TheWittenberg

Review ofLiterature&Art

20122013

WittReviewStaff

Rebecca Petrilli

Kelsey Mazur

Leslie Winter

Megan Conkle

Mohammad Alam

Alison Bewley

Elizabeth Boyer

Taylor Burmeister

Corie Cappelucci

Katie Chounet

Cali Clayton

Kate DeVantier

Julia Devine

Caitlin Green

Madison Law

Samantha Reynolds

Clint Rodgers

Sammie Shigley-Giusti

Jennifer Spero

Adrienne Stout

Caity Valley

2012 2013

Cover Image: Luna, 19 April 2012, digital photograph HenryKemper

EditorBios

Leslie J. Winter is a spunky lady who has an overflowing book-shelf and heart. She is a double major in Art History and Studio Art with a concentration in oil painting. The words “crotchety,” “infarct,” and “asphyxiate” make her chortle with glee every time they are spoken. Please note that the meanings of those words do not reflect on her personality but are, rather, only indicative of interesting sounds. Lake Michigan, and pretty much any clean-ish body of water, is where she locates peace. She aspires to be Simon Schama--but plans to keep her own name.

Kelsey Q. Mazur is a History major, PAST minor currently writing a tome on the role of birds in the medieval Scandinavian world. This dar-ling gal has sparkling eyes that match her personality, and a knack for seeing the miraculous in the seemingly mundane. She has an affinity for birds and poetry, possesses a well-stocked kitchen, and enjoys Canadian indie folk music. She one day hopes to meander through the wild to seek the secrets of birds and living well. Kelsey relishes the occasional bowl of Chocolate-Cherry-Nut-Truffle ice cream...make of it what you will.

Rebecca L. Petrilli is a junior English and Art History major with a minor in Business. She loves: dogs, bear-sized; chips and salsa, cilantro heavy; and books, duh. Her wardrobe resembles that of an old man, as she shops exlusively Goodwill and Michael Kors. She plans to attend a law school on the West Coast, and later settle down in the snowy mountains hoping not to get eaten by a Yeti.

Megan Rasputin Conkle enjoys mini corn-dogs, long walks in the woods, and sheep. She is an English and Communication double major with a minor in Creative Writing. While she really did not desire to have a biography, we wrote one for her. She enjoys writing prophetic essays to the tunes of Borgore. Megan would like to add that she is an aspiring Gary Snyder, and hopes to one day write poetry that develops an underground cult following.

RebeccaPetrilli

KelseyMazur

LeslieWinter

MeganConkle

Literary Editor

Assistant Editor

Art Editor

Design Editor

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Blessed are they who see beautiful things in humble places where other see nothing.”

-- Camille Pissarro

The Wittenberg Review of Literature and Art was cre-

ated by students for students with Pissarro’s words at the

forefront of our minds.

All submissions were blind reviewed and scored by

the staff; the submissions with the highest average scores

were accepted for publication (only two entries per author

could be published). Here, we present to you the best of

the best of Wittenberg’s creative writing and art. Go forth

and enjoy.

Cheers,

Rebecca L. Petrilli, Literary Editor

Leslie J. Winter, Art Editor

Kelsey Q. Mazur, Assistant Editor

Megan Conkle, Design Editor

Editors’ Note

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TableofContents1 Bare. 2 Fin 3 Awakened4 Teabag5 Life from Death6 Genesis of Romance 7 Shopping for Hope14 McMurray’s15 Self-portrait16 An Evening Awaits17 Thoughts on Buildings and the Fires That End Them20 The Quetzal’s Masquerade21 Balanced Dinnerware (set)22 A Love Letter to Poetry25 Sand Dollars28 Postural Musing and Mapping Form29 Empress30 Bergamot31 Turkey Legs and Various Circles33 Write This Down43 Four Different People, Now Gone44 My Grandmother’s Lilacs45 Self-portrait46 Blue47 Depending on How You Pour It48 Spring Cleaning 49 Moving Water50 A Night and A Withdrawal55 The Hills: Morning56 Clone 257 Ana-Sofia 58 Portrait, Age 759 Getting Lost/ Staying There60 Chimney Teapot and Round Teapot61 Reflections in Glass62 By Heart63 Steamed Carrots at Midnight66 The Watering Can67 Still-life With Antlers68 Desert(ed)

Dorri JonesKrystal DeanElizabeth BoyerAllison StifflerKatie GibsonChebrya JeffreyKeri HeathCarey KenyTaylor BurmeisterWindsor C. FordJulia DevineAbby MalcomAnna StreckerAutumn SmithShannon KelleherLeslie J. WinterMorgan BeamSam ReynoldsEllie FentonAmarra C. OriakuMegan ConkleChristine AveryPaige LloydEric WernerKrystal DeanDorri JonesKelsey Q. MazurC.S. PaytonMegan ConkleAshley BergLauren HouserKelsey Q. MazurSam ReynoldsJacob KuntzKelli HarrodEric WernerEllie FentonRachel SteinerCaitlin Green C.S. Payton

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Bare.DorriJones

My eyes are peeled like naked plums,exposing a heart

sinewed and soft with the potential to spoil.Overripe,

pick me off the ground and melt me down

into jam so sweet it lingers on your tongue.

Let me slip like intentions down your throatand metabolize,

settling into your tissues.

But youwith pintucked lips like drawers.

But yourefusing every bite.

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FinKrystalDean

If I press my forehead to yours, my darling I want to feel that spark— that connection,that we are the same feeling that everyone else seems to have butwe lost it a long time ago you & I we drifted apart Away from sonnets & spring time. Elegies in the crunching decomposition of leaves is all we have left. Sorrow is no proper bedmate.

My dear, this is the end the proper finale, where you bring a box & I bring a box.Fill it to the brim with everything that reminds me of days of sonnets & spring but have since turned to ash in the wells of my memory.

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AwakenedElizabethBoyer

She left them all with one mistake,forgetting to tap on the windowthat is no longer illuminated.She didn’t leave a handprint on the wall;instead they were left cleanwithout a trace of ash or dirtto fill in the holes or cracks.

There’s no more sand to sift through aged fingers, still nimble with life that should have been wasted on the youth.

She left behind no words or reason,just one last smile that didn’t even knowit was misplaced.

In the cold, when the rest of the world was warm,she walked out the door and through the gate,the only barrier that could musterone last plea for only a temporary escape.

Didn’t look until there was nothing to look for.

The sky was dark but her vision was darker,clouded with her spirit, almost released.

She walked into the ocean she once lovedand disappeared.

Too young, too young.

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Teabag, fall 2012, oil on clayboard.AllisonStiffler

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Life from Death, fall 2012, clay.KatieGibson

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But still there was no helper just right for him…He slept, and the truth of their union no one would forget, for the scars showed the sign;It was a visible, feelable love. So that while blind we might know the beauty ofMan being put under for woman, as it took from him to take her.Bone of his bone. Flesh of his flesh. And,Though he sacrificed his body he thought it smallFor, At last! The gift. The sacrifice gave Man a wholeness.A unityThat did not come from open hearts, open legs, exposed chastity and broken promisesTo Solomon of not awakening love before its time. In this unionThere is an undoing that does not meanUndressing. And there is willingness to give away, though not unwed virginities. But surrenderThat sleeps through surgery.A sort of perjury from selfishness while the surgeon works a miracle so that withHis scarred side and His dirt formed eye, she may look upon him tenderly with a naked and unashamed“I love you.”

