Metaphor is Weber State University’s undergraduate, interdisciplinary journal
in its twenty-eighth year of publication. The journal is staffed entirely by Weber
State University students.
Metaphor accepts submissions in visual arts, poetry, fiction, academic literature,
and music from students of Weber State University and selected pieces from
national submissions to the National Undergraduate Literary Conference.
Publications in Metaphor are chosen through a blind submission process. The
author, visual artist, and composer of each piece is unknown until that piece is
selected for publication. Guest judges are invited to ensure the objectivity of the
decisions.
Metaphor is funded primarily through student fees and is distributed free of
charge to students, faculty, guests at Weber State University’s annual National
Undergraduate Literary Conference, and the community.
Copyright © 2009 is retained by individual authors, visual artists, and
composers.
Printed in the United States of America by Weber State University Printing
Services, Ogden, Utah.
Metaphor
Weber State University
1404 University Circle
Ogden, Utah 84408-1404
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Metaphor
2009
Volume XXVIII
Table of Contents
A Note About the Type
Metaphor Staff
Editor’s notes
Acknowledgements
Creative Writing
Kisses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
Charlys Huerta
Mrs. Robinson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Kirsty Winkler
Miss Anna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
McKella Sawyer
Bus in the City . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Alan Nordgren
The Being: A Love Story, Skewed, From His Point of View . . 18
Niki Tadehara
Why Mothers Can’t Win . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Janice Stringham LeFevre
Painting, Drawing and Printmaking
Providence Wilt Thou Be With Me . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
Lynette S. Oberg
Azure Realm Series . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
William Merritts
Bloom Induction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
Chaise Payan
Bench, Pool Players . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
Catherine Rogers
Untitled from “Sommarvals Installation” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Amanda Åkebrand
Mischief, Vamp, Diva . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Sarah Zimmer
Book (selected pages) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
Catherine Rogers
African Woman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Rachel Griffiths
Two, One, Three . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Angela Van Wagoner
Creative Writing
Patrick’s Baby . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
National Undergraduate Literary Conference Selection
Adrian Stumpp
Satan’s Lobby . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
Amber Allen
Bumper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
Joshua Davidson
Meet Death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
Ryan Bowen
Poetry
a lesser known fact . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
Adrian Stumpp
Crouching Down . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
Kristin Jackson
The Garden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
Brittanie Stumpp
The Wall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
Lindsey Scharman
Glaucoma . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
National Undergraduate Literary Conference Selection
Keats Conley
I am, again, stripped . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
Bonnie Russell Nelson
Council . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
Brittanie Stumpp
A Slippery Anchor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
Alana Faagai
dig . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
Rebecca Samford
Paradise Discarded . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
Adrian Stumpp
Photography and Graphic Design
C.H. Esperson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
Jamie A. Kyle
Nude Series . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
Angela Van Wagoner
Equinox . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63
Scott Jensen
Broken Ecstasy Series . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64
Nancy Rivera
Sliced . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Amy Gillespie
Typography 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66
Kathryn Lundell
Untitled 4 & 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
Ruth Silver
Identities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
Angela Van Wagoner
Poetry
If We Are Not Evening . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
Jeremy Brodis
After the End . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
Eric Pope
Once . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
Kristin Jackson
The Track . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
National Undergraduate Literary Conference Selection
Brittany Barberino
L.A. Bowl, January 1977 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Josh Sims
Letter to a Little Bean . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
Brittanie Stumpp
Three Minutes — for: Michael . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
Rebecca Samford
The Apple of My Eye . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
Morgan Taylor Finder
Small Habits of Inertia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
