Volume 27, Issue 1
WWW.SVSU.EDU/CARDINALSINS
Cardinal Sins is produced by the students and staff of Saginaw Valley
State University and is published on campus by the Graphics Center.
Works by students, staff, alumni, and faculty are eligible for submission.
All submissions are considered for publication unless otherwise
requested. Cardinal Sins staff members are excluded from receiving an
award in any category.
Judging is done by Cardinal Sins staff members. Identities of
contributors are not revealed until after the final selections are made.
Cardinal Sins is designed in Adobe InDesign using Myriad Pro and
Ambulance Shotgun fonts.
Cover designed by Rob Bastek.
SVSU does not discriminate based on race, religion, color, gender,
sexual orientation, national origin, age, physical impairment, disability,
or veteran status in the provision of education, employment, or other
services.
Copyright 2007, Cardinal Sins
All subsequent publishing rights are returned to the artist.
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Christi Griffis
ACADEMIC ADVISOR
Chris Giroux
ASSOCIATE EDITOR
Courtney A. Farmer
ASSISTANT EDITORS
Matthew Falk
Tyler Germain
Ashley Schafer
EDITORIAL STAFF
Britt Barnett
Peter Brian Barry
Tim Kenyon
Eric Morningstar
Holly Morningstar
Shiloh Slaughter
Brandt Snook
GRAPHIC DESIGNER
Rob Bastek
BUSINESS/BENEFACTOR MANAGER
Tracy Ulch
WEB SUPPORT
Nick Blessing
table of contents
TA B L E O F CO N T E N T S
EDITOR’S NOTE..............................................................................................................6
COLOR ARTWORK
ALCOHOLICISM James M. Zimmer II......................................................................9
CO2 Andrea Beffrey....................................................................................................10
*GEOMETRIC COMPOSITION I Robert Darabos...............................................17
COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY
JAPANESE KOI POND Melony Blasius..................................................................18
BRIDGE Tabitha Meyering.......................................................................................21
CLUB 211 Rachel Wooley.........................................................................................22
NYMPHAEACEAE ONE Robert Darabos..............................................................47
PINK PONEYS David Eudosio Smith.....................................................................48
*RETIRED LOBSTER TRAP Adam Baudoux.........................................................51
STUMBLE ABODE Jesse Fretwell...........................................................................52
COLORS WORKING TOGETHER Amanda Alliston............................................59
FOCUS James Fry........................................................................................................60
BLACK & WHITE ARTWORK
BOY WALKER Dawn Kehr.........................................................................................16
TEASE James M. Zimmer II......................................................................................29
LIFE Ashley Roggenbuck.........................................................................................43
*SHADOWS AMONG MEN James M. Zimmer II...............................................54
BLACK & WHITE PHOTOGRAPHY
LATER, SKATER David Eudosio Smith..................................................................40
LET’S GO SLAM DANCE David Eudosio Smith.................................................42
LISTEN James Fry........................................................................................................44
MORNING SUN Kristen Latuszek..........................................................................46
SAINT ANDRE D’ARGENTEUIL Ryan Martin.......................................................50
*SYMMETRY Adam Baudoux..................................................................................57
SHORT FICTION
A TELEVISED WAR Blair Giesken............................................................................12
REFRIED, LIMA, PINTO Tom Wheatley..................................................................23
*ALTERNATIVE OXYGEN AND THE STORY OF SIMEON MINOR Robbie
Pieschke....................................................................................................................37
FLASH FICTION
COSMONAUT BLUES Tom Wheatley.......................................................................7
*MATERNALISM Blair Giesken................................................................................31
AUSPEX NEMORENSIS Matthew Falk..................................................................35
SANDCASTLE TOWERS Britt Barnett....................................................................45
POETRY
CITY RIVER Tom Wheatley.......................................................................................11
INTO THE MORNING AIR IT RISES Tom Wheatley...........................................19
MALIGNANT SPECIES Carlie Hacha......................................................................20
OM Matthew Falk.......................................................................................................27
MONTANITA II Rachel Wooley................................................................................28
AT O’HARE Daniel Schell..........................................................................................30
**SUGAR VS. SWEET ‘N LOW Amelia Glebocki.................................................32
BATTLEGROUND Daniel Schell..............................................................................33
ON THE CENTER LINE Blair Giesken.....................................................................34
FROM MANILLA Blair Giesken...............................................................................41
*LUCIFERASE Blair Giesken.....................................................................................49
HANDWRITING Noah Essenmacher.....................................................................53
ABNORMAL ABNORMALITIES AND THE DECONSTRUCTION OF
MEANING Robert Darabos.................................................................................55
I FOUND MY INNER CHILD ON A MILK CARTON BECAUSE OF James M.
Zimmer II..................................................................................................................58
BIOGRAPHIES...............................................................................................................61
BENEFACTORS.............................................................................................................65
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS............................................................................................66
*Congratulations to the winners in their respective categories.
**Congratulations to the winner of the Fall 2007 Cardinal Sins
Slamoramaglamaramajama
EDITOR’S NOTE
EDITOR’S NOTE
I’ve labored over what to write in my final editor’s note. How, in
one small page, do I sum up three semesters of hard work? What can
I say that hasn’t already been said? What grand statement can I make
about art?
While I’d like to make this final note as pretentious and selfcongratulatory as possible, Cardinal Sins is, in fact, not about me. It’s
about giving those artists with something to say a place to say it,
through the publication itself or at our events. We’ve featured a wide
range of art from a diverse mix of artists: writers, painters, slam poets,
graphic designers, and rock musicians, just to name a few. Cardinal
Sins is an outlet for creative ambition and it only exists because of the
thriving creative community at SVSU. As editor of Cardinal Sins, I feel
lucky to have been a part of that community and able to experience
firsthand the talent and enthusiasm around campus. I’m incredibly
grateful to have had the opportunity to contribute.
So that’s it. No grand statements or congratulations—just
gratitude, and recognition that...
“Art is much less important than life, but what a poor life without
it.”–Robert Motherwell
Christi Griffis
6 CARDINAL SINS
COSMONAUT BLUES
COSMONAUT BLUES
b y To m W h e a t l e y
Channel 86…static. Channel 87…static. Channel 88…static.
Bonoir bowed his head in a wordless prayer, a formless sense
of spirit reaching into the aether, mysterious and ineffable as in a
dream. He opened his eyes and switched off the radio. In the darkness,
lights on the instrument panel flashed orange amid fat buttons and
analog knobs set beside a plasma display screen—images of iconic old
clashing with new.
The air scrubbers had stopped working a while ago, and
each breath Bonoir took in had more carbon dioxide in it than the
last. Already his ability to think was faltering, the singularity of his
mind now like a tuning fork, the vibrations of cognizance waxing and
waning to the rhythm of his pulse. His pattern of thought was jilted
and intermittent, a music disc that somehow played though it was
scratched to hell, or a movie with a thousand frames and a dozen
scenes removed, edited for time.
It was a simple station transfer from Lunar Orbital 3 to Lunar
Orbital 7. Each station had a different orbit, and at the time of the
transfer it chanced that the quickest way was around the dark side of
the moon. “Nuthin’ to worry about,” Captain Haber had said. He was fat,
an overconfident NASA Yank. “Swing ‘round and pop out the other side.
