2011

So wherever you are now, and however you came across our magazine; whether

this is the first C.V.D you’ve ever opened, or you tune in every year….. Kick

back, have some coffee, forget about everything else, and dive in to the world

of tattoos and more.

You have never read, or watched, or breathed in, a Cedar Valley Divide like this one!

Cedar Valley Divide Here at the Cedar Valley Divide, we have set ourselves outside the norms of

previous issues. This year, inside the C.V.D. headquarters, there was an

overhaul of epic proportions. All limitations and boundaries were leveled

and new blueprints were drawn, tracing the pulse of the college community.

The eye of the photographer, the hand of the artist, the busy mind of the

poet: all crucial instruments for assembling our greater vision.

Poetry

Full - LeeAnn MacTaggart..............................................02

Dream - Russell Jaffe....................................................03

Jupiter - Leah Wolfe......................................................04

New Meds - Scott MacTaggart..........................................13

The Minotaur Duane - Tonja Robins................................14

Lost in Time - Andrea Hanson........................................15

I Will - Russell Jaffe...................................................18

The Iris - Kayla Dotson.................................................19

Bounty Hunter - David Hulm..........................................20

Skin Tones - Don Arenz..................................................21

Friend/Object Comparison - Trip Anderson....................28

Ode to C.O. Jackson - B.C. Vurciaga................................29

Mouthwash - Rose Haley..................................................33

Reminiscing ... - Russell Jaffe......................................34

Puzzle in Despair - Winston Rumsdale...........................44

Two Bad Summers in Time Check - Sharon Rose...............45

Girafee Stuffed Animal - Michael Valerius Jr.............46

Fiction

But Above All, Money - Sharon Rose...............................05

Girl - Devin Tumpkin.....................................................09

Ninth Cycle - Michael Leonard......................................35

The Workshop - Katy Boulet...........................................39

Nonfiction

Death - Chris Crissenger...............................................06

Blind - Alicia McMahon..................................................08

But Two Negatives Equal a Positive - Carrie Barker...10

Sanctuary - LeeAnn MacTaggart.....................................16

Community Ink - Misty Purifoy......................................25

Two Way Fight - David Richmond....................................30

The Maquoketa Kid - Luke Shepherd...............................37

Photography

Ferns in th

e Forest - M

ichael Wink

owski..........

..................

.....01

The Hill of

Tara - Jen

nifer Evan

s.................

..................

........03

Sailor’s Deli

ght - Kayl

a Dotson......

..................

..................

......04

World in Mi

niature - M

ichael Wink

owski..........

..................

.....09

I Taught Joh

n Wayne How

to Shoot...

- Lance E.

Hanson.......

.....13

‘Fading Mem

ories’ - Ka

yla Dotson..

..................

..................

.........15

New Hope -

Amanda Dak

e.................

..................

..................

........17

This May Not

Float Far..

. - Lance E.

Hanson......

..................

.....21

Third Editi

on - Rose Ha

ley.............

..................

..................

......28

Abandoned b

y the Waysi

de - Michael

Winkowski.

..................

.....34

Mirage at L

incoln Cente

r - Lance E

. Hanson......

..................

....44

Painti

ngs/Dr

awings

Nude w

ith Ch

air -

Liesel

Kayse

r......

........

........

..Mast

head

Orange

Love

- Lind

ey And

erson.

........

........

........

........

.....02

Paper

Tat-D

oll -

LeeAnn

MacTa

ggart.

........

........

........

.....22

Filmst

rip -

Lindey

Ander

son....

........

........

........

........

......24

Anarch

y Butt

erfly

- B.C.

Vurcia

ga.....

........

........

........

...27

Dio de

los M

uertos

- B.C

. Vurc

iaga...

........

........

........

.....29

Green

Love -

Linde

y Ande

rson..

........

........

........

........

......33

Bridge

t - Li

esel K

ayser.

........

........

........

........

........

........

45

Cedar Valley Divide2011

Editorial Staff:

Lindey AndersonDon Arenz

Christopher CrissingerKayla Dotson

LeeAnn MacTaggartNathan MillerJess Musgrave

Michael WinkowskiTonja Robins, Advisor

Kirkwood Community CollegeCedar Rapids, Iowa

Cedar Valley Divide copyright 2011

All rights reserved by individual contributors

Charcoal Drawing by Liesel KayserNude with Chair

Photo by Michael WinkowskiFerns in the Forest

1

Full

Pain

ting

by Li

ndey

And

erson

Oran

ge Lov

e

Mixe

d Me

dia

I feel like my bedroom closet Crammed with miscellaneous junk

Assorted thoughts and ideas - filed away by chaos

I should sweep it all out Give this madness some order But not today - today I add more Just shove it back, and push it in.

I know that someday

it will be too much

and the world will fall down on my head

LeeAnn MacTaggart

2

Photo by Jennifer EvansThe Hill of Tara

City’s light clouds long passed dust storms,

the heavy price of gravity fever: my armchair penance.

I drew the long metal

stalks from the corners

of your mouth flooded river, drink

me in.

Dream

Russell Jaffe

3

4

Jupiter

She’s not the balancing of check books

or prime time TV.She’s not the picking out of furni-

ture,or sippy cups

and grocery carts.

She is not the one I’d take home to Mother.

She’s not the paying of billsor tax returns.

She’s not my side of the bedalarm clocks

or Thursday meatloaf.

She’s not photo albumsand birthdays,

or Monday through Mondaythrough Monday again.

She is not the other end of the couch.

She is WaterEarth,

snowball fights when you’re supposed to be at work.

Lightning crashing thunder,electric air.

She is the ocean that supports Us.

She is winddancing leavesdown the street

on a daywhen sweatshirts

and footballare all in lifethat matters.

She is the constellationacross the sun,

holding mein sublime universal balance.

She is Jupiter.

Leah Wolfe

Photo by Kayla DotsonSailor’s Delight

Kina twitched her whis-kers. There was food nearby. She could smell it. She ran swiftly past the safe places, the dark corners under the old dwellings of the people, towards the scent. It was in-side the big metal thing again. She jumped up and in. One, two slashes and the thin, crinkly, dark skin they tucked that wonderful smell inside was ripped. Dig, dig, and out came the strongly scented carcass of whatever it was. It wasn’t prey, but it tasted so good.

“Eh! Get the hell outta here!! Damn cats, always dig-ging up my garbage!’’

Kina jumped and bolted. It was the same voice every time. The person didn’t bother to chase her. People, hobbling around like that on just two legs, weren’t nearly as fast as Kina.

She scooted around the flat woods by the rocky path. They weren’t trees, but they smelt like them, under the

noxious scents the people coat-ed them with. Stuff made of trees, then. People. People make things from things that were already made. Weird creatures.

She could hear the kits mewling. She’d been gone just a short run, one or two hunts. They needed milk. She crouched and scooted into the safe, dark place. Their eyes shone in shades of red. She sniffed them. They still smelt like her.

She flopped. They suckled a bit. She tried to clean them, but they were off, to play. More active every day. She’d have to start bringing mice back to let them play with, take the teats away soon. She had heard the males, hunting around, yowling for her. She could feel the cycles again. She’d want to mate soon.

Kina cleaned herself. She stared up. There was rot in those flat woods. The water had come and gone past two shifts of cold now. The people didn’t come back. They let it rot.

Perfectly good safe places

and a little water makes them run. Makes me run. I don’t like water. But it’s dry now. Safe. Warm. Good sleep. Good kittens. Good males. Good nights and days. Sun to bathe in, puddles to lap from, food to eat just a short run away. This whole place is so full of everything, but they still left. What else do those creatures want?

Kina’s runt bit her ear, shaking her from her thoughts. She swatted the obnoxious lit-tle kit away and rolled over to sleep. I do miss the way that one would pet me, though. He was nice, even if he was a weird thing.

“But Above

All, Money

’’

- overhear

d in a sto

re parking

lot

Sharon Rose

5

6

I hate funerals. And it’s not because I am unfamiliar with death, actually it’s quite the opposite. I just refuse to let fear of death con-sume me. As sure as there is life, there is death; it is what keeps the world in order and balances power. The one thing no person can escape is death, despite status, wealth or sex.

But for some reason, the most recent death I am dealing with still really troubles me. There is no blood relation between me and this per-son, and, even if there was, death in the family is something I am far too familiar with. I am only twenty-seven and have already experienced the death of parents, step-parents, grandparents, siblings and numerous other friends. So we will just say this wasn’t my first rodeo.

She was my neighbor. A regu-lar working woman with three girls, one in middle school, one in grammar school, and one still too young to go to school. But it is not the thought of her death leaving her three girls without their mother that bothers me.

The beginning of this summer

she found out she had leukemia. This would be the ultimate demise of my neighbor, although she did not seem doomed from the start. She went to the University Hospital in Iowa City to the cancer ward to fight it off. Riddled with holes from IV’s and bald from the chemotherapy, she spent weeks alone without her girls there. One week she’d get out, the next she’d be heading back to the cancer ward.

But she remained strong. Every time I would see her she’d be smiley and full of hope. ‘’Next summer you will see me back out here chillin’ in the sun with a full head of hair,’’ she would say jokingly, and I be-lieved it.

Then a virus spread through her body killing everything that the cancer wasn’t already eating. Things got worse, and quick. Her doctors told her she wouldn’t make it until the end of the year. They gave her the option to stay at the hospital, or go home and wait it out. She chose to go home and spend her remaining time with her girls.

The news hit me like a bag of bricks in the chest, ‘’Damn,’’ was the only thing I could think to say.

Death

7

Chri

stoph

er Cr

issin

ger

My mind spun, grasping at the real-ity of the moment. I played with the words in my head, attempting to find the deeper meaning in this mess of words. ‘’Mindy is dead.’’ She is gone.

So here is what is bothering me, here is what I cannot let go of. When her funeral ended, a grueling ceremony that did Mindy no justice, helped heal no wounds or settle any hearts, a terrible song poured qui-etly out of speakers overhead. Those on the left side of the funeral home got up row by row from front to back, stood and walked past Mindy’s open casket. One woman burst into tears as she approached her deceased loved one (to be expected at any funeral).

It was finally our turn to go. My party stood, filed out into the aisle and began the walk towards Mindy. I stopped by her girls and hugged them one by one, a gesture no one had yet extended to them. I didn’t care if I was holding up the line behind me; besides, a funeral is for the family. The corpse doesn’t give a fuck what you do with it. Finally I reached Mindy’s casket. Looking in I was crushed. This was not my friend. This was not the woman I’d known. She looked like they had wheeled her in from the hospital and thrown her in the casket as-is.

