inkwell Creative Writing & Visual Arts Magazine F

inkwell
Creative Writing & Visual Arts Magazine
FINE ARTS EXPOS
SPRING 2015
WEDNESDAY, MAY 6TH FROM 12-3 PM
FALL 2015
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 19TH FROM 6-7 PM
MORE DETAILS INSIDE
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COME JOIN US FOR OUR
Fine Arts Expos
SPRING 2015
WEDNESDAY, MAY 6TH FROM 12-3 PM
FALL 2015
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 19TH FROM 6-7* PM
*A SHOWING OF THE FALL PLAY WILL BEGIN AT 7 PM
SCC BELMONT- STUDENT LIFE CENTER — ROOM 2300
The expos will feature unique performances and displays of student artwork. Food and beverages will
be provided. Everyone is welcome to attend.
In collaboration with the Scott Community College Foundation the college’s Fine Arts
Committee has established a Friends of Fine Arts charitable fund. To learn more about the fund or
the scheduled expos visit www.eicc.edu/fine-arts.
“The Village of Illusions Held up Our Departure”
Bruce Carter
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
COVER ARTWORK
Untitled
Of all the doors in our lives, the hardest to take are the closed ones.
Anything can be a closed door; a leaving, a loss, a miss, a mistake.
But the good thing about these closed doors is
There is always an open one waiting.
Which generally comes as a complete surprise,
And usually comes about because we are not wiped out by the closed door,
But continue.
After doors are closed it usually throws us back
To who we were before we became
Identified with our last identity
What happens then is magic.
-Bruce de Gouveia Carter, 1983
Delicate Impressions
Victoria Catron
Front
Student
Dripping Insanity
Cassidy Piersall
Back
Student
S. Athas
5
Student
PROSE & POETRY
One Last Song
Virginia
Modern Sideshow
6
Danielle Cronbaugh
8
Static Gray
10
Born Female
11
Student
Mums and Biscuits
Marcus Goodwin
12
Alumni
Ten Thousand
Laura Winton
16
Faculty
More Iowa Animals: The Dragon Fly
John Turner
25
Faculty
Linear Note found on Ogyaia
26
The Coldest Ground
28
The Proposal
Raymond Lee
29
Alumni
Princess Seeks Feminist
Mitzy Vazquez
32
Alumni
24/7
34
Carbon
Victoria Catron
35
Student
The Szechuan Beef and an Egg Roll, Please
Stephanie Newell
36
Faculty
May
Untitled
37
Bruce Carter
38
Faculty
Kerry Glynn
17
Student
FEATURED VISUAL ARTWORK
Remembrance
In Memory of Bruce Carter
1948-2014
whose life & work greatly impacted not only
students, faculty, and staff at Scott Community College, but the entire community of the Quad Cities.
Mother’s Eyes
18
Pretty in Pink
19
January Blues
20
74
Amanda Peterlin
Kelly Thomas
21
Alumni
22
Us
Kyle Andre
23
Student
High Road
Cassidy Piersall
24
Student
The Village of Illusions Held up Our Departure
Bruce Carter
39
Faculty
OTHER IMAGES
Metamorphosis Shattered: Victoria Catron (4); In the Deep: Victoria Catron (9); Kingdom Come: Amy Foley (27); Flower in
Water: Kerry Glynn (31); Cassidy the Dreamer: Kerry Glynn (32); Camouflage: Kerry Glynn (33); Negative Reflection: Vic-
toria Catron (34-35, background image); Bliss: Cassidy Piersall (37)
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Inkwell publishes creative writing and artwork by Scott Community College students, faculty, staff, and alumni.
Please send inquiries or submissions for the 2016 edition to [email protected].
This publication is sponsored by the Fine Arts Committee at Scott Community College.
Special thanks to the writing selection committee for 2015:
John Turner, Dan Baldwin, Stephanie Newell, Mary Bakeris, Laura Winton, Michelle Bailey, Katie Kelley, & Janet Coogan.
In addition, thanks to Rob Lipnick, Lysa Hegland, Morgan Othmer, the Fine Arts Committee and the Foundation.
Inkwell Editor: Dr. Amy Foley
May
It’s similar to running a hand along the underside of a rail
that’s painted brown and peeling.
Or passing a lilac bush, pausing, and returning to dive
eyes closed, into a fistful of petals.
It’s a barking dog, a soft
dusky night, voices, patios, laughter,
a living-room in lamplight through a bay window, matching
green chintz armchairs, safety, a groomed lawn.
Tulips standing so tall on stems so thin
you could swear you’ve seen the impossible.
Image:
“Bliss”
by
Cassidy Piersall
But it’s not impossible, you’ve seen them
and they grow from there into grass so green you want to weep
Above Images: “Metamorphosis Shattered”
by Victoria Catron
Copyright © 2014 by Inkwell
Volume 1
2015
or die or both.
You don’t. A man strolling home from the store
carrying his plastic bag and wearing his content face
says something you don’t quite hear which you ask him to repeat
and he says Nice night ain’t it? and you,
knowing to the root of your skin that nothing was ever more true,
You reply It’s beautiful. Startle yourself in the process –
because for once the word meant something.
-Stephanie Newell
Cover artwork has been modified by the editor for the purposes of the magazine.
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37
One Last Song
The Szechuan Beef and an Egg Roll, Please
Spheres, not similar
sometimes overlap
creating efforts completely new.
Like art school color
exercises or laboratory
accidents fortunate
like when you’re eating Chinese food
and you get two cookies
with the same fortune.
And it’s a good fortune, not
a stupid one like Soon, you will
own a Buick and it says something
about true love, an idea you doubt
on x number of days and always
just before your period
because there are some weeks
when there is no love in the world
but you save the truly wise sayings
anyway Confuscius say search for the yak
of happiness which is funny for obvious
reasons and because you also doubt
happiness, but there it is in black
and white so it must be true and you think
if that’s all it takes you will write
an entire sequence to secure
the pulse of it . . . Happiness.
And you write the word so many times
it starts to look funny, but now
it’s an obsession and any semblance
of it you ever had has flown
away, or been poached to extinction,
or simply fallen out of the friggin nest
and you couldn’t catch your happiness because you were too busy
writing about it and why the hell
didn’t the people at the restaurant
tell you happiness is so clumsy?
-Stephanie Newell
“Cap, you sure you’re okay coming back?” comes through on my radio.
“It’s all past now. The place is a safe-zone, ain’t it?” I say, and check my weapon.
“Yes indeed, Sarge,” the comms man chimes, “their Third Army hasn’t been spotted anywhere near here.
You and yours are clear to proceed.”
It doesn’t leave me with any notion of calm. The whole squad’s been all kinds of queer, but that’s just
’cause the history of the place. Truth told, there’s at least ten years and god-knows-what between life and us in this
town. And us going and pokin’ around can’t be sure to stir up anything friendly.
“You clear this floor,” I order and motion my man down the hall.