You’ll be outta contact for a bit. No big deal.”
In his mind, Bonoir heard Gregory scream with panicked,
primitive terror. The void brings things into focus, into clarity, and it is
a dark epiphany. Tumbling without end, Gregory saw himself for what
he really was, an infinitesimal ripple in nothingness a million miles
from anything. Out there the emptiness had the weight of infinity, the
madness of the vacuum crushing a small carbon-based life form into
a diamond glittering in the night. “Don’t leave me!” Gregory sobbed.
“Please!” But Bonoir needed the electricity. He put his hand to the
communication-link receiver and sighed. He switched it off.
There was a scandal back when he was still in training, a bunch
of international politics threatening the Lunar Orbital project. Some
ex-KGB agent, sensing his death was near, publicly revealed a secret file
detailing the deaths of over thirty cosmonauts back in the early days,
the Soviet days. Some men were blown up, some asphyxiated, and
others just disappeared into space. The Soviets had covered it up, but
CARDINAL SINS 7
even after the fall the Russians had tried to keep it secret.
“Bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell,” Gregory was
saying, anxiety and fear bringing out his accent. He had sealed himself
in the capsule’s tiny airlock and was snapping the spacewalk jetpack
to his suit. “I know I can make it. I’ll get help,” he said, depressurizing
the airlock. Bonoir had tried to stop him, had told him that the jetpack
wouldn’t last. “I’ll get help!” Gregory said as he stepped out of the
capsule. Bonoir hung his head, defeated. He knew he should have killed
him.
Gregory was a Brit, but a nice fellow. It was when he was telling
Bonoir about his home near Sussex that the guidance computer’s
internal gyroscope failed. The computerized autopilot systems changed
the trajectory of the capsule, running the engines at full thrust. In less
than a minute, the capsule was out of fuel.
Bonoir stirred a bit and switched the radio back on, resuming
his search. The air was getting cold and he was growing weary, his
coherence like a lover’s hair slipping through his fingers. An electric
pulse of thought shimmered somewhere in his brain. He smiled, still
checking the channels as he sang in his feeble English:
“A soldier’s panic, a martyr’s sigh,
that ol’ feelin’ when yo gonna die,
hey, Major Tom, I’m callin’ you,
I’ve got it bad—the cosmonaut blues.”
Bonoir laughed.
On the radio there was nothing. Rollover.
He wept.
Channel 01…static. Channel 02…static. Channel 03…static.
8 CARDINAL SINS
ALCOHOLICISM
ALCOHOLICISM
by James M. Zimmer II
CARDINAL SINS 9
CO2
CO2
by Andrea Beffrey
10 CARDINAL SINS
CIty River
CITY RIVER
b y To m W h e a t l e y
Still, ‘tis ever still—
a slate
of slick obsidian in the dusk
and the smell
of some many dead things comes
like rank female corruption,
and then, of a sudden,
six-gun firecrackers snap,
the sound rising out of the Tao
to make love with music,
some groovin’ fuckin’ ghetto jive
from a nightclub nearby.
The summer sun
that brings young blood to boil
is gone,
now fallen into the Tao,
and pith out of pore shall cool
save where sober night is made hot
by slippery wayward spirits
or miasma
with fire cleft
from mystic fruit of the earth.
Weary, though, the watcher grows,
restless,
sublimity and all sense of shape subdued
and undone
like his pants,
and as Jupiter in wrath
from him lightning leaps
in a hot arching bolt—
down to the dark
to discharge and diffuse,
and he and the river are one.
CARDINAL SINS 11
A televised war
A TELE VISED WAR
by Blair Giesken
Summer, 1968. Hot. Hottest it’s ever been. Gas and milk, both
for 89 cents. Virginia Slims in Lorraine’s red-carpeted bedroom and
blowing smoke up to the popcorn ceiling above. There’s a vintage doll
propped against the rocking chair in the corner, with tiny almondshaped eyes that bob around in their sockets when you tilt her.
Lorraine’s mom likes to keep these things around, to remind us that
we’re seventeen and not running off to Vegas to marry strange men
like we say we will. Lor’s dad bellows for us from the middle level. We
twist the remainders of our cigarettes into the ashtray stowed in her
jewelry box and bolt downstairs. Should have known that the apparent
emergency was only Bill being too cocked to properly tune in the
news. Antennas adjusted and Bill positioned back in his recliner, Walter
Cronkite makes his way fuzzily across the screen. Robert Kennedy’s
dead. So is Andy Warhol. Vietnam and a million other things I can’t feel
connected to from a two-story farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.
They say we’re starting a revolution.
Almost dusk. The boys will come in from the fields soon,
covered in dirt and stubble and sweat, the blood-orange sun sinking
into a thousand rows of corn. Lor and I come out here every night
about this time…roll up our already cut-off shorts a few more inches.
Those boys need something to look forward to.
They stagger up the dirt lane, one by one, a summer’s worth
of tending the fields written across their peeling foreheads. There’s
Carl and David and Arnold and two new ones I’ve never seen before.
As the boys draw nearer, we stay on our stomachs in the tall grass. Lor
pushes her elbows together in a desperate attempt to make her B cups
protrude. I follow suit, pretending to be immersed in the Teen Screen
magazine spread out in front of us. There’s a form I can fill out to join
the Nancy Sinatra fan club. Maybe tomorrow.
An hour and three cigarettes later, I’m paddle-brushing
Lorraine’s hair in soft rhythms by the vanity table.
“Nyla…” Lorraine started.
“Yeah, Lor?”
“I think this is it. I think tonight’s gonna be it…for Carl and me.
He tells me he wants to marry me, ya know. Says he’s gonna take over
daddy’s farm and we’re gonna have all kinds of kids.”
Just then, we heard Carl’s pickup humming in the driveway.
Lor pried the window open with a couple jabs of her palm and slipped
12 CARDINAL SINS
through the frame onto the balcony.
“Wish me luck,” Lor whispered, as her shaking appendages led
her down the trellis.
“Hey, Lor,” Carl whispered, kissing her on the cheek as she
plopped onto the stained seat of the truck and slammed the door.
One stretch of dirt road. Busted headlight. Silence, apart from
the weak groans of the truck’s rickety frame.
“Where ya takin’ me?” she said, full of excitement.
“Nowhere, really,” Carl replied.
“Whatdya mean nowhere? You can’t take your girlfriend
nowhere.”
“Well, Lor. There’s somethin’ I gotta tell you. You know my
dad was shipped out last month…and mom just can’t stand to be in
that house without him. She says we’re movin’, Lor. I don’t even know.
Somewhere on the east coast she says. Anywhere else.”
“When, Carl? When?” Lor screamed at him, her face already
soaked and blotchy.
“Tomorrow, Lor. We’re leavin’ tomorrow.”
I wake up in Lorraine’s bedroom staring at the tiny grooves in
her ceiling as my eyes come into focus. There is a half-smoked cigarette
in the bedside tray, Lor’s trademark. She only ever smokes half a
cigarette, like she gets tired of waiting for the end to come. I roll out of
bed and tiptoe downstairs to the kitchen. A note on the counter reads:
Gone to work! Lorraine, please do the dishes.