Her face was swollen and mis- colored. Eyes slammed shut in a gri-macing expression as if she was still

in agonizing pain. Mouth clenched shut and lips still blue. No wig, no makeup, no dress or beautiful jew-elry. Just sick dead Mindy. A woman whose life-work had been making other people beautiful, and this is how they leave her for her children to see for the last time.

Every day I see her lying in that box and my heart bleeds for her and her family. I think about how little time we have and how quickly we can be wiped away. I think about her kids looking into that box and looking at their mom with the same horrified expression. I think about my children looking into my box. The same box I never feared now haunts my thoughts. The swollen endless death that all must face.

I hate most days. I like her so much that I can’t stand her, her and this hold she has over me.

I see her, put on a fake smile just for her, and make her think I’m fine-I’m not. I want to scream at her. ‘’Hello, I’m right here! Don’t you see me? Don’t you care?’’ She doesn’t, I know she doesn’t. Still, I wait-and wait, and wait, and wait; but, it doesn’t matter, she’ll never see me. She’s blind to me.

I listen to her talk about him for hours. I don’t know why I torture myself; I don’t know why I care.

‘’He’s leaving her!’’ she says, her megawatt smile on full display. ‘’He swears he wants me.’’

She’s happy, I’m miserable.‘’That’s great,’’ I answer,

swallowing hard.

No one wants me to like her; but, they all know just how truly gone I am for her. They’re looking out for me. I’m the one who will end up crushed by this, not her, and they all know it. They tell me to for-get her, but they don’t know her like I do. They don’t see it. How can you leave someone that seems so right, so perfect?

I can hear my friends warning me; they can see where this is going, and they see the disaster zone straight ahead. But the second she speaks, the second she smiles, the second she laughs-I can’t escape her. I can’t tear myself away from that; I melt.

‘’So we’re still hanging out this weekend, right? I think he’s going to come.’’

She’s bringing him up to make me jealous. She knows,

she’s always known.‘’Of course,’’ I say too

quickly. I’m torturing myself but I don’t care. I won’t miss the chance to see her.

She smiles, and I know the only reason I’m smiling is be-cause she is. She giggles, and says, ‘’What?’’

She’s too good of a person, too nice, too pure; I can’t lose someone like that. I can’t tell her. I can’t lose my friend. I can’t make this jump and ad-mit my feelings. That’s not for me to do. It’s the only thing I want to do, and it’s the only thing I can’t do.

And, like always, I shake my head and lie, ‘’Nothing.’’

Alicia McMahon

Blind

8

(Taken from “I Was Trying to Describe You to Someone” in Revenge of the Lawn by Richard Brautigan)

I was trying to describe you to someone a few days ago - trying for ease and found discomfort. I was unprepared for this…this feeling. I was unaware at the time that I love you.

Yes, it’s strange. All the time we’ve spent together has been so “innocent”. So platonic. So…not love. So what happened? You haven’t changed. I haven’t either.

Nope, I still think you’re too funny to be a girl, too sexy to be a dude, too cool to be an enemy. I still think you hook up with douches (but I still want to get you in bed because I still think you’d blow my mind). I will still tell you my sex stories to one-up yours (though they don’t even compare, nor do they matter). I have been and will be forever tinted green from envy of every touch that isn’t mine.

After a cigarette (trust me, I needed one), I came up with this: You learn to love her.

I promise I wasn’t trying to be a dick. Just…misleading. I mean, I learned I love you, didn’t I?

Well, he’s no good for you anyway, just like the rest. Just like I’ve said too many times before.

I’m just waiting for one of them to prove me wrong.

Girl

Devin Tumpkin

Photo by Michael WinkowskiWorld in Miniature

9

Oh my God. Oh my God. OH MY GOD! This cannot be happening. Tears surged down my face, pelting my bare thighs. Two different brands, two different stores, two different bath-rooms. Same results. Are you frickin kidding me?! The second one only con-firmed the first and the first only confirmed what I’d recently begun to suspect.

How? I kept demanding. How could this happen? Okay, the how wasn’t the mystery. This wasn’t sup-posed to happen. Not now.

I must have sat there for a long time, numb. My head and limbs felt far too heavy to get up, my brain incapable of forming intel-ligent thought, eyes closed, head tilted backward, positioned awkward-ly against the tiled wall behind. At some point, my eyes flickered open to the glare of a recessed flood light directly above.

Was this the Universe’s idea of a sick joke? A test of some kind?

I stared into the white hot light. Mesmerized by the orb, I con-sented to it cauterizing the tears, scorching my corneas.

What words of wisdom might help here? I needed something. Any-thing. When life hands you lemons,

make lemonade? What doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger?

A shoulder angel whispered, ‘’No one ever has to know.’’

‘’There are options,’’ the other chimed in.

Activity a few feet away briefly interrupted the conversation only I could hear.

‘’But could she go through with it? Could she live with herself af-terward?’’ the first asked.

‘’Dunno. She never thought she’d be in this situation,’’ the second an-swered.

I closed my eyes and gently rubbed the black blobs out of my vi-sion. I dug the other contraption out from a small brown sack at the bot-tom of my purse and discarded them both in the receptacle mounted in the stall.

‘’A little different than the typical trash thrown in there,’’ a shoulder angel observed.

‘’It is ironic,’’ the other agreed.Go away, I told my shoulder an-

gels. I don’t like you anymore. I pulled myself together and

made it to the sink. The reflection in the mirror wasn’t kind; twin mas-cara ruts flanked each side of my face, eyelids swollen and naked, the

whites bloodshot and raw. The splash of cold water stung my pores. Stall-ing, I wandered throughout the store and tried to come to terms with this new reality. My loitering terminated in the baby section.

How will Scott react? What will people think? What are we going to do? I tried to put myself in his shoes. We . . . will there continue to be a ‘we’? I just didn’t know . . . .

I slipped into the house and quickly scanned the rooms. Scott was alone in the kitchen, cleaning out the refrigerator. Damn, I had bad timing. I quietly crossed the room and erected myself alongside the sweaty Tupperware and condiment containers sitting on the counter.

I crossed my arms and erupted, ‘’You were right.’’

He backed out of the fridge and shut the door, giving me his full at-tention. ‘’About what?’’ he asked.

Be strong, I told myself, and do not cry.

The instant our eyes met, mine started to well up with tears; I looked down and away, focusing on a few stray dust bunnies gath-ering in the corner. I hesitated. Scott sighed impatiently; he hated

But Two Negatives Equal a PositiveCarrie Barker

10

to be interrupted in the middle of something. Briefly, my eyes met his arched brows then darted back to the corner again. For Christ’s sake, my brain screamed, he’s your husband not your father! I took a deep breath and purged, ‘’You were right about me being pregnant.’’ I stole another glance; his expression was impos-sible to read. I took another breath and elaborated. ‘’When you suggested it earlier, I thought you’d lost your mind. But then I got to thinking. . . the dates, not feeling well. I still thought you were nuts, but I took a test. Two actually, and they were both positive.’’

Just then, the patter of foot-steps getting louder interrupted my confession. ‘’Mom, can I have some crackers?’’

‘’Sure, buddy.’’ I handed him the box, trying to buy us more time alone. ‘’Share with your brother and sister, okay?

‘’Okay. Thanks, Mom!’’ and back to the living room he went.

Scott’s silence was unbearable. I forced myself to look directly into his deep blue eyes.

‘’I haven’t cheated on you,’’ I of-fered.

‘’I wasn’t thinking you did,’’ he countered calmly.

‘’You weren’t?’’ My brain couldn’t comprehend. How does a man with two surgically cut vas deferens not sus-

pect his knocked up wife? ‘’You remember the numbers the

doctor told us,’’ he said.‘’Yeah, I remember joking about

our odds of having another baby be-ing greater than winning the lot-tery.’’ And asking if I could do the honors, I recalled. (After all, dads were given the option of cutting the umbilical cord after a baby was born; it seemed like a perfectly reasonable request to me.)

‘’I can’t believe I figured out you were pregnant before you did,’’ he said. ‘’What kind of woman are you?’’ He was teasing, but I failed to see humor in the situation.

‘’The kind of woman who is done with that part of her life,’’ I belched, sounding defensive. ‘’The kind that gave birth to three babies in 33 months and likes eight hours of sleep a night. The kind that is done changing diapers and washing bottles and already got rid of every bit of baby stuff we’ve ever owned.’’ I’m sure he was sorry he asked. ‘’Why would being pregnant even cross my mind?’’

If he answered I didn’t hear him. My brain was busy cranking out reasons not to have this baby: be-cause I was done with that part of my life, because I finally owned clothes that were stain-free, because I was a frazzled, overwhelmed mess when the kids were babies. And be-

cause I was tired of feeling like my sole purpose on this earth was to be someone’s wife or mother. What about me? When was it my turn? I stopped, realizing Scott was watching me shake my head back and forth.

‘’Scott, I can’t start over. I don’t want to. They’re all finally in school.’’ Guilt overwhelmed me. ‘’And you know people are going to assume I had an affair. Everyone knows you got a vasectomy.’’

‘’I don’t give a shit what they think,’’ he said. ‘’Ultimately, it’s your decision and I’ll support whatever you decide, but I think we’re in a better position now than when we had the first three. Things are better now, right?’’

It was true; we weren’t exactly living the high life but we weren’t nearly as broke as during those ear-ly years. And I couldn’t remember the last time we had an argument.

He continued, ‘’I’d say I’m more mature now than at 25. And more pa-tient.’’ I nodded. ‘’Care, it’s not like you’re going to have three babies again. Just one.’’

Also good points. Wait a minute - what the hell just happened? Since when was he the voice of reason? That’s always been my job!

‘’Come ’ere,’’ he said, gently pulling me into his protective em-brace.

Wow, I thought, dissolving into

11

a blubbering train wreck. I had pre-pared for a whole slew of reactions, but that wasn’t one of them.

Exhausted and relieved, I agreed to let the idea of a fourth child marinate a while.

I knew myself pretty well; I was capable of talking myself into or out of just about anything. I had been known to rationalize, justify, or just procrastinate until someone decided for me. But I wasn’t a fan of indecision either and the grav-ity of what Oprah called a ‘defining moment’ weighed heavily on my mind and gnawed at my brainstem. During downtimes, my shoulder angels re-appeared to duke it out; one would throw out a legitimate objection and the other would counter with an equally valid rebuttal.

