They stop
six feet ahead of us. We
step toward them, they
step back. We back away,
and they step forward.
Hmph, Terry says, decidedly.
The forms turn,
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their mouthless faces move
closer and begin mashing together.
They violently embrace, hands
tearing at dark shapes.
The one ahead of me, gracefully,
kneels into an oily puddle, and
unbuckles the other’s belt.
Dude! Terry’s clutching my arm,
Let’s go. We hurry to the bar,
where, he says, Michelle and Megan
have been waiting. Both are beautiful,
funny, but I make miserable conversation.
I’m somewhere else entirely.
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Headphones
Krysten Parmley
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Classic D and R
Julie Rajcich
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Health Insurance for Beginners
Derek Annis
For 360 dollars the doctor will tell you
that your lumps are probably
not malignant. The whole ordeal will take 20 minutes.
The doctor will do the usual, shine light
in your eyes, put a probe
in your nose, count the number
of times your heart thumps per minute.
He will squeeze the lumps
between his fingers and roll them around
under your skin. He will not have them
removed. This will be after you have already paid
for the health insurance, and failed
to understand the no
preventative care policy. When the bill comes
you will be confused. You will call
the doctor’s office. They will put you on hold
for ten minutes, and play crappy classic rock
while you wait. When they answer
they will transfer you to the billing department,
at which point they will put you on hold
for ten minutes, and play crappy classic rock
while you wait. When they answer
you will note that they have applied
the definition of observe to the word prevent;
this prevention will not get you your money back.
This will be five years after the discovery
of the lumps. Five years of excessive sweating.
Five years of nightmares. Five years of fruitless
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internet searches for some solid
evidence that the lumps are just lumps and nothing
more. Three weeks before the arrival
of the bill, immediately after the appointment,
you will go home to your apartment
and cry in your partner’s arms. She
or he will or will not understand
the gravity of the situation—how that hard
hunk of nagging anxiety in the back of your brain
has been hacked in half, nearly cut out
completely. You and your partner will buy
a bottle to celebrate the probably not. That night
the two of you will fall into a drunken bed,
where she or he will accidentally feel the lumps
with her or his fingers, which will bring the deep
nervousness back to the surface and prevent
her or him from coming while you fuck. As you lie in bed
you will repeat the word in your head over and over:
probably. Probably. Probably. Later, you will write a poem,
you will write it in a manner that makes it feel removed.
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Fort
Cassie Grauert
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Untitled
Clara Wilson
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How to Be a Hipster
Rachelle Bradley
First, cross out the word “hipster” from your personal dictionary. You must
acknowledge personal hygiene is for the benefit of others and not you. Stop washing
your hair. Claim deodorant gives you cancer, so do cell-phones. Socks? They are
the last generation’s thing, not yours. Giving shoes to kids in needy countries is
cool. When people talk, put headphones in and pretend they don’t exist. Nothing
exists outside of you. None of that mainstream music crap though. Chad Vangaalen,
Natalie Portman’s Shaved Head, and Local Natives, those are okay. If you know
Justin Bieber exists, deny it. Just deny reality. And don’t wash your hair. Once
you wash it, your life will be over. If you don’t have a tumblr you aren’t living. But
never talk about it. Simply ask, what’s tumblr? That’s it. Don’t even listen. Only
posts lyrics for your facebook statuses. Don’t have one? Even better. Go smoke an
e-cigarette. Wait. Fuck it. Smoke a real one. Yeah, a real cigarette. Let the stench
soak into your clothes and unwashed existence. Smoke plants that smell like piss
and forget they smell like piss. Go to parties and hold a beer. Become the epitome
of social interaction, social wasting. Don’t forget to hate yourself and waste away
your soul. Love your parents (but not openly). Pierce your body beyond society’s
comfort. Fuck the anorexic girl next door. Eat cereal at midnight. Diagnose yourself
with insomnia. Working out is for homophobic twinkies. Ask every guy you meet
if they lift. Get a half tattoo sleeve because a full is too expensive. Claim money is
for douchebags. Bum off your friends. Fuck the anorexic girl again. Tell her she’s
skinny. She’ll slap you. Ask her out for dinner. Eat at McDonald’s at two a.m. Hear
her throwing up in the bathroom. Kiss your biceps. Leave. No big deal.
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Hipster Days
Makenna Haeder
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Him
Katrina Walker
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Untitled
Susan Morski
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It Helps You Sleep
Caitlin Houghton
All the boys kept their lightning bugs
and dreams in empty whiskey
jars with the labels peeling back and
grasping for their hands.
My father’s friend drank Vicks
choking down cough syrup as my father
sucked from a glass bottle
he later stowed fireflies in, watched them deflate
like hot air balloons.
And where did you
pitch your empty bottles? Which river is pierced
with your ditched drum set?
Does your ex-girlfriend still watch you from the foot
of your bed, do your mother’s pearls still scrape
your lungs whenever your wife
emblazons another dragon into her skin?
She is a relentless fire, but your mother is no beloved
bead of the ocean. She is untendered
glass wrapped in thick lace. No matter
how many jars you fill for her, you can’t
keep her glow from blinking out.