—Mom
Thank God she’s gone. Lor’s mom is always so controlling in
the morning. Pouring myself a bowl of cereal, I notice Bill in the living
room. Walter Cronkite’s on again. Then more coverage of Kennedy’s
funeral. St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Special train transportation to the
burial. Bill slaps my ass as I walk to the couch to finish my breakfast.
Sometimes, if he’s still drunk in the morning, he’ll forget that I’m
seventeen and his daughter’s best friend. Tired of Bill hitting on me as
if his living room is a dive bar, I dump my leftover milk into the sink and
CARDINAL SINS 13
head upstairs.
Back in Lorraine’s room, I wrestle with the window frame,
attempting to close it once more as a cool breeze settles in. Lighting
up, I throw the vintage doll from its throne and begin to rock to my
own steady rhythm.
Now he’s gone. I don’t know why
And till this day, sometimes I cry
He didn’t even say goodbye
He didn’t take the time to lie
Bang bang, he shot me down
Bang bang, I hit the ground
Bang bang, that awful sound
For a minute, I had even thought the sound was coming from
the record player on the dresser. We had listened to it so many times in
that room, the notes almost never left my mind. But this time, the lyrics
were distant. I followed the sound down the hall.
Bang bang
The floorboards moaned beneath my bare feet.
I shot you down.
I pulled back the door to reveal the butter-yellow bathroom at
the end of the hallway.
Bang bang.
Lor’s record player rested on the pedestal sink.
You hit the ground.
Water dripped slowly from the bathtub faucet.
Bang bang.
I peeled back the thick, shower curtain.
That awful sound.
Lorraine’s naked body. A crimson bath.
I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to spend hours staring at a ceiling
by myself. It’s a fine habit when you’re with someone, but stare at the
ceiling alone and they’ll think you’re crazy. I wasn’t ready to lose my
best friend. It’s not like she trucked off to Vietnam to be a hero. She
trucked off in a fucking pickup with the farm boy that took her from
me. Most of all, I wasn’t ready to smoke alone. We’d shared every pack
14 CARDINAL SINS
since our first one at thirteen. I brought in Lor’s rocking chair and sat
near the bathtub for several minutes, while the record skipped on and
on.
-ful sound.
-ful sound.
-ful sound.
-ful sound.
-ful sound.
Finally, I screamed for Bill. Surprisingly alert, he pounded up
the stairs. Maybe Bill was mourning his daughter. Maybe he was just a
sappy drunk. Either way, he cried the most tears I’ve ever seen a grown
man cry.
Not much later, they came to take the body. No one dared
turn off Lorraine’s swan song. We vowed to let that record skip until
the player broke or began to spark. Lor’s mom went downtown to the
church to make arrangements for the services. Bill and I went back
to Lorraine’s twin bed and lay down on our backs. Smoked every last
pack in Lor’s jewelry box. Stared up at the white ceiling that matched
her skin in those final hours. Down at the red carpet that matched the
blood-streaked bathtub. I hurt. I could tell Bill hurt too. With stained
hands and a coat of sweet smoke in our mouths, Bill and I made love to
a televised war.
CARDINAL SINS 15
boy walker
BOY WALKER
by Dawn Kehr
16 CARDINAL SINS
geometric composition
GEOMETRIC COMPOSITION I
by Robert Darabos
CARDINAL SINS 17
japanese koi pond
J A PA N E S E K O I P O N D
by Melony Blasius
18 CARDINAL SINS
into the morning air
INTO THE MORNING AIR IT
RISES
b y To m W h e a t l e y
Into the morning air it rises
over the tired brick
and weathered concrete
of post-industrial blight,
some stallion of smoke
halfway into a leap,
an ancient spirit stretching
toward a cloudless sky,
a horse-god,
disjointed in a foreign element,
or a signal
with an illusionary shape,
delayed,
warning of some approaching thing
hundreds of years too late.
CARDINAL SINS 19
Malignant Species
MALIGNANT SPECIES
by Carlie Hacha
A bipedal virus
a swill of insatiable hogs
descending upon
a watermelon patch
black seeds chaotically splashed
strewn about by
sloppy snorts and slobber
their violence leaves
no trace no leftovers
Just an empty patch of field
soaked deep red with slaughter
ready to be littered
with blacktop and skyscrapers
towering and shadowy
enveloping earth trees oceans
Filling up the air
with its thick choking waste
clouding and clogging
water with soupy toxicities
Hungry and ruthless
never ceasing
only increasing its army
until there is nothing left
to consume but itself
20 CARDINAL SINS
Bridge
BRIDGE
by Ta b i t h a M e ye r i n g
CARDINAL SINS 21
Club 211
CLUB 211
by Rachel Wooley
22 CARDINAL SINS
refried, lima, pinto
REFRIED, LIMA, PINTO
b y To m W h e a t l e y
It was summer and the night was ideal, sublime. No cloud
marred the sky and the moon was almost full, illuminating the concrete
with its eerie, pale glow. I was standing on the Genesee Street Bridge
with downtown on my left and the river below me, and the murmur of
the water soothed me. I thought that if I could sit on that bridge and
dangle my legs over the side, listening to that water, maybe I’d attain
enlightenment. Or I’d get robbed at knifepoint, which was the likelier
possibility.
Just then I heard a voice, both quiet and tremendous, like
whispering thunder. The voice was mirthful and masculine, and it
rushed at me from the sky, from every direction at once. “Eat beans!” it
said.
“What?” I replied, though truthfully I had heard the words.
“Eat beans!”
“Why?”
“Because they’re good for you!”
“Oh. Okay.”
The wind picked up a bit in a momentary breeze before fading
away. I looked around and leaned against the rail of the bridge. “Um…” I
said, and stopped. Had I imagined the voice?
“No,” it said.
“No, what?”
“No, you did not imagine any voice. Look up here.”
The words now came from a distinct source, somewhere in the
sky. I saw nothing except, a little ways down Niagra Street, the old bean
tower where, presumably, beans had once been processed. But atop
the tower, alternating between neon pink and neon green, the word
“beans” was spelled out, along with a huge rabbit, one moment sitting,
the next moment leaping, the next moment sitting again. The rabbit
smiled.
“Bingo.”
“Hmm,” I thought. “How’s it goin’?”
“Cheeky,” he said, and laughed. “How are you, man?” And
before I could answer, “Hey, hey, enough chit chat. Call me Jack, ‘kay?”
“As in Jack Rabbit?”
“No, as in: call me Jack ‘cause I don’t have a name and even if
I did you wouldn’t be able to hear it or read it or speak it or write it or
even know it, man. So call me Jack. Dig?”
CARDINAL SINS 23
I nodded. “I dig, Jack, I dig. But what’s the deal with beans?”
“Beans?”
“Yeah, why eat ‘em? Why not eat pizza or tofu, or somethin’
else?”
“Everything is possible when you eat beans. Why, the whole
world grew from a bean.”
“Just one little bean?”
“No, man, a real big-ass bean. Refried, I think, with hot sauce
and cheese.”