In the shower: ‘’She has no baby necessities; it would be absurd to start from scratch.’’

‘’She learned the difference between a necessity and a gadget the first time around.’’

‘’Has she looked at the prices of the stuff? This is going to cost a bundle.’’

‘’It doesn’t have to be brand new; there are always garage sales and second hand stores.’’

At a stoplight: ‘’Another child is less than ideal in a three bedroom home; the boys are already sharing a room.’’

‘’Maybe it’s a girl. Her daughter has always wanted a little sister.’’

‘’Yeah, till she actually has one.’’

‘’People make do. Years ago, ba-bies slept in dresser drawers.’’

In line at the grocery store: ‘’A new baby will totally mess up the whole birth order dynamic.’’

‘’It will. There will no longer be a middle child.’’

‘’The older kids may resent the baby.’’

‘’Or maybe they’ll be old enough to remember the experience of hav-ing a new little brother or sister - being helpers, teaching new things, reveling in all the firsts.’’

At night in bed: ‘’She lives in a time where women can choose. She doesn’t have to blindly accept what-ever card life throws her.’’

‘’She considered all her options; she feels too often people try to control every aspect of their lives. That’s not life, that’s a spreadsheet. The bumps in the road are there to teach things - about life, about ad-versity, about herself.’’

‘’But she said she doesn’t want this.’’

‘’Well, it’s not always about getting what you want. She wants chocolate all the time. Wait, that’s a bad example.’’

‘’But she said she was just starting to get her life back.’’

‘’It’s true that the timing isn’t convenient. But have you noticed that things have a way of working out pretty terrific, when given the chance?’’

‘’Wait, does this mean she’s hav-ing a baby?’’

‘’She’s decided; they’re having a baby.’’

‘’I still can’t go to sleep.’’‘’Maybe it’s because you consume

too much caffeine.’’ ‘’Maybe. Or maybe it’s because

I can’t turn off my brain. How is it that he can be lying next to her snoring sixty seconds after his head hits the pillow? She’s been lying here for more than an hour.’’

‘’She’s gonna have to get up to pee soon anyway, so she may as well get used to it.’’

‘’Hey, what were all those girls’ names we had picked out? Do you re-member?’’

‘’Oh, the girl names were a piece of cake! We found lots of names that we loved. It was the boys’ names that were tough . . . they had to sound masculine, but not too macho. ‘’

‘’Hmmm, I wonder where she put that name book.’’

Shut up! I scolded them. I’m trying to fall asleep. Maybe I’ll look for the book tomorrow.

12

New meds, can’t sit stillAntsy feet, ok though

I get good sleepGotta’ keep moving

It’s in my bloodGoddamn, but my head feels good

Twisted thoughts, all goneAll done, now what fun?

What a sword the world yieldsChopping, cutting, slicing

Racing around - fucking twirlingLike a tweakin’, geekin’ freak

Money comes, rent comesOut it goes - in stress comes

Plus some more, whatever it is

It’s a seizure It was a childhood feeling, you know?

When I was playing retard, you kicked meA big ball of foil, a life’s worth of ReynoldsRolling through the halls, all out of control

Wack, no meaningSweating like a fish - numb, blind, sick

Somehow more thankfulThe kidnapped - in love with the captor

Scott MacTaggart Photo by Lance E. HansonI Taught John Wayne How to Shoot

New Meds

13

He sits at his girlfriend’s Formica tabl

e,

smells of motorcycle grease,

his black and blue motocross boots

slumped by the kitchen door,

his lap cradling his custom helmet.

His left hand grips a long-necked

Bud, and a pile of little girl bones

rots in the pen of his nightmares.

He knows this girlfriend’s daughter carries a blade, and once when he’d shoved her mother she jumped on his back, whispering she’d take that edge across his throat with a slide of her arm

as if playing a cello.But he’ll be slain by some father,he guesses, or some young man seeking fame. Red threads hangfrom his T-shirt, the seams unraveling.

He thinks of his mother, a loud Lithuanianmore loving of her amber than him,her tiny wrists poking through lace sleeves.She kept him from company, raised himin a maze of kitchen-bath-bedroombecause the gods left a fissurein the black top of his mouth,his unvoiced anger still inflaming his brain. His horns grew early,

he owned a cue stick by 10.At least she knew how to name him.

He takes another swig,

bumping the toothpick

clamped between his dentures.

He ponders the thrill of scars

.

Maybe someday he’ll put aside

his Kawasaki for a BMW,

substitute O’Douls for his Bud

.

But forever he’ll wait for dea

th

by revenge, that armed father

or brother

who will find a beast’s

unsifted center, some way to n

avigate

the ivory labyrinth of ribs.

TheMinotaurDuaneTonja Robins

14

Lost in Time

Andrea Hanson

A Fossil encrusted with diamonds

Bound gently in sterling silver

Snapping its fingers into place

Though not very old, its face has

scratches

and is starting to show some age

Arms move freely, twirling above

roses which lay on an opaque bed

A hand keeps rhythm

with a Japanese drum

Moving in circles, dancing

to remind that time

Is slipping away

Photo by Kayla Dotson ‘Fading Memories’

15

In the day-to-day hustle of life, we are tossed around in a world of concrete, glass, and steel. Fam-ily, school, work, cable, Facebook, artificial environments, and on-line networks restlessly bash into us from all directions. Where do you go to find quiet from the clam-or? How do you escape? Do you have your own happy place? I have found mine. Three acres of beauti-ful country land, right here in-side the city. Mentally bruised and battered, I bump and bounce my way down our street, seeing the clusters of branches shielding my home. An array of gossamer emeralds, their line broken only by the rusty wind-mill. The grating thumping of each slow rotation has been chained into silence today, despite the constant wind. I am eager to reach my little patch of paradise.

The boundaries to my kingdom are clear against the red and orange sky, streaked with all of its fiery glory. Trees define my yard; each has a personality completely its own. My home is placed in the back of my yard. Several acres of grass and classic hardwood trees separate me from the gravel road. I am a penin-sula among fields. This summer, the fields bordering us will ripple

and sway with golden stalks of corn. Until harvest, I will have a natural privacy fence to block this all from prying eyes.

Guarding the sliver entrance to my driveway - there squats a gi-ant fat fir. Waiting, like a dark, monstrous toad, grossly misshapen with lumps and randomly spotted with warts. I see him from the cul-de-sac island at the end of my driveway, and he seems ready to challenge in-truders. I imagine a slimy, serpen-tine tongue wrapping around a car, slurping it in, and swallowing with a sickening gulp. I am glad that he is mine!

A fantastic relic of the mid-western forest - darting under the thick needles, my daughter found a matted, gray tuft of rabbit fur. The hardy country rabbits have built a nest here in the dead and discarded branches hollowed against the roots. For the small fuzzy animals, this is a natural haven from the unpredict-able weather and worse. We humans spend much time seeking shelter from the wind too. Yet, even in the com-fort of our home, we can sometimes hear the wind tearing at the walls and tapping at the bedroom window with wayward tree limbs. It reminds us that whatever will not bend,

Sanctuary

LeeAnn MacTaggart

16

Photo by Amanda DakeNew Hope

eventually will break. Militias of giant pines in a row, gallantly at-tempt to defend the west side of the yard, where the wind can strike the hardest. Tall and ram-rod straight, these pines reach their long branch-es for the endless sky. All the while, they form a fifty-foot bor-der between the world and my fragile family. The tiny needles rustle, and all is washed with the golden-green glow of their filtered light. Un-seen birds chirp and cheep in a sym-phony of chaos; their tone and treble changes each moment. Nests sparkle on branches like long-forgotten, tattered Christmas ornaments. How many lives thrive on this bit of land?

Something about this warm evening fills me with such hu-mility. How seemingly insignifi-cant are my worries and fears, my hopes and dreams. All the baggage I carry seems to fade away in the light of these ancient lives. The gnarled twists and knots of my wood-en friends reproach my audacity and remind me that they were here for many years before my parents and my grandparents. If left to their own devices, they will be dancing with the wind, long after I breathe my last breath and my body is nothing more than worm food.

I feel truly grateful to have this heaven on earth. I have lived

in trailer parks with no more than a three-foot strip for yard. There were pink flamingos and stray cats roaming in packs. I found a tree, hidden behind the repair shed. I have lived in apartments built like prisons. Tiny cells, stacked on top of each other, built into compound brick buildings. There are times where there is nowhere near to go, nowhere away. I know that the un-spoiled beauty surrounding my home is not so common anymore. How many trees are in the average yard? How many on the average block?

We have 33 magnificent trees in my yard, varying from apples to pears to pines. We have trees to pick, trees that bloom, and trees to climb. To me this is the greatest joy of rural Iowa. Seeds explode to life in our soil. The wild can be found in any creek, or in any field. While I mourn the loss of the true wilder-ness that was once here, I worry even more about the paved places invad-ing. Yet, my sanctuary is safe for now, and now is all we ever have.

17

I’m going to plant.When I’m done there will be a harvest after this-

With what I could do I will write this book like an inky plume to itself goes back and forth on a page,

so do my chlorophyll hands get pepper smears on receipts.

I hold remotes like I squeeze nectar from peaches in decline the day after they are the ripest-

on these days your bright face over a pile on the bed’s the sun.

The sun itself: it dries my crops and I long for the rainy days; when those come the sunny days are needed to pull out that moisture,

though I don’t only love you when you’re upset…

I’m going to in chasms, likening what I do to irrigation tunnels,I’ll explain it again and again, oh, though I meant to yell at you “fruits need sleep! vegetables need sleep!’’

I was rational, I was expository, I was divisive- should have been gentle. Should have climbed those hills under your eyes,

oft-watery consternationcome on, I can’t even take them.

I Will

Russell Jaffe18

A purple Iris such a simple thing

Beautiful, yes, but nothing extraordinary

How greatly that idea has changed

A purple Iris, magnificent, gorgeous, life

Joy, sorrow, and hope all mixed together in this flower by the road

In one day this flower went from nothing to all we had left.

The Iris

Kayla Dotson

19

Lust breaks me up, I’m bubbles in her cola.

I’m the lipstick on her glass, and I tap on her tongue like rain on thirsty seed.

Lust removes me from my skin, I enjoy myself inside and out.

Lust makes me forget yesterday’s white hot sunset shared with no one.

Lust shows me what life is like without it.

Lust is the bounty I collect on my enemies.