Genesis of RomanceChebryaJeffrey

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Shopping for HopeKeri Heath

Ellen leaned her head against the metal shelf. She glanced down the aisle to be sure that she was alone, then heaved a long, heavy sigh. For a moment, she closed her eyes and allowed her mind to go numb. Beneath her forehead, the red and yellow sign advertised two dollars off white bread with the purchase of hamburger buns. Then, the moment evaporated. Ellen lifted her head trying to remember if she was supposed to buy hamburger buns. Standing in the middle of the deserted aisle, she wished she hadn’t forgotten the list at home. Again. At last, she gave up and threw a package into the cart. By this time of evening, the grocery store squirmed with si-lence. The cashier, a lanky kid with enough acne to cost him a date, leaned over his station stacking quarters in pyramidal for-mations. Every three minutes, he glanced up at the clock and groaned. Ellen pushed her cart across the linoleum, racking her brain for anything that the kids would be too angry if she forgot. Pizza rolls for Dylan, cheese sticks for Maddie, low-fat yogurt for Lau-ra. As she walked past the dairy, a chilling draft exhaled from the freezers. Ellen shivered. She could not help but dread the two minutes that she would be exposed to the wind as she walked across the parking lot and unloaded her groceries. Through the sliding doors, she glimpsed take out cups and plastic wrappers hurtling across the asphalt, helpless victims of the freezing wind. She reminded herself that the family had moved to this state to escape from the heat. In the months of packing and stressful housing negotiations, she had consoled herself with thoughts of a summer that didn’t rise above eighty-five degrees. Yet, now that the moment had arrived, the disappointment smothered her. Of course, this was no new feeling. As Ellen turned her cart into the snack aisle, a figure at the end of the row made her freeze. Scanning the shelves, her curly

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hair oozing over her shoulders, stood Marilyn from the office. Doesn’t she live on the other side of town? Ellen thought des-perately. She glanced behind her. Hoping for a silent escape, she eased her cart backwards. Suddenly, the wheel screeched. The woman turned. Their eyes locked. The shackles tightened around Ellen’s ankles. “Ellen!” her coworker shrieked. “How good to see you!” “Hello, Marilyn,” Ellen sighed. Trapped, she pushed her cart forward. “How are you?” “Oh, I’m fine.” Marilyn replied. As she spoke, she waved a hand bedazzled with rings. Ellen watched the jewels glitter un-der the yellow light. Inadvertently, she found herself admiring the rings, a habit she had yet to drop. She’d opened her jewelry box for the last time years ago. Though the shining stones had once seemed to complement her features, now they were only a cheap distraction. An emu strung with pearls was still an emu. Beneath the necklace, the repulsion remained. “It seems like I never get to see you anymore, since I moved departments,” Marilyn continued cheerfully. “How’s the family getting along?” “Pretty well,” Ellen said, plastering a smile on her face. “You know how these things are; everyone’s so busy. Seems like there’s never a minute to sit down.” “Isn’t that the truth?” Marilyn laughed. “In fact, Craig and I are going up to the lake next weekend to take it easy.” “Oh, that sounds so nice,” Ellen said, envy bubbling behind her grin. “I hope you have a good time.” She refrained from ask-ing any questions. Details would only plunge her further into melancholy. “Thank you. I’m sure we will. But honestly, we should get together sometime. I feel like I only get to say hi to you in the of-fice. Hey! Some girlfriends and I are going to dinner and a movie

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on Friday. Do you want to come?” “Oh, I…” Ellen grappled for some excuse she could give for refusing. When she could think of nothing concrete, the panic began to set in. How could she hope to pass an evening with a troop of happy, laughing women? The horrifying image plagued Ellen’s mind. Surrounded by a gaggle of acquaintances, she would listen as they chatted about people she didn’t know and things she hadn’t done and feel smaller and older by the mo-ment. She would have nothing interesting to say because there was nothing interesting about her. Besides, a heavy snow was supposed to fall Friday night. Tramping around on icy sidewalks when her home offered the comfort of a fire and extra blankets did not sound like a pleasant way to spend an evening. “Thanks, but I think we’re going out to eat that night,” she replied weakly. “Oh, then some other time,” Marilyn said. She picked up a bag of potato chips from the shelf and threw it in her cart. “Yes, I guess I’d better be getting along then.” “Of course. See you soon, Ellen.” Marilyn backed her cart out of the aisle. For a moment, Ellen stood watching her, bat-tling with the overwhelming urge to call out. Yet, when she opened her mouth, only a dry gulping sound emerged, like a drowning person gasping for breath. Once, Ellen would have kicked towards the sunlight, but now she only floated through the tide. Waiting for the last breath is much easier than fighting for another. Ellen pushed her cart to the check-out counter. At her ap-proach, the cashier looked up and slid his quarter art back into the change drawer. “You find everything all right, ma’am?” he asked as she loaded her items on the conveyer belt. “I did,” Ellen replied. The conversation ended. Ellen watched the kid slide her purchases across the scanner, her eyelids feeling heavier by the second. She should go to sleep

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early tonight, she knew, even though she wouldn’t. For three hours, she’d lie awake in the bed, Charlie raising the dead beside her with his snoring, and watch the neon red digits on her alarm clock change. For three hours, she’d lie awake, wondering if there really was something wrong with her, like her kids enjoyed saying. For three hours, she’d lie awake, wishing that something would come sweep her off her feet. For three hours, she’d lie awake, too numb to cry. The computer beeped on like the heart rate monitor of some sedate patient. As Ellen fished through her purse for her debit card, the cashier stacked her groceries in plastic bags and loaded them into her cart. “Are you going to need some help out to-night, ma’am?” he asked, his eyes begging her to say no. “I think I’ve got it. Thanks, though,” Ellen replied. “Have a good night,” the cashier said, relief obvious on his face. He pulled open the change drawer again and began stack-ing nickels. As Ellen shuffled through the automatic sliding doors, a burst of wind wrestled with the cart. Her coat flapped wildly around her, threatening to pull her off balance. Mounds of snow, black-ened from car exhaust, huddled against the side of the grocery store. The streetlamps dripped dim light that puddled on the pavement. Though it tried, the light could not overpower the heavy darkness of the cloud crusted sky. Only a timid glow pre-vented the parking lot from plunging into complete blackness. Ellen pushed her cart to the trunk of her car, where she stopped to dig through her purse for her keys. She sighed as she opened the bag. Beneath her eyes, the black pit displayed all its contents in one blurry blob. Curse aging, she thought as she squinted into the bag. Her glasses were in there somewhere, but she couldn’t make out which lump were those either. A gust of wind clawed through Ellen’s clothes and she gave a little moan.

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At last she felt the uneven metal against her fingertips and closed down on the keys. Hands half frozen, she unlocked the trunk and pulled the hatch open. As she unloaded the groceries and listened to the wind screaming around her, Ellen became aware of a man standing a few parking spaces down from her. Though she had not remembered seeing him in the store, he stood beside an empty cart and was lowering his back hatch over a full trunk of grocery bags. He looked not much older than El-len, though she couldn’t really tell with his face covered by the matching green scarf and hat. As he pushed his cart into the return space, he noticed her watching him. “Hey, can I help you with some of those?” he asked. “Oh, that’s all right,” Ellen said hastily. She turned to face her groceries, red rising to her cheeks despite the cold. Please ignore me, she thought. Why can’t people just pretend like I don’t exist? “Are you sure? Here, let me get that for you,” he said as she attempted to pick up the dog food. He rushed over and helped her lift the bag into the back of the car. “Thank you. Really, you don’t have to help,” Ellen insisted. Perhaps if she was short with him, he would stop paying atten-tion to her. “It’s no trouble,” the man replied as he reached into the cart. “I’m Roger Miller, by the way. My wife and I just moved here last week.” “I’m Ellen Peterson. I hope you’re liking it.” “Yeah, we think it’s great here,” Roger said as he shook her hand. “It seems like a great place to live.” “If you don’t mind the weather,” Ellen laughed. She was only half joking. “Oh, it’s not so bad,” he said as he lifted the milk jug into her car. “You can’t let a little snow dampen your spirits can you?” “I guess not,” Ellen said, trying not to sound too dismal.