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Mystical Pines
Cara Allen
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Dear Death
Makayla Miracle
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Untitled
Clara Wilson
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As Time Goes By
Yukihiro Furusho
Fiction Award Winner
When I was a girl, I often saw my father drinking a glass of whiskey in his
room. Sitting in a rocking chair, he would take a sip and gently sway the glass before
his eyes, and while the dark brown liquid would make soft ripples this way and that
way, he would gaze out the window and let out a long breath. His shoulders would
sink for a moment, as if something just escaped his body. Calmly, he would stare at
his glass in his hand again, and his eyes would become narrow, as if he was trying to
find something at the bottom of the brown sea inside the glass, as if the brown liquid
cast a magical spell on him. Such a sight was strong enough to evoke a little girl’s
curiosity.
So one day I asked my mother to give me a glass of whiskey.
“No,” she said. She seemed surprised by my request. She stopped dicing
carrots and looked at me with a grimacing face. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it tastes awful and it’s not healthy,” she said and continued dicing.
While the beating sounds of the knife and cutting board filled our small kitchen, I
pictured the image of my father sitting in the rocking chair with the drinking glass in
his hand.
“Then why is he drinking every day if it’s not healthy?” I said. And the room
became quiet—too quiet. Even though I was just a little girl, my instinct told me I
had asked the wrong question. She didn’t say anything for a while. She didn’t even
turn around. And it made me uncomfortable.
“Mom?”
“It’s—because—because—it’s only for grown-ups. So you can’t drink,”
she said. It made me angry because it seemed to me most fun things were always
for grown-ups only and kept from children. I opened my mouth to insist, but when
I heard my mom’s sniffle, I closed my mouth. And the beating sounds of the knife
filled the kitchen again. I couldn’t control my curiosity about the whiskey any
longer.
So, the next day, when nobody was home, I snuck into my father’s room.
Holding the glass full of ice cubes, I found five bottles inside his expensive-looking
wooden cabinet. I took the familiar-looking bottle. It was heavy even though it was
half-full. I filled my glass with the magical brown liquid and sat in the rocking chair,
pretending like an adult. I felt guilty about doing something I was not supposed to
do, but I also felt excitement about stepping into the grown-up’s world. I took a deep
breath and took a sip.
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Bitter and cold, that was my first impression of alcohol—and the smell,
yuck. I never understood why grown-ups would drink such awful-tasting drinks
when one could drink sweet Coca-Cola instead. I was no longer curious about the
whiskey, but I wondered why my father was drinking every night if what my mother
had said was true—unhealthy. I became worried.
My father was twelve years older than my mother. He was running a hotel
business and was quite busy, so it was not unusual that he couldn’t come home
before I would go to bed. Sometimes I would find the leaking light from his room
when I woke up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and I would visit
his room and say good night. And it was one of those nights I asked him about his
drinking.
“Daddy,” I said with a small voice and opened the door. I stuck my head into
the room and saw my father. He was drinking in the rocking chair by the window as
usual.
“Oh, hello, Clare Bear. Did you have a bad dream again?” he said.
I nodded and said, “Is it okay if I stay here for a little while?”
“Of course, of course. Come on in,” he said and put the glass on the
windowsill. He seemed tired, but he raised his body from the chair and walked
toward me. “Give me a hug, Clare Bear,” he said with a soft voice and got down on
his knees. “Was it a scary dream?” His big warm body and the familiar smell of his
cigarette engulfed me. He tenderly patted the back of my head and said, “It’s okay.
Everything will be all right.” Soon, I felt my body levitate, and the next moment, I
was sitting on his lap in the rocking chair.
While the rocking chair swayed us back and forth, he asked me about my
days in school. I told him I got an A on my English composition I had written for
Father’s Day. After praising my accomplishment, he apologized for missing the
Father’s Day celebration. The aroma of whiskey drifted from his mouth, but it
didn’t smell as bad as the days before I tasted it.
The gentle breeze came in through the open window and touched my cheeks.
It was a quiet night. I could hear the rustling sound of foliage on the distant trees
and the soft chirps of insects, but their songs were not as frequent as a couple
months ago, and they were less harmonious. I felt the end of summer.
“Clare, what did you write about?” he asked me when I was about to
leave the room. “For the English composition?” He crossed his legs and took
a sip of whiskey.
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“Daddy,” I asked and pointed at his glass. “Why do you drink it every day?”
“Hmm?” He held the glass before his eyes. “This?”
I nodded.
After taking another sip, he gazed out of the window. I didn’t know what
he was seeing—it could be the moon or stars—but his eyes became narrow and he
rocked the chair. “Because,” he slowly opened his mouth, “I’m—” He stopped, as
if he remembered something important. He looked at me and smiled. The wrinkles
gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Because this is my friend,” he said.
I was confused. “Friend?” I said and tilted my head. “I don’t understand.”
His soft laughter leaked from his mouth. He uncrossed his legs and stared at
me for seconds. “You will, you will understand someday,” he said and set his eyes on
the outside again, as if looking for one particular star in the sky. “Someday . . .”
II
My father died when I was a graduate student. I took a week off from school
and flew to the East Coast to attend the funeral. It was January. On the way to my
hometown, Upper Roseville, I kept staring outside from the cab. The snow was
falling. The side roads were already covered like an immaculate white carpet, but
under the incessant traffic, the black asphalt stretched in front of the car, and little
heaps of brownish snow were gathering between the main road and the side road.
When the car slowed down due to the traffic of downtown Newark, the cab driver, a
friendly young African American, asked me if my visit was for business. I told him
that this was the first time visiting my old hometown in years.
“What was keeping you so busy?” he said, glancing at me through the
rearview mirror.
“Business school. I’m working on my master’s degree in San Francisco.”
“San Francisco,” he raised his voice. “You flew all the way from the West
Coast to the East? Wow. You must be tired.”