Bounty Hunter

David Hulm

20

Caressed by soap and sun and needleThis magic organHolder of brain and heart and gut, and anOcean of water and spaceBecomes a continent of colorWith passageways of poresBreathing love and light

World in

World out

Photo by Lance E. HansonThis May not Float Far...

Skin TonesDon Arenz

21

LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers,

aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roXaNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler, brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh

schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn, briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH,

maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers, aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roXaNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler,

brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn, briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs,

chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers, aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roX-

aNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler, brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn,

briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gEr

LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers,

aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roXaNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler, brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh

schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn, briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH,

maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers, aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roXaNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler,

brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn, briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs,

chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers, aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roX-

aNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler, brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUgh

STudent Body Ink

LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers,

aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roXaNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler, brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh

schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn, briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH,

maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers, aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roXaNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler,

brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn, briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs,

chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers, aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roX-

aNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler, brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn,

briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gEr

LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers,

aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roXaNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler, brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh

schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn, briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs, chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH,

maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers, aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roXaNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler,

brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUghn, briTtneY WilLiams, LinDey aNdersOn, bRett daNiel, lYdiA chaDek, leaH chaMbeRs,

chIca, aLysSa cOok, anGela coNrad, cHriS corTeZ, braNdy croW, marQuail darPoH, maDison diGman, vanEssa dRew, duDe 1, dudE 2, andRew gErBers, andrEw gerHers, aNdre gerVin, leAh giBson, jeSsica haRbouGh, tiM KriZ, roX-

aNne leSnaU, leEann maCtagGart, scoTt mactAggaRt, petE mcCartHy, miKaYla mUuLler, brItny mUrpHy, mErCedes myerS, ginA null, misTy PuRiFoy, tonJa rObins, zaCh schMinkey, amBer shePparD, steNis stRums, lAmontE vaUgh

STudent Body Ink

24

We turn right at the looming ga-

rage-like building. I see the familiar

gargoyle acting as protector of the build-

ing and rolling cemetery as its backyard.

Walking up the ramp to the dark blue

metal building, the glass door is opened.

There it is. A skin-crawling buzz known

to make my heart skip a beat. The sterile

hospital-like smell invades and makes its

presence known. As my eyes adjust to the

dim room, a quick glance to my left shows

a long-haired brunette. Several visible

piercings and completely covered in tat-

toos. Still holding the tattoo gun, she

gives a quick wave hello with her black

latex gloved hand. ‘’Hey girls, thanks for

coming in, you the one’s that called?’’ she

asks over the monotone buzz.

As the brunette begins to inquire

about our presence inside the shop, my

mind starts to wander. I look around

the room; a dark-haired man, black base-

ball cap turned backwards, is bent over

a woman’s back. Amongst the buzzing from

the tattoo gun, I listen to this woman ex-

plain how she originally got the cross on

her back; it wasn’t done the way she want-

ed. She had been saving up for a cover-

up. One of the more enjoyable parts of a

tattoo shop is being able to see everyone’s

ink and learning a little about their

life. I start to roam. I make my way

closer to the young girl and her baseball

cap wearing tattoo artist. I walk across

the carpet and lean over the counter.

From shoulder blade to shoulder blade,

there’s a large cross with angel wings. I

try to continue eavesdropping but my mind

is swiftly brought back to reality. I am

here for a reason.

I look over my shoulder towards

my friend Nichol, who also came in for

a tattoo. Nichol and the brunette are

deep in conversation, mostly with their

hands. Gestures measuring size. Point-

ing out certain parts of the body as pos-

sible placement. Even across the room I

understand it all. My stomach is filled

with human sized butterflies as I question

myself. Should I be getting this done? I

start to sweat. I’ve heard the foot is a

terrible place, so what am I doing?

I breathe in deep and exhale, ‘’I am

ready for a tattoo!’’ The brunette, Megan,

explains the 75 dollar minimum charge.

She needs to know what we’re getting tat-

tooed and where we want it done. After

she receives the details she can give us a

price. I already had decided on my right

foot. My friend decides on her right

thigh. Ouch. Normally the fun in going

with a friend is watching the different

methods used in creating different looks.

Today, that’s not the case. Nichol and I

decided 2 weeks earlier that we should get

the exact same thing tattooed, the Three

Days Grace symbol.

Going back to the day the decision

was made. No persuasion needed, the choice

seemed to be made for us. Being two women

with busy lives, we usually reconnect and

catch up through text or phone calls once

a week. During the usual mundane catch-

ing up, we bring our conversation around

to tattoos. We both hadn’t had one in a

while and I had been thinking about one

I might get since our last road trip the

month before. ‘’I got to ask you some-

thing’’, Nichol blurts out. ‘’Would you ever

get the Three Days Grace symbol tattooed?’’

Nervousness kicks in, is she going to

think I’m insane because I indeed HAD been

thinking of it? My friend will under-

stand me, she always has. So I laugh and

say, ‘’I want it behind the left ear, and I

want it in black. I’ve been thinking about

this since we left St. Paul’’. Holding my

breath I wait for the response. ‘’I think

I want mine on my leg, I’m not sure yet.

When do you want to go do this?’’ she spits

out. Being weary to begin with I argue,

Community Ink Misty Purif

oy

25

‘’Are you serious? We can’t do that! It’s the

dumbest thing we could ever do! Or the

smartest, should we do this?’’ After a long

drawn out debate weighing the pro’s and

con’s of getting our favorite band’s sym-

bol tattooed, the verdict was clear. This

brings me to the sickening buzz.

‘’We can shade it in. We can add

color. Obviously the choice is all yours’’,

the brunette proclaims. Having decided

on black I was just ready to get this over

with. Nichol decides on red and black.

She saw a shading of red into black in

one of Megan’s books. I was thankful my

friend was on top of things. Usually you

want to take a look through your art-

ist’s book. It’s going to show you photos of

tattoos they’ve done. You are able to see

their methods. Gauge them as an artist.

Most importantly, you get to see if this

person is a match for you. Again, I feel

like my friend might have saved me from

making a huge mistake. The photo of the

shading got me very excited. ‘’You blend

these perfectly; can you do more than two

colors?’’ With a yes response I immediate-

ly decide on my colors; Pink, Purple, and

Black; the colors of the latest Three Days

Grace album, Life Starts Now.

My friend decides to go first and

applies her stencil. The stencil is pretty

important when you’re getting a tattoo.

The stencil is placed on the part of the

body where you are getting tattooed.

Once the stencil’s applied you’re getting

the clearest picture of what your tattoo

will look like without actually getting

it inked. While Nichol looks at her leg

in the mirror, Megan begins to adjust

the chair. The chair folds down flat

and makes a comfortable table. Nichol,

satisfied with the placement, lies on the

table. Nichol’s leg is cleaned off and

Megan is ready to tattoo. As my friend

lays semi helpless on the table Megan

asks the million dollar question, ‘’Why

are you girls getting the Three Days

Grace symbol tattooed?’’ The question

always makes me and my friend glance at

each other cautiously. Most people don’t

understand. Even after explanation,

most are put off or think we’re a joke.

I go through my memory bank and

my heart begins to beat a little faster,

‘’to be honest, because of this band and

the people that work for them. We’ve

been able to experience some of the most

amazing things. We’ve met some of the

most amazing people and built life-

time friendships, in a nutshell’’. With

a smile the tattooing brunette says ‘’go

on…’’ I consider this an open invitation

to spill all the details of the roller-

coaster ride I and my friend had been

on the last 4 months. By the time I’m

finished telling our epic tale to Megan,

she’s pretty excited. She understands

she’s another piece to our puzzle. As

our conversation lulls, she lets us know

she’s finished with Nichol. She does the

final wipe down of Nichol’s tattoo. Then

carefully applies a bandage. Masking

tape is used to hold the bandage down

to the skin. With Nichol off the table

Megan sterilizes everything. After ev-

erything is sterilized, there needs to

be a 20 minute wait until someone else

can use the area. So with 20 minutes to

spare, Megan, Nichol and I decide to go

outside for a cigarette.

While outside Megan and I have a

discussion on the Sugar Skull. Some-

thing I had wanted to get tattooed for

a while. Megan has three on differ-

ent places on her body. While examin-

ing them and her discussing the differ-

ent variations she had done, Nichol goes

up into the cemetery. The owner of the

tattoo shop had recently gotten into a

motorcycle accident. He was laid to rest

inside the hilly cemetery overlook-

ing his shop. If you were someone lucky

enough to know Hank, you want to stop by

and say hello. Or those that have just

heard of the man also like to stop and

show respects. After Nichol gets back

the subject of Hank comes up and Megan

tells us that once a year, co-workers

from the tattoo shop, friends, and fami-

ly go for a motorcycle ride in memory of

him. Never having been tattooed by him,

and never having been that close with

him, I feel bittersweet. I can under-

stand that the world lost a great man,

and a great artist. I’ve seen a lot of

his work all over Cedar Rapids. After a

quiet moment in the conversation, Megan

decides to go back in and get everything

26

ready for my turn. I throw my cigarette

on the ground and step on it. I walk

up the ramp towards the gargoyle and

through the glass door.

My heart dropping through my

stomach, I sit on the chair. A red high

heel brought in by me sits next to me

on the long tattoo chair. I slip in on

and with an orange marker, Megan draws

lines on top of my foot to get the per-

fect placement. She takes the stencil

and places it on my foot. I ask Nichol

what she thinks. With a thumbs up, it

is time for sterilization. Megan pre-

pares for my tattoo. Pink, Purple and

Black inks are placed on the counter.

Reaching into the bottom drawer of the

counter, she grabs a fresh needle. Her

cream colored hands now covered by the

black latex, this means it’s time to pro-

ceed. ‘’Don’t forget to breath,’’ she says

as she clicks the machine on. BUZZ. My

heart drops through my stomach. BUZZ.

The lump in my throat triples in size.

Finally it’s happening. She brings the

gun down onto my foot.

Sending waves of pain through

my body, the tattoo process begins. Be-

ing my sixth tattoo I felt like I was

greatly prepared for what was in store.

I was wrong. The foot is an extremely

painful area to get tattooed. I can at-

test to that. Every inch that she cov-

ers feels like a razor blade slice. Only

when the tattooist wipes the blood and

excess ink away with a cool towel do you

feel any sort of relief from the pain.

20-30 minutes of pure pain pass by. The

final product is ready to be seen. I

take a look at the symbol that’s going to

rest on my foot forever. I couldn’t be

more excited with the outcome.