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“I don’t know. I usually figure it’s pointless to let things you can’t change bother you,” Roger shrugged. “I’d rather worry about what I can do, and then do it.” “Sounds like a good plan to me,” Ellen said. The enthusiasm conveyed in her voice did not mirror her thoughts. “I’m glad someone agrees with me,” Roger replied. He obvi-ously didn’t notice the grey film that had formed over her eyes. “My wife thinks I’m crazy. ‘Why do you have to be so darn hap-py with yourself ?’ she says. ‘Can’t you just be unsatisfied like the rest of us?’” A laugh burst threw his lips. “I swear, sometimes I feel like she thinks people were built to feel bad about them-selves.” Ellen positioned the egg carton between two loaves of bread. “It must be nice to have everything in your life in perfect order. Not a lot of people can say that.” “Neither can I,” Roger corrected. “I know I have flaws; every-one does. But I can live with my imperfection. The ones I can’t live with, I get rid of.” He put the last bag into her trunk and slammed down the hatch. “Thank you so much,” Ellen said mechanically. “Don’t mention it. Hopefully I’ll see you around soon.” Ellen climbed into the driver’s seat and waved to Roger as he pulled out of the parking lot. When he left, she held her fingers in front of the vents and sighed as the warm air unfroze them. Glancing at the clock, she realized that she should be getting home. Already Charlie raised his eyebrows at the amount of time she took to go shopping. Yet somehow, she could not bring herself to put the car into drive. An odd feeling possessed her; an echo of something that she had not felt since her twenties. The radio blared with jazz. Ellen didn’t like jazz very much, but as she could never find anything more enticing, the station never changed. In the consol beside her, gum wrappers and pre-

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packaged salt packets lay strewn amidst an army of sunglasses. Ellen snorted. The sky could not have been less sunny. As the heater continued to melt her stiffened limbs, a light snow began to dust her hood. Watching the wet flakes fall from the sky, Ellen wondered if the snow hated its lot in life. When it entered the world, people hid away in their dens and moaned until the last of it left. Feet walked on it, cars drove over it, and animals used it for their toilet. They said that each snowflake was a unique beauty, but no one ever got close enough to notice. Year after year, the snow hurtled itself miles through the sky to maintain the earth’s cycles, only to be unappreciated and melt away with the coming of spring. At last, Ellen put the car into drive. She felt empty, or at least more so than usual. As she drove, the creak of the wipers sound-ed tired and melancholy. Pulling to a stop in front of a red light, Ellen glanced towards the sky. She stared into the vast blackness, trying to glean some ounce of beauty from its depths. Though the thick clouds, the glistening snow, the pockets of stars did offer some wonder, somehow Ellen could only envision heavy coats and chilly bathroom floors. Her eyes began to tear up as she peered up at the sky, wishing that she knew what to wish for. But then, the light turned green, the car behind her honked, and Ellen tumbled back into reality.

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McMurray’s, 2012, digital photograph.CareyKeny

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Self-Portrait, fall 2012, oil on canvas. TaylorBurmeister

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An Evening AwaitsWindsorC.Ford

And I am beckoned back from the night. The sound of her soothing voice,reminding me again why she makes this so easy.

Perhaps she is the damaged type,thinking of her fatheras she lets her feet hangfrom the balcony of my suite.Her feelings, now left– discarded next to the bed,to be picked up in the morningwith the rest of the laundry.

The front door opens in the early light,her words now filled with a punctuation so that each sentence might breathea little more than the last.I wonder to myself why it isthat they always expecta kiss on the way out,but never a conversationif we meet again, in passing.I suppose that is the nature of this,the essence of our wrong choices– leading one another–hand in hand, down a roadthat takes us each further from home.

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A riddle: who started the fire in the apartment complex on Main Street? Words, words, words (not the answer). Only a fool brands himself with a word. Well, that’s not quite right. Only a fool, or a clown, or a man who remembers. A genius and a hero leave their own branding to others. A fool: ignites the billions of carpet fibers with one clumsy flick of the hand. A clown: runs into the burning apartment complex on Main Street in a polyester onesie. A man who re-members: mind-tumbles back to the first time a fool set a build-ing on fire and a clown ran headlong into the flames. A genius: recognizes that fools and clowns haven’t always made it out of burning buildings, and realizes that this clown and this fool might well be lost. A hero: attempts a rescue anyway in a thin, cotton t-shirt. But only one sticks, you see, in a way that matters. A second riddle: who ends the fire in the apartment complex on Main Street? Hmm…(Not the answer). Here’s something you may not have expected: a fool is a lo-gician. Driven by facts, reassured by branding. To keep it to a word: simple. A fool is simple. A fool would not choose this word for himself. A fool would choose “caring.” A fool would choose “smart.” A fool would choose “courageous.” A fool de-serves more credit than “simple” awards him. A fool, however, can be counted on to slip into the previous sort of sentence struc-ture, and is therefore stripped of the right to fancier words. A fool is a logician: simple. Driven by facts, reassured by branding. Unfortunately, when branded “clumsy” in his young-est youth, a fool cements himself to a word, a word, a word, and can also be counted on to set fire to an apartment complex on Main Street with a flick of the hand. Here’s something worth grinning about: a clown is a dare-

Thoughts on Buildings, and the Fires That End Them

JuliaDevine

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eyed dope, neither here nor there. He’s wearing a polyester one-sie, I’ll remind you. To keep it to a word: “witless.” Witless. A toothy grin. Runs headlong into the flames. Words, words, words. We tend to forget a man who remembers: a historian. Useless. He does nothing for now. Crucial. Would we recall every earthy soil caked with sun-dried blood without a man who remembers the details? No. Could just any individual reel in time’s anchor and rediscover the first occasion on which an apartment com-plex caught fire? No. Yes, a man who remembers is needed–he knows the first clumsy flick, the first toothy grin. Yet, a man who remembers needs his word, the word he chose, the word he branded into the wrinkles beneath his worry-worn eye sockets: historian. Seer to the past. A word is a burden, ask him. But those are the ones who confine themselves to language. Here are the ones that bite their tongues and still their throaty cords. Here are the ones who do not self-stamp the ink. And when it dries in the valleys of their fingers and toes, here are the ones whose wittiest brains and daringest doers are no different for it. Here’s the remarkably sensible one: the genius. A genius is an engineer, connecting the actions of a fool and a clown with de-tails that a man remembers. Insight: what a genius brings. He is the magic of a light bulb. An electric current running through the fools and the clowns and the remembering men. The intellect of a genius is rarely bested. Of course, he makes the right connec-tion the first time–we know he’s not to be second-guessed. He is above us, but would never admit it. We had to think of his word, most suitable word, fitting word…genius. A wizard in a city of fools and clowns. Speaking of, he recognizes instantly that the fool and the clown in the apartment complex on Main Street

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might well be lost. An answer: a genius started the fire in the apartment complex on Main Street. He was the therapist, confirming, rather than negating, the young fool’s clumsy nature. Simple. He was the clown’s brother, praised as the “intellect,” driving the clown to grins. Witless. He was the past that haunts the man who remem-bers…details… And then, with hutzpah, there is the hero: the protagonist amongst the fools, the clowns, the men who remember, and even the geniuses. The expected surprise. The casual savior. A light in the dense darkness created by fools, clowns, and worriers, mocked by geniuses. The first answer: I told you—the fool started the fire in the apartment complex on Main Street. There are many bridges, many answers. But the fool can be counted on. He flicked his hand; he’s clumsy. Simple. The second answer: the one that sticks in the way that mat-ters. Not the clown, whose polyester nightmare melts to his skin in the flames. Did you guess? It is the hero, the protagonist. The spotlight is on him because he earns it. He does not ask for a word; we give it to him. Hero. Savior. Light. Words, words, words. Fools, clowns, men who remember, and us: we claim, we grin, we worry, we name. Geniuses connect the dots. But a hero rearranges the dots and finds a door whose knob has not yet felt the heat of flame. He acts. He rescues a fool and a clown; he ends the fire in the apartment complex on Main Street. And he has the good sense to never wear polyester.