I heard the sound of a police-car siren—faint, diminutive, like
the fishy scent of the river carried by the wind. It came from the other
side of downtown, in the slums of the First Ward where a bunch of
autoworkers once lived. A moment or two passed before the city was
quiet again.
“Will beans help me get a better job or a new car or
something? Can you give me a bean that grows into money? How
about gold bullion? Or platinum?”
“Ha! Even better, Tom! I met Siddhartha and said, ‘hey, eat
beans.’ He just kept saying, ‘Ohm.’ I said, ‘come on, eat beans!’ and he
said alright and tried some chocolate-covered coffee beans and cried
out not ‘Ohm’ but ‘yum!’ And, well, you know the rest.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, I did. I was in Pompeii, too. They made good pizzas
there, but unfortunately none with beans. I got there just before the
grand finale, and I called to the people from the mountaintop. ‘Hey,
you! Yes, you folks down there! Come on over the other side of the
mountain where it’s safe and eat beans! I’ve got 22/7 tons of green
beans. There’s enough for everyone, and they’re in a casserole, no
less, with cream of mushroom soup and those crispy fried onions!’ But
everybody went back to their homes without saying anything except
for one man who shouted back at the mountaintop, ‘thank you very
much, but this is not a bean-eating town and we like our buttered
noodles very much, so go away.’”
“Bummer, Jack. But how do I know you’re telling me the truth?”
“Cause you’re not really real. I’m crazy, really crazy, and you’re
just an illusion. Ha! How does it feel, man?”
“I’m both disturbed and sad at the same time.”
“That’s not so bad. Picasso felt the same way after I talked with
him. He turned out all right. Before that he was a realist.”
“So, are you like a time traveling alien or something?”
24 CARDINAL SINS
“No, man, no. I’m not an alien. And about time, well…. For you
humans time is linear. But for hippity neon electric bunnies, it’s just
groovy.”
“Hmm. Do people usually listen to you? When you tell them to
eat beans, I mean, do they take your…advice?”
“No, they don’t, man. It’s not really advice, though. More like a
command, no—a commandment. It was number eleven, I swear, with
its own special tablet and everything. Moses even brought it to the
Israelites, but as soon as he wasn’t looking they built a giant bowl of
peas and carrots made out of gold and decided that they didn’t really
need beans after all. Then they smashed that tablet and got some
Wite-Out and went through their scrolls and changed every instance of
‘bean’ to ‘manna.’”
“That’s harsh.”
“Christians did almost the same thing, man, yes they did. Jesus
and his disciples ate bread for the last supper, but it was pita bread.
Peter cut it into a bunch of triangles and they dipped it in hummus,
which everyone really liked. In fact, Luke even put the recipe at the end
of his gospel, but the pope took that part out because it threatened
Rome’s nacho-based economy.”
“Did you see Jesus crucified?”
“Yeah. I even went to Pontius and brought him some pinto
beans with cheese, asking him to have a bit and think about it. He
turned it away, and when I asked him why he said he was trying to lose
weight and couldn’t afford to eat any carbohydrates.”
“What would have happened if he had eaten them?”
“Oh, it’s hard to say exactly, but things sure would have been
different. I found Hemingway when he was about to take his 10-gauge
farewell. I said, ‘Hey, man, don’t go out on an empty stomach. Come in
and have a handful of jelly beans. Just have some and think it over.’ So
he did, and in fact he ate two handfuls, but then he didn’t say anything,
and as soon as I wasn’t looking…well….”
I didn’t say anything for a moment, listening again to the
water. The air was starting to get cold and my legs were starting to
grow stiff. It was then that Jack reached behind his ear and pulled out
a huge joint, as long as a Buick but not nearly as wide. “What are you
doing?” I shouted. “If the cops catch you with that much weed you’ll go
to jail forever!”
“Relax, man.” Jack pulled out a giant-sized Zippo and lit the
joint. “It’s rabbit nip. Besides, you don’t know it yet, but the city council
CARDINAL SINS 25
is already planning to demolish this building soon anyway. I might as
well have one last toke before I head out of town.”
Smoke was already rising in a huge gray cloud from the tower.
“Where are you going from here?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go to the future again. Or the past.
Yeah, I really should make an appearance on a pancake in a Pittsburgh
IHOP sometime last week. But I think I’ll visit my girlfriend first.”
“What’s her name? Jill?”
Jack looked perplexed for a moment and laughed. “It’s
Francine.”
After that there really wasn’t anything left to say, and so I
waved to Jack and walked home. It took a long time, but nothing of
interest happened along the way, and that night I had a deep sleep,
finally waking up a little after noon. When I turned on the TV the news
had already started, and the big story was about how the old bean
tower burned down during the night. Public health officials speculated
that there was a large amount of asbestos and other toxic materials still
in the building, the burning of which caused everyone in the city to get
high.
That day many businesses were shut down on account of a lot
of people tripping out, and with no work for the day, I decided to make
some tacos. I browned the meat, chopped some onions, grated some
cheese, and got the salsa out of my refrigerator. I even decided to heat
up some refried beans to have on the side but found I didn’t have any
at home. When I got to the grocery store, the beans were all sold out.
26 CARDINAL SINS
om
OM
by Matthew Falk
1.)
original ovum
origami onion
often ornery, often odd, off or on
offering oysters or offal
ovidian oven of oblivion
one’s only otherwise one
2.)
mimetic martyrs mutter.
mismatched memories
map monstrous motives.
measureless mistress,
marginal music’s my mission.
CARDINAL SINS 27
montanita II
M O N TA N I TA I I
by Rachel Wooley
Lazy summer night spent sitting
on a porch swing
because I wasn’t ready to go to bed and you
weren’t ready to leave so we
stare up at the stars in the blue-black sky
neither of us knows any constellations
so we make up new ones
I shut off the porch light so the moths stop
coming and the stars
have no competition
except for the streetlights (but they’re too far
to really interfere)
I really want to reach for your hand but I don’t
know how you’d react
so I push the ground with my shoes to
make the swing move and lean my head
back against the scratchy worn cushion
I could listen to your voice all night over
the crickets and the creak of the swing
the rocking motion is soothing so you
fall silent and lean your head back too
28 CARDINAL SINS
tease
TEASE
by James M. Zimmer II
CARDINAL SINS 29
at o’hare
AT O ’ H A R E
by Daniel Schell
Delayed once again,
I sit and wait through the stalled,
winding lines, through amateur hour
at security theater,
drinking overpriced water
I can’t even bring aboard.
My name is a red flag;
I become tripped up
in a cause not quite explained,
tired ideas plucked from fading leaders,
wisps from the ghosts of history
black-or-white rhetoric bleeding
across the gray domain.
My scuffed shoes are carefully examined
like laced explosives reeking
of sweat from war games long past;
flying on auto-pilot,
I gather thoughts scattered across the miles
like contrails darting across the sky,
masking the fear I feel for us all.
30 CARDINAL SINS
maternalism
M AT E R N A L I S M
by Blair Giesken
That morning was cool and moist. Like a peeled hardboiled
egg or long, wet hair on a bare back. Mom asked if I’d seen the dead
baby on the front porch. Not a real dead baby, but a baby bird. One of
the robin’s eggs we’d been eyeing for weeks. Split clean open on the
sidewalk.