Even though Megan didn’t have

the same tattoo that my friend and I

now had, or even the same story as ours,

she understood everything. Working in

tattoo shops has given her the ability

to cover a lot of her body. Some she’s

given herself, some her co-workers have

done for her. The meanings seem end-

less. Her left hand has a black Labra-

dor on it, the love of her life. A por-

trait of her grandmother sits on her

neck for the world to see. As she goes

on about her tattoos and what they rep-

resent, I smile at my friend. The feel-

ing of being connected to someone in

this way is unlike anything I’ve ever

felt in my life. She contributed to a

piece of art that will be on my body

forever. She will be directly tied to my

tattoo until my time is up. And above

all that she was kind enough to let us

into her life a little. This, for me, is

what tattooing is all about, an amazing

way to express yourself without words.

It’s just out there on your body for ev-

eryone to see, or not see if you choose.

Drawing by B.C. VurciagaAnarchy Butterfly

Pencil27

Friend/Object Comparison Trip Anderson

It never goes out of style, neither does he

Unlike the sweet sound that sings, he is nothing but a headache,

History was cut; he inks his story

Unlike the blackness that has been collected and calming

With him I find regret follows in suit

Forgetful world misplaced the circled blackness but it has no end.

A decade past he has been on my nerves and still called friend.

Photo by Rose HaleyThird Edition

28

You strut down the unit, Sick grin on your face.With a nightstick tappin’ your palm, And a pocket fulla mace.I see you while you’re lurking, You play a sadistic game.He loves to hand out beat downs. Action Jackson is your name.

You thrive on reputation, Love your name brings fear.I hear your boots a squeakin’. Alarm that you are near.But did you know The trap set for you here,When Geno’s sock of chilly Rocked you right upside your ear.

Look at ‘em now he ain’t so proud, Call him Jack-Ass of the year.Cuz now when he come He be sucking his thumb,Action Jackson lives life full of fear.

Ode to C.O. Jackson

Poetry and DrawingB.C. Vurciaga

Dio de los MuertosPencil

29

It was back in the freshman days of my life. You hope to god you make good friends and you don’t come off as ‘’scrawny’’ to anyone else, in fear of becoming an outcast to others. You have to be intimidating, but fit in at the same time. What you wear has to be acceptable for the clique you chose, and your style must repre-sent your attitude. Most importantly, you have to back anything you claim to do, and there’s no backing out. I came to these realizations one night, as my faithful friend and I walked through the mall.

It was later in the day, and there weren’t too many people around. The Paddock Mall was quiet for the most part, with the exception of us. Nick and I came along with my sister and her friends to browse. We weren’t looking for anything really, but it was something to do. We walked the calming hallways, separated from my sister’s group. Nick was wearing his purple colored tight jeans, which most people would find complete-ly weird. He wasn’t afraid to stand out, largely because he didn’t care what other people thought of him. He couldn’t care less. He isn’t the kind of person you want to mess with any-way, given he boxes, wrestles, and even gets involved in a fist fight every now and then. At our school, no

one screws with Nick.

I wasn’t up to his level; I didn’t know how to fight at all. I was lanky, but my skinny effect was tak-en away by my jacket I wore around everywhere. I had no experience in actual fighting ever before. When I was by myself at the mall, I had to act shy, avoiding the other cliques. If they wanted to screw with me, they could and there would be nothing I could do to stop them. Being with Nick was fun because it didn’t mat-ter if I was skinny or not. We could do what we wanted and have fun doing it!

We tore through some cloth-ing stores to see if there was any-thing good, which there wasn’t. Some shirts were between thirty and fifty dollars. Others were cheaper, but looked like crap. We grew tired of the repetitive searching and fail-ing, so we went to a game store in-stead. We were passing time really. Soon, we would meet up with my sister on the other side of the mall at a shoe store, but not before the con-frontation.

As Nick and I made a heading for my sister, we walked past an-other clique. We fell under more of the ‘’Skater’’ style, whereas these

four guys were more of the ‘’Gang-ster’’ style. There was one black guy and three white guys, all wearing similar clothing such as hats with stickers on them, shorts that hung down to their ankles, and some even had chain necklaces, their ‘’bling’’. They were walking around with one leg stiff, and had, ‘’I’m a punk’’ writ-ten all over their faces. They looked cocky, arrogant, and were asking for trouble. We walked past them, seemingly unaffected. I was used to this, as no one really messed with us most of the time. That all changed, because when they walked by, one of them whispered, ‘’Fag.’’

Nick heard, knowing automati-cally that they were talking about his purple pants. We turned around, and Nick was ready for anything, unlike me.

Nick talked back, ‘’What did you say?’’ They turned around as well, not intimidated by us at all.

Their ‘’leader’’, as you might call him, came back at us and said, ‘’I didn’t say anything. What, ‘chu got a problem or somethin’?’’ They would not confess that they said anything about Nick.

Nick stood his ground, ‘’I heard one of you call me a fag.’’’

Two Way FightDavid Richmond

30

Their blond gel-haired head of the group said, ‘’What, you want to fight?’’ They began get-ting excited, echoing what he said in synonyms. His posse stood behind his back, as I stood behind Nick’s. Nick was ready to fight. He wasn’t upset or anything, for he was well focused.

Their main guy said, ‘’Let’s go outside and settle this.’’

Nick asked me, ‘’Do we have time?’’ I really hadn’t been in this situa-tion before, and felt rather nervous. However, I didn’t show any weakness to them. I knew my sister was ex-pecting us.

I told them, ‘’We’re going to meet up with someone, then we’ll go out-side.’’ They began making fun of us, believing that they had won. They were doubtful that we would show up outside. They headed towards the door, clamoring like the punks they were. Meanwhile, Nick and I went to the shoe store where my sister was.

Truthfully, I was kind of glad we were away from them, and I re-ally didn’t care if we ever saw them again. Nick, on the other hand, was still eager to go at them. We found Cherise, my sister, at the Fin-ish Line shoe store as planned. We filled her in what happened moments ago, not making too big of a deal out of it. We assumed they weren’t going to do anything anyway, and that it

was over. When we looked out of the store and around the corner, there he was. The blond kid was knock-ing on the glass door, gesturing for us to come out with a smirk on his face. It was decided. Nick was go-ing to fight someone, so I told my sister we would be right back. I stood alongside Nick as we made our way towards them. I began planning to myself what to do depending on what happens. I didn’t want to fight over something small like this, but if they were to do something unfair like double-team Nick, then I would act. At this point I didn’t know what I would do. I just knew I would do something.

We walked outside, greeted by the chilly night sky. It was all set up, just their four and us two. They stood adjacent to each-other, a cou-ple of them taller than me. It wasn’t intimidating any more than it was awkward. I say this because these guys acted like gangsters. Gang-sters fight dirty, and don’t really care about talking when it comes to fighting.

The blond one told us, ‘’So you two really wanna fight us?’’

Nick clarified, ‘’No, just me and you, one on one. He doesn’t fight.’’ I was relieved Nick wasn’t forcing me into anything I didn’t want to do. They were shaken by Nick. They stuck together and wanted to fight

together. They made their ‘’Pssht’’ noises and mocked the idea of one on one. They weren’t sure what to do.

Something very satisfying hap-pened. Something that made me feel a whole lot better at that point in time. As they were talking to each other, I overheard what the black guy said to the blond guy.

He whispered to him, ‘’We can’t keep backing out of fights. We re-ally need to do it sometime.’’ He was hushed by the blond guy, because he knew what I was hearing. I realized what these guys were. They didn’t have anything! They were just wise-mouthed punks who have never been in a single fight in any of their lives. Now they were against the wall. It didn’t matter that there were two more of them than us, be-cause knowing these guys were pa-thetic meant I could beat the crap out of them too if they did decide to fight. At the time, I kind of fig-ured I had to start somewhere, why not do it now? I was hyped up and ready to win my very first fight if need be.

The blond guy hesitated some more, talking with his friends. You could tell they were nervous. They were stiff, not smiling any more, and overcompensating by talking more crap to us with curse words and such. I didn’t care, because I was ready for anything. I began picking out some

31

of their flaws to myself, how the blond guy had braces, how the other two guys weren’t saying anything directly to us, and how ridiculously they were dressed. Even though I was in the moment, I didn’t do anything to agitate them. In fact, both Nick and I never said or did anything that made fun of them. We were both fair to them, and that gave me enough reason for me to fight.

The blond guy finally decid-ed, ‘’All right… let’s go over here. That way no one will see us.’’ So we followed right behind them, walk-ing at a slow pace. We couldn’t tell what they were doing, but they made the situation really awkward. We thought we were being led to the back of the building, but we didn’t turn the corner. Instead, they kept going through the parking lot. We kept following, but they picked up their pace, freaking out essentially. They didn’t know what to do, or where they were going.

Out of nowhere, they told us to go away, and asked us, ‘’Why are you still following us?’’ They got away, and we didn’t chase them or anything. Seeing as they were being weird and didn’t want to fight us anymore, we let them go.

We began walking back to the mall and talked about what just hap-pened.

Nick said to me, ‘’Wow, what a bunch of pussies. They didn’t do anything.’’

I told him, ‘’Yeah, I kinda fig-ured they would.’’

Nick asked, ‘’Why’s that?’’ I told him what I had overheard the black guy telling the blond guy earlier.

Nick was surprised, ‘’Really, he said that?’’ Nick was going to fight them regardless, even if they were experienced or not, so he found it funny that they actually said that. We laughed about the whole thing as we went inside.

We won, and they lost! We re-ported back to Cherise and friends and filled them in on what happened. We laughed about it some more, then left the mall to finish up the day at a nearby gaming place called, ‘’Easy Street.’’ I felt better, experienc-ing what it’s like to almost get into a fight. I knew now that I could fight the next time if I wanted to. I wouldn’t be discouraged at all, because I had experienced the rush and how to ignore it. By doing so, I wouldn’t get nervous anymore.

After everything that happened, the really funny thing was yet to come. You see, when we were at Easy Street, we spotted the four again! This time, they were different. The blond one kept his mouth shut and

avoided us, and one of the other three guys came to us like a diplo-mat. Then he apologized to us. Nick and I had nothing to say really. The apology added to the comedy of the moment, though. These guys who were supposed to be big and tough turned out to actually be the opposite. I changed as well. I had both succeed-ed over my enemies and my own cour-age. I had won the two way fight.

32

Whiskey to wash my mouth

And clean my head.

The less I speak the more

My words weaken

And soon I will be

The equivalent of a deadman

And tell no secrets.