The rest of my squad splits to comb the adjacent buildings, and I turn with rifle ready and take the stairs to
the second floor. Not like we’ll find any enemy, the war’s been on far too long for that. Operations that used to
consume hundreds or thousands of men now only take a half-dozen. There are still remnants left behind from
those larger engagements, but none of it is of any use now.
I glance out a shattered window and eye the artillery on a far hill. Would those rotting guns have anything
to say about their place now? Ten years ago they barked their opinions all over this town, now they’re just relics of
a time long past.
“Some kinda monument.” I spit. No good they’ve ever done for anyone. “You yearn for a war no one’s
left to fight, but we who remain would rather you rust away.”
The dust is thick in the air, like those guns shelled the place yesterday. The sun’s high now. It spears
through the blown out sections of wall and roof and bathes the hallway in bleached yellow. Least that gives some
light, I think as I step over a mixture of concrete, re-bar, and old textbooks.
“Is it you?” I hear.
I hold up at the voice. Frail. Small. Longing.
A girl’s voice sounds from a room down the hall. I run. I whip through the classroom doorway with weapon ready to a shattered room and a smiling face. The girl is in her uniform, a little stained with grime, and sits atop
a desk. She kicks her legs through the air as if nothing is amiss.
“Did you come to listen?” the girl asks as she fiddles with a bullet hole in her guitar. “It’s show and tell today.”
I lower my weapon and pin a hand to my radio. I’m here, and so is she. Questions race through my head
faster than I can say them, so I say nothing. Ten years since the battle here, there’s just no way she could hav–
“I hid beneath the bridge at first,” she says. “There were so many stars falling.”
Stuck. Feet nailed to the wood floor. I don’t speak. I don’t move. This is just . . . I can’t. Not again.
She plucks the strings, singing, and all the walls return. There’s no artillery on the far hill anymore. Everything’s like it used to be. Halls of students and teachers. Desk lids snapping shut. Heels on the hallway like a thousand rolling snares. The noise of all this life deafens, and all is in time with her song.
For a moment I see the time when all was right in the world.
A sharp clatter as my rifle falls to the floor. The girl halts, and all the sight and sound halts with her. All to
attend and wait for me.
“Sarge?” my radio chirps, “Check in.”
Slowly, I pry my weapon from the floor and, with no small effort, turn away from the girl and the room and
what could’ve been.
I will not remember her.
I will disconnect.
Some other town.
Some other school.
“Daddy,” the girl calls as I walk away, “did you like my song?”
Someone else’s daughter.
-S. Athas
36
5
Virginia
Somewhere
Late April – 2003
And so on.
I step from the doors of the hospital to the shallow world of the city. It’s wet. The gray-scale sky opens
with a brand of rain that’s just steady. The sort of rain where nothing is soaked, but everything ends up wet. Indifferent, it just keeps on. I wipe a drop from the ring on my finger, but another appears to take its place. Another
brush. Another smatter of rain. I’ll keep on wiping the ring clean, and the rain will keep on soiling it. This will
never cease.
Constant.
Just the way my wife isn’t.
I don’t cast a glance back to the hospital.
I don’t look to that third-floor room.
I don’t think about what will come.
There’s no point. So I say so, if to no one in particular.
“There’s no point.”
Outside, beyond the hospital doors, this is where the real world gurgles and churns. Within those walls
there are all tears and concern and dying, and out here the trees are just beginning to bud. Out here, a woman
beneath an umbrella bickers into a phone about wasted time caring for in-laws, funeral costs, and what sort of inheritance she can expect. I pray that won’t ever be me.
Now sheltered by the bus-stop’s awning with my ring finally relieved of the rain’s repeated tarnish, I take a
pack of cigarettes from my pocket and light one.
“The water is so warm today,” a girl beside me says.
I nod in acknowledgement, but say nothing. The girl wears a loose fitting tee-shirt with high-cut shorts.
There is a full cast that reaches from her left foot to her thigh. The bag beside her is emblazoned with the symbol
of some local prep-school.
“It’s someone close, isn’t it?” the girl pries. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, Mr. Salem.”
“Mr. Salem?” I sputter, utterly befuddled.
“That green pack of cigarettes. It’s what I chose for your name. Your name to me is Mr. Salem, and I’m
going to call you Mr. Salem.” She gives a little wince as she reaches down to retrieve something from her schoolbag. It’s a pack of cigarettes, long and slender, Virginia Slims. They’re lights, the kind a middle-aged business
woman would smoke, not a spacey prep-school teenager.
“Aren’t you a little young for that?” I comment.
“Isn’t your wife a little young for being here?” she replies.
There’s no measure of offense in her tone; her words have all the inflection of a random stranger commenting on the weather. There’s not much that could upset me any further, so I let it pass.
“Is she alright,” she wonders, “your wife? She must not be. The way you’re fiddling with that ring and
how you force yourself to stare at anything but the hospital. There’s no hope about you, Mr. Salem. It’s like you
sucked it all out when you stepped beneath the awning.”
“Perhaps, Virginia.”
She laughs at the name I had stolen from her own—probably stolen—pack of cigarettes. A wry smile
shows on her as she holds one between her lips.
“Good name,” Virginia says. “I know it’s not right, but then, there’s not a lot of right things in this world.”
She exhales, and a pale cloud seeps out from the bus stop to join its fellows in the sky. “The smell just reminds
me of my mom. So is Mrs. Salem dying?”
“Yeah.”
“Poor Mrs. Salem. Do you think I could talk to her?”
“Why?” I ask.
I know why I stay beside her. It’s been a week since her friends and family gave their goodbyes and left.
They carried on, and I remain. It’s for the better. Now I’m free from the damning stares of my wife’s in-laws,
who pin all the blame on me. Virginia leans back against the bench, lost in thought, so I ask again. “Why talk to
6
Carbon
I lose myself
Sinking into an indigo chill.
No air
Here at the bottom of the ocean.
Deeper and darker than the Mariana trench,
Too cold for this coal to turn into diamond.
Throw me into the core of the earth,
What you think hell.
Then I may compress into
What you think beautiful.
I’ll only long again
To be soft.
-Victoria Catron
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35
24/7
mourning the eclipse
inside of me
the death of all
my greatest ambitions
the aging of my youthful ideals
why can’t anyone see it
when they look in my eyes
mental illness is an inadequate term
my illness is one of the heart
it struggles to go on beating
the illness is one of the lungs
they long to stop breathing
a dark sun sets
on the horizon
I used to think was endless
now I know who I am
I am the void in your mind
I am the ache in your bones
after a long day
-Mitzy Vazquez
34
34
my wife?”
“Because I think she would
have a lot to say.” She passes the lit
smoke back and forth in her hands,
unsure of which one should hold it.
“I want to know what it’s like when
someone knows they’re dying. That
they’re really going to die. Not a lot
of people get that chance, don’t you
agree? Most just go on with their daily lives. Those people kind of worry
me. You go outside to have a smoke
or see a friend, and then bam!” She
claps her hands. “No more Mr. Salem. You remember a few weeks
ago, that first really nice day this
year?”
I nod, and watch the steel
blue smoke rise from the tip of my
cigarette.
“My parents took the car for
a drive,” she says, “and I came along.