Bonnie Russell Nelson
The Wedding Vow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
Quincy Bravo
Meeting Place . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
Jernae Kowallis
To My Waiting Room Fellows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83
Jeremy Brodis
Sourire 101 (Smiling 101) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Tom Hughes
My Cardboard Box . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85
Brittany Hackett
Instinct . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
Brittanie Stumpp
Mary Shelley Talking to Her Therapist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Brittany Hackett
Tell me the color of your deep blue funk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
Rebecca Samford
Composer Meet Your Relapse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Rachel Boddy
Going Under . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
L.K. Hill
Touchdown in Giants Stadium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92
Josh Sims
Shopping at the Salvation Army . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
Kristin Jackson
The Request of an Artist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
Tom Hughes
I have a tiny Existentialist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95
Jeremy Brodis
last time i saw . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
Adrian Stumpp
Inner Space . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
National Undergraduate Literary Conference Selection
Robert Brown
Nothing Left Between Us . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
Bonnie Russell Nelson
Aspen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Brittany Hackett
The Bridge Builder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
Clint D. Spaeth
Sculpture and Ceramics
Armor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
David Powell
Raku, Lidded Pots . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Lindsay Huss
Puzzled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
Melinda Taggart
Contemplation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
Andria Hill
Pom . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Clint D. Spaeth
Bubbles, Flamingo Dance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
Danielle Weigandt
Big Bull . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Kyle Guymon
Veneer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
Leah A. Wadman
Academic Literature
Tennyson’s Lament of Industrialization in
“The Lady of Shalott” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
Lola Duncan
Sex and the Destruction of Self . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
Rebecca Samford
Does it Take a War to Establish an Identity? . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122
McKella Sawyer
Creative Writing
Santiago . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130
National Undergraduate Literary Conference Selection
Bernice Olivas
Music Section Editor’s Notes
Music CD Selections . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
A Note About the Type
The winning entry of Metaphor’s 2009 Cover Design contest is
Jon Kramer’s typographical design, featuring his own written piece
on the back cover.
The text of this book is set in Bodoni Book. All titles appear
in Argos MF. The names of authors and artists are set in Nuptial BT
throughout the book and Bodoni Old Face BE for the table of contents. This edition was designed using Adobe InDesign CS3.
The typeface Bodoni Book was created by Morris Fuller Benton for American Type Founders in 1910. This version of Bodoni is
loosely based on the original character sets created by Giambattista
Bodoni at the end of the eighteenth century. His designs are known
for “high contrast between thick and thin strokes, pure vertical
stress, and hairline serifs.”¹
Bodoni Book 12-point
Nuptial BT 14-point
ABCDEFGHIJKLM
ABCDEFGHIJKLM
NOPQRSTUVWXYZ
NOPQRSTUVWXYZ
abcdefghijklm
abcdefghijklm
nopqrstuvwxyz
nopqrstuvwxyz
Argos MF 12-point
1234567890
1234567890
ABCDEFGHIJKLM
NOPQRSTUVWXYZ
abcdefghijklm
nopqrstuvwxyz
1234567890
Design and Layout Editor
Sarah Zimmer
Layout Assistance
Rebecca L. Samford
Leah A. Wadman
¹ http://store1.adobe.com/cfusion/store/html/index.cfm?store=OLS-US&event=displayFont
Package&code=1013
Metaphor Staff
Editor in Chief
Assistant Editor in Chief
Poetry Editor
Poetry Staff
Creative Writing Editor
Creative Writing Staff
Academic Literature Editor
Academic Lit. Staff
Visual Arts Editor
Visual Arts Staff
Music Editor
Music Staff
Rebecca L. Samford
Brittany Hackett
Andrew Blodgett
Alexandria Stucki
Leah A. Wadman
Matt Winters
NULC Selections Coordinator
Kristin Jackson
Design and Layout Editor
Matthew Cranford
Colleen Henstra
Matthew Cranford
Quincy Bravo
Danielle Smith
Stephanie Presley
Jamie L. Ratcliffe
Jason Sherman
Ximen McMillan
Sarah Zimmer
Jamie A. Kyle
Jamie L. Ratcliffe
Matthew Cranford
Rebecca L. Samford
Copy Editors
Jason Sherman
Stephanie Presley
Sarah Zimmer
Faculty Advisor
Brad Roghaar
Group Historian &
Web Page Administrator
Jamie L. Ratcliffe
Editor’s Notes
Begin with a bare-bones template — one that is sturdy enough
to give birth annually, yet unassuming enough to take on an unfamiliar frame every year. Using passion and dedication: adhere the
contemporary cartilage of credentials, a muscle-tissue of trust and
talent, wrapping it all in a layer of imagination and ingenuity, and
you will create Metaphor.