Therefore you may stow yours away

Safely in my grave.

Never could I have guessed my fate.

Mouthwash

Rose Haley

Painting by Lindey AndersonGreen LoveMixed Media

33

Photo by Michael WinkowskiAbandoned by the Wayside

Sometimes on our better days in Dubuque we’dlook up to the tall hills chiseled to points the road can passand we’d watch for minutes at a time the carson lazy days and hope for a minute they’d be surprised around the bend,the spot the road would twist past the factories sittinglike any heap of broken refrigerators and irreparable vacuums.You said the hills were like a rhino’s horn, wild, butthey were like piles of beer cans enshrined with smooth,pointed mountainsThey lead littered to the train yards, onlyeking out the slightest sound when you kicked them and pulled yourself from the gravel to the rusted platform of a ruddy brown freighter.The train cars were empty, forgive mewe ate strawberries and sang songs quietlyThe stony gray of the hills make Dubuque today’s isthmus,aluminum roofs shine intermittently and squeeze like a bottleneckinto what’s Iowa, white houses and bruise gray barns like lofted bubbles for miles Hills surrounding Dubuque in lifelong occupationslam closed the sun and we kicked those white, hot pebbles asideOn quiet days we went to gas station diners and poked at the runnyfluid in the center of the eggs, we’d twirl forks and look at the rowboatsfrozen in placeThe oceans are all drying up and wouldn’t you know ityou can’t tell out here, out here wherethere’s only two types, thoseembroiled in struggles with the landand the ones who know they’re off to it

Reminiscing, I said Dubuque was surprisingly beautiful

Russell Jaffe

34

35

I don’t believe she ever told me her name, but I will never forget when she pointed her thumb inward against her chest and mouthed, “I’m dying.’’ But wasn’t she more specific than that? “I only have until 9.’’ It hit me hard. If I hadn’t been sitting, I would have been floored.

“How can you be so sure?’’ I asked, looking up at her. I received no direct reply. Instead, all I got was an uncer-tain smile and a shrug.

I guess I didn’t get a very good look at her before, did I? Or maybe I just wasn’t paying attention to the cracks in her surface. She was cer-tainly frail, certainly pale, certainly … sickly. Her hair, the lightest possi-ble shade of brunette, resembled frayed and worn silk draped over her shoul-ders. She never paid it any mind.

Although we had met her in a park earlier that day, my cousin and I, I couldn’t shake this feeling that I had known her long ago. Which is a good explanation for why I accepted her in-vitation to come over to spend more time with her at her uncle’s house. There were three of them, and I didn’t ques-tion it. The two I had seen were far too burly, far too intimidating, far too… in control. Leave it up to my cousin though. He was suspicious from the start. That didn’t stop him from tagging along, or even to go so far as to wander the halls of the rather cramped house. It was designed in order to ensure no one could ever honestly call it a home.

She was staring at me like she ex-pected me to say something. I’m not sure if it had struck her how difficult it is to follow up on “I’m dying.’’ I looked down to my watch. 8:53. I wanted to ask what her phone number was, probably should have asked her about her name, but that all seemed relatively irrel-evant. She didn’t seem too bothered over the fact that she had less than ten min-utes left, just kept that same nervous smile on her lips. I finally caved in.

“How long have you been here?’’“Long enough,’’ she replied, settling

down on a blue plastic chair she prob-ably used to be able to call her back when she was younger. Her voice was as delicate as paper on the wind. “Long enough to call it home.’’

There was movement down the hall, in the kitchen, where I knew my cousin wasn’t.

“Just my uncles,’’ she reassured me. The way she said ‘uncles’ didn’t settle right, as if it took everything in her power to force it out. I was beginning to question, as my watch changed to 8:56.

“Will they be okay with us being here?’’

She lowered her eyes to the ground, separating us, mumbling, “I… don’t know.’’

“How do you not know?’’ My tone had changed more quickly than the course of a car swerving to avoid a brick wall. When I was met with silence, I repeated, “How do you not know?’’

Her eyes darted back up to meet with mine. She was beginning to get

emotional, I could tell it as her voice weakened and her shoulders slumped for-ward. “I have… lived in this house my whole life….’’ She began to try and stand but the arms she was using to lift her-self up gave out from under her, “I have never had anyone over. That… that - that’s why I don’t know.’’

My cousin rounded the corner from another hall, paying little attention to us. 8:58. All he did was walk over to the wall parallel to us and sat down on the cold floor.

“Just wanted to see what it was like is all,’’ she buried her face in her palms. “Just wanted to be able to say -“

A knock on the wall behind me caused us both to jolt up, if only to crash back down. It was one of her uncles, the one I hadn’t seen before. I had an even more difficult time believ-ing it now, this was the one that nailed the suspecting coffin shut. He was a behemoth, he was a man based off of fear (seeing as though he got a good chuckle out of scaring us), and he was as dark-skinned as a man can be. Sure, he could have married into the family, but that flimsy idea soon slipped my mind when the other two uncles came around from the kitchen and grabbed her by either arm.

I’m not quite certain why my reac-tion was to remain still, silent, compla-cent, but it was slightly justified when I looked over to see my cousin doing the same, and even more so as she made no more than a groan when they dragged

Ninth CycleMichael Leonard

36

her off to the kitchen. Perhaps it was the simple fact that she knew and I knew that closure is a rarity in this day and age. When I finally turned around and leaned over to see down the hall, I got to watch one of the uncles shut the door. It was then that I knew I would never get to ask her what her name was. My watch beeps.

It is 6 p.m. and I am at the park. My cousin and I are rising and fall-ing on a pair of swings; one of us for-ward and one of us back. A young woman approaches us, walks directly into the path of my swing, and forces me to come to a screeching halt. I do not look at her, but into her, through her pale green eyes, and I want to ask her what her name is, but refrain. My cousin refuses to stop swinging. He is in his own world, and I am in mine. We talk, we laugh, it feels safe here. Here in this park where everything is the light-est shade of orange. Where everything around us is dying but still remains beautiful because we know that this time next year it’ll all be reborn. She asks if we’d like to come over, and I agree for the both of us. There was something about her that made everything seem so safe, so secure. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. There is a shout from afar.

A shout that brought me back to reality, where I sit in a house that can never be considered a home and my watch alerted me that it had reached the turn of the hour. At first, I didn’t notice my cousin across the room. I am only focused on the closed kitchen door where I believe the awakening holler

came from. There is nothing more than murmurs of men speaking. I had abso-lutely no clue what they were talking about, and I still don’t, but I did know I was wrong. Not just in guessing where the shout came from, but also about a lot of things that night. Luckily for me, most of those wrongs stopped matter-ing when I shifted back, looking to my cousin who was flailing and squirming against the tile floor as a sudden gray decay washed over his skin. For the oddest of reasons, this is what compelled me to finally move, leaping forth to try and aid him. But on further inspection I couldn’t bring myself to even touch him out of fear of it spreading to me. It bubbled and popped, it was under his skin. It had no true point of origin, as if it was coming from within instead of from the surroundings.

The door to the kitchen broke from its hinges as the three uncles stomped from behind it. What surprise their expressions shared as they found me, stooped over my cousin, without a hint of disease pumping through my veins. Their surprise must have come from the fact that they themselves had been af-flicted, perhaps even infected, with this most dire of problems.

“You!’’ the one in the middle called out, a thick black slug pouring out from between his lips.

It wasn’t happening, was it? It had to have been a dream. Of course, my luck, it wasn’t. I turned back to my cousin, lying silent now and whis-pered a few parting words to him. Some-thing along the lines of “I’m sorry, but I think you’d forgive me.’’ There wasn’t

much time for sentiment, for the uncles were charging fast. What was once the magnificence of fall transitioning into winter was becoming a dank, dark mess. Everything was melting together; fall-ing, pouring, collapsing. Closure is a rarity. Perhaps that’s why it took me by surprise, a firm palm slapping across the face when I finally managed to grab hold of what I believed was a fragment of it. She was so indiffer-ent to it all. She was so undecided as time ticked away. Somewhere inside of her, maybe right there for all to see or buried deep within, she knew this would happen. She knew some purge, some great end would come when her life ceased at 9. Maybe she wanted somebody to tell.

Maybe she just wanted somebody to save.

Attempting to cross through Texaco I was upheld by a north-bound train dragging timber and coal. Dark grey smoke pouring into the sky, the behemoth whistled news of its simultaneous arrival and de-parture. One hundred and twenty-seven graffiti-traced steel cars flashed before my eyes. I was on the highway formerly known as Route 66, two weeks deep into October but the weather had yet to break in the sunny southwest. Other than patches of prairie grass submitting to the swirling wind, the terrain was flat-ter than a playing card all the way to Oklahoma City. I arrived at the Ramada around dusk, kissed my moth-er and collapsed onto my twin bed. Nothing brings family together quite like a funeral, even more so than a wedding. However, in lieu of your presence, it is acceptable to send a bouquet to both. My brother sat on the adjacent bed, cleaning his Glock. A week ago we had discussed over the telephone our reason for being here tonight, but now that we lay five feet apart, we spoke not a word. I rolled over to face the empty wall.

The next day, from the ring-ing hotel wake up to the long drive back home, was without outward emo-

tion from me. So much so that it be-gan to make me feel guilty. I raised my arms in a powerful stretch that spilled out over the shower cur-tain. When I was cleaned and shaved and dressed, I followed my brother to the breakfast bar downstairs. Many of our relatives were also stay-ing at the Ramada, and with them I made stiff conversation while we ate a complimentary morning meal of bananas, wheat toast, and coffee-flavored water. We watched C-Span and during commercial breaks they asked me about my military life in New Mexico. I used the expression “grease monkey’’ twice and described the High Plains as being “dull, dry, and devoid of life’’ (the three D’s). Finally we left, half of my family squeezed into a rented white Corol-la. The drive took fifteen minutes, fourteen of which were silent.