Dad’s old 35-millimeter swallowed the fresh roll of film slowly
and painfully, like a child choking down liquid medicine that looks pink
but tastes brown. I fetched an empty frosting bucket from the garage
and worked it down into the thick mulch near the front porch.
Had it not been too early for even senior citizens to be out
in pursuit of half-price coffee, I might have felt foolish standing there
on an old baker’s bucket in nothing but a terrycloth robe and rubber
galoshes. I teetered on the thin rim of the makeshift ladder, the aerial
view of the nest nearly perfect. Each remarkable turquoise shell
begged for the routine snap and whine of the shutter. I continued to
twist my cupped hand, causing their tiny spots and grooves to swim in
and out of focus.
I’ll never forget how my mother came out, wringing cakebattered hands in her apron. She paused, then slapped me clean across
the face. Said you don’t get so near a robin’s nest when you know right
well the mother might come back, feel threatened, abandon her young.
And you certainly don’t take a picture of them. Because maybe the flash
might over-warm the eggs, and the babies might not come out right
after all.
CARDINAL SINS 31
sugar vs. sweet
SUGAR VS. SWEET ‘N LOW
by Amelia Glebocki
It’s a constant war, the battlefield
resembling a television commercial—you know,
with friends or twin sisters. One uses
the product being advertised, while the other uses
something else.
And it’s obvious which should be “best,”—
the Sweet ‘n Low packet is thin and
pink—like a healthy flush.
It almost makes the sugar packet look
unwell: plump and pale.
Yet, each time, the sugar
manages to defeat the Sweet ‘n Low.
How, you ask?
Well, at the end of each commercial,
there’s always this guy who speaks too quickly,
and you know that it’s over when you hear
useonlyasdirected.
But with sugar, see,
we don’t need directions.
Sugar has only five letters,
and no fine print.
Sweet ‘n Low seems
full o’ fine things: a promise
of flavor without the calories and
print.
A blend of nutritive and
non-nutritive sweeteners.
On store shelves, it begs forgiveness
for this fine-print flaw
in a tone that is
skinny and pink.
32 CARDINAL SINS
Battleground
B AT T L E G R O U N D
by Daniel Schell
Red horizon,
a net of mosquitos dot our skin,
robbing our blood
like Sam Houston robbed lives
at the muddy, brown San Jacinto;
we pause at that spot, soaking in history,
covered in the mist of time.
Above us, a lone star perches atop
a stone obelisk, a beacon shining
in twilight, bright and majestic,
taller than the battle was long,
the Mexican army caught asleep,
surprised and stumbling into a rout.
She and I are alone on this battleground;
I can feel the souls chasing the warm breeze
as it hides her face with hair,
too thin a disguise, like Santa Anna’s,
who was humiliated and fled,
only to be a prisoner of war,
and then to exile from the land he loved.
CARDINAL SINS 33
on the center line
ON THE CENTER LINE
by Blair Giesken
the sheen of well-preened feathers
blackbird bodies that skim the bubbling tar
scattering from the carcass they devour
on the center line
fleeing from the truck that whines
a thick, metal colic baby
the color of “it’s a boy!” cigars
the sound like coins
that get caught in the washer
34 CARDINAL SINS
auspex nemorensis
AUSPEX NEMORENSIS
by Matthew Falk
Waking in the afternoon, he stiffly swung his elderly legs
over the edge of his bed and tottered down the hall to his kitchen.
He opened the cupboard and got his medicines, one at a time, lining
them up on the counter. There were so many pills, prescribed by
different doctors for his many ailments, such as arthritis, beriberi,
catarrh, diabetes, ennui, folie à duex, gout, halitosis, ichthyosis,
jaundice, kleptomania, lupus, mesothelioma, necrosis, oxygen
poisoning, quixotism, recidivism, sepsis, tetanus, ulcers, vertigo, warts,
xerophthalmia, yaws, and zoomorphism. He got his gin, filled a tall
glass with it, and washed the pills down one at a time.
Thus fortified, he looked forward to his daily walk to the park,
where he would sit at his bench under his oak tree until it was time
to return home and go to bed. This had been his life for as long as he
could remember. Parents picnicking at the park told their children that
he’d always been there and he’d always been an old man. They even
gave him little offerings from their baskets. But he was never observed
to eat anything. He would take the loaf of bread or whatever it might
be, crumble it up, and feed it to the pigeons.
His favorite part of each day was when the people would
come to him for his wisdom. Petitioners would line up before his
bench, holding out five-dollar bills on which they’d written questions.
He would take their money, read their questions aloud, and give his
answers. Someone might write, “Is my husband cheating on me?” And
he would look the supplicant over and say, “Yes,” while depositing the
bill in the pocket of his tattered coat. Or, “Are you really a prophet or
just a weird old man?” And he would say, “Yes,” pocketing the bill. It was,
he thought, a good life, one of public service and dignity.
But all this was yet to come. Right now he was just leaving his
apartment. He waited outside the open elevator as his neighbor, a birdlike lady whose name he’d never bothered to learn, struggled to debark
while managing several bags of groceries. He watched her drop a bag,
then another while retrieving it, then the first one again. Apples and
cans of cola bounced and rolled around in the elevator and out into the
hall. At last she got all her purchases over the threshold so as to make
room for him. He smiled politely at her as the door closed, and then he
rode down and went out into the street.
He trudged cheerfully through the dirty city, taking tiny
old-man steps that produced only rudimentary momentum. He knew
CARDINAL SINS 35
exactly how many steps it took to get to his park, and as he counted
them off he was happy. But near the end of his route, after turning the
last corner, he stopped abruptly, alarmed by an impossible sight. There,
beneath the brittle snow-coated branches of his pin oak, a stranger
was sitting on his bench! The old man’s hands squeezed themselves
into fists and he started to tremble. Time passed pointlessly as he stood
paralyzed by hesitation. The snow soaked through his shabby boots.
Slowly he became aware that the stranger on his bench was speaking:
“You all right over there?”
He made an effort to run away, which expressed itself as a sort
of impetuous lurching back to the corner. He reflected on what had
just happened. He thought about his first trip to the park. That was a
long time ago. The bench had been occupied when he found it. But he
had sat down anyway, with old-man entitlement (for he was already an
old man then), right next to the incumbent, who had immediately got
up and left. And he had sat there ever since, and his right to do so had
never been challenged. But he realized now that he’d always expected
something like this to happen. And yet here he was, totally unprepared.
By now the day was fading fast, the sun already half-hidden
behind ugly modern buildings. His boots sloshed as he hobbled
homeward, heartsick and heavy-footed. The sky was almost black
by the time he reached his block. A single sickly sodium lamp shone
down on his neighbor, the bird lady, as she left their building dressed
for a night out. He hoped she wouldn’t look at him, but she smiled and
waved. He felt weak with shame.
36 CARDINAL SINS
alternative oxygen
A LT E R N AT I V E O X Y G E N A N D
THE STORY OF SIMEON MINOR
by Robbie Pieschke
Just before the robbery, Simeon Minor was sweeping the
floor of the Windmill Café for the second time. His gray apron matched
the tile, and it moved with the broom like a pendulum under the
incandescent lights.