As editor-in-chief, I have had the opportunity to work closely
with so many previously unknown faces here on campus. My staff
has been incredibly committed to engaging in the process of creating
this book.
There are many things that are familiar about this edition, and
a few that are not. Our Vignette Contest winners have been included
and our cover was chosen in a contest as well. It was important to
me that more of the WSU student body be aware of Metaphor, so
we hosted these competitions and took advantage of e-advertising
sources such as the school marquee and bulletins.
Expanding the Visual Arts section has afforded the opportunity to represent every visual art discipline taught here at WSU.
It is our intention that by dividing the visual arts and placing sections throughout the book, more readers will be invited to become
acquainted with the work as a whole.
Within these pages, you will find a much anticipated treat —
Metaphor’s first-ever music compilation CD. In previous editions,
musical composition has appeared in print side-by-side with poetry
and works of fiction. I felt this was inadequate representation of the
talented musicians within our school and the education they receive
here at WSU. Just as visual arts are meant to be seen — music is
meant to be heard.
As a first-generation college student, I have come to know that
in every discipline, without training, we do not grasp the heights
or the depths of the art we love. My hope is that by giving you the
opportunity to experience the undergraduates of Weber State University, Ogden, Utah as they were meant to be read, seen, and heard,
you will hunger for more.
Acknowledgements
The thousand “thank you”s I need to write individually would
not leave any room for the purpose of this work — allowing the students of Weber State University to SHINE! Let’s see how many I can
squeeze in here — THANK YOU:
•To my staff, whose skills, dedication, and cooperation have
smoothed the bumps in the road and whose laughter and sense of fun
has made the hours needed a pleasure.
•To Robin, Kim, and Brittany for knowing who’s who and what’s
what when I was clueless and pointing me in the right direction.
•To Dr. Wangari wa Nyatetu Waigwa for a French translation at a
moment’s notice.
•To Mountain Math for sponsoring our Vignette Contest prizes.
•To Paul Stout, our professional guest artist, who offered a highly
skilled and unbiased eye for the final selections of the Visual Arts
pieces published here.
•To the Student Senate for allocating the funds needed from
student fees so that the tradition of Metaphor can continue unscathed
and distributed at no additional cost to students.
•To Larry Clarkson and Mark Biddle from the Department of
Visual Arts for making our Cover Art Contest an assignment.
•To all of the Arts and Humanities Professors and staff who
encourage an education worthy of publication.
•To Brad Roghaar, our faculty advisor, for his “groooovy” attitude
and willingly shared life-experience — helping me to work through
every worst-case scenario I could think of.
•To the students of WSU who had the courage to hand over their
four hundred and ninety-one “babies” into our care. Continue Creating!
•And finally, to my family — for all of the hours of listening to
dreams and disappointments — for babysitting and dinners — for
growing up delightfully while supporting Amme’s efforts to fly.
Rebecca L. Samford
Kisses
Charlys Huerta
Dusty
When I was seven years old, my best friend, Tansy, persuaded
me during recess one day to go to the forbidden side of the school
building where the older kids played separately from us (for our
own protection, I’m sure). I had never even seen the other side of
the building, but I would do anything for Tansy. She was smart and
pretty and fun. She was in love with a fifth-grader by the name of
Dusty and she wanted me to give him a message. Against my better judgment, I snuck around the corner of the building to where the
older kids were playing. They were wild and noisy, yelling and chasing each other. I was terrified. I had no idea what Dusty even looked
like.