The backseats were really cramped,
but I loved the noise and feel of being
in that car, sailing down the back
roads to the sound of old Bruce
Springsteen cassettes. It’s an older
car, with the cassettes and all, but
there wasn’t much in the way of safety. But even you could’ve guessed
that one, my being here and all.”
Virginia thumps her cast with her
crutch at this. “I woke up in the hospital. I wasn’t scared, even now I’m
not, and I remember it all. The column of the steering wheel was jutting
out from the back of the driver’s seat.
The windshield shattered and splintered everywhere. I don’t know why,
but in the back of the smashed car I
wasn’t afraid.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. It’s all I
can offer.
I look too, and notice the
lack of signatures on it. Back when I
was in school, if someone broke
something or had an accident, your
cast would be covered with wellwishes and drawings within a day.
“I was sorry, too, for my
mom and dad.” Virginia stamps out
the end of her cigarette with her good
leg. “Then it disappeared. They’re
dead. So what will worry do for
them?”
I draw out another smoke,
and suppose that this girl does have a
point. A very cruel point, but a point
nonetheless.
“I don’t think the sorrow actually faded away though,” she continues, “I think it turned into something
else. Even in the car, at that moment,
I was wondering what was going
through Mom’s mind then. All I
could do was stare back. There’s
something . . .” she trails off, then
recollects her thoughts. “Something
strange. And I want to know more
about it . . . Oh, don’t look at me like
that, Mr. Salem,” she says, and
laughs, “I couldn’t harm anybody.
I’m only curious; is that strange?”
Not at all, I think. “Not at
all.”
“There’s some kind of thing
in you, and when you die that something escapes. I can’t really say, but I
know I saw it in Mom. A black, horrid something that leaked from Mom;
I wanted to catch it, hold it a little bit
longer and find out what it was, only
then I would let it go.”
Soul?
“Do you think there is this
something in everyone?” I say.
“Of course, Mr. Salem,” Virginia says. “Even in Mrs. Salem, up
there in the hospital room. There’s
some kind of something in her, and I
want to know more. Though it’s really not my place to go talk to Mrs. Salem, as much as I want to. That’s
what you’re here for, right?”
A phone chimes from her
pocket, and she smiles and offers
apology before checking it.
“One of my friends, she
wants to go to the beach later. She
knows I can’t with this cast,” Virginia
moans, typing intently. “Even sunbathing, that will just make it all the
weirder when the cast comes off.
Alright, fine,” she says to her phone,
“but there’s no way you’re convincing
me to go back to school.” Then Virginia turns to me, as if only remembering I am here. “You wouldn’t
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rape me, would you Mr. Salem?”
Tap-tap-tap goes Virginia on
her phone.
“Uhm,” I pause, “What kind
of ques—”
“Good, you paused. If you’d
have said ‘No’ immediately I would
have been worried. But I like you. I
was just dictating. It’s rude to text
folks when you’re right beside another person and not tell them what
you’re typing. For all you know I
could have been typing: ‘At the bus
stop with a creepy man. Please come
save me.’ ” Virginia laughs at my
screwed-up face. “You’re a strange
man, Mr. Salem.”
“You’re one to talk,” I retort.
She scribbles something on a
scrap of paper and hands it to me,
and then stands. I look down the
road to see a cab approaching, and
she makes her way—with some effort—out of the bus stop. I light another cigarette.
Virginia calls back to me,
“Goodbye, Mr. Salem.”
I watch as the cab sails away
and open up the note she left . . . she
wants to meet up and talk more, or
just have me listen, more likely. I slip
the scrap of paper into my pocket
and step into the rain. For a moment, I chuckle and wonder if the
odd girl is like that with every stranger
she meets.
Virginia, I think I know what
that something in us is. That something that leaks out when we die.
I turn back and look at the
hospital to that third floor view that’s
been my wife’s glimpse of the world
for the past seventeen weeks. I’ll go
back to her. I’ll tell her how warm
the water is. I’ll talk with her. I’ll
drag out that something in her and
make it my own. I’ll carry it.
-S. Athas
Modern Sideshow
Compare your face to mine
Your hands to mine
Your brain to mine
Find something terrifying in me
To find beauty in yourself.
Tear me to pieces
Trench me beneath you,
because my existence is an
inverse mirror.
Find yourself in my eyes,
only Beautiful,
Graceful,
Fulfilled.
“What a freak.”
“This is gay.”
“How retarded.”
You scream out obscenities
But you have no idea
How much strength is formed
In my difference.
Do you find pieces of me
Terrifying?
And do those pieces make you
Beautiful?
You whisper in the market,
You stare in the library,
You laugh in the audience.
You have made us into a spectacle.
We are the sideshow,
The outcasts.
The monster in your horror films.
The substance of your nightmares.
Who am I
but a reflection of your worst side?
What am I
if not the flaws you wish you could change?
Doesn’t fear of me
Spring from fear
of that which you would
Hate to become?
8
built to accommodate a normal sized person. They
offered to let me work in the mines with them but . . .
eh. Of course, without a degree I don’t have a lot of
options. They can’t afford to pay me for my housework
so I may have to go into town. Find a job. I really don’t
know what I would do though. . .
***
So this tragically ugly hag comes to the house today
giving out a basket full of apples and I answer the door
like, “Honey, you ain’t no Johnny Appleseed. Go
home.” But she insisted I take an apple. Fine, sure. I
reach for one but then she actually slaps my hand and
practically screams, “No! Take this one!” I recoiled and
wanted to say something but bit back my tongue and
instead bit into the apple. That was a couple minutes
ago and—ugh. I don’t feel like such hot stuff suddenly.
Hm, maybe if I keep
eating this apple I’ll
***
Heyyyy . . . it’s been a
few days since my last
entry. Yeah. Yeah I
was flippin’ dead is
what. And first thing I
wake up to? Some
punk pushing his
dime store tongue
down my throat like
okay he’s handsome
but I shoved him back
kung-fu style and
kicked him in the
balls. Later, I apologized because as it
turns out, his kissing
me is what saved my
life. My stepmom’s
dead. Mm. Saw that
coming but . . . I didn’t necessarily wish the lady harm.
Just wanted her to chill out. But get this—now this guy
wants me to marry him. According to him (and the tiny
men corroborated his story), my stepmom disguised
herself as the hideous hag and gave me a poisoned apple. It would explain why she seemed so desperate to
give me that specific apple. Then I fell into a deep coma only the kiss of true love could break yadda yadda
and that’s where he comes in. He actually tried to pick
me up and mount me on his horse so we could majestically ride into the sunset, but after a couple slaps, he
put me down. The little men are consoling him now
downstairs as he mopes, waiting for me to come down.
Ughhhhhh. He seems nice enough—that’s not so much
the issue. I am finally free from my stepmother’s
grasp . . . I would be a fool not to take advantage of
that! To marry him would mean I’d be locked away in
another castle. I’d be dependent on yet another person. Satisfying the wishes of everyone but myself. Plus,
what if he’s a creep? Ach. I think I’m just scared of the
unknown . . .