In the corner the science fiction writer sat and smoked
cigarettes and drank coffee while the lonely evening poured through
the window and cast a shadow of the writer on the floor. Simeon swept
in and out of his shadow. He liked when the writer came in because
sometimes he told Simeon about his stories while Simeon poured the
writer coffee. The writer’s silhouette reminded him of one of the stories.
It was about a league of super humans who could survive in space on
alternative oxygen which he called neogen. Simeon secretly wished
that he could survive in space on neogen. Instead he worked at the café
and had done so for three and a half years. At twenty, he still couldn’t
grow a beard or get laid and was mostly awkward, but customers
seemed to appreciate (or maybe sympathize with) his uncertainty. He
was always on time, his hair parted perfectly, and his name tag was
always straight. Simeon leaned on the broom, sighed, and watched
the mist move under the streetlight outside, knowing that soon Maine
would be snowing.
Lindsay The Night Manager echoed Simeon’s sigh and said,
“Only one more hour and we can get the hell outta here.” She had just
come from the back room sucking empty whipped cream bottles for
their remaining nitrous oxide. It seemed to Simeon that everybody
breathed alternative oxygen except him.
At twenty minutes to ten, the two started their closing duties.
They emptied the espresso grinders of the remaining espresso, cleaned
the steaming pitchers, rinsed and washed the coffee pots, emptied the
trash, and wiped down all the tables.
Then the robbery happened.
Three minutes before the café closed, the science fiction writer
said goodnight and opened the door for an elderly man before walking
out. The elderly man wore black pants and a flannel shirt and moved
with the determination of a poor stockbroker. Simeon was at the front
counter next to the register. He said hello, then explained to the man as
he made his way to the counter that they no longer had any coffee and
they were closing.
CARDINAL SINS 37
“I didn’t come for coffee,” said the man, who looked as if he had
been crying. “I’m going to take all of the money in your register.”
It took Simeon a second to register what was happening, and
he replied with a smirk, “Excuse me? Are you serious?”
“I’m very serious, son,” replied the man, who, with tears
running from his eyes, pulled out a small gun that must have been
tucked in his pants.
Simeon still, even with a gun pointed at him, had trouble
believing that this old man was robbing the café, for he was hardly
taller than Simeon, and his gray, unkempt beard contributed to his
equally unkempt stature. “Sir, you don’t want to…”
“Open it up, son, and please give me the money,” said the old
man. He looked at Simeon with tears rolling down his cheek and shook
the gun in Simeon’s face.
Simeon thought the old man looked even more frightened
than he was, but he still opened the register. Considering the
circumstance, there was a strange serenity to Simeon’s movements that
even he was conscious of and curious of just the same.
The old man moved behind the counter and, while raising his
gun above his head, said under his breath to Simeon, “You’re much too
special for this,” and hit Simeon just above his left eyelid with the butt
of his gun.
Simeon fell to the ground and caught himself in push-up
position just before passing out. The commotion finally brought
Lindsay The Night Manager from the back room in time to see the old
man walking out of the café with his gun drawn and a wad of cash. She
stepped over Simeon and, in a panic, picked up the phone to call the
police.
After the robbery, Simeon awoke.
He picked himself up from the gray tile ground after what felt
like an hour but was actually only a brief moment.
Lindsay was still on the phone trying to explain what she had
seen and didn’t even notice that Simeon was bleeding on his apron.
Simeon stood and, after regaining his equilibrium, walked
out of the Windmill without a word. Lindsay yelled for him to wait, but
her words were melted away by the misty night that created a film on
38 CARDINAL SINS
Simeon’s arms as he made his way to the coast. His head was throbbing
and his face was swelling by the second, but the blood that was
dripping from just above his eye seemed to alleviate the pain. He didn’t
quite understand what he was doing but, at the same time, had never
been so sure of what he was doing. This paradox brought a smile to his
face as he wiped blood away from his eye.
Simeon reached the coast while seemingly transparent clouds
covered the brightest moon he had ever seen. He walked just past
the water’s edge so that the peaceful ocean swept over his shoes,
then picked up a stone from under them and hurled it into the bluest
waves. He did this again with another stone, and a third stone watching
each of them fly through the night and fall into the Atlantic. Then he
unbuttoned his name tag and threw it, too, as far as he could into the
water. The name tag splashed, and Simeon smiled as he untied his
shoes. He threw his shoes into the Atlantic Ocean. Frantically, Simeon
looked for more things to throw. Pocket change. Splash. Wristwatch.
Splash. Wallet, keys, water-logged apron. Splash.
Simeon stood in ankle deep water dripping of the Atlantic and
his own blood, but his heart sped and goose bumps riddled his skin as
he breathed in the coast’s breeze. He started walking back but fell to
the sand and, looking up at the brightest moon, wondered what sort of
alternative oxygen he was breathing.
Somewhere further north, cold waves collided with the coast,
foreshadowing snow as the first flakes of winter fell onto the Atlantic.
CARDINAL SINS 39
Later, skater
L AT E R , S K AT E R
by David Eudosio Smith
40 CARDINAL SINS
from manilla
FROM MANILLA
by Blair Giesken
I. 1968
you moved here from Manilla, Iowa,
eleven years stowed neatly in old milk crates.
the U-Haul held your life like it was
an unassembled bed or a glossy swing set.
that day, the seagulls pocked our sky
gray and brief as cindersmoke.
you lay flat in the grass and cried
and I told you I was sorry we didn’t have hills.
we nursed on slabs of watermelon
until the juice ran, sweet and pale
drying in tiny pools upon our skin.
II. 1970
that summer your mother found a job—
a new salon called “It Grows Back.”
she came home with expensive shears
to practice how to taper and cut fringe.
I sat on the cool linoleum
bathed in dim, yellow kitchen light
as you steadied a paper plate
beneath your chin to catch the strands.
that week we started back to school
with matching hats that tried to hide
uneven and unfinished heads of hair.
III. 1972
your family took a late fall trip to Iowa.
we counted blue cars
and sang in rounds
and in the underpass, I felt you skim my knee.
CARDINAL SINS 41
let’s go slam dance
LET’S GO SLAM DANCE
by David Eudosio Smith
42 CARDINAL SINS
life
LIFE
by Ashley Roggenbuck
CARDINAL SINS 43
listen
LISTEN
by James Fry
44 CARDINAL SINS
sandcastle towers
SANDCASTLE TOWERS
by Britt Barnett
I grew up with her tapping on computer keys or hunched
over a stack of papers. Always with her nose in a book. If she wasn’t
grading papers, a book was being written. Me peering around corners.
Crawling on all fours beneath a desk or tabletop. Lying on my back,
eyes following the grain in the wooden desk. My heart suspended
between ribs. My memories of childhood are stories of characters with
different names. A small girl, barefoot. Mother watering flowers, rubber
hose snaking over patio stones. She writes dialogue, and I remember
the cold of the tiny river that followed with her steps.
I’m dressed in pink rubber boots and matching raincoat,
dotted with little red flowers. In my hand, a plastic bucket of wet sand.