A few feet from where I stood trembling, in the corner where
the steps met the wall, was a group of giggling girls. Standing on the
steps was a boy, evidently the object of their entertainment. I moved
in a little closer to the girls and interrupted the conversation. “I’m
looking for Dusty. Do you know who he is?”
The girls turned and looked down at me, laughing maliciously.
The boy, a very handsome boy with wheat-colored hair and cowboy
boots, grinned at me. Stepping down from the steps, he said, “Come
over here.” So I did. The group surrounded me and I backed into the
corner, pressing against the cold, brick wall.
“I’m Dusty. What d’ya want, little girl?”
“I have a m-m-message from Tansy Smith. You know Tansy?” I
stammered.
“Yeah…what does she want?” he asked, stepping closer.
“She said to tell you that she loves you,” I said, growing very
uncomfortable as the crowd closed in around me to hear what message was so important that I had trespassed onto their territory.
“Oh yeah?” he said, bending down to look me right in the face
2 Creative Writing
with his cornflower blue eyes. He braced his arms against the wall
on either side of my head, and leaned in so close I could feel his
breath on my face. “Well, how ‘bout a kiss?”
Tears sprung to my eyes and fire rose in my cheeks.
“Nooo!” I screamed, plunging through the human barrier. I ran
blindly, all the way around the building and back to the safety of my
own playground. I slumped down against the trunk of a big cottonwood, panting. I was angry and excited at the same time—humiliated and flattered. My own confusion frightened me.
Out of nowhere, Tansy and her other friend, Carrie, suddenly
stood before me.
“SO? What did he say?” she demanded impatiently. Then she
noticed my distress. “What’s the matter with you anyway? Did you
get caught?”
“NO,” I blurted out. “I didn’t get caught. But he tried to kiss
me!” I complained, sniffling. “And it’s all your fault! I shoulda’ never
listened to you!” I glared at her.
“He did what?!” Tansy stared down at me for a minute while
it sank in. “I can’t believe it! I can’t even trust my own best friend!
That’s the last time I trust you to do something for me!”
Tansy whirled on her heels and stomped off. Carrie smirked at
me triumphantly before hurrying to catch up with her.
What just happened here!? I thought as I leaned my throbbing
head against the tree. Why is she mad at me? I’m the one who should
be mad at her! After all…I’m the one who almost got KISSED!
Tommy
Two years later, my younger sister, Lisa, and I were playing
with our friends at a construction site. The boys built a fort out of
bricks and 2x4s. We used pallets and crates to make tables and
chairs and hung old towels in the “windows” for curtains. We were
having a good time, until Tommy planted a big wet kiss on my cheek
without warning.
“What are you doing?!” I said, wiping my cheek off in disgust.
I felt like I had been slapped in the face with a wet fish.
Creative Writing 3
“It was just a kiss.” He grinned proudly as his freckled cheeks
turned red.
I glared at him. “I’m going home!” The other kids turned to
look at us and then at each other in bewilderment.
“What happened?” they asked Tommy.
I could hear the buzz of converWhy did he do it sation fading behind me as I marched
anyway? And in home. I hurried to my room and threw
front of everybody?! myself down on the bed, fuming and
It was gross… all embarrassed. I could still feel the
wet and slobbery. source of my anguish on my cheek—
cold and tingly, like alcohol.
A few minutes later Lisa hurried into my room.
“Charlie, don’t be mad. He didn’t mean to make you mad. I
told him to do it. He’s been wanting to kiss you for a long time, and
he knew if he asked you, you would say no.”
“So why did he do it anyway? And in front of everybody?! It
was gross… all wet and slobbery,” I mumbled into my pillow.
“Come on, nobody saw it. Come back and play. He said to tell
you he’s sorry. We’re all gonna go ride bikes at the fox holes. Come
on. You’ll hurt his feelings.”