I wasn’t allowed to cry during the service, in my shiny dress shoes, pleated pants, and blue suit coat adorned with small rectangular rib-bons. Every time I felt like crying, I adjusted my necktie. Sometimes the collar-which was way too tight!-and sometimes my USAF insignia tie pin. The “wings’’ of the pin would sloop over and I was constantly checking

to make sure my uniform was in or-der. It isn’t stated in the Uniform Code of Military Justice that an airman is not allowed to cry during a funeral. It’s one of those unwrit-ten but ubiquitous rules, which are more important than the official ones. Holding in the waterworks was hardest when the trumpet spat out “TAPS’’ and the twenty-one gun salute erupted in the courtyard. This con-cludes the military funeral. This means Sergeant Martin’s ashes are returning to the earth. What once was him, the square-jawed broad-shouldered mischievous-smiling cousin of mine, now rests eternal. It’s final. Standing at attention, salute whipped out and held tight, my aunt’s racking sobs of grief per-meating the chapel walls, I stood unflinching; a boulder. Just be-fore the service, my aunt had sought me out and wrapped her arms around me. She said something about me be-ing too young for this. I wanted to tell her the same thing, but decided it would sound foolish coming from me. We stood there embracing and I let her face burrow deeper into my shoulder, allowing the soft fabric of my suit to absorb her tears. ‘I’m strong for you,’ I thought.

The Maquoketa KidLuke Shepherd

37

When the service was over, I searched for a private place. I wandered around the vestibule and the foyer and throughout the halls but all the doors were bolted. The washroom was packed with loud, pu-bescent relatives I wasn’t aware of ever having. Forced outside, I cor-nered the sidewalk around to the courtyard. My younger sister was there, sitting Indian-style next to a spiraling limestone fountain. She had little plastic flower bar-rettes pinning her hair up and her cheeks were glistening. Still I kept my hands tense at my side, and upon leaning over discovered the fountain was empty. Devoid of moisture, only the iron and copper stains of wish-ing well coins remained, way down at the bottom of everything.

“Hey,’’ I said. She bristled and her back stiffened straight. Polite-ly, she offered me a smile. I asked if she was going to be ok. She nod-ded and repeated the question back to me. Holding back, I said, “Sure.’’ Then I said, “There’s a lunch in the banquet room. I saw miniature sand-wiches and red potato salad.’’ My younger sister got up and stuffed a kerchief into her purse and together we walked out of the courtyard. My courage was a lioness and it gobbled up her fears. ‘For you I am strong,’ I thought.

We sat on wobbly folding chairs in the midst of our extended family, nibbling at jello cake. There were pictures of boy Jack, high school Jack, Army Jack, husband Jack, ev-erywhere. My brother shuffled over and we talked about commemorative tattoos we would someday get, but nothing seemed adequate. I confess I did not know how to honor my cousin. “I like the motto the Army Special Forces has. A couple of Jack’s bud-dies already got that tattoo,’’ said my big brother, holding a sweaty cup packed with ice and purple punch. “De oppresso liber, to free the op-pressed.’’ I’ve always loved Latin. When you hear it spoken, it demands your attention. “That’s powerful,’’ I replied.

The loss we suffered made me feel very impotent, but at the same time filled me with a shocking sense of pride. Growing up with my cous-in, that rascal from Maquoketa, had greatly enriched my life. How could I be sad? How lucky I was to have known him! Great memories abound-ed in my head, nostalgic moments of snow forts and creek beds, freshly cut grass stuck to our denim shorts, looking out over ledges, learn-ing, growing, living, being, hav-ing. I wished somebody would whisper and tell me it’s ok to cry when your friend dies, because then I could ex-

plain why it was also ok not to cry. Slowly, effortlessly, my frustrations diminished. I thought of John 15:13 and the Philippine Islands where Jack was ambushed. I was free and strong today and it was thanks to my cousin, the hero. Toothpicks pry-ing open my eyes, I drove home that night, west by southwest, chasing and grasping for the tail of the sun.

38

Gentle laughter floated about the three ladies sitting on a back-yard patio. Warm wind blew softly around them, making their pastel gowns flutter like little wings. Anne was the host and she was pour-ing tea for her cousin Marie. Shulusine, a friend to both of them, was daintily nibbling on a pastry with sugared cheese filling. It was a wonderful summer day and the three of them were having a tea party.

‘’It’s been such a long time since the three of us could spend time together like this,’’ Marie said with a smile.

‘’Ah, I apologize; I’ve been so busy,’’ Shulusine expressed sadly.

‘’Oh, you mustn’t blame yourself; we’ve all had hectic schedules late-ly,’’ Anne said warmly, as she poured herself a cup of tea. ‘’I hope the set-ting is acceptable for you both?’’

‘’Cousin! How could your family’s home be unacceptable? I have always enjoyed visiting here, and you know that I feel that the atmosphere is pleasing.’’

‘’Yes, I know you think that….’’ Anne tilted her head to the side, still clearly concerned that she was not being a good hostess.

Shulusine smiled gently. ‘’There’s no need for you to worry in such a manner. The arrangements are truly lovely.’’

Anne smiled softly as she nod-ded her thanks to her guests.

Really, there was nothing wrong with the area she had cho-sen for the get-together. The table was placed in the middle of the pa-tio, with the wall of green trees at their back, and house at their front. Off to the side, a little hidden un-der the shade of a large oak was a workshop. It was nothing out of the ordinary, if only a little out of repair. All in all, the setting was a perfect location for a small friend-ly gathering.

Everything was going smoothly; the atmosphere was most gentle when the back door slammed shut with a great force. The sound echoed around the patio, the ladies paused. Anne was the first to move, turning in the direction of the sound graceful-ly; she looked up to see her brother standing awkwardly in front of the doorway.

Peter was a peculiar fel-low. Much to Anne’s disappointment, he didn’t have much fashion sense,

held up his end of a conversation poorly, and rarely bathed. Most of the time, he was to be found tinker-ing on something and making a lot of noise. He was also very shy, and it was clear that he wasn’t sure how to proceed now that he was in everyone’s line of sight.

‘’Hello Peter, it’s been a while hasn’t it?’’ Marie was smiling softly as she spoke.

‘’H-hello cousin M.’’ He was slowly edging his way towards the workshop as he muttered his greet-ing. He glanced nervously at Shulusine. Identifying her as a stranger, he literally leapt to the workshop. Or he would have if Anne hadn’t gotten in the way.

‘’Peter,’’ she said her voice rather toneless, ‘’this is Shulusine; we often call her Shula for short. She’s a good friend to Marie and I, you know. I won’t have you ignoring her like his.’’

Peter made an unhappy whimper as he tried to inch around his sis-ter. He didn’t see what the fuss was about, strangers were to be ignored; they too often brought trouble.

‘’We met her in school,’’ Anne continued, stepping in front of him

The Workshop Katy Boulet

39

again. ‘’She’s a great person, but her work keeps her very busy now days. We don’t often get to spend time with her.’’ She frowned; wrinkles appeared on her forehead, pointing the way to a menacing glare. ‘’You will say hi to her.’’

‘’N-nice to m-meet you miss,’’ Peter stammered.

‘’Likewise,’’ Shulusine replied.

‘’Well enough, I suppose,’’ re-marked Anne as she stepped out of her brother’s way and back into the sunshine.

Peter flung himself into the shed, slamming the door behind him. There was a very audible sound of a bolt being set.

‘’Hmmph. I really don’t know what to do with him anymore,’’ Anne said regretfully as she sat back down between her guests. ‘’I’m sorry, Shulusine. In all honesty, I didn’t expect him to wake up until much later.’’

‘’I don’t mind.’’

‘’Are you sure?’’ Anne was clear-ly worried.

‘’I assure you, I’m not offend-ed at all by his mannerisms.’’ A soft smile played at the corner of her lips.

‘’Thank goodness.’’

‘’Anne, I know it’s been quite

some time since I last saw Peter,’’ re-marked Marie, ‘’but I don’t recall him being quite like this. Wasn’t he much more cheerful and outgoing when we were younger?’’

‘’That’s right, it’s been about ten years since you last saw him, hasn’t it?’’

‘’I haven’t really been counting, but that seems about right.’’

‘’Well, you’re correct; he used to be much more….’’ She paused, as if trying to find just the right word. After a short moment she gave up. ‘’Kind, he was kind, gentle, soft-spoken, cheerful, upbeat, his laugh-ter held so much warmth, he bathed.’’ Anne’s voice dropped an octave at the last bit.

‘’What ever happened to him? Bullies at school?’’

‘’No, not that….’’

‘’Go on,’’ Marie insisted. ‘’Shula doesn’t mind, do you?’’

‘’Not at all, please continue.’’

Anne nodded, leaning over the table, as if she was speaking of some conspiracy meant only for their ears. ‘’It all happened one summer. Peter had been talking to some of his friends from school, asking them what their plans were. They all said that they were going to attend sum-mer camps, all sorts of camps; no one was going to the same one. But they

didn’t seem to mind, all were quite excited and they talked about it so much that by the time Peter returned home he had visions of summer ad-ventures whirling in his eyes. He’d never taken any interest in that sort of thing before, so of course Mother was very happy. She started researching extensively, asked him to write down a list of the things that he was interested in, and she used that to help find the ‘perfect camp’. If such a thing exists, the camp she chose wasn’t it.’’

‘’Eh?’’ said Marie, ‘’was it a hellhole?’’

‘’Marie!’’ Anne was aghast. ‘’Clearly you’ve been spending far too much time in the presence of your neighbors.’’

‘’Oh, never mind that! Continue!’’

‘’Well, in response to your question: No, it wasn’t a…a pit of perdition. Not in the sense of a place that is run down and poorly managed anyway. But it really wasn’t a place to which I would ever send my children, if I had any. Actually, I partially blame Mrs. Drunes for the outcome of it all. Right before Mother made a choice for where to send Peter, she invited Mrs. Drunes over for tea. Of course the topic came up in conversation. Oh, it was terrible! No sooner had Mother men-tioned the idea of summer camps when

40

her guest started a tirade on the subject. Apparently, the Drunes had been having difficulty affording camp for their children, and it was clear that they did not want them under their feet during the summer holidays.

‘’Mother was quite stressed. She became very conscious of how much she would be spending on pos-sible camps, and in the end she settled for the cheapest one. Mind you, it still met all of Peter’s re-quirements/wishes. Nevertheless, why Mother would do such a thing…. No, I know the reason. It was because she was rather fond of Mrs. Drunes, and didn’t want to sour their relation-ship by sending her son to some hard to pay for camp. But really, was it wise? The outcome was so dreadful.’’

‘’Why dreadful? Oh do tell us what happened! You always stretch stories out so long.’’

Anne sighed, ‘’I’m getting to it; it wouldn’t be as exciting if I told you outright what happened. Right, Shula?’’

Shulusine smiled softly. ‘’That is often believed to be the case. Certainly my colleagues would agree with you.’’

Anne looked smug as she con-tinued her tale. ‘’Well, in the be-ginning everything went well. Peter wrote to us that he was having a

great time, and had been making lots of friends. He was definitely having lots of adventures. You know, he al-most wrote to us every day. At first, Mother was worried that they weren’t giving him enough to do, but then he suddenly stopped writing.’’