“No, not really. Actually, I’m feeling great,” I said, just as I had learned in
the business school—give a positive answer, they always told us. But I was exhausted
and feeling nostalgic for my old memories. I could see the city’s gleaming neon lights
and the red tail lamps glow blurry in the falling snow. Covering their heads with
hoods and umbrellas, people dressed in long coats hurried to their homes.
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31 Emphasis
Marc Harvey
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“I was gonna recommend you this hotel, if you were on business,” he said,
pointing his thumb at the outside.
I was surprised by his comment. “That’s my father’s hotel,” I said.
“What,” he said with a high-toned voice. “You mean your father is the owner
of this hotel?” He looked at me in the rearview mirror.
“Yes, uh, no. Uh, I mean, yes, it was my father’s... but he died yesterday...
that’s why I came back... you know—to attend the funeral.”
“Oh,” he said with a low voice. “I didn’t know that. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s okay. But you said you were going to recommend the hotel to me,” I
said. “So you like my father’s hotel?”
“Oh, yeah. Absolutely. Mr. Thompson was a great man. But I had no idea
you were his daughter.”
I didn’t know what to say. The monotonous sounds of wipers filled the
silence. Then, I realized the red digital in the meter disappeared.
“At least, by way of showing my condolences, let me give you a free ride.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that,” I said. But he insisted and talked about
his family and my father until we reached my house.
“Have a good night, Ms. Thompson,” he said and drove off. I waved until
the cab disappeared from my sight.
The next day, my family buried my father’s body. I was surprised by the
number of people who gathered for my father. When I put the white roses in front of
the grave, I remembered what the cab driver had told me the day before.
He had told me that more than fifteen members of his family would come
from New York to visit Upper Roseville. But his apartment was too small for even
his own family—a beautiful wife, handsome son and three lovely girls, let alone
many visiting guests. So ten years ago, he arranged a hotel for them, but his mother
didn’t like the way some staff treated her granddaughter who was in a wheelchair.
His mother had a huge fight with the manager, so they went to another hotel, but
the same kind of thing happened. So they came to my father’s hotel. He didn’t say
what exactly my father did or how different my father was compared to the other
owners, but all of his family liked my father, especially his mother and niece in the
wheelchair, and since then they have been using my father’s hotel for ten years.
Looking at the roses lying before my father’s tombstone, my heart filled
with memories of my father. My mother was constantly dabbing her face with her
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handkerchief. I saw my older brother wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.
But I resisted my tears. Somehow I felt I had to show I had become a strong woman,
someone who could be a strong business leader. It was around this time people
started to call me heartless.
III
One Saturday night, seven days before Christmas, when I came home from
work, I found a white envelope on the dining table. It had been almost a year since I
became the owner of my father’s hotel.
“Clare, how did it go?” my mother asked me from the living room. She was
reading a book. Her big blue inquisitive eyes looked at me through her reading
glasses.
“It didn’t go well,” I said. “He called me a bitch and broke my cell phone,”
I sighed.
“Oh, no. I’m sorry to hear that...”
“Well, I wouldn’t blame him. Nobody wants to get fired a week before
Christmas,’’ I said, taking off my coat.
“Does he have children?”
I didn’t say anything. I just sat down on the chair and stared at the white
envelope. I had already fired four employees. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t find
any other way. When I took this job, I learned the financial balance had been in
deficit for many years. My mother and brother were going to sell the hotel. It seemed
a reasonable thing. But I told them to give me a chance. They agreed to let me run
the hotel for one year, but if I couldn’t improve the situation within one year, I
would have to let it go. I had to make many hard decisions to protect my father’s
hotel.
So when my old friend from high school—who had just returned from
France, finishing her long years of a culinary program—called me and offered to
work for me for half the salary of my current head chef, I had to make a quick
decision. “Other restaurants have offered me positions,” she had told me, “so give
me the answer as soon as possible.” I had to lay off the head chef, Mr. Pearl, who
had been here over ten years. I knew people were calling me heartless and cruel.
I pretended like it didn’t matter. But truthfully, I often wondered if I had really
become a cold woman.
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The Other Side of Change
Makenna Haeder
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I heard the heavy sound of the book my mother shut. “Clare, are you
hungry?” she asked and came into the kitchen. She took out something from the
fridge and put it into the microwave without waiting for my answer.
“Two,” I mumbled.
“What?”
“Two, Mom...”
“Oh, you want one more?” she said and opened the fridge. “You bet. This is
really—”
“No, Mom. Two children, Mr. Pearl has two daughters. Ten and twelve,” I
said and let out a long sigh. Cold air from the fridge touched my skin for a moment.
She closed the fridge and looked at me. “You didn’t have a choice. You did
what you had to do. It’s not your fault,” she said.
“I know, but I took this job because I wanted to make people happy. I
thought I could—”
“I know,” she raised her voice for a moment but she repeated with her calm
soothing voice, “I know... I know, Clare.”
Then, she poured the hot coffee into my new mug. At that moment, the
phone rang. And when my mother answered it, I knew something was wrong.
“No, I’m her mother,” she said and glanced at me. “Yes, she does, but it’s
broken, but she’s here. Hold on a—” she froze for a moment “—what, when?” Her
voice became heavy.
I swallowed.
“Oh, no—” Her long whining voice echoed. “Yes, of course. I’ll tell her.”
She hung up the phone but didn’t look at me. It made me extremely uncomfortable.
“Mom?”
She opened her mouth, “Mr. Pearl attempted suicide.”