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The Quetzal’s Masquerade, fall 2012, clay and oil paint. AbbyMalcolm

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Balanced Dinnerware (set), November 2012, handbuilt earthenware.

AnnaStrecker

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Will you make a home for me?One that smells a lot like dew and riverbed.

The dust hasn’t been kindTo my lungsAnd I’m feeling them break down with each breath.

Will you make a home for me,In the back fields of Edinburgh,In the bog marshes and rainy nightsCupped into a warm chairWith a lifetime in our hands

The sun looks better peeking behind the cloudsAnd your smile looks better as it shies forward.We can make reality out of its hesitationAnd I can paint down its genesisWith coffee mugs,The way artists try to.

I have words to describe the wayMy arm feels tucked under yours in a snow stormWith frost bitten toes,

For the way we all have a bit of hopeIn something eternal,Even though we live in fleetings,We find equilibrium in heartbeats

And you make me feel like an artist.

Even if I’m nowhere close

A Love Letter to PoetryAutumnSmith

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To mapping out this world for youI will document the blades of grass peakingThe sun’s shy peekingFrom Peking to the ends of the weepingWillow trees limbs

Though,

We’ve both got pasts we can’t shakeAnd smiles we like to hide behindWrapped in silk cocoons and our voices

Though,You’ve got some pain embedded in your skin tissueAnd you said my voice sounded like regret

Though,They all say we’re too lost somewhere beyond steepled churchesWith their crosses and nailsWooden planks that try to hold our hands

Darling,

We have got some potential somewhere in the back of our tongues,We just need to learn to speak.I can write our songs.You can be my home.

And we’ll document this earthBefore all of it is gone.

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You told me I could be anything if I pushed myself enough.

I told you that without you,

I’d be nothing but a windowSealed shut in an airless room.

I’d be nothing but an artist with no sight,

Nothing but a running bird with no wings.

Make me a home, with the dew at sunrise.Pay my dues with your dust,And drop my ashes above the dirt,

Once I’ve got nothing left to paint,With these makeshift words,Made up of disfigured cultures,We’ll make something beautiful.

Some people say,The most beautiful thingIs the way the sun hits the earth.

I think it’s most beautifulWhen it hides

And bids you seek it.

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Sand DollarsShannonKelleher

I cross the mudflats gingerly, my footsteps light and measured so as not to massacre the fiddler crab herds that scatter before me in miniature stampedes. The muffled rustle of their legs tickles my eardrums in a whispered welcome before it dissolves in the breeze. My classmates have already begun to fan out; those that I had been walking with press on ahead of me and I let them go, taking my time as I ease each foot from its hold in the earthy sub-strate with a declarative squelch. I round the bend and an onrush of briny ocean wind brushes my skin and toys with the ends of my hair. Before me are the outstretched arms of a salty blue eternity. It is as though I have been thrust into a world of vast, breathy space; beyond this stretch of sand there is only the sea that races out to the horizon and the sky that arches up to infinity. In this moment I feel myself burst outwards from my bodily shell, dif-fusing into the day as it in turn rushes to fill the hollow vacancy that lies submerged in the depths of me. I am met with a fleet-ing thought; I wish that I could hold it all within me even after I am gone from this place, that the freedom and awe that I find in this fresh vastness could be more than an ancillary substitute for whatever part it is that has absconded from my being. But as I make my way to the water’s edge where the bathwater waves caress the soles of my feet, I know that the moment will pass and the wholeness within me will drain, exposing a void that yearns for…something. Has it always been a part of me, this speck of nothingness? Small but not insignificant, it is the part of me that spurns sleep and scans the darkness of the night for…for what? I turn my gaze to the tide that laps at my toes, a bucket in hand as I pad along at the foot of the sea, my eyes sifting the shallows. I am searching for sand dollars. Science says that they are echinoids, radial and flat, that feed on diatoms and larvae. Folklore says that they are the currency of mermaids, giant coins

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stamped with the insignia of a five-petaled flower washed into sunlight from the watery depths of Atlantis. Plunging my hand beneath the frothy surface just beyond the tide line, I begin what becomes a continuous choreography of searching and crouching and coming up with something bright and new. I fall easily into this rhythm of pulling gifts from the sea, one by one: crowned, slender whelks; spiraled lavender shells that house tiny, pallid hermit crabs; translucent egg sacs that mold like gelatin in the palm of my hand; fragmented, parchment-like horseshoe crab exoskeletons. I scoop up red- and orange-banded shells with rip-pled surfaces that spread outward in the shape of fans and shells with smooth, pearly undersides splashed with violet. My bucket is brimming with swatches of sunset. They are beautiful, my treasures from the sea, and yet not one of them is a sand dollar. I move further and further down the stretch of sand, engaging in my simple choreography with the spacious scenery around me unchanging. But as the salty sweat begins to roll from my arms to mingle with that of the sea, I still do not produce any of the elusive echinoids. I break from the routine to stand and wipe my brow, casting my eyes sea-ward. What does each wave carry with it when it comes rolling to shore? They arise from unfathomable depths, the very depths from which the first strands of DNA spawned and, ultimately, from which all life emerged. From which my life emerged. Each wave breaks upon the shoreline and glides to rest at my feet bear-ing gifts, yet at the growing realization of my human limitations I find a hint of indifference in their manner, a subtle solemnity in their movement. The sea gives, but it does not take requests. I stoop to extract another promising shape from the sandy bottom and my hand is met with the sharp-edged shell of an oyster. I turn again to the sea and for a moment I simply absorb the scope of its breadth. I am again filled with a joyful sense of awe at its

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vastness, its evocation of freedom, and yet this time the emotion is also tinged with unease. What are the odds, I wonder, that even one lone sand dollar will emerge at my feet from this blue infinity? Gazing motionlessly as the tide rolls in and the waves inch a bit higher up my ankles, the void within me seems to throb in time with my heartbeat. And what are the odds that just the right bit of something will emerge to fill the nothingness in the life of a human being? Suddenly fearful of this unexpected rush of loneliness, I tear my eyes from the waves and look about the shoreline for my classmates. Jess is just a few feet away with a cluster of egg sacs clutched in the palm of her hand. Erin and Esther are perhaps a hundred feet upshore, stooping to examine a large pink pin shell. We seem so similar in these moments, milling about in tiny clus-ters on the far shore of Carrot Island. It is as though many of the variations that separate us into individuals have been swallowed up by the magnitude of our surroundings and we are practical-ly one and the same. They, too, must have something that they search for, something that they perhaps cannot fit a name to that would complete them if only they could find it. Perhaps some of them have already found it. I notice that they are also sweating from exertion and from the sun’s steady rays; as they comb the water with their hands their sweat also mingles with the salt of the sea. It is the sea that we all came from, or at least our micro-scopic precursors did, eons ago when there was nothing in all the world but the lull of the ocean. The tide is coming in fast now; flecks of sea spray spatter my lips and I taste the salt. I taste my humanity.

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Postural Musing and Mapping Form, fall 2012, oil on masonite.LeslieJ.Winter

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Empress, October 2012, ceramic.MorganBeam

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BergamotSamReynolds

Silence isn’t the absence of noise But the presence of inaudible sounds.It was just you and me and the color TV.