***
So much for destiny. Hello again! Feeling fine! Currently passing through a village on the way to see these
amazing waterfalls but I’m bored in the hotel room and
thought I’d jot down a bit of juicy information. So you
know that guy who wanted to marry me because he
saved me from the curse of my ex-stepmother? Well, I
turned him down. He was distraught; he sorta stormed
out and I felt bad but hey—I gotta do me first. Soon
after, I thanked the gnome things for their generosity
and left to wander. I’ve been in
contact from time
-to-time with
some of my kingdom’s officials
asking when I’ll
return to assume
the throne but I
give them evasive
answers. I’ll come
back when I feel
like it. But anyway! The neighboring kingdom
I’m in now is in
the throes of celebration because
one of their peasants recently rose
to the ranks of
royalty. The
prince of this realm hosted a reception for all the young
ladies to attend, and he chose his princess. Guess who
the prince was? Yup, none other than the one who
rode out to save me. I’m a tad offended he got over the
apparent devastation of not being with me, but I’m glad
he seems to have found someone he genuinely likes.
And she’s really pretty, I bet that helps. Small feet too,
apparently.
-Mitzy Vazquez
Above Image: “Camouflage,” by Kerry Glynn
33
Image: “Cassidy the Dreamer” by Kerry Glynn
Princess Seeks Feminist
Isn’t this always the case. Girls from broken
homes go on to be victims of abuse themselves—
perpetuating the cycle. Attaching themselves to
men. Well, I can’t complain entirely. These men
aren’t abusive. They’re mostly harmless. Actually,
they’re not technically men I guess. Thanks to
spending my childhood in the confines of a castle
while being taught how to curtsy as opposed to
rudimentary biology, I’m not terribly acquainted
with the fauna of my kingdom. My guess is
they’re an asexual tribe of pygmies. They display
masculine features but I just don’t get how there’s
so many of them yet none of them seem to have
encountered a female of their species. Somehow
they know I got the goods and I’m always fending
them off but . . . anyway!
***
*siiiiigh * I’ll come back to write later; the little
ones are clamoring for their dinner. “This ain’t
no motel you can just crash at!” That’s what the
most persnickety one of the lot is always telling me. “You have to put out somehow if you want to sleep in our
beds. Cuz obviously you’re not willing to negotiate vaginal privileges.” Whenever the salacious comments get to be
too much, I threaten them with a fly swatter. They’re small enough that it actually hurts.
***
So like I was saying, I’m here because my basic tramp of a stepmother kicked me out of the house because she’s
going through her mid-life crisis and can’t stand to be around my youthful beauty. She even went so far as to enchant a mirror to reassure her low-as-heck self-esteem that she’s still hot stuff but apparently her making out with
her own reflection wasn’t enough to convince herself so she had to get rid of the reminder of her mortality . . . and
wrinkles. I just pray that I don’t end up like her, always determining my self-worth by satisfying a ridiculous social
norm. Then again, I do have a pretty nice butt so in that sense – I don’t blame her. I don’t understand why she
can’t use her magical powers to give herself a facelift but hey, whatever.
***
Today I threw away dinner since none of the little cretins thought much of my version of pasta puttanesca. Geez, I
was just trying to enjoy myself a bit—try something out of the box. (And literally because, food that comes in a box
has historically been the extent of my culinary knowledge.) As soon as the food landed in the trash, they began to
complain that I was wasting their hard-earned money on putrid meals and how dare I toss their nutrition but they
didn’t even like it! In response, I handed each of them a cooking implement and said, “Here—men are clearly better at everything so why am I the one doing it all?” They didn’t have a whole lot to say after that. Stupid runts.
***
Today while the urchins were at work, I communed with nature. And by that, I mean I was out foraging (because
by then, the tiny men had collectively apologized to me and begged I continue my indentured servitude as their
personal maid) and happened upon a curious looking plant which I vaguely recall my stepmom using in her medicinal practices. I thought maybe she made it into tea, so I boiled the leaves and drank. This was probably not
the correct method because I hallucinated a bunch of bunnies and birds coming to me and dancing while I sang to
them. I laughed so hard. Eventually it faded and I became aware of a couple squirrels staring at me weird so I felt
kinda awkward and decided to go back inside but. Yeah. That was something different.
***
I don’t know how long me and the Rat Pack can put up with each other. Don’t get me wrong—I deeply appreciate
them letting me stay while I get my life in order, but we’re all getting a little antsy. Plus, their house really wasn’t
32
Don’t worry.
You will never be like me.
You will never find peace in yourself.
Constantly trying to justify
Constantly seeking solace
Constantly building on my anomalies
to place yourself on a pedestal of degradation.
Justify your actions with
phony beliefs that a joke is light-hearted.
No one will be affected.
No one will even know.
By twisting my fate
into your anecdote
You debilitate me.
You.
Not my affliction.
Not my medical status.
Not my mental capacity.
You are my handicap.
You are my debilitation.
Swim in the irony.
-Danielle Cronbaugh
Image: “In the Deep” by Victoria Catron
9
Static Gray
Look into my eyes
and tell me that we’re different.
That when you look at me
you see me
and not the darkest side of yourself.
Tell me that when you turn off the light
our colors
our ideals
our desires
are different.
Because the rich get richer
and the poor get lost
somewhere between
what’s at-risk and
what we’ve chosen to sacrifice
at the hand of society.
When words cut flesh
our anguish bleeds in the same colors.
The same tones.
We cry in the same pitch
and we sing the same songs.
Unaccepted, unloved, unnecessary.
But could you see me
as something more than
the pigment in my skin?
More detailed than
the shades of gray which
fill this static television station?
Because if you’re not Oprah,
then who are you?
If you’re not the president,
then Who Are You?
Are you only defined
by someone who has
previously carved your path?
Or are you defined by
who you want to be?
By what you want to achieve?
Who defines you,
if not yourself?
he loved so desperately. But he would not die. He’d feared it for years, had even come to expect it. But he
would not die, and after months of an agonizingly slow recovery they were sending him home!
He pulled the cord on MacArthur Street. The driver smiled at him pleasantly as he shuffled down
off the trolley into the bright light of the street. It was pleasant here, green and cool and quiet. The massive
houses were set well back from the wide avenues and all the colors of the prism could be found in the flower
beds gracing front yard gardens. The scented breeze carried the songs of birds and the laughter of well-fed
children. A dog barked off in the middle distance as he ambled slowly forward, the fear and anticipation welling in his chest. His arm simply ached as he spotted the number he’d written across so many envelopes over
the years. The heavy front door was open as he slowly, carefully climbed the stairs. From behind the screen
he could hear a radio playing and the voices of women. He paused for breath and knocked.
He attempted a casual pose as the footfalls neared. He could not yet see her face but a gasp issued
from the interior alerted him to her presence. His mind reeled for something to say, some words of welcome, but his voice was caught in his throat.