I walk on stones. The green grass alive with brown. I stop and thread
my fingers through the blades and scoop up slimy coiled worms. I
have been making this trip all afternoon. Every time I pass through
the kitchen, I am squeaking across linoleum behind my mother. She
is sitting at our dining room table. I dump sand on the carpet of my
bedroom floor. Patting the pile, molding my tower. Why aren’t bedroom
floors made of sand? The pile reaches my height. My mother standing.
A look of astonishment. I pat and smile, proud.
This is the story she tells when asked how I was as a child.
There are times I think it’s the only one she can remember. I tell it
because it’s witty. I’m thirty. The smell of honeysuckle and rain fills my
nose. I can see the stones glisten. I tell her it has become mythology at
this point. The image of five and pink. She asks me, what child doesn’t
play with worms?
I’m slumped in a chair, the cuffs of my sleeves wet with toilet
water. I’m questioning a two-year-old who keeps flushing Legos down
the toilet. We’ve had this conversation before. Primary colors floating
in the bowl. After he is asleep tightly clasping his blanket, I call her.
Plunger at my feet. A bottle of Excedrin next to a glass of wine on the
table. Middle of the night, voice frustrated. She laughs and says the
best stories come from heartache and credit card bills. I groan and tell
her I will talk to her tomorrow.
CARDINAL SINS 45
morning sun
MORNING SUN
by Kristen Latuszek
46 CARDINAL SINS
nymphaeaceae one
NYMPHAEACEAE ONE
by Robert Darabos
CARDINAL SINS 47
pink poneys
PINK PONEYS
by David Eudosio Smith
48 CARDINAL SINS
luciferase
LUCIFERASE
by Blair Giesken
trapping fireflies between waxed paper cups
just to see if Roger meant it—
when he said that rubbing their tiny remains
on the fronts of your jeans
could make you glow in the dark
CARDINAL SINS 49
saint Andre
S A I N T A N D R E D ’A R G E N T E U I L
by Ryan Martin
50 CARDINAL SINS
retired lobster trap
RETIRED LOBSTER TRAP
by Adam Baudoux
CARDINAL SINS 51
Stumble abode
STUMBLE ABODE
by Jesse Fretwell
52 CARDINAL SINS
handwriting
HANDWRITING
by Noah Essenmacher
A typed page, formatted for structure.
Within borders and set by margins,
standardized letters marching across lines
organized into columns to defend the argument.
There are rules and there are conventions
in the world war of processed words…
And something dear is lost…
But the pen and the ink
still flow free across some pages,
in cursive strokes and slanting loops
the way they have for ages,
sculpting each word original,
an art unique in every hand.
A cursor can but imitate;
no one mistakes it for a man.
CARDINAL SINS 53
shadows among men
SHADOWS AMONG MEN
by James M. Zimmer II
54 CARDINAL SINS
abnormal abnormalit
ABNORMAL ABNORMALITIES
AND THE DECONSTRUCTION OF
MEANING
by Robert Darabos
All things lose meaning,
as Lady Hamilton will
lose meaning when old age
strikes me with its sickle-shaped blades;
and upon the encounter with sickle-shaped
blades of idolizing
infections—an abormal
abnormality—one, which, though
received at birth, will not show
her menacing face until the time
of the Decrepit Age:
but what form of abnormal abnormalities
shall invade my body like the plague
and worm into my graven home?
To think of none would be as grave
as the end of age, though to think of
many would be the same.
When the flies become my friends and,
after them, their kin, I shall not
worry about abnormalities any more.
And when I am no longer
welcomed into the Nation of Silk Worms
this same abnormality—this
plague of thoughts!—will
vanish like the phantasmal
hell-dogs I envision into
long sleepless nights.
But what of thoughts
and abnormalities while my vision is not
eternally blanketed by eyelids?
And what of these plagues
that fill my mind with sorrow
CARDINAL SINS 55
until the Invasion of the Annelidas?
I am the Gardener forced to walk
beside the Rose:
jealous of its beauty and
incomparable to its radiancy.
And of the Rose:
to accept its victory
(though eternally succumbed to idolization)
or to destroy it in a fit of rage,
and present my own Cadmean victory?
56 CARDINAL SINS
symmetry
SYMMETRY
by Adam Baudoux
CARDINAL SINS 57
I found my inner child
I FOUND MY INNER CHILD ON
A MILK CARTON BECAUSE OF
by James M. Zimmer II
that evil industrialist
who makes petroleum from
discarded fetuses,
lost babies of Babylon.
Ghost towns litter the Heartland.
Poltergeists eternally
playing Sand Invaders. Phantasms
of war and intolerance.
This isn’t war; it’s an eradication.
Our victory is a walk to the sun;
it never gets closer. So I ask,
How many nations of
little brown people, mocha martyrs,
cappuccino casualties and hazel-eyed
humans
must die?
Oh, of course
the white man deserves the spoils of
victory and power. They were made
in God’s image
after all
if you believe that sort of thing.
And if you don’t
you’re next.
58 CARDINAL SINS
colors working
COLORS WORKING TOGETHER
by Amanda Alliston
CARDINAL SINS 59
focus
FOCUS
by James Fry
.
60 CARDINAL SINS
BIOGRAPHIES
BIOGRAPHIES
Amanda Alliston will be graduating from SVSU in May with a BA in
graphic design and a minor in psychology. This picture was taken at an
art exhibit in Dakar, Senegal, during a study abroad. It was an amazing
experience where she took hundreds of photos. She is glad to have
been able to support and contribute something to Cardinal Sins.
Britt Barnett is not a writer. She is not lazy and never lies. She does not
believe in validation and never sleeps to dream. “I am not wherever I am
the plaything of my thought, I think of what I am where I do not think to
think.”–Lacan
Peter Brian Barry is an assistant professor of philosophy at SVSU and
is interested in ethics, moral psychology, and philosophy of law. He
steadfastly tries to avoid stereotypical philosopher-behavior like
wearing black, hanging out in coffee bars, staying up too late, and
drinking wine. He does not succeed at this. Also, he has a cat.
Adam Baudoux is a fourth-year graphic design major. He enjoys
photography and capturing how God reveals himself through nature.
Andrea Beffrey is a returning student with an associate’s degree in
graphic design and is now in her senior year working towards her B.A.
She wants to say thank you to her mother, Debbie, and father, Ken,
for always believing in her; her big brother Chris for always pushing
her; the rest of the family for being there; and to her friends for always
being there and giving her the inspiration to create even more art.
Melony Blasius is an occupational therapy graduate student at SVSU.
She enjoys photography as a hobby and wishes she had more time for
it. She would like to thank her friend Wei for making it possible to take
this photo and many others in Malaysia.
Robert Darabos is currently a junior at Saginaw Valley and is planning
on getting a bachelor of fine arts degree. After graduation, he plans on
moving to either Chicago or New York to continue his education in the
arts.
Noah Essenmacher is a junior majoring in secondary education in both
English and chemistry. He enjoys fiction, poetry, and photography.
Creative writing has always been one of his passions, and he looks
CARDINAL SINS 61
forward to the publication of Cardinal Sins each semester. He’s pleased
and honored to have his work be a part of this semester’s collection.