‘’Eh? Stopped.’’

‘’Marie, if you really wanted me to continue with the story, you wouldn’t interrupt me so much.’’

Marie pouted.

‘’As I was saying, all of a sud-den, no more letters came. Mother was worried. Father told her it was al-right, that Peter was simply too busy to write. But Mother wasn’t satisfied. As the day when we would pick him

up came closer, she was quite upset. Every day it worsened. Father rolled his eyes at her behind his newspa-per. He probably muttered ‘space case’ under his breath too. He’s been known to do that. As it turned out, Mother had been right to be worried.

‘’When we arrived, we were a little late, because Mother was ill, and all the other campers had been picked up already. Peter wasn’t any-where to be seen. This didn’t make Father particularly pleased, so he asked one of the staff members where his son was. They looked uncomfort-able, and asked him to wait a moment while they got the camp director. Mother had gotten quite pale at this point. Ah! It was so bad; the director told us that Peter was missing!’’

‘’Missing?!’’

‘’Yes! She told us that he had wandered off during a campfire gathering and never returned. That he’d disappeared into the surround-ing woods! Mother was beside herself. But you know, I always felt that their reactions to the disappear-ance were muted, like it had hap-pened before, as if they were used to it. Not just that, but the look in their eyes that said, ‘you’ll never see your brother again’ every time they looked at me. I mean, no one ever said anything like that, but I felt it.’’

41

‘’That must have been so hard for you,’’ murmured Marie.

‘’It was very hard.’’ Anne leaned back as she shook her head remem-bering. ‘’I always disliked it when I was younger, how adults felt that they could keep things from you, the thought that children are idiots.’’ At this point Anne stopped in her sto-ry-telling to pour herself another cup of tea.

Marie did not look thrilled, but she didn’t say anything this time.

Up until Anne mentioned her suspicion of the camp staff, and their reactions to her miss-ing brother, Shulusine had not been paying all that much attention. Oh certainly her friend was well known for telling amazing stories, with-out fibbing, no less. But she was so very dramatic. Back when all three of them were in school together, it could be said that Shulusine was as dramatic as the other two, but that had changed since she started work-ing with her current employers. However, as Anne slowly sipped her tea, Shulusine was deep in thought. If someone had looked closely at her, they might have said that she was frowning, but it was ever so hard to tell. Her expression was ever so light. Could it be…? she thought to herself as Anne cleared her throat,

signaling the continuation of her tale.

‘’The director was very kind,’’ she sighed. ‘’She let us stay in the main building free of charge. There were guest rooms there, such a large compound, and it felt rather ho-tel like. Of course Mother fainted again, and I stayed with her as Fa-ther went to ‘sort things out’, as he put it. Alone with Mother, I couldn’t help but feel that the place was so eerie. There was this uncomfortable silence to the place. It was al-most like someone was holding their breath so you wouldn’t notice their presence. Really very creepy.

‘’When Father returned, he was not in a good mood. He told me that no one had searched the woods look-ing for Peter, and that they had no intention of doing so. He’d caught the half whisper of one of the coun-cilors ‘Is he crazy? That’s suicide’. No one had voiced any reasons as to why a search of the woods was out of the question. Needless to say, Father was quite angry. He’d threatened to call some of his government friends, but that didn’t seem to phase them. In the end, he was asked to return to our rooms, they’d contact him if any-thing came up. Oh, he was so upset. Fortunately, Mother was still uncon-scious.

‘’We spent several days like

that, Mother mostly sleeping, not wanting to move; not wanting to go home without Peter. On the fifth day, when Father had enough and was pre-paring to leave, with or without his son, Peter walked out of the woods.’’

‘’Eh?’’ said Marie, ‘’Just like that?’’

‘’Yes, seemingly without a care in the world. They didn’t want me to see him at first, but I peeked any-way. He was splattered with blood, but didn’t have any apparent cuts or scrapes himself.’’

‘’BLOOD?!?!?!?!?’’

‘’Calm down, Marie. Like I said, he wasn’t injured. When people asked him what had happened he said some guy had stolen him away, but that the Lady had put a stop to it.’’

‘’The Lady?’’ asked Shulusine quietly. She seemed just a little pale, but her friends did not seem to notice.

Anne nodded. ‘’The Lady, that’s what he called her, always with an honorific. Apparently she took care of him while he was lost. And only let him go, led him to the forest edge, when he promised her some-thing.’’

‘’What did he promise her?’’ asked Marie, still clearly shaken from the mention of blood.

‘’Who knows, he won’t tell any-42

one. All I know is that he can’t ever return unless he finishes something, but I don’t know what that is either.’’ She paused, and all three sat in silence for a while, staring at the table cloth.

‘’You know,’’ she continued, ‘’it was quite odd. Right after Mother rushed up to him in jubilation, she asked him if there was anything he wanted. He just stared at her, as if she wasn’t speaking his language. She tried again, saying that she was go-ing to make rarebit and eggs for him as soon as we all got home. He almost glared at her and said, ‘I don’t like that, it’s disgusting.’ Mother nearly fainted again, that was Peter’s fa-vorite dish, or it should have been.

‘’Maybe it was the weight of the promise that did it, or just the shock of the experience as a whole. Whatever it was, he hasn’t been the same since. And the doctor doesn’t think that he’ll ever revert back either. Mother doesn’t seem to care; as far as she’s concerned he could have changed color, grown horns, and learned a dead language; she still will love him. Sometimes I think that she feels like Peter died, and that he came back from the dead for her. That’s the way she treats him anyway, practically smothers him with love. Anyway, please don’t mention any of this to anyone, especially my par-ents, it’s a sore spot.’’

‘’Certainly.’’

‘’Of course.’’

Anne sighed heavily. ‘’I still think it falls on Mrs. Drunes. She’s such a bad influence on Mother…. Do either one of you bake much?’’

The unexpected change of sub-ject threw Marie and Shulusine off balance. Neither replied right away, so Anne kept talking.

‘’Mrs. Drunes convinced Moth-er that the only way to shop was to buy in bulk. She might have gone a little crazy over it. We have more flour and sugar then we have space. I found a bag in my unmentionables drawer, of all places.’’ At this point Anne made a face with begging eyes, and directed it full force at her guests. ‘’Please, please, please take some with you.’’

‘’Oh cousin,’’ said Marie, a slight chuckle in her undertone, ‘’of course I’ll take some with me. Actu-ally, I need to be heading out soon. Shall we go look at the supplies now?’’

Anne was clearly thrilled, she turned to Shulusine. ‘’Are you inter-ested in any?’’

‘’I suppose I could use some as well. Your mother won’t mind?’’

‘’No! Not at all! She’s already gotten a headache over it.’’

With that, all three got up and

headed towards the house.

Marie paused in the threshold. ‘’Anne, where was it that Peter had this experience?’’

‘’Oh, ‘V’ something. I think it might have been Vanrune Acre,’’ she said with a shrug, as if there was no importance in the name.

As Shulusine was pulling the door closed behind her, she gazed towards the workshop. She could see Peter moving around on the inside, deep in the middle of some sort of project. As she turned away to en-ter the house, she thought to her-self The Heartwood. I’ve only heard of three or four people ever coming out of there alive…..The Heartwood. And with that she went to collect her share of the baking surplus.

Out in the workshop, something glowed.

43

Like a puzzle,I lie on the floor broken,

And in despair,Life has been hard,

I struggle to keep moving on,But I’m scared,

That the next blow to my soul,Will bring death to me, every day I wake,

Hoping it will be better,Than the last.

Photo by Lance E. HansonMirage at Lincoln Center

Puzzle in DespairWinston Rumsdale

44

Two Bad Summers in Time Check

Forgetting is a fire that lights itself,whereas mud mingles only tosnuff out the sparks beforethey can collect, so insteaddirt can destroy, delineate, redirect.

Water came thick, brown, crudded.Fire came a year later, an accident deemed reckless use,a child’s mistakecriminalized and cordoned off from thesanctity of suffering,as if the scum-soaked, sun-dried,left as it was when it was flood destroyed,was more worthy of the sacrificethan the innocence of a boy, equally demolished.

Heaven can’t save us from rivers and their rushes,but Hell might save us from men and their ropes.

Sharon Rose

Ink Wash Drawing by Liesel KayserBridget

45

GirafeeGirafeeGirafee

GirafeeGirafeeGirGirafeeGirafeeGirafe

GirafeeGirafeeGirafeeGafeeGirafEargirafeeGirafGirafeeGEareargiraeyeGGirEareareareyeGirafeeGirafeeEareareareyeGiGirafeeEarearGirafeeGGiGirafeeearGirafeeGir

GiraffeGirafeeGirafeeGnoGirafeeGirafeeGirafeenos

GirafeeGirafeeGirafeGinosenoGirafeeGirafeeGirafenosenosenoGirafeeGirafeeGirafeeGirnosenos

GirafeeGirafeeGirafeenosenosnotongueGirafeeGirafeeGirafeeGirafnoseno

GirafeeGirafeeGirafeeGinoseGirafeeGirafeeGirafafeenoseGirafeeGirafeeGirafeeGinoGirafeeGirafeeGiraffeGir

NeckneckneckneckNeckneckneckneckNeckneckneckneckNeckneckneckneckNeckneckneckneckNeckneckneckneckNeckneckneckneckNeckneckneckneckNeckneckneckneckNeckneckneckneckNeckneckneckneckNeckneckneckneckBodybodybodybodyBodybodybodybodybBodybodybodybodybo

BodybodybodybodybodyBodybodybodybodybodybo

LegleglegleglegleglegleglegleTailtaillegleglegleglegleglegleglegleglegle

LegleglegleglegleglegleglegleLegleglegle gleglegleglegleglLegeglegleg glegleglegleglegLeglegleleg glegleglegleglegLegleglegl legleglegleglegl

Girafe

e Stuf

fed An

imal

Michae

l Vale

rius J

r.

46

Cedar Valley Divide2011

The Kirkwood Cedar Valley Divide openly welcomes submissions of origi-nal artwork, photography, poetry, fiction, and non-fiction from students, alumni, the faculty and staff of Kirkwood Community College, as well as

friends and families of these.

Contact the English Department for submission forms.Send inquiries and submissions to:

Cedar Valley DivideEnglish Department

Kirkwood Community CollegeCedar Rapids, IA 52406

(319) 398-4998

or visit us at www.cedarvalleydivide.org