“Oh my . . .” It was the loveliest voice of his memories. “Allen, I can’t believe it.” The screen was
pushed away to reveal the subject of all his anguish. She was more womanly now than the photos she’d posted. Her hair was thick and wavy, a honey blonde worn atop her head framing her pale, serene face. “I just
can’t believe it.” The tears spilled out over her blue eyes, and he could smell lavender when she pulled him
to her. They stayed in embrace a long time as Patricia sobbed into his chest. “I was so worried,” she kept repeating. Though his lips moved the words would not come, and he felt weak. His hands were shaking and his
pulse raced so that he could barely hear her for the beating in his ears. When she finally pulled away, she
said, “Let me take a look at you.” He was painfully mute.
She smiled wanly and he thought he might die in that moment. She sniffled, dried her eyes and
dabbed at her nose with a flowered kerchief. The smile strengthened. “Well, don’t you have anything to
say?” she asked, suppressing laughter.
The words would not come. “Well, look at you Allen . . .” Her face was the expression of joy. It wasn’t until with another gentle laugh she said, “Why, you’re crying!” He could feel the hot sting of his cheeks
and realized once again he was weeping like a child.
-Raymond Lee
-Danielle Cronbaugh
Image: “Flower in Water” by Kerry Glynn
10
31
“No.” Allen put the cigar to his lips.
“Not much of a smoker, huh? Well, please,
allow me.” The portly Mr. Hawkins expertly lit his own
cigar then held the flame-tipped match out for his
counterpart. Allen blew the match out after the first
sputtering inhale of the cigar. Three more matches
were wasted before Mr. Hawkins handed the box over
entirely.
“Maybe I’ll just save this for later.” Allen withdrew the cigar from his mouth and placed it along with
the box of matches on the corner of the desk. He was
about to speak when Mr. Hawkins interrupted, again.
“Well, congratulations all the same. But why
don’t you tell me why you’re here Mr. Doyle?”
“It’s about your daughter.”
They locked eyes for the first time. “Well, go
on then,” Mr. Hawkins bellowed, a dark look coming
over his eyes.
“I’m not sure if Patricia ever spoke of me, but
we’ve grown . . . .”
“She has not. I’ve never heard your name before in my life.” The old man’s voice lost its luster, taking on the low menace of a growl.
“Well, we’re quite fond of each other and I
intend . . . ”
“I think I know where this is going. What do
you do for a living, Mr. Doyle?”
“I’ve just been discharged.”
“For the future!” his voice boomed in exclamation, the cigar stabbing into the air.
“Well, there’s the possibility of university. Before I was drafted I was a regular employee of the Iron
Works.”
“The Iron Works?!” he screamed in baffled
antagonism. “My daughter married to an iron worker!”
The young man was resolute. The harsh words
produced in an outraged, full-bellied pizzicato had no
effect on him. He continued, “While attending night
classes.”
Spittle flew. “And what do you intend to study
at these night courses?!”
The young man’s eyes drew on Mr. Hawkins as
if staring down the sights of a barrel. “Business,” he
answered in two crisp syllables.
The old man’s head tilted back as if a slap of
consciousness had been delivered across his cheeks.
His anger abated somewhat, placated by a subject dear
to his own heart. “What does Patricia think of all this?”
“We’re in collusion.”
“Collusion . . .” Hawkins repeated it softly under his breath as if saving the word for later use. He
puffed on his cigar, thinking. “So you’ve come to ask
my blessing? Did you expect me to just give my daughter away to any gimp with the courage to ask?”
“No, sir.”
“What exactly did you expect then?” he asked,
the tension once again mounting in his voice.
“There’s the matter of my savings. I’ve nearly
three years’ worth.”
Like a thunderclap the old man released a single burst of laughter. “And how far do you expect three
years of a sergeant’s salary to get you and Patricia?”
Allan considered the question for a thin sliver
of a moment before answering. “At the very least all the
way to Chicago.”
The old man’s eyes went wide.
In three quarters of an hour Allen had negotiated marriage in addition to securing employment, but
the sense of elation was replaced before he even found
the exit. In its place a nervous anxiety had grown up.
Confrontation was preferable to the task before him.
His left arm began to tingle as he boarded a trolley destined for the suburbs. The faces surrounding him were
those of women and old men. Three years he’d spent
in nothing but the company of boys and now a young
man his age was rarely glimpsed in the streets passing
by outside the window. Strangers would smile at him if
they connected eyes, issue a small “thank you” or
“welcome home” at opportune moments. He knew
they weren’t thanking him. They were thanking their
own boys, their cousins and nephews, their brothers cut
short by bullets, fire, and disease. They were welcoming home the life their poor lost boys might have led if
things would have gone just a bit differently. His mind’s
eye cycled back through all the faces he’d looked upon
over the course of those three years and he couldn’t
help but wonder how many of those boys were gently
lain beneath the turf, violently tossed under surf in
some distant place so very far away from the people
they had loved. All of them were invincible in camp, on
steamships of brotherhood teeming with the collective
longing of youth in full bloom. But when the blood was
leeching from their faces, when they were racked with
coughing and crying for their mothers and cursing God,
or the war, or the officer that had gotten them killed,
the fear was there, sure enough. And in those moments
they were children, all of them boys. And he remembered the day he’d written the letter, and the next day
in a frozen wood when the shell had blown him head
over foot. The blood, he remembered the blood leaking out from his boots, and he felt joy that it had happened and he could finally put to rest all the fear and
think of his mother, think of the stranger whose words
30
Born Female
I am “weak.”
Hundreds of years ago
I was a “witch”
According to law,
I did not exist,
I was not a person.
I am a foreign species,
A presentation of beauty
And ferocity.
I am a new competitor,
In your fabricated marketplace.
You can hold those 22 cents
Above my head
Tell me that I’m
Doomed for tasks:
Math or Science,
Manual labor.
Tell me that my time
Is worth just a little less.
You tell me that skinny is better
While your CEO enjoys the high life
My face is plastered on Cosmo
Telling me I am beautiful the way I am
Next to the phrase
“Drop 10 Pounds this Week.”
And under the headline
“What He Really Wants.”
But tell me something,
Is that what you want?
-Danielle Cronbaugh
11
The Proposal
Mums and Biscuits
Eeeerrrk.
Ava came quickly to hate that squealing sound and figured it was simply because she didn’t want to
be hearing it that afternoon. She hated public transit and usually didn’t rely on it ever. But she was left without a choice. Her car was in the shop. Her roommate was out of town until later that evening, her parents
would be at the church all day and her two best friends were working. And she felt uncomfortable asking
anyone else for a ride. Work was in the next town over, so walking was out of the question. Not to mention,
the high was only going to be in the twenties. She didn’t like her job enough to freeze to death for it.
When the bus doors opened, she marched up the three steps, eyes glued to the floor.
“Afternoon, Miss Ava!” the driver greeted with a surprising amount of enthusiasm that made Ava
feel obligated to look up.
“Oh!” she said, looking down again, this time to dig through her purse for her billfold. “Hi there,
Mr. Donahue. I thought you drove a route toward Andrews.”
“Used to. They just moved me to the Odessa bus about a month ago.”
She was still digging. “Well, see, if you hadn’t stopped coming into the restaurant on a regular basis,
I’d know these things.”