“What about my feelings?” I cried as I sat up. “I’m not going.
They’ll all be talking about it. Just leave me alone.”
“Why do you have to make such a big deal out of everything?”
she said as she turned to leave the room. The truth was she would
have loved to have been Tommy’s girlfriend, but she was such a
tomboy that Tommy and all the boys in the neighborhood just considered her a good buddy. The kids had designated Tommy and me as
“a couple.” It wasn’t my idea. But he was a nice enough boy so I went
along with it.
That night as I was doing my homework on the coffee table,
Lisa approached me again. I looked up at her suspiciously.
“Charlie, Tommy’s been practicing on his hand. He said it
won’t be wet and slobbery next time. Give him another chance.
Please?”
I stared at her in disbelief. “No! Just forget it! I mean it. I don’t
4 Creative Writing
wanna talk about it anymore.” I bent down over my notebook, scribbling furiously.
She stood staring down at me in disgust. “I can’t believe you.
It’s just a kiss.” She stomped off.
Tommy eventually made his way back into my good graces,
but he never again attempted to kiss me. As usual, he insisted on
carrying my books home from school, offered me his jacket when it
was cold, and protected me from other boys whom he suspected of
dishonorable intentions. In return, I let him hold my hand when we
watched TV together. But only under a pillow—so no one else could
see.
Tim
Even puberty could not soften my self-righteous horror of
kissing. When I was thirteen, I developed a crush on Tim, the boy
down the street. Why not—he was conveniently located. I baked him
cookies, toilet papered his house, and wrote him love notes. He was a
year older than me, and we dated off and on all through school.
When he was a senior he began to take our relationship more
seriously. He would be leaving on a mission for the LDS church right
after his graduation and he started talking about The Future.
Late one afternoon we went for a drive in his little red Volkswagen. He parked the car at the construction site where he worked. It
was located in a brand-new ritzy suburb on the hill. Being a Sunday,
the place was abandoned.
“Well, there it is,” he said, nodding to the two-story mansion
in front of us. “We should be done with that by the end of the month.
Come on, I’ll give ya a tour.” With that he reached into the back seat
and grabbed a grocery bag.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, I brought us a little picnic,” he smiled, pleased with
himself.
He took me through the house, room by room, pointing out all
the latest features in modern architecture. The rooms were spacious
with high-beamed ceilings and walls of glass.
Creative Writing 5
“Pretty nice, huh?” he asked as he led the way up the stairs,
through the master bedroom, and into the master bath. He leaned
nonchalantly against the doorframe. “How’d ya like to live in a house
like this someday?”
I looked around and chuckled nervously. “Like this? Well…it’s
nice, but who needs a sunken sauna in their bathroom? You realize
those things breed bacteria.” I attempted to lighten up what seemed
to be turning into a serious subject.
Tim looked at me with that expression of arrogant amusement
that had come to define our relationship. He was shooting for the
stars. He was on the honor roll and excelled in track. In contrast,
I was down-to-earth, content to be average and inconspicuous, and
enjoyed the simple things in life.
“Well,” he sighed, “let’s eat.” He sat down on the pink carpeted bedroom floor.
“Here?” I asked, surprised.
He raised an eyebrow at my lack of appreciation for his creativity. “Why not? It’s kinda romantic, don’t ya think?”
“Oh,” I said as I sat down to face him with the picnic safely
spread between us. We munched on cheese and crackers and sipped
our grape juice in silence. Conversation was awkward when it was
just the two of us. We usually hung out with a mutual crowd of
friends. By the time there was nothing but crumbs left, the sun was
going down and it was getting dark in the house; no electricity yet.
We picked the crumbs out of the carpet and headed back to his car.
Tim turned on the engine, the headlights, and the radio,
adjusting it to KSEI— “all hits, all the time.” But then he just sat
there, trying to make small talk while the engine rumbled and
vibrated the little car. He jingled the keys hanging from the ignition.