IV
In business school, I had learned I would have to be a strong leader. “It
doesn’t matter whether you are a man or woman; you have to show that you are a
strong leader. Confidence is one of the most important elements in business leaders,”
my professor often told us.
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I made a lot of tough decisions in the past eleven months, reminding myself
of lessons I had learned from my business professors. But they never taught me
how to deal with my emotions, the indescribably painful emotions such as these,
suffocating me every moment since the night before, since I heard the news of Mr.
Pearl’s hospitalization. I went back to my office and thought about Mr. Pearl,
thought about the consequences that I inflicted on his two innocent girls. It was a
cold night. The dawn came quietly, casting the shaft of morning light through the
window without warmth, only as a sign, as the beginning of a day, the beginning of
another battle.
In the morning meeting, I told everyone the news about Mr. Pearl. Some of
them already knew. People hearing the news for the first time gasped and uttered
moaning words. The dark mood took away exuberance from the employees, as
if bats swooped down on them and sucked all their blood. But Mr. Davis, the
bartender who had worked at the hotel since I was a girl, was different. He told me
with a husky voice, “Honey, don’t let this affect your personal life.” He looked at me
through his lightly shaded glasses. At that moment, I wondered how much pain he
had been through in his life. He must have overcome many sleepless nights.
I steeled myself and said to them, “Come on, you have to cheer up. We are in the
hotel business. We can’t greet our customers with gloomy expressions.” I clapped my
hands twice and dismissed them with a smile. People must have thought I was crazy.
I had to endure the cold stares of employees all day long.
It was the Sunday before Christmas, so not only were the rooms full, but the
bar and the restaurant were also packed with customers. People kept coming. I was
pleased, but we weren’t working with a full staff, so everybody had to work extra
hours. It was past eleven, after the night shift employees arrived, when I finally sent
the exhausted staff home.
When I came into my office, I collapsed. I couldn’t move for a couple
minutes. I scolded myself for not being tough enough. But when I saw the falling
snow through the window, I wished I had someone to talk to, someone I could show
my vulnerable side. Then I became aware of the heaviness of pressure, the heaviness
of responsibility that could crush me any moment if I were not strong enough. I
wondered how my father managed to keep the business so many years.
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V
Later that night, when I was about to leave the hotel, I realized that Mr.
Davis was still working at the bar. “What are you still doing here?” I said as I walked
toward the counter. He was wiping it under the dim light. “I thought you were
supposed to close this place at eleven.”
“Hi, Honey,” he said and looked at his wrist watch. “Yes . . . yes . . .”
It was already past midnight, but looking at him, it occurred to me this was
not unusual.
“Mr. Davis, how often do you work like this—I mean, till what time do you
usually work?”
He stopped moving his hand and smiled. “Until—” His eyebrows rose and
his stare shifted to somewhere behind me. His smile broadened. I turned around and
saw a man dressed in a business suit standing at the door.
“Uh, is this place still open?” the man said, loosening his tie. “Could I have
just a glass of scotch?”
“Actually, we are—” My voice was immediately drowned out by Mr. Davis’s
brisk, husky voice.
“Of course, of course. Please come on in and sit down,” Mr. Davis said and
suggested the chair at the counter.
“Thank you,” the man said with a relieved voice and sat in the chair at
the far end of the counter. I watched Mr. Davis put the glass of scotch in front of
the customer. The man drank it with one shot and let out a long breath. Mr. Davis
refilled the glass without saying anything. The customer took off his tie and loosened
his dress shirt collar. And soon, he was talking as if he knew Mr. Davis from his
childhood. Mr. Davis was nodding along with a gentle, attentive manner. Looking at
the two men engaging in a conversation under the dim lights, I wondered what kind
of business he was in, wondered about the man who had to work even Sundays, the
man who desperately needed a place to drink.
All of a sudden, I remembered the white envelope was still resting inside
my bag since the night before. I sat in the chair and opened the envelope. I found
a note and a picture inside. It was from the cab driver who drove me a year ago in
the snowy night. It said he had made the reservation at my hotel for his family for
Christmas holidays. He must have brought the envelope to my house by himself
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when he came nearby, because there was no address on it. I looked at the picture.
Holding each other’s shoulders like best friends, the cab driver and my father
were smiling at the camera, behind the girl in the wheelchair, surrounded by other
members of the family.
“Come on in.” I heard Mr. Davis’s voice. An old man wearing a long coat was
standing at the door. He sat in the box seat. And without asking anything, Mr. Davis
brought a glass, bottle, and plate of light food to the old man’s table.
To my surprise, more people showed up, and Mr. Davis moved around the
counter and the tables, taking care of each customer with his usual manner.
When I was feeling as if I was seeing the small mysterious world at the corner
of this sleepless city, Mr. Davis came around behind the counter, saying, “People
need a place like this,” as if he read my mind. “A place like this . . . you know . . .
where you can be yourself—where you don’t have to be strong.”
I nodded and looked at the picture.
“After you left this town, your daddy often drank here,” Mr. Davis said,
leaning over the picture. “When you were little, he liked drinking at home because
he didn’t want to miss the little midnight chats with you,” he said, putting his elbows
on the counter. Resting his chin on his hands, he said, “I still remember how often
he read your English paper you wrote when you were little.”
My face must have been making a surprised expression, because he said,
“I know it’s hard to believe it now, but you will understand when you’ve become a
parent.” He winked at me. “Your daddy told me he was proud you liked his hotel.”