“I know. I know.” He actually sounded a bit remorseful. “Times are tough, ya know? Had to cut
back on a few things.”
“I understand completely. And we hardly even have the worst of it here.”
He grabbed her lightly by the elbow, effectively stopping the digging process. “This trip is on me,
Miss Ava,” he said, retrieving two dollar bills and a quarter from somewhere she couldn’t see.
“No, Mr. Donahue, I couldn’t. You just said times are tough.”
“I’ve had a good month,” he said, placing the money in the fare box. “I plan to pay y’all a visit at the
restaurant this next weekend.”
At this point, she’d finally found her billfold. “Well, thank you. You’re too kind.”
“No such thing, Miss Ava. Now, if you don’t mind, though, I need to make up some time here.
Running a little behind.”
“Right. Of course.”
She turned and saw there wasn’t another soul on the bus. She quickly found a seat in the middle,
along a row that faced the opposite window and another row of seats rather than the front of the bus. When
comfortable, she pulled the book she’d started reading the weekend before out of her purse – much easier
to find than her billfold – and the bus was on its way again.
Eeeerrrk.
She’d made it through half a chapter when the bus stopped again. There must not have been many
stops on this route. It had taken a while.
A young man made his way onto the bus, greeted Mr. Donahue, and paid his fare before walking
down between the rows and settling on the seat directly across from Ava.
Really, buddy?
“Hello,” he said and the strength of his English accent caught her off guard.
He looked to be Ava’s age or a couple years older. Twenty-four, maybe twenty-five. His dirty
blonde hair was just long enough to cover his ears and he wore a blue and white t-shirt with NYC written on
it in oversized, red letters. It appeared to be maybe one size too big for his slender frame. A black jacket
kept him warm. His jeans were a bit baggy and fashionably ripped in all the right places despite it being winter. His tennis shoes were pumped up and definitely not made for playing the sport from which they got
their name. They weren’t even tied in a proper bow – the laces were too short.
Given the man’s accent, he seemed to be trying too hard to look inconspicuously American. Clearly, he was unaware that twentysomethings didn’t usually dress that way in Midland-Odessa. West Texans
like to look like West Texans. Maybe it worked well for him in NYC.
“Hi,” she responded out of common courtesy and nothing more. She glanced sideways at the nothingness to his left.
12
As with most people, the war had gone poorly for Allen. He’d seen some action, some things he did his
best not to think about, but more than anything it created within him a fatigue he could not drink away, a dull
ache in his bones that would not relent even with the comfort of sleep. Three years he’d been gone from society,
holed away in camps, strung out along country lines with so many strangers, sleeping in dirt, busted out farm
houses, tents and the bellies of hulking steamers. He had developed in certain situations what was called “a nervous condition,” by polite company. Amidst the blood, the freezing winter marches and unending hours of dull
anticipation, his relief arrived via airmail. He’d barely known Patricia before leaving. They’d only had one rushed
date three days before bootcamp, but through correspondence he’d come to the conclusion he loved her dearly.
On the cusp of madness from all the desperate talk in the Argonne, he’d hastily proposed in some few brief passages. He’d wept the night the letter was posted, ashamed of the emotion placed in a letter to a veritable stranger.
Upon arriving in St. Louis he went immediately home to his mother and kid brother. His father had died
shortly after his departure and though it dominated the family’s initial discussions the event seemed so far removed from him Allen couldn’t bring himself to show any emotion. He requested a hundred dollars from the
money he’d sent his mother and with the bills in pocket left them to wander downtown in search of a ring. In a
pawnshop off Water Street he found what he was looking for and had the clerk wrap the box in tissue before exiting back out into the busy noonday street.
It took the better part of an hour to find the address written across a card he kept fidgeting with nervously. Standing before the stately building he paused for breath. Limping through the cool marble-lined interior, he
felt out of place in his dress uniform as his awkward gait registered in the searching eyes of the businessmen
crossing his unsure path. He shied away from the handshakes and pats on the back. He inquired after Mr. Hawkins with one receptionist and was directed to an office on a higher level. Here he was shown to a waiting room
by a courteous, distant young lady. He took a seat in a plush leather chair. At the expiration of the second hour
he’d nearly dozed off when the same dark-haired young lady coughed quietly.
“Mr. Hawkins will see you now,” she said without a smile, and led him slowly through a thickly carpeted
corridor lined by heavy doors with brass plaques. At the very end of the hall she rapped once on a door marked
“Purcell J. Hawkins” and nodded for the young man to enter.
The office was spacious but cluttered with open books and sprawled documents. “Come in, come in,”
the old man bellowed from the far end of the office near an open window in which a teletype machine whirred,
mechanically spurring off ticker tape. Hawkins’ back was to the boy, and he was leaned over the desk searching
through the ribbon of paper as if deciphering text in an ancient language. As the boy approached he stood up
fully. The cut of his suit was a thing of film, the material a deep blue that brought out the color of his pale eyes.
Those eyes searched over the boy, and after applying his glasses, they smiled on him from behind frames. His
face lit up as he cut a path across the room and locked hands with the boy.
“Welcome home, son!” he beamed. Hawkins raised a single digit before his face. “I’ve got just the thing!”
He returned to his desk and withdrew two cigars as thick as thumbs from an ornately paneled box. “Y’all did a
fine job.” He clipped the ends and thrust one into the boy’s hand while repeating, “A fine job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Well, that’s alright son. I should be thanking you. We were all so worried.” He laughed then, a deep
belly laugh of beauty and power. “Miss Parker said you were here to see me and I couldn’t imagine why. I apologize for the wait. So tell me, how is Jasper these days?”
“Jasper?”
His face took on the consternation of an affront. “Aren’t you Jasper’s boy?”
“No.”
“Speak up, son!” Hawkins interjected in mirth.
Allan’s voice rose in neither pitch nor volume. “No, sir.”
“Then you’re not Jasper Doyle’s boy?”
“My name’s Allen Isaac Doyle. My father was James Allen Doyle, bricklayer. He’s passed now.”
Hawkins displayed the gorgeous laugh again. “Well, I’m confused then, son. Jasper Doyle is a retired
partner of the firm. Miss Parker said the name and I just assumed you were he. Have we met before?”
29
The Coldest Ground
They say the coldest ground is found on Pluto
But I have found hard frozen hearts right here.
No, not just cold, no, not just lumps of ice.
But compressed, stressed, and granitized,
rock-solid zero hearts in chests
I once thought warm
who warmed to me
and offered me hot tips
that wound up merely
chips
from iceberg sentiments.
I reach out, touch,
and all the screaming cold of interstellar space
swarms onto me.
I cannot see
through the crystals in my eyes,
white crystals
tinkling down my cheeks.
And now,
with oddshaped organs hard as stones
I stand
under fluid space
so touched by cold –
oh stars
please, lick me warm.
28
He let out a dramatic sigh
and she raised an eyebrow at him.
“Why do all you Americans do
that?”
“Pardon?”