Matthew Falk is an ephemeral assemblage of other-constructed
identities.
Courtney A. Farmer has a way with words—profane words, that is. One
of the many ways she wastes her time is by inventing new and more
vulgar variations of existing obscenities. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet,
consectetur adipisicing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut
labore et dolore magna aliqua.
Jesse Fretwell loves Jesus Christ with all of his heart, and he doesn’t
care who knows it. He loves to take pictures of anything because he
knows God made it. That just happened.
James Fry is a Christian who happens to be a photographer. He hopes
to use his love for people, music, photography, and Jesus Christ in
his future. He would like to thank his sister Janey for tagging along
everywhere and his mom and dad for always being there for him.
Tyler Germain is, at best, a mediocre autobiographer.
Blair Giesken is a third-year creative writing major. She would like to
thank her family for being hilarious and amazing.
Chris Giroux is a pseudonym.
Amelia Glebocki is cynical, but kind. She is a freshman at SVSU. A coffee
addiction keeps her from getting enough sleep. Each summer, she
attends the Controlled Burn Seminar for Young Writers, which she loves
more than most things in life. Her work has been published in Temenos.
Christi Griffis would really like to get acquainted with that guy who
rides his unicycle around campus.
Carlie Hacha is an elementary education major with a passion for
literature and political activism. When she is not busy creating lesson
plans, she enjoys spending time outdoors and reading. Her favorite
author is Chuck Palahniuk who writes: “This is your life and it’s ending
one minute at a time.”
62 CARDINAL SINS
Dawn Kehr is a senior majoring in special education and visual arts
education.
Kristen Latuszek is a freshman at SVSU. Her family farm has provided
a large portion of the inspiration behind her photography. She is
currently planning a career in the medical field.
Ryan Martin is one of the Kings of Albanmar, former Tag-team
Champions of the World; a semi-talented graphic designer and creative
writer; an avid hockey fan; a Canadian superstar; and most recently
a published photographer. 1 for 1 on Cardinal Sins submissions! ¡Viva
Albanmar!
Tabitha Meyering is in her fourth year at SVSU and is a graphic design
major and business minor.
Holly Morningstar is waiting...impatiently...for inspiration...and for
Starbucks, because she can only go so long without easy access to chai
tea.
Robbie Pieschke would like to own a wooden rowboat and live on the
coast of Maine someday. He’s in love with a beautiful Mexican woman
named Brooke and would like to thank her family and his family, Rick
Moede, Ron Stelter, Jeff Easlick, and Janice Wolff for all their help and
encouragement, and also Cardinal Sins for letting him be a part of the
team.
Ashley Roggenbuck is a third-year student majoring in graphic design
and professional and technical writing, a perfectionist, an optimist,
a competitor in life, determined to succeed. She is creeping up on
graduation, and she is convinced there are not enough hours in a day.
Ashley Schafer is a chronically busy person. If she has not overbooked
her schedule, she doesn’t know what to do with herself. And if she
doesn’t travel somewhere new every few months, she goes a little bit
stir crazy. She loves meeting new people, but will always rely on the
old friends that have agreed to live with her in a big house full of cats
should they all succumb to the fate of becoming old spinsters.
Daniel Schell is pursuing his bachelor’s in professional and technical
writing at SVSU. He also works full time for a Saginaw law firm. He has
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been published in such magazines as Poetry Motel, Voices, The Crowbait
Review, and Pegasus Magazine. He lives in Saginaw.
Tornline is a creative writing major and an underground poetry muse.
Addicted to running and drinking coffee, Tornline is the balance beam
of many dreams stagnant in the creative process. Recently, she has
been rejected more than accepted, but she has been accepted, and her
first novel will be out soon.
David Eudosio Smith is invisible and a razor of love.
Brandt Snook is addicted to the A&E reality television show
Intervention. Calls made by family and friends to the show’s producers
to address this issue have not been returned.
Tom Wheatley is cheeky.
Rachel Wooley thinks she really should write more often if she plans
on pursuing a creative writing major (since, unfortunately, she can’t
make a living traveling and shopping full-time). This was her first time
submitting to Cardinal Sins and she’s pretty pleased about making it in.
James M. Zimmer II is the King of Albanmar, Beta MAX, Larry the Turtle’s
creator, Patrick Westwood, Captain Morgan, Inappropriate Comment
Man, updating his Facebook status, a mental abortion, a masturbatory
aid, artist, musician, writer, part-time construction worker and Emilie
Autumn’s secret lover. ¡Vivá Albanmar!
64 CARDINAL SINS
B E N E FA C TO R S
Patrons
Donald & Liana Bachand
Frank & Linda Dane
Dow Corning Corporation
Mary Harmon
Jim & Melissa Seitz—in memory of Carl Seitz
Donors
Jill Allardyce
Diane Boehm
J.J. Boehm
Kelly Boettcher
Joni & Rick Boye-Beaman
Merry Jo Brandimore
Julie Coe
Ruth L. Copp
Susan Crane
Steve, Deborah, and Riley Duncan
Jeffrey Easlick
George & Judy Eastland
Linda Farynk
Eric & Cindy Gilbertson
Janelle & Matt Hemingway
Shirts, Mugs & More—Idalski, Inc.
Robert Maurovich & Nancy Warner
David F. Oeming
Janis Paul
Helen Raica-Klotz
Carlos & Jean Ramet
Kathie Smith
SVSU Bookstore
Odail and Mamie Thorns and the Office of Diversity Programs
Perry Toyzan
Ruthann Voss
Janice and Terry Wolff
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Acknowledgments
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank all of those people who make Cardinal Sins
possible. Thank you to Chris Giroux for taking on the role of advisor
and doing a great job; Tracy Ulch for crunching the numbers; Rob
Bastek for designing another amazing cover; Pat Latty and Sharon
Opheim for helping out; Nick Blessing for maintaining the website;
the hardworking members of the Cardinal Sins editorial staff ; Melissa
Seitz for her advice and for making me aware of Cardinal Sins in the first
place; President Gilbertson; Dr. Donald Bachand; Dick Thompson, J.J.
Boehm, and the PJPC; Student Association for their continued support;
Aaron Crossen and the staff of The Valley Vanguard; Perry Toyzan and
everyone who works on printing Cardinal Sins; Linda Farynk for all her
help with the post-publication reception; Lucille Beauthin and Suzette
Zimmerman at the Foundation Office; Trish Gohm and Student Life;
Evening Services; all the benefactors who support Cardinal Sins and our
continuing progress; and all the artists who contribute their work.
I’d also like to thank everyone who helped with the Fall 2007
Slamoramaglamajama. Thank you to Janelle Hemingway and Valley
Nights for their monetary support; Amelia Glebocki and all who
particpated in the poetry slam; SMTV, The Blacklist, and Appearance
and Reality for sharing their music; Bryan Hampton for providing
sound; Steve Duncan for being the evening’s MC; all the Cardinal Sins
staff members who came early, stayed late, and ate lots of pizza; and
everyone who came out and had a good time with us.
Christi Griffis
66 CARDINAL SINS