I didn’t know what to say. The silence filled the bar for a few seconds. I could hear
the soft clinking sounds of the ice cubes and the glasses.
“He read it almost every night” – Mr. Davis’s voice became tremulous – “he
read it so often, the paper crumpled,” he said and wiped his face. “I’m sorry, but we
get sentimental when we get old.”
I looked around the place. The customers were all drinking alone – tired,
but calm and peaceful, as if basking in moments of respite between the frequent
battles of their busy days. It was the same sight I saw when I was a girl in my
father’s room.
Just then, Mr. Davis put the glass in front of me and filled it with ice cubes
and brown liquid. “Your father’s favorite,” he said and smiled ruefully. I had not
drunk whiskey since I snuck into my father’s room when I was little.
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Skeleton Key
Heather Biggs
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I slowly brought the glass to my lips and took a sip.
Bitterness and the strong smell of whiskey reminded me of the day I sat in
my father’s rocking chair. But this time, I noticed something I didn’t realize twenty
years ago. There was no longer an unpleasant taste in this cold, bitter drink.
The warmth of liquor spread inside my body; hot waves filled my heart. I
understood now what my father was seeing in the sky that night. It was neither
stars nor the moon.
I won’t cry. I won’t cry, I told myself, because I’m a strong woman, because
I’m a strong leader. But inside me, the girl’s heart, long asleep in the woman’s body,
was awakened slowly by the taste of this amber liquid.
Daddy, why do you drink it every night?
Hmm, this is my friend.
Friend? I don’t understand.
You will, you will understand someday. Someday.
I wished he could be here; I wished he could pat my hair once more. I
wanted to be inside his arms and hear that gentle, soft voice, saying, Clare, it’s okay,
everything will be all right. Everything will be okay.
I could no longer resist my tears. I wept. I wept like a girl. And I whispered
what I couldn’t say for a long time. “Daddy, I miss you.”
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One Tree
Mike Busby
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270 Days
Roxann Maier
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The Space In-Between
Michele Burkey
At night,
when my body won’t let me sleep,
I think of you. They say all babies
are born with blue eyes, exposure
to light causes pigment to change.
I picture the sky, and the ocean,
and the space in-between the two.
Lifetimes of space, and no space
at all, just like me and you. Slowly
losing space until your toes
and my ribs connect and lull me
almost to sleep, and then—some time later
too much space. Your body
in someone else’s arms or my own.
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Untitled
Chelsea Mackey
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Resilience
David Miller
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The Admirer
Mikayla Davis
Though my hands ache to circle
her pale throat and clench,
though she denies me her
flesh,
her womanhood,
I cannot break her. She remains
placed far from my reach, glowing
with life.
But imagine this:
Her hair pools
on the floor like chocolate softened
from noon-day sun. Silver tears
frame her white-washed cheeks.
Her skin is cooling.
The lavender dress bunches
at her hips
as if withering away. Rings
of darker purple
clasp her neck and arms,
a macabre doll in a room
full of porcelain.
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Growth
Joslyn Cain
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Beauty of Fear
Juan Gayton
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On the Ward
Julia Weber
It was the white-sheet hype that troubled me.
And the mirrored, looped psychology.
With the endlessness of pills and days,
and the useless waste of lunch trays,
I counted coffee stains on birth-marked floors
and witnessed unlocked lips behind locked doors
that revealed the view from behind the glass,
where outside, the world blindly passed.
Leaving only our troubled faces and frightened laughs,
asking “how do I cut myself in half?”
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Carousel
Mike Busby
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Untitled
Steven Lambert
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Octupus Information for the Discerning Reader
Patrick “Ferdinand” Michaud
In appearance an octopus is essentially a brain sac with eight arms attached
anteriorly (that’s science talk for in the front), a beaked mouth located ventrally
(on the bottom), and two eyes located high on both sides of the brain sac. With the
exception of Cirriata, octopi bodies have no rigid structures of any sort, such as
bone or shell, apart from their beaks.
As their name implies, all octopi have eight arms; if you’re ever around the
zoology police, it’s important to remember that octopi have arms NOT tentacles
(tentacles are longer, only have suckers at the ends, and are at least 10% less cool
than arms [suck it squid]). The Seven-Armed Octopus has eight arms too, but
they’re prudes and the arm specialized for mating is reduced in size and hidden
from view when not in use. These arms help octopi to crawl or jet around (they can
swim but it’s more dangerous and with eight arms, NOT climbing everywhere would
seem like a waste).
Octopi are easily the smartest of all invertebrates (by a whole lot). Proven to
have both short and long term memories and possessing astonishing problem solving
skills (some can solve a rubix cube), octopi are even advanced enough to manipulate
foreign objects. Jacques Cousteau (the underwater Carl Sagan), found octopi were
also capable of learning by observation (basically they can do science). An octopus
was given a sealed jar with a super delicious crayfish inside. The chap proceeded to
bear-hug the shit out of the jar to no avail. The humans took the jar and unscrewed
the lid as the octopus watched. They then gave the octopus a second jar with a
crayfish in it and the octopus immediately unscrewed the lid and enjoyed crayfishy
bliss. There is even a video of an octopus grabbing both halves of a split coconut
from the ground and closing them around itself when it felt threatened (that’s right,
an octopus using body armor).
This intelligence combined with an octopus’s curiosity make octopi very
stressful animals to keep in captivity, even for professionals (they like to take things
apart and they’re wicked strong). A favorite example of this is the exploits of an
octopus from the Vancouver aquarium named Houdini. Several years ago, the staff
became perplexed when fish started disappearing from their tanks without a trace.