“I greet you and you all
respond in this suspicious, is-hegoing-to-kill-me kind of way. Is it
really that unusual to be greeted
warmly in the U.S.?”
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean
to.”
“I mean, am I really that
threatening?”
She couldn’t help but
chuckle at that. “No,” she said.
“We’re all packing heat here, my
friend.”
He glanced quickly over at
her purse which sat on the seat
next to her, then looked her directly in the eyes. His eyes were a
bright blue. She just smiled at
him.
“Why, then, does everyone act so nervous?”
“Maybe it’s because, in all
the movies, the bad guys are
Brits,” she said.
It was his turn to smile.
“James Bond?”
“Touché.”
She marked her place in
the book before closing it and putting it back in her purse.
“If it’ll make you feel any
more welcome here in the States,”
she said, “my name’s Ava and I
don’t think you’re all that threatening.”
She extended a hand and
he shook it, saying, “Thank you,
Ava.” And she would swear until
the day she died that he said, “I’m
Conna.”
“Conna?” she asked.
“Yeah, Conna.”
“Conna. What a strange
name.”
“Really?”
“I’ve never heard it be-
fore.”
“C-O-N-N-O-R? It’s quite
common.”
“Oh! Connor.”
He spoke through a laugh,
“Yeah, Connor.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.
I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her
head a little in disbelief. “I just
misunderstood you. I would’ve
sworn there was an ‘a’ in there
somewhere.”
He looked confused.
“Never mind it,” she said.
“You’re obviously not from this
side of the pond. Using my limited knowledge of English accents,
I’d wager you’re from London.”
“Uxbridge.”
“So you’re not?”
“No, I am.”
Eeeerrrk!
An elderly woman boarded the bus and sat in the very first
row behind Mr. Donahue. They
clearly knew each other and started a conversation of their own.
“Okay, and what brings
you to Midland-Odessa?” Ava
asked.
“Adventure, of course.”
“You came to West Texas
for adventure?”
“Is that weird?”
“No, just stupid.”
He laughed a genuine, full
laugh. “Well, you see, I’ve been
traveling across the USA. I’m kind
of just passing through on my way
to the West Coast.”
“So you’ll end somewhere
in California?”
“Seattle, actually. I plan to
go there after a trip through Silicon
Valley. I’ll fly out from Seattle to
Tokyo to meet my family for business.”
“Your family does business
in Tokyo?” He nodded. “Y’all
must be pretty important in Uxbridge.”
13
“My mother would say we
are,” he said. “I prefer humility,
simplicity and flying under the radar. Thus I take simple trips and
bus around in places like West
Texas.”
“I can respect that.
Though I would never call your
trip ‘simple.’”
“You have to understand
that I’d normally be making this
trip in one of my father’s private
jets.”
“Jets?”
“Yes, jets. Plural.”
“I feel insignificant.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We
just come from different worlds.”
The silence that fell felt
awkward to Ava and a furtive look
in the Englishman’s direction told
her that he felt the same way. He
was looking blankly at the floor
and he’d moved his lips to the
right, pursing them in a way that
said he was deep in thought. The
way he idly tapped his foot told
her, however, that he was just uncomfortable and not necessarily
pensive.
Eeeerrrk!
The elderly woman made
her way off the bus already. Quick
ride for her, but when you’re that
old, Ava supposed, you need all
the help you can get when moving
around town.
The sound of the bus coming to a stop appeared to have
snapped Connor out of whatever
trance he had succumbed to for a
few minutes. Unsurprisingly really. Ava was certain the squeal
would wake the dead if they were
to pass by a cemetery.
“So,” Connor began again,
“you know a little about my world.
Care to share something about
yours?”
“Well, my world is about
70% water, 2% of which is fresh
and 70% of that 2% is frozen. The scientists claim
that a good amount of that frozen stuff is melting
though. I don’t know. It’s been an awfully cold winter by Texas standards. Hard to think that anything
could be melting.”
The look he gave her was void of emotion,
but made it clear to her that he was unamused.
“You’re serious?” she asked when he said
nothing.
“Yes, I’m serious,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I
be?”
“Okay,” she took a breath as though to steady
herself. “I’m on my way to work now and, from the
looks of things,” she glanced at her watch, “I’ve got
plenty of time to get there.”
“And where do you work?”
“I haven’t been made privy to that information about your world,” she quipped.
“Fair enough.”
“Once I get off work,” she continued, “I
promised my little brother, Jack, that I’d stop over at
our parents’ house and help him put together his girlfriend’s mums for next weekend. He’ll have a conniption if I don’t show up.”
“Mums?”
“Yeah, he’s doing it the traditional way this
time around. Typically, he’d just buy one for her, but
he’s short on cash and our dad’s tighter than bark on
a tree when it comes to money. He’s going to make
two or three for her since he’s not sure which she’ll
like. She’s kind of picky.”
“Mums,” he said again. “How does one go
about ‘putting together’ another person’s mums? Is it
even socially acceptable to have two mums here?”
The look she gave him made him feel as
though that was the most ridiculous question he
could’ve asked. And she probably thought it was.
“Mums,” she repeated. “Chrysanthemums.
For the Homecoming dance.”
It was clear by his expression that he still had
no idea what she was talking about. She couldn’t
think of a way to make it any clearer to him. To her,
mums and Homecoming went together like Catholics
and Confession.
“Do you know what Homecoming is?” she
asked.
“Cinema has familiarized me with it, yes, of
course.”
“But you don’t know what mums are?”
“I know what chrysanthemums are, but I
don’t see how they relate to a school dance.”
14
“It’s a Texas-Oklahoma thing, Miss Ava,”
Mr. Donahue said from the front. “My wife was
raised in Grand Rapids. When our son came home
from school one day, saying he needed a mum for his
date to the dance, my wife, bless her heart, went out
and bought chrysanthemums from the nursery.”
Then to Connor, “Homecoming mums are made of
ribbons, son. It’s a tradition thing. The boys give
‘em to the gals and the gals return the favor with boutonnieres . . . which y’all over yonder call
‘buttonholes,’ I think.”
Connor made a strange humming noise that
sent a message that said he understood, but also didn’t.
Eeeerrrk!
Ava could see the neon sign through the window behind Connor. “This is my stop,” she said,
standing and grabbing her purse from the seat next to
her.
Connor gave the purse another wary glance
before looking her in the eyes again and, with the sincerest of smiles, saying, “It’s been a pleasure talking
with you, Miss Ava.”
She returned the smile and with her best attempt at an English accent of any kind said, “Thank
you, Conna. Great meeting you. Safe travels.”
“Thank you.”
Ava walked down those three steps and
found herself standing in front of the restaurant. She
sighed and made her way to the front door, wondering briefly why she hadn’t just told Connor the name
of the place since it was nearly impossible for him to
miss the bright green letters that read BRIGHID’S.
Her shift went slowly. They weren’t very
busy and, being one of only two waitresses, any
chances of being sent home early walked out the
front door before even entering. Ava had about
twenty minutes left before the graveyard staff showed
up to take over, when her supervisor found her in the
kitchen and said that a man had sat down in her section.