Aside from the drag of teeth against the mugVibrating against your lips.

Warm steam your lungs releaseGrains of lipstick where your puckered mouthPressed against your tea

It was you and me and the action starsFlashes of orange Exploding cars

A spoonful of hot oats Singed from your tongue to your throatA blood-curdling cry releasedYou ruined the movie.

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Turkey Legs and Various CirclesEllieFenton

My cousin is locked in a duel. A challenge accepted upon a whim. Her pride had been wounded, and she glares at her oppo-nent as sadistically as her sweet face can muster. The two swords-men circle each other, neither blinking, neither wanting to be the first to attack. My family stands nearby, and we watch the two intently. Her opponent points to the ground on which they both stand. “Dueling circle,” he says, goading my cousin. Jabbing his finger at the air for emphasis, he points off to the distance where busty women are busying themselves babbling. “Sewing circle,” he says with a smirk. My cousin audibly grunts and raises her sword as she lunges at the man who has just insulted her ability to fight. Their weap-ons clash together. Figurative sparks fly. Their feet shuffle kick-ing up dust; each tries to out maneuver the other. It’s over quickly. Alexandra disarms her opponent, and my family laughs, watching her get so frustrated at the Renaissance character who had originally challenged my little brother. My brother, not wanting to put down his massive turkey leg, had de-clined. Alexandra, tiny and blonde and only ten years old, had risen to the challenge. She had stormed at the actor, grabbing a tiny wooden sword from one of the log benches that outlined the dueling circle. The actor had laughed as she struck what she had believed was a convincing and menacing battle pose. I’m sure he could see as easily as we could that she had been as serious as anyone could ever be about a fake sword fight in the middle of a Renaissance fair. Women in tight corsets and men in coarse tights milled about, eating “steak on a stake,” but Alexandra had been focused. Not even the smell of her abandoned turkey leg that my uncle had now begun to eat could distract her. Her little face was determined. That is when the man had made his mistake, staying true to

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character and telling my cousin that women belonged in the sew-ing, not the dueling, circle. Naturally, as a worker of a Renais-sance fair in full medieval garb, he had let her win, had let her little wooden sword knock his wooden weapon from his hand as a band of merry minstrels had passed by. In a defeatist manner, he falls to his knees melodramatically and begs my tomboy cousin to spare his life, even looking to my family for help as we continue to laugh, getting distracted by the man announcing the start time of the falconry demonstration. “Please, fair lady,” he cries. “Have mercy!” “No!” Alexandra screams stamping her food into the dirt and she makes to sever his head. She touches her sword to his neck and then throws it into the dirt triumphantly. She storms off to-ward her father with her hands on her hips, showing as much attitude as a ten-year-old can muster, and holds out her hand to reclaim her turkey leg as her prize.

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Write This DownAmarraC.Oriaku

INT. BEDROOM OF AN ASSISTED LIVING CENTER. LATE AFTERNOON

THE BEDROOM IS IN AN UPTOWN ASSISTED LIVING CENTER.

JOEY, 21 YEARS OLD, AND GEORGE, 58 YEARS OLD, ARE SEATED IN THE TWO

CHAIRS. THERE IS A DRESSER AND A DESK TO THE LEFT AND THERE

IS A BED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM. THERE IS A JAR OF RED

JELLY BEANS ON THE DRESSER AND A WHITEBOARD OVER THE

DESK.

GEORGEWhat about Rita?

JOEYRetired.

GEORGEBob?

JOEYRetired.

GEORGEStanley?

JOEYWas working up at an oil rig on Fifth, but he retired at the end

of the year.

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GEORGEJack?

JOEYGood ole’ Jumping Jack Flash?

GEORGEYeah. He’s still kicking right?

JOEYProbably would be if he weren’t dead.

GEORGEJumping Jack isn’t jumping anymore?

JOEYI’m afraid not.

GEORGEYou sure? Jack Ingram?

JOEYYeah. He was an alcoholic. Died of liver failure a few years

back.

GEORGEMan . . . well, what do you expect when your parents name

you Jack Daniel Ingram? You’re either gonna be an alcoholic or a tired ole’ country singer who only sings about horses and

tractors.

JOEYAnd if the parents are lucky, it’ll be a combination of the two.

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They both laugh.

GEORGEDo you remember Martha?

JOEY(Beat)

I’m not sure I do.

GEORGECome on. Martha? Junior high school Martha. Short hair, big

brown eyes, always wore her hair in pig tails.

JOEYOh yeah. Martha . . . Stevenson. What about her?

GEORGEJust thinking about her.

JOEYWell, what about her?

GEORGEShe was the first girl I ever had a crush on.

JOEYReally? You never told me that.

GEORGEAre you kidding me? Do you remember when we were playing

football during recess and I hit her with the ball?

Slight pause. Joey is thinking.

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GEORGEI blamed you for not catching the ball. Said if you were faster,

she wouldn’t have gotten hit.

JOEYShe never did forgive me for that.

GEORGEGuess what?

JOEYWhat?

GEORGEI hit her with the ball on purpose.

JOEYWhat? Why on Earth would you wanna go and do that?

GEORGETo show her I liked her.

JOEYCouldn’t you have just gotten her some flowers, a box of choco-

lates, or something?

GEORGEI could have if I wanted it to be easy for her. Look, guys that

give girls flowers and little chocolates are weak. They’re spine-less. Now, guys that aim a football at the girl’s head are strong,

brave freaks of nature. Kinda like Riggs in Lethal Weapon.

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JOEYYou do know that Riggs was a crazy, suicidal womanizer, right?

George shakes his head and smiles.

JOEY Is that how you got Julie? You throw a ball at her too?

GEORGEJulie? Heavens no. She changed the game. (Beat) I remember the first time I saw her. We were in math class and she, she

was wearing this blue sweater and a pair of khaki slacks. Her sweater matched those big piercing blue eyes and her hair was

in a bun. You know, the big ones the supermodels wear. But she looked way better than any supermodel. She was flawless.

JOEY(In amazement)

You still remember what she was wearing.

GEORGEBud, I still remember the smell of her hair after every soccer

game. (Beat) Lavender. Smelt just like lavender.

Joey smiles as George stares off into the distance. BEEPBEEP, BEEP BEEP. Joey glances down at his watch and turns

it off. Joey stands up.

JOEYIt’s time for your medicine.

Joey walks over to the desk, grabs the medication, and abottle of water. He walks back to George and first hands him

the medicine then the water.

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GEORGEShouting and turning away from Joey. Jelly beans! Where are

my jelly beans? I’ll only take the pills for you if you have my red jelly beans.

Joey walks to the dresser and grabs the jar of red jellybeans.

JOEYHere they are.

George reaches for the jelly beans but Joey smacks his hand away.

JOEY After you take your medicine.

George sighs and begrudgingly takes the two pills out of thesmall cup and takes a small sip of water. George holds out

his hand to get the jelly beans from Joey. Joey hands Georgethe jelly beans.

JOEYHere you are. One serving of red jelly beans.

George smiles as he eats the jelly beans. Joey puts themedicine cup back on the desk. Walking back to his chair—

JOEYYou sure do like jelly beans.

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GEORGENot just any jelly bean. The red jelly bean.

JOEYWhy the red ones?

GEORGEThe green one looks like vomit and the yellow tastes like

piss, so red is the safest bet. (Beat) Did you know that Ronald Reagan loved jelly beans? He even had a personal stash on Air Force One and an endless supply in the oval office. An endless supply of jelly beans! Red jelly beans! Damn presidents, they

get all the good stuff.