They searched the tanks of the missing fish thoroughly but found no fish bodies
or animals that could have eaten the fish. Suspecting that someone may have been
coming in at night and stealing the fish, the staff set up video cameras by several of
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the tanks. The videos revealed Houdini, who already had a reputation for figuring
out ways to get out of his tank, coming out of the water circulation pipes, eating the
fish, and crawling back into the pipe. It turned out that the octopus had managed
to remove the screen from the filtration pipes in his enclosure, crawl through the
system of pipes into other tanks, and amazingly remember the numerous turns and
pipe changes to return to his own tank (Mario ain’t got shit).
Octopi possess a multitude of strategies for escaping and avoiding predators
as well. The first strategy is to escape notice. When they are not hunting or mating,
octopi stay hidden in their dens; many octopi have learned to shut the entrance to
their den with rocks or other materials (that’s right, octopi who live in the bad part
of the reef know how to lock their doors at night). When octopi do leave their dens,
they avoid notice with chromatophores in their skin. Chromatophores are what
allow chameleons to change colors, but octopi can change color faster, produce a
wider range of colors, and their massive octopus brains mean that their camouflage
patterns are far more convincing. For all intents and purposes, they are immune to
visually oriented predators (predators without a strong sense of smell or crazy shark
ampuelles of lorenzini probably don’t even believe octopi are real and wish the other
sea creatures would stop pretending).
A few octopi have evolved an alternative method of avoiding predators by
scaring them away. The Blue Ringed Octopus (the species from the James Bond
film Octopussy), once provoked, will use its chromatophores to turn its body
bright yellow with blue rings which warns the predator that it is the most toxic sea
creature in the world. It can spit or bite to deliver an extremely powerful paralytic
neurotoxin that can even be fatal to humans. It has no known antidote.
If octopi fail to avoid detection, they can fall back on the world’s most
common strategy for dealing with predators: running away real fast. When
threatened, most species of octopi use special ink glands to spew out a cloud of black
ink, which, in addition to hiding the octopus from sight, deadens the predator’s
chemoreceptors (fancy underwater nose); the octopus will then jet away from the
scene (picture a spider monkey with a ski-do strapped to his ass). Some octopi can
also throw off pursuit by detaching one of its arms and, due to its extensive nerve
chord, the arm continues moving until it runs out of batteries, distracting the
predator (octopi are like ninjas but instead of throwing smoke-bombs at people to
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make a dramatic exit, they throw limbs…and smoke). An octopus can also escape by
squeezing its body through extremely small holes where its pursuer, which probably
has a skeleton (chump), can’t follow.
However, octopi are predators and will eat most anything that isn’t bigger
than them. Crustaceans and shelled mollusks compose most of the octopus diet,
though octopi will also prey on fish, other cephalopods, moray eels, snails, and even
sharks. Octopi have three main methods of dealing with the hard shells of their
prey: using brute strength to tear a shell open (most humans cannot force open such
shells), biting through the shell with their beaks, or drilling through the shell. To
drill into their prey, octopi use secretions from their salivary papillae (picture the
acid spit from Sigourney Weaver’s aliens) in conjunction with their radula (organic
belt sander) to eat through the hard layers of shell; they then inject a toxin which
begins to digest the animal inside its shell, turning it into the octopus equivalent of a
slurpee.
A final interesting octopus factoid is that there are four grammatically
correct ways to pluralize the word octopus in English: octopuses, octopi, octopede,
and octopus.
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Bird House
Cassie Grauert
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73
Heading Home
Heather Biggs
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The Yellow Dances for August
Sarah Dyer
The field is parched, green
stalks turned yellow and pale.
Wild yarrow buckets wait
to catch the late summer
storm.
Yellow corn
snakes writhe and turn –
wrapped in mustard,
onion and flannel.
Their serpent spirits are
offered to August, twisting
in the tobacco and cedarstained wind.
Yellow shamans
dance, hanging on
a fence – twined
with barbed wire. Shrieking
gusts rattle their triangular spines.
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75
Thanks for Flying
Richard Baldasty
Ladies and gentlemen, fellow
gendered constructs, this is one
formerly designated captain
speaking off the cuff
script free.
All signs are now illuminated
and interchangeable;
derring-do securely stowed
in bins above or below
relative to referent.
No one’s really sure
if they work, but please
fasten seatbelts anyway.
We begin our descent perilous
quasi-ironically.
And though wary of claims
sharply categorical, still it seems
I join with the crew thanking you
for choosing the lambent skies
of Postmodern Air.
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Untitled
Chelsea Mackey
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2013
77
Untitled
Elizabeth Supica
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10 Ways to Wow French Existentialist Jean-Paul
Sartre in Bed
Jai Blair
Richard Baldasty Poetry Award Winner
1.
Deny your biological urges. Sartre is more turned on by double reciprocal
incarnation.
2. Will yourself to be
attracted to that lazy eye.
3. Don’t worry about who you are. Sartre is only attracted to what you can
become in between the sheets.
4. Existence is prior to essence. Foreplay is prior to sex.
5. Sartre finds the human heart empty and insipid everywhere except in books.
Write him a saucy letter to get him in the mood.
6. As much as you think it would spice up your sex life, and even though Sartre is
known for his open relationships, don’t try to bring other people into it. That is
Hell for poor Jean-Paul.