“Of course,” she grumbled as she made her
way back out onto the floor. “Good evening, sir,” she
said as she came up on the table, eyes focused on the
pad of paper she held in front of her. “Can I start
you with something to drink?”
“A cup of tea would be fantastic,” came the
response, and she looked up to see Connor smiling
back at her.
“What are you doing here, Connor? I hardly
expected you to stop until you reached Albuquerque
I cannot.
I do not love her
But years more will pass
Before she
Is ready
To let me go –
No.
Before I
Am willing
To leave.
I hate what we do
because
I cannot live without it
Perhaps you can understand
Perhaps you can forgive me
Perhaps
It would be best
If this letter
Were never sent at all.
Your (devoted is crossed out) loving husband
Odysseus.
-John Turner
Image: “Kingdom Come,” by Amy Foley
27
Linear Note found on Ogyaia
My only Penelope:
Calypso says she will see this delivered
She is a goddess; it is not beyond her.
Four years have I been here, my darling,
And some years before that wandering
And ten years of terrible war yet before that.
Beyond triumph it was to rend the gates
To see them all dead – Hecuba, Priam, Hector
That bastard thief Paris himself
Dismembered and castrate –
The tumbling walls and towers
All in flames brought little joy.
So many lost –
And you, my only you,
you were so far away
Hate and destruction were no aphrodisiac.
And what if they were?
Where could I find solace?
And then the monsters
The rocks
The hellish winds
The sirens
the dead men, lost ships
Starvation, humiliation, finally
Here:
Calypso
Daughter of Atlas
Strong, full, mature; a deep engulfing dock
to a storm-tossed wretched man.
I ignored her at first
Away from you so long, my constant one,
She IS a goddess, you know
Whose powers – oh, hell.
I’ve plowed her as if grappled
to the oxen of the sun
Then, wet with shame, gone in again.
She does things
Things we knew of once
Maybe when Telemacus cried in the night
Maybe when, drunk on uncut wine
I called a name aloud that was not yours.
You’ve forgotten
26
or maybe Phoenix.”
“Decided to spend tomorrow here. The
people here are simple –”
“Thanks?”
“And I’d be a fool if I didn’t spend some
time here, being a fan of simplicity and all.”
“Well, we’ll be happy to host you, Connor.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I’ll run and get that tea for you.”
“Thank you.”
She was back at the table in a few minutes
and he thanked her again.
“I also wanted to give you something,” he
said, reaching into a backpack that Ava didn’t remember seeing him with on the bus.
“Give me something?”
He produced a box and presented it with a
flourish, saying, “Biscuits. I was starving and found
these when I took a trip to the local supermarket
down the road after reserving a hotel room. It’s an
English brand. One of my favorites actually.”
Ava took the box and looked at the picture
on the front.
“These are cookies, Connor, but thank you,”
she said.
He smiled. “Where I’m from, we call them
biscuits.”
“They’d need gravy to be biscuits here.”
“I don’t recommend that.”
“It’s all gravy.”
There was a pause in their conversation.
“How’s the tea?” she asked.
“American.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s different.”
She just nodded. “My dad’s coming to pick
me up in about five minutes. Since you’re here until
tomorrow, want to tag along and familiarize yourself
with Homecoming mums?”
Connor’s eyes visibly brightened, but he said,
“I’m sure your father wouldn’t approve of having a
complete stranger in his home.”
“Don’t be silly. Everyone’s a friend here.”
“If you insist . . .”
“I do.”
“What’s your last name, Ava? You all address men as Mister Something here, right? I’ll need
to know it in order to make a good impression.”
“It’s Walker.”
“Fantastic.”
It took her father a little longer than expected
15
to arrive, but when he did, he pulled up in a large
truck – oversized wheels, extended cab.
“This is the family van, eh?” Connor said, as
he trailed Ava to the truck.
“We only have family trucks here, my
friend.”
She opened the passenger side door and
said, “Hey, Pops. I brought a friend.”
Connor opened his door and slid into the
backseat. “Good evening, Mr. Walker,” he said, extending a hand. “Connor Phillips.”
“A Brit,” Mr. Walker said, turning slightly in
his seat to comfortably meet Connor’s hand with his
own. “Welcome to Midland-Odessa.”
Connor thanked him and closed the door
behind him as Ava climbed into the passenger’s seat
next to her father. He slid into the center of the
backseat bench and buckled the belt across his waist.
“I met Connor on the bus today,” Ava said.
“I told him I’d teach him the art of making Homecoming mums.”
“I see,” her father said. “I suppose I should
call your mother then and let her know in advance
that we’ll be hosting royalty.”
Ava turned and looked curiously at Connor,
who sat very calmly in his seat.
He just shrugged.
-Marcus Goodwin
More Iowa Animals: The Dragon Fly
I. Morning
Chrysalis
turns to ash
contents fall
gathering grace
mailed and silvered
golden wings
tiny bronze claws
settling
haunches alight in dandelion dust:
the dragon fly.
Ten Thousand
Someday I will be worthy of my ten thousand ideals
cast off my puny small gods and their
incense dances their
silent lotus supplications I will
learn to speak
in your tongue with gifts of understanding
great visions your dreams become mine
I will build you
tall monuments and skyscrapers
from children’s blocks with bumps
and ridges prefabulated where
pilgrims once swung an axe
Always you demand the impossible the
counterclockwise moment before apology.
Some day I will cease to live in present tense to speak
sit finally inside the quiet house watching for shadows
beneath the door.
-Laura Winton
III. Night
It’s another hot sweltering evening
up here in the Iowa mountains
how it gets moist and tropical at 9,000 feet –
well, that’s Iowa for you.
But now the fun begins;
get yourself an iced glass of lemonade
sit back in the lounge
and watch the first of the night’s flying commando
squids
take on the last of the day’s dragon flies.
Pretty evenly matched –
no one really gets hurt.
But man! Those bursts of dragon fly flame!
It drives the chromatophores on the squids
absolutely crazy!
Flashing gold and yellow and green and purple and
Orange –
well, it’s just the Fourth of July
every night
up here in the Iowa Mountains.
II . From the Handbook
The dragon fly caterpillar
is one of those wonders of summer
that makes life in the high valleys
of the Mythical Iowa Mountains
the joy that it is.
in first person
to
The bright scarlet caterpillar
with diamond backs
and platinum bands
eats only garden pests, and is a
welcome backyard visitor.
It has no natural enemies
except for the occasional
misguided sparrow or mouse
whose blowtorched remains
stand as simmering
warnings to give this
little critter an extra wide berth.
See page 165 for handy tips
on treating those unsightly
scorched grass divots.
-John Turner
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16
25
“Remembrance”
Kerry Glynn
“High Road”
Cassidy Piersall
24
24
17
“Mother’s Eyes”
Kerry Glynn
“Us”
Kyle Andre
18
18
23
23
“Pretty in Pink”
Kerry Glynn
“Kelly Thomas”
Amanda Peterlin
19
22
22
19
“January Blues”
Kerry Glynn
20
20
“74”
Amanda Peterlin
21
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