George shakes his head and sighs. Joey laughs.

GEORGENow, where was I before this jelly bean business?

JOEYJulie. You were talking about Julie.

GEORGEJulie. . . wait. What about her?

JOEYYou were telling me how you met.

George is confused.

JOEYIt’s okay. Where was your first date?

GEORGE

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That’s an easy one. We went to see George Strait in concert.

JOEYGeorge Strait? You don’t like country music.

GEORGEBut I like Julie. We ended up having a great time. The King of

Country music even gave her an autograph after the show.

George smirks.

She swore to me after we got married I was the only George that meant anything to her, but I always knew that she had a

place in her heart for George Strait. (Beat) I remember for our anniversary I sang George’s Write This Down. She loved it!

(Beat) Sometimes I would leave little post-it notes around the house that had the lyrics on them.

George then sings the chorus of the song. As George issinging, Joey reaches inside his bag and pulls out a CD.

GEORGEWrite this down/take a little note/ to remind yourself if you

didn’t know/tell yourself I love you and I won’t let you go baby write this down.

JOEYThis is for you.

GEORGEGeorge Strait’s Greatest Hits Album. Thanks bud.

Nods as George looks at the CD.

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JOEYI’m sure she loved you more than George Strait.

GEORGENo doubt in my mind. We’ve been married for years. Hell, we even made two beautiful children together. My daughter is the president of her senior class, and my son just started his fresh-

man year of high school. (Beat) They grow up so fast.

George begins to laugh.

My son came into my room last night wondering if he could borrow my razor. He doesn’t even have hair!

Both Joey and George laugh.

GEORGEOh, bud I tell ya. I thought having a girl was tough, but having

a boy—

JOEYIs your son trouble or—

GEORGENo. He is a great kid. He makes good grades, comes home on

time, does his chores, and, moreimportantly, he stays away from the girls. (Beat) He wants to be an architect when he gets older. An architect, you know? I

couldn’t be prouder.

JOEY(With tears in his eyes.)

Your kids must think you’re pretty great too.

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GEORGEI sure hope so.

JOEYChoking up. They do. I’m sure of it.

Joey stands up and puts his sunglasses on.

JOEY I have to get going, but it was great to see you again.

GEORGENow Frank, don’t you go die on me or worse, retire.

JOEY(Turns back and looks at George.)

Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.

Joey walks over to the whiteboard on the wall. He picks upthe marker and writes, “January 16, 2013. Joey visited

today. Joey is your son.” He goes back to George, who isstill sitting in his chair, and gives him a hug.

JOEY (cont’d)See you soon George.

Joey exits the room. George stares at the CD that Joeybrought him.

GEORGE(Looks up, smiling.)

Frank, you handsome devil.

FADE TO BLACK

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Four Different People, Now GoneMeganConkle

1.Maybe I’ll die this way, alone andthinking about your handgrasping daisies. I am as breakable

as their stems, snapping and sticking; I wish I’d been stitched

into your sweaters.

2.I wanted to ask if yousuffer this too: faces that lookfamiliar, I am often unable to

place. I find myself wondering what I would have bought you: it is February Fourteenth.

3.There’s something that chokes;it is me.Is it possible that there are syllableswe cannot bring ourselves to utter,because we are too busyadmiringthe creases in the slacks of another man?

4.In case you did not know: when the menin tan, raw-hide bootscame with the bag, a tarp,I sat shaking. Thinking that they didn’t even know you. Were the strangerswho carried you awayever afraid of breaking the cooling bonesthat rattled in their hands?

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My Grandmother’s Lilacs, July 2012, oil on panel.ChristineAvery

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Self-Portrait, fall 2012, oil on canvas.PaigeLloyd

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Night is not black, but blueWhich is why we pull it up to our chins and rest in it.

It is the hottest color of flame and the color Mary wears as she coddles her infant.

It is calm and tranquil and softbut on the visible light spectrum,Blue uses so much energy it is invisible.

It is the color of my eyesAnd my mother’s too, And according to her grandmother’s journal,Our Alsatian ancestor as he takes off his hat to wipe his brow, so many years before us, ‘so blue and inviting.’

It is the color of the ink that writes these poems, slowly, word by word.

It can be brightened or dimmed but always stays the same,

It is a feeling we get, and what we sing to no longer feel it anymore.

It is the majority of my wardrobe,As if to say I am safe and loyal and calming

Yet fiery and energetic,

Like the sea, and the sky As the sun drops into a deep blue night.

BlueEricWerner

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Depending on How You Pour ItKrystalDean

A strange man pointed to the full moonHe told me to howl last night.

His face was grizzledThe can he held was half-empty

Half-full depending on how you pour it.

Big, loopy German shepherd trailing after him looked uphowling with us

As we summoned spirits to fly forth.

I thought of you,inevitable decay of your liver

your restless corpsea short lived life, fuse burned too fast

Howl with me, Jack,The daughter you never accepted,

howl for her, with me.

Your lost friends—those ‘angel headed hipsters’sorrow buried deep within souls

Howl with me for them, Jack.

Let’s get all of these feelings out—As this man laughs, hacks & coughs a bit, in the cold

His dog brushing up against unsteady knee.Somehow the two meld into the darkness

I smile fondly and continue on my wayLetting you go with my foggy breath into the night

Sighing at the thought of losing your memoryYet remembering that you truly belong

To no one, Jack, except the earth, now.

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I wrote your name on my To-Do list

under throw away the leftovers

empty the garbagere-organize the closet.

I was so busycleaningI forgot.

Spring CleaningDorriJones

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He is the side-way glance, the hand I reach for on a crowded city street, the pine needles pulled by a western wind between my fingers.I spread through air, pages of books, feathers, dustunder my nails—gather in skin as if I could captureand keep the mornings when his palms brusheddreams from my eyelashes and the settling collisionswithin my lungs let free the sun from below my feet—read me blind, know me by the sound of my wandering,that when tears fall in thunderstorms, there is no differenceexcept intent—lightning, veins of heat, burn as rivers cutting through mud, storm in the space between the peeling frescoed stars—barely there—lines on skin,they move in stagnantation behind my thunder-yell,and I still reach, cold air and stardust as he wakes.

Moving WaterKelseyQ.Mazur

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Movement 1

He is a young man who walks alone down the middle of dark streets in a depressed Ohio town. It is ten thirty in the evening and he is avoiding sleep. The night is already frigid and he checks the temperature with his breath. He walks into the small jet of floating white air in front of his face. About thirty, maybe thirty five. A few lamps on the other side of the street reflect skyward from the shards of blue glass and green glass and cloudy clear glass with sticker labels shredded and filthy. He hates broken glass. There is no difference between his university litter and the silent city streets. He walked past his apartment five minutes ago, not even bothering to see that his light was left on, an open eye on the boxy face of his campus housing. He crosses a street and meanders onto a bike path. Here, and for the next fifteen minutes of his walk, it will be nearly completely silent and utterly black and bitterly cold and filthy. In the dark, he feels out the blacktop with his heels. To him, there is something romantic about the journey, the danger, the possibility that tonight might be the night he doesn’t come back home. There is a rush of nervous energy when a groundhog bustles back into the ragweed next to the path. He can hear the groundhog freeze once out of sight. He savors the excitement of the fear, aware one of them is more afraid of the other. The endorphins course through his veins and inspire him to create, and right now, he is creating. A riff, a few notes blessed into his mind earlier that evening stuck with him through tutor-ing students and conversing with friends and avoiding strangers. He needs the high to write and the danger to create the high and his dangerous sadness to choose a cold, dark walk over tripping curbs and drunk-spilling glass bottles on the sidewalk. His father owns a plumbing business and a warehouse that is only a mile and a half from his apartment. In the unused room of the shop he laboriously crafted the perfect jam room. One summer he hung white styrofoam in twenty foot sheets to ab-sorb sound. He painted them to look like a stereo and a safari of

A Night and WithdrawalC.S.Payton

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animals. The inspirations for the safari scenes were the real dead Kudus and wild boars his uncle hunted and left to his family af-ter he died of obesity. The real stereo was a PA system thirty-two channels strong, enough to carry his voice and solo guitar. His hands are freezing as he keys the code to garage door. He sticks his left hand fingers in his mouth and warms them, a twinge of disappointment crossing his mind as the door closes safely be-hind him.