7. Get your insipid flesh blossoming and palpitating with abandon.
8. Slip into that sexy nothingness you have been saving for such an occasion.
9. Freedom in bed is what we do with what is done with us.
10. Realize this list is pointless.
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79
Big Sky
Mike Busby
80
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Almira Shack
Mike Busby
Wire Harp
2013
81
Life in C Minor
Claire Neumiller
The smell of dust and wood warms my soul, like fire on a cold winter night.
The ivory keys mock me with their silent stare. It’s too quiet. I take a deep breath,
and embrace the butterflies that always come before such release. After a moment, I
lift my hands and play.
My fingers scream with the keys, voicing words my mouth could never
muster. My left hand flies furiously with the right, thoughtlessly anticipating its
next move. After many intense measures, I start to feel the ache in my foot from
lifting and pushing the pedal so quickly – this is the one thing that reminds me to
breathe. I slowly relax: shoulders, arms, wrists, hands, fingertips. Finally, for the
first time all day, I am able to think of nothing. Nothing except the inspiration I feel
when something just slightly out of tune, slightly imperfect, sounds so completely
beautiful.
Beautiful Mistake. I’ve carved this into my legs countless times. My
stepmother, Dawn, says the cuts are superficial. “They aren’t deep enough to be
serious,” she croons, sarcasm dripping like blood from her lips. She’ll tell no one of
this dirty little secret. It doesn’t matter enough, and that’s just fine by me. I mean,
I’m not serious…am I? I do want to die, but I can’t just yet. I’ve got too many
people depending on me. I try and try to make them happy, but I always fail. This
is what plays like a broken record over and over in my head until I shamefully pull
out my razor for an altogether different kind of release. The blade is the paintbrush,
my body the canvas, bleeding together to make a masterpiece. This is one of the only
things I have control over in my life.
I wake in the morning and carefully peel penguin pajamas off of my legs – a
painfully guilty reminder. I rush to get dressed – long sleeves and jeans no matter
the weather – so I can cook breakfast before I wake the children for school. My dad
works endless hours so Dawn can stay home and watch me take care of my brother
and sister.
School is the best part of my day, an escape from reality. I am a good
student; A grades have been an unspoken expectation for as long as I can remember.
Homework is one of the only chances I get to take a break. In between periods, I slip
out for a cigarette with friends. Often, we drink as well. I am two different people.
At home I’m the caretaker – always doing what I’m asked. But at school, I look for
whatever will make me forget.
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I’ll take whatever someone will give me, unless it’s food. This is the only
other thing I have control over. I try as much as possible to avoid eating. Dawn
teases me when I eat. She’ll laugh and say things like, “Jeez, Claire, shovel it in,” or,
“If you keep eating we’ll have to wire your jaw shut.” The truth is, I eat fast in order
to leave the table as soon as possible, and the portions on my plate are half or less
than hers. I got tired of the jokes and just stopped eating. Hunger is much easier to
deal with than pain.
I would already be dead, if not for my mom. Every two days I switch
from my dad’s to my mom’s house, which is a terrible schedule, but given the
circumstances, I’ve come to appreciate it. She lets me be exactly who I am – nothing
more or less. I’ve hidden much of what goes on with Dawn from her, to keep the
peace. As long as no one is angry, I don’t care what happens to me. There’s this
gigantic teeter-totter and it’s extremely unstable. I have to stand in the middle to
keep the whole thing from falling to pieces.
I’m the lead singer in a youth group band and I’m deeply involved in the
church. I take Hebrew classes and participate in weekly youth group meetings, Bible
studies, and Sunday services. Dawn is crazy about Christianity – not in the good
way – and this is another thing that’s acceptable. Besides, singing is like the piano
for me. I can close my eyes, shut out the entire world, and merge my emotions and
my voice into one. To the congregation, I’m the god-fearing girl with a voice they like
to hear, singing worship songs while they echo me in monotone. To me, it’s a cry for
help, an act of desperation.
If only I could change the words just once.
The smell of lighter fluid and black tar tempts me. Eve with her apple. The
needle is clean, the cooker melting, almost ready. I hold the bic steady and wait. I
take a q-tip and tear off a small piece, rolling it into a tiny ball. Once the drugs are
liquid, I drop the ball into the cooker. The needle is lowered into the q-tip and it
sucks up the smack. I smile now, the pain is almost over, the thoughts erased for
a while.
Finally, I plunge the needle down, and my heart beatsbeatsbeats, waiting.
The rush sweeps me off my feet and I’ve gotta sit down. My body burns, this
time in pleasure that could never be described in words. My head feels heavy, my
eyelids fall, and for the first time all day, I hear nothing but the ringing in my ears.
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The ringing in my body, it’s everywhere. Nothing has ever felt so right, nothing
compares.
This is music.
Hit rewind. How on earth did I get here?
It all started with a terrible hangover. This, mind you, is a daily occurrence
by now. If alcohol is Romeo, then I am Juliet and not one thing can tear us apart.
And I’m DYING. Sarah calls; she’s been my best friend since eighth grade, and she
needs a ride. I begrudgingly agree. I’m not in any state to be leaving, I tell her, but
she says she can help me out. Money, I think. Sure thing, that’ll get me some beer,
beer equals sleep, we got ourselves a win-win here ladies and gentlemen.