Movement 2

Rooms this size take about three days to adjust to the outside temperature. The walls are mostly bare plywood, and there is a support column rising up to the black, dusty steel beams of the roof. There is no insulation. His guitar is in a floor stand, a quarter inch jack plugged in and waiting. He turns the sound system on and makes the elec-tric volt meter outside whirl. He takes his place in front of his Fender American Standard Stratocaster sixtieth anniversary model, silences his phone, and releases the tension of a drumset snare. He shakes his hands out and stays standing. On a makeshift music stand one of his scribbled notes reads “It began in smoke and ended that way.” Another, “you fell be-neath the ice, chinup deep.” He warms up the sound system and his fingers and the strings with a rolling blues song, something about a girl, a girl leaving, and sadness, the essence of all blues. These blues are real to him and while playing he stares at an empty Ford E350 van seat across the room. His muse is sitting there, the ghost of a memory, buttoning up her blouse. He writes a line of simple, rough lyrics: “I won’t let her burn inside of me. I will wake my heart and set it free.” The verse evolves and changes, grows more complex. By the end he replac-es “her” with “it,” respectfully, and “my heart” with “the dead.” It becomes a song everyone can hear. He turns up the distortion on his amp and screams the lines into a Shure SM58 microphone and makes his head throb in pain from noise and music and a release, the release of tension let loose from a drumset snare.

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Movement 3

The river is black and white. There is a small manmade rapid off the bank near the park and he watches the trash bob in a calm eddy beside the rushing water. At midnight, the river makes a sound louder than approaching footsteps. At midnight, the river is black and the shadows are black and can hide a fox or a deer or a rapist or nothing at all and he would not know until some-thing moved, but it is midnight and the river will not let him hear a goddamn thing. He comforts his twitching hands against the knife in his pocket. This is where he wants to be. This is where he is drawn. It is not safe this side of the city and he understands the rules of the dark. Nothing is safe and he has nowhere else to go. Neither the campus library nor the local coffee shop is open. Nor is it the books or the caffeine he wants, but the nook or cranny. Some-place secret. The river is full of secret spaces. He sits on a massive white imported limestone block, import-ed to match the surrounding limestone cliffs of the park. Several tons in size, under the moon the limestone is blinding. The rock was stone cut from a quarry, shaped, shipped, and painstakingly placed in this spot. The objective was to beautify the river by choking it, to create a dynamic apart from the glassy stream al-ready cutting out lazy currents fifteen feet below. Memory and white water splash on white stone and he cannot escape either. The nooks and crannies used to contain two cups of coffee and a pair of library desks. She joked about jumping in the river one afternoon. A baby drowned in the rapid months after it was com-pleted. The thought crosses his mind but hypothermia is no way to go. The black water boiled underneath the rocks and added a bluish bottle to the detritus in the eddy. It was already time to leave and he had only just arrived.

Movement 4 He dresses up to play his guitar. Clean clothes, brushed teeth, rolled sleeves, and a belt. He reserves this as his own sacred tradi-

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tion. His guitar, like all ships and cars and bicycles, is a woman. Her name is Genevieve. It is one a.m. She rests caseless against his bare, spartan bed. She is calling. He picks her up and sits, rocks back in his wooden apartment chair. The first chord is always the same, a muscular tic instinc-tively forming an Aminor7 on the fretboard. The chord finds it-self in all the best songs. “Babe, I’m Gonna Leave You” is his favorite, apart from his own compositions. It is a strange chord, the seventh. The notes are always lacking when strummed to-gether. A haunting emptiness which can be added, sustained, hammered on, pulled apart or off. For years, the chord has mys-tified him for its shadowy lack and malleable nature. Genevieve is an acoustic guitar, a custom Taylor 514ce with tropical mahogany sides and back and a western red cedar top, intricate wood pattern rosette with a deep black ebony fretboard and abalone dot inlays. He bought it for his seventeenth birthday on a twelve-month, same as cash guarantee. He plays softly a meandering tune he wrote during his fresh-men year of college. He does not sing the lyrics “You can’t put in what God left out, but after twenty years, I learned make up helps” because the apartment is quiet and relies on him to put it to sleep. He closes his eyes and mouths the rest of the words. The physical world slips away in the darkness of his mind, a type of meditation that dulls all the senses but leaves auditory response intact and, in fact, heightened. Mechanics take over, his hands in synchronization and contention at once, meeting on notes and resting on vibration. He builds slowly a dynamic change and a major bridge. The metallic smell of oxidation is black on his cal-loused fingers, fingers which are worn and ache from the wound steel of the strings, but he does not care. Genevieve was on clearance at his local music store. She was discounted at two thousand dollars and as irresistible then as she is now. He remembers the summer between his junior and senior years when he plays her, remembers what he had to do to earn her. Apprentice plumber work. Back breaking work. Not knowing where tools are located and then locking himself in the back of a van. Finding a trough too late, the cement frozen and

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water-mixed in a bucket. A black shitwater shower at hot noon for a century-old house repipe. The dew wet morning he put on coveralls and gloves and two hats to spelunk seventy feet in a crawlspace never opened. It was the first time he saw an albino spider, bigger than his hand, dead and suspended from a web. He was supposed to locate the source of a gas leak by nose. The trance ends as the song ends. He sits and rocks and thinks. His lips are tightsealed. The silence of his room bothers his ears. It is not true silence. Outside his blinded window, he hears the idiotic shouts of habitually drunk students throwing blue and cloudy glass on the pavement. Do not dare call them alcoholics. He fills the room again with himself. He half picks, half plucks, hybrid picks, “Babe, I’m Gonna Leave You” and waits for his fingers to let go and finally bleed.

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The morning hazes count to mein the soothing cadenceof the farm.The machines are onand are keeping steady,vacant timeto the gates as theyopen and closeand swing and grind.

The dogs call; I know you must be awakesomewhere. I knowthat the gravel beneath your feetmust be crunching. Another crow,hollowing out still,nameless eyes.

The haze burns until it’s nothing but a finely combedlayer of floating dust. It sticks to me like it sticks to you.I count twenty four.Heads here stay locked in place.

The Hills: MorningMeganConkle

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Clone 2, September 2012, digital photograph.AshleyBerg

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Ana-Sofia, November 2012, silver gelatin print. LaurenHouser

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Portrait, age 7KelseyQ.Mazur

Sometimes you would let me sitsprawl across the carpet with permanent markers and finger paintsbut I’d sit still balanced in the center of the sea foam carpet stained and speckled with dried paint afraid to touch it afraid that my palms would turn blue and green and the ocean would drip from my fingertipsSometimes you would laugh at me And flick the paint from your brush across the wall the floor the canvas and smile at my smileI used to paint the waves you’d say sitting in the chair in the corner with a glass of scotch you used to fight to swear to jump into quarries to walk through the kitchen and leave blue swirling footprints on the linoleum you used to let me sit and watch the ocean come tumbling splashing onto the canvas in waves and gales in leapsYou keep your studio locked now only fumbling with swollen hands to let me in and see the dried paint settled over what used to be waterfalls and divers if only you looked a certain wayI was too young to see your self-portraits in green and blue and streaks of whiteI used to see myself

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We were shellsBuried on the sea shoreTaken over in the undertow.Fleeting sun glitters, like flecks of sand,We were getting lost.

These winding paths like the map of veinsThat carry my bloodCarry us, like the wind between our clothes,We were getting lost. Patterns permeate in delicate splotchesBurning patches on my skinGlowing, like the cigarette once on your gums,We were getting lost.

We were shaking leavesRattling our bones in evening’s breezeYou were wise to bring a sweaterFor me to put my hands in the holes of,We were getting lost

And we were staying there.

Getting Lost/Staying ThereSamReynolds

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Chimney Teapot and Round Teapot, fall 2012, thrown brown stoneware, shino glazed.

JacobKuntz

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Reflection in Glass, October 2012, color pencil. KelliHarrod

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By HeartEricWerner

When we make brownies againwe’ll have figured out the right balance between oil and water.

We’ll know how to crack the eggso the shell won’t get in,

the difference a few degrees makes.

We’ll know how messy it can get but how worthwhile sitting on the kitchen floorlicking batter from spoons and bowls.

We’ll know we can do this.

When we make brownies againwe’ll throw away the box. Instructions are for things that have been made before.

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Steamed Carrots At MidnightEllieFenton

This particular prompt was particularly perturbing. Pencils. Students and pencils. Students picking up purple pencils. Periwinkle pencils. Stumped students picking up purple or periwinkle pencils. Perhaps to palaver painstakingly until paltry prose about potbellied pachyderms particularized on paper. Staggering students stumbling over staunched sentences. Students stooped over with pencils poised above parchment…or paper, starting sentences like, “Purling parties with pernicious pescatarians who probably have proper pinkie place-ment when picking up pencils,” only able to produce profound patois with a paucity of ideas. Stoichiometry seemed a more pleasurable prospect to the students than stretching a prompt that included pen-cils. Stricken by premature panic, they procrastinated, only to perpetu-ate their sordid situations. Peripheral visions of peregrine falcons and Shakespearean pentameter perforated their every thought. Projects with puffy pipe cleaners and penne pasta would have been preferable. Pencils picking up stodgy students instead? What would happen if they wrote about that? Purple and periwinkle pencils picking up stunned students and plopping them into piranha tanks. ¿Por qué? Por qué no. Paul, one student in particular, a pious pipsqueak, was plagiariz-ing a paper about pens. Pens! Paul the pipsqueak picked up a pencil to plagiarize about pens. Paul paused in the act, and then stopped. He popped himself some salty popcorn and pondered his options. Was it possible that his creative capacities had halted at an utter standstill? He felt shamefully stripped of all potential plot ideas. His mind flitted to surly stegosauruses and superior steeds, to stinking white station wagons and steamed carrots at midnight. “Poor Paul,” he thought, perplexed and pouting. “Perfect punc-tuation but nothing to apply it to.” Puzzled, he sulked around his apartment, praying to a powerful pagan god for inspiration. He had cemented himself in a sedentary state of perpetual perplexity. Such a snafu had never come upon Paul before. Paul stared down his paper again. Swashbuckling pirates swam

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through his head, but pirates would not have plundered or pillaged to pick up pencils. Paul even pondered pink piñatas dancing the polka and swollen swordfish swishing around, but a plausible plot avoided Paul like the plague. Paul pitched his popcorn bag and produced from the pantry some pistachios. He contemplated posing the question to friends, taking a poll of the better ideas, steamed carrots and plunder-ing pirates aside. Certainly someone could summon some sage idea. Even a scathing satire would suffice for Paul. But Paul was sadly, sorely stuck on the word “pencil.” How could Paul possibly make the pencil a more pertinent part of the plot? Per-haps a paradoxical land where pencils painted pictures of parachut-ing pandas and where paint brushes drew dressed up dragonflies and people posed as paramecia? Probably not the most convincing story. And how would a plot play out in a land of placid people? Paul turned on the TV and sourly surfed through static trying to find a suitable channel to spark his creativity. He powered on his crappy computer and tried in vain to construct a composition from thin air. “Stumped,” said he. “Stupidly stumped and sorely void of valid ideas.” Was it possible that an old favorite poet could prod Paul in the right direction? But what poet might have produced poetry that prat-tled about pencils? Perhaps Shel Silverstein with his silly soliloquies? Paul even considered any pedantic prodigy he could imagine. Sadly, the search was to no avail. Would nothing spark even a simple sput-tering of a speech? Paul sat slumped on his sofa like a spoiled spud. He was woefully wary of the worst writer’s block he had ever wrestled with in his writing life. Powering off both computer and TV, Paul put pencil to paper again. “Now what?” he wondered. Women wearing whimsical white wimples wandered their way into his head. Medieval matrons might make for semi-interesting material…maybe he could make something of that? The more modern stories of medieval maidens certainly were melodramatic, and since Paul was suffering from a massive mental block, he went with this whim. He pathologically planned a parable of two lusty lovers placed in purposeful proximity, whispering power-

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ful persiflage. Paul stopped his prose again and professed a profusion of pro-found profanities. Pencils! People of that period were penciless. Paul paced the perimeter of his room feeling pathetic. He precisely was not a supporter of poorly composed piffle; Paul was a perfectionist. His impatience was practically palpable and it seemed to percolate through the room. He sat again and dropped his head down on the dirty, disorganized desk feeling dreadfully despondent. His dull ideas had him downright discomfited, disheartened even. Paul powered on his pitiable laptop once more, promptly pressed his eyelids closed and painstakingly typed without peeking and with-out thinking. “Whatever wills itself out of me will be what I warily use,” Paul decided, determined to be done. He did not dare draw his now dreary lids apart for a drawn-out duration of time. Tapping away, typing without trepidation, he felt himself find a flow. Finally! Writing without woes and wonderfully so! Surely these sentences would not be as shambled or as scant of significance as the others. Never had anything flowed so freely from his fingertips—it was almost a feeling of fervor. Usually finicky, freewriting was not his first choice of forms to find a fair idea. Feeling prideful, Paul peeked. He peeked and his prose was sur-prisingly purposeful, poignant and possibly a tad persnickety. De-lighted beyond description, Paul jumped up and danced deliriously, in disbelief that he did not produce drab drivel in this dazzling dose of luck. He pirouetted and pranced, leapt and lunged, laughing deliri-ously. He stopped swaying and released a relieved sigh. Finished! He was finally finished and freed from flitting between foul ideas of flying figs and frowning friars. Paul plopped down in his seat again, perfectly pleased. Extending an exhilarated hand out toward his computer, he sought to save his slog. But, alas! His arm was amplified with adrenaline and Paul punched his laptop, sending it straight off the desk. He watched in horror as it harshly hit the hard floor. Poor Paul promptly passed out.

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The Watering Can, October 2012, oil on masonite. RachelSteiner

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Still-Life with Antlers, 26 November 2012, charcoal.CaitlinGreen

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Desert(ed)C.S.Payton

I walked out of church today.Stood up on my feet and left wetfootprints between the pews. Dry streamand coal hot creek bed. Pain shapes me as a soldering torch turns blue and makes flux boil. We burn ourselves,recoil into reality. They say my doubt is essential,

an element of my young faith.The nerve to admit the words slipped.Go find sermons from the crimson,burnt bush and ask God who He isin this time, times, and one-half time. Every answer drowns in dry airlike a smallmouth bass, no wormed hookin his mouth, but arid dust drought.

God was never above the waves,but is a diving bell waitingfor us to join him in the dirt. Faith without doubt cannot listen. Unsympathetic and untried. Waterless words and heat, I dig the well deep and siphon for truth.Next Sunday I will try again.