The ride ends up at a drug dealer’s house. She picks up some black tar, and
I’m a little uneasy. It’s ok, I promise, she assures me. Well, it may be, but unless
you’ve got a street that needs repaving, IT IS NOT ALRIGHT! Not only is my best
friend doing heroin, but it’s in my car. Shit. As we arrive at her apartment, I start
to shake. This is bothering me. I don’t feel good already; today just sucks. I need
a beer, pronto. We walk into her bedroom, and she shuts the door. She takes the
drugs and the supplies out of her jacket and lays them on the floor. This is when I
start a full-blown panic. The walls are slowly caving in, so all I can see through is
this tiny pigeon hole, and I cannot breathe. It’s ok, she says, I’ll take care of you.
Yes, please. That sounds wonderful. Take care of me.
Wait, wait, wait, if by that you mean shoot me up, then NO.
It’ll be ok, It’s ok, It’ll be ok. I promise.
This is what plays over and over, like a broken record in my head, until I
comply. Once isn’t going to hurt, right? You gotta try everything at least once. All
right. I’m on board. Let’s totally do it.
I don’t look back.
Claire is gone. She is an empty shell. This body that once had a soul is
a shadow of itself. There is no happiness in her life, no joy. She wakes up and
immediately shoots up if she has the drugs. If not, she’ll be sick until she gets more.
Once she feels better, she’ll have a look around. The coffee table that once held
sheet music and poetry scribbles is now trashed with lighters, needles, cookers,
candles in case the lighters run out of fluid, matches to light the candles when
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To Explore
Mike Busby
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85
they’re needed, and black smudge marks on the pretty tablecloth from the bottoms
of the used cookers. Tire tracks mar pristine lace. She’s disgusted that this has
become normal.
There is no music here.
The hardest part of addiction is dealing with the loss of everything that the
drugs take away from you. They strip you of your soul, your loved ones, your life.
Each thing you care about falls like the leaves from a tree, until you’re left with
naked branches – fully exposed. It breaks my heart to think about how many times I
lied to my parents and my friends. I shot up in the bathrooms of every single person
I care about, often when they were in the next room. I didn’t even have the decency
to wait until I left their houses – that’s how much control the drugs had over me.
I hit my breaking point one day when a long-time friend of mine came over.
He couldn’t even look at me. He sat in the kitchen while I was in the living room,
talking to me with a wall between us. He told me that I was wasting away, that he got
sick at the sight of me. I am 5’9”, and at that time I weighed less than 100 pounds,
a shadow of my former self. This was rock bottom. The next day I called Lakeside
Recovery Services. They saw me that very day and accepted me into treatment the
day after.
There was a long, hard road to recovery ahead of me, and I was scared
shitless, but the minute I walked into group and saw several encouraging smiles in
my direction, I felt my soul for the first time all year.
It was exactly what I needed.
The smell of antiseptic and starched sheets reminds me where I am, but
they’ve decorated the room to make it look like home. Bobby D. is serenading me in
the background; they’re the songs of protest that I love so much. After four hours,
I think I’m ready. This is going to be hard, but it doesn’t compare to the hell I just
came from, and I get to see my beautiful daughter when it’s all said and done. Pain
with positive reward…this is not something I’m used to. The nurse enters to check
my dilation.
Push.
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If someone had told me that I was going to be happy, that I would meet the
love of my life and we would have a baby together, I would’ve tried my hardest to
have them committed. Surely they’d be crazy. I was addicted to heroin for a little
over a year before I finally got some help. I got a job at Rocky Rococo and had
graduated treatment when I met Jeff. He was kind, hard-working, and handsome –
all the things I wasn’t. I didn’t think for a minute that he’d want to be with someone
like me, but evidently the feelings were mutual. Love happens when you’re not
looking for it. I’ve heard the saying many times, but I’d never thought anything
of it.
That’s exactly what happened.
Jeff and Madilyn saved me. If he had not come at the time he did, there’s no
doubt in my mind that I’d be back in the prison of my addiction. I’ve never been
content with my life until now.
Together, they are Batman and Robin, and they never sleep when it comes
to saving Momma from the evil baddies that try unsuccessfully to steal her away.
Every day is a struggle, but it keeps getting easier. This is our journey and we’re
traveling farther and farther away from the past, as we get closer to paradise. Our
song is one of redemption. We sing it every day. And together we are the harmony
that makes this symphony so beautiful.
We are the music.
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87
Unknown One
Kenia Uribe
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Untitled
Paris Reese
Fine Art Award Winner
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89
Self Portrait
Yue Sophia Xue
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Self Portrait
Yue Sophia Xue
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2013
91
Remember Where We Bleed
Jai Blair
We pen endless sentences
Eyeless jewels
Sexless texts
Perfect speech
Yet we need
Bleeding verse
Free the perverse
Desert secrets
Present the speechless
Defend the lewd
Be heedless
Flee the perfect
Pen the reddened Septembers
Pen the French Decembers
Pen the perplexed
Rebel, feel
Pen endless legs
Pen freckled cheeks
Pen tender necks
Pen peerless,
fervent,
dense,
sweetness
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Peg
Roy Lee Northrop
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93
Double Bridge
Nicholas Grauert
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After Everything Else
Tim Johnson
My body feels less like mine today
as we walk through the park,
conversations of dead authors
quickening our stride. I try
to outspeak the anxiety
loaded in everything I refuse to talk about.
My friend drags his slow
voice over too many obligations
and not enough age.
Our cadence cannot move as
fast as cell-phone signals or air pollution,
so our faith is cocked in smaller ways.
I don’t ask him about the baby.
He doesn’t ask about my love spread thin.
It’s a lovely day for a walk.
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Two-Faced
Roxann Maier
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The Wire Harp is a nonprofit annual publication
of Spokane Falls Community College, presenting
the creative works of students, alumni, faculty
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