Then, without warning, he awkwardly leaned over the stick shift and
slammed his lips against mine, pinning my head to the headrest, and
jabbed his whole tongue into my mouth—triggering my gag reflexes.
I recoiled in disgust. He withdrew in embarrassment.
He tried to continue the conversation like nothing had happened, but I couldn’t look him in the face. “I guess we’d better go,”
he said as he turned to look over his shoulder and backed the car out
6 Creative Writing
of the driveway.
On the way home, the radio was the only thing that broke the
silence. I stared out the window, shattered. I realized then that Tim
had just become a habit. There was no “chemistry” between us—
probably never had been. From the Mission Training Center he wrote
me a letter apologizing for that night. I heard he went on to become
a doctor and I assume that he got his luxurious dream house. I don’t
regret the fact that I’m not sharing his sunken sauna.
Albert
Before Tim had even left the MTC, I met Albert. The high
school drill team was putting on a fashion show at the new High
Voltage Disco one night and a couple of my friends and I decided to
check it out. The crowd was “deep.” There was barely enough standing room, let alone room to dance. In spite of the lighted dance floor
and the giant mirror ball, it was still pretty dark. The music thumped
in my chest and the electricity in the air was tangible. The crowd
swayed to Earth, Wind, and Fire, Sister Sledge, and Kool and the
Gang.
I didn’t see anyone I knew, but I wasn’t looking for anyone in
particular. I resigned myself to the fact that I would probably be
standing there all night. Suddenly from behind me, an arm slipped
around my waist. Startled, I turned to look into a pair of black
almond eyes. Who was this guy?! He breathed into my ear, “Let’s
dance.” My heart skipped a beat. I nodded back. Holding me close
to his side, he guided me through crowd and onto the dance floor. My
friends stared after me in wide-eyed astonishment.
I’d always been attracted to foreign guys, but didn’t know any
personally. This one sure wasn’t from high school on snob hill. We
didn’t have anything like him up there. He looked Asian or Polynesian, maybe Hispanic— it was hard to tell. He sure wasn’t a local.
You know how you can instinctively tell the nonlocals. No, this guy
was from someplace mysterious and exotic.
He had a slender, athletic build and at first glance, he seemed
all teeth and hair—which was cut in the popular shag style of the
Creative Writing 7
‘70s. He wore a flowered silk shirt, tight black pants, and platform
shoes. As if he didn’t already have enough going for him, the guy
could dance. He danced with a big grin spreading from ear to ear.
He had moves I’d never seen before. He was in his element. My curiosity piqued. I was intrigued with this exotic creature.
We danced every dance together for the rest of the dance.
Then he walked me to my car. It was a cool April night and I hadn’t
brought a jacket. Like a gentleman, he offered me his coat. But after
I put it on, he moved in, slipping both arms around my waist and
suggested we share it. Wow. This guy didn’t waste any time! Definitely not how we do things around here.
“No thanks,” I smiled, slipping out of the coat. “Just keep it. I
need to get home. My mom’ll be worried if I’m late.”
Before I left, we exchanged information. He pointed out his
maroon ‘66 Plymouth Satellite Sebring in the parking lot. He told
me the name of the street where he had just recently moved in with
his older brother, and the names of two of the fanciest restaurants in
town where he was working as a busboy. The rest was easy. I spent
the next two weeks cruising his street in the hopes of running into
him, and staking out those restaurants, leaving notes on his car.
Finally we got together, and started dating. Albert soon realized that I wasn’t going to be as easy to seduce as all the other girls
he had been with. According to him there had been plenty — and I
had no reason to doubt it. One night we had heard there was going
to be a dance at the university, but when we got there the parking lot
was empty. No dance. And it was raining. So there we sat in his car.
Nothing to do. Albert seemed restless. After a few long pauses in
the conversation, he decided that his best strategy would be reverse
psychology.
“Uhmm…I’d ask you for a kiss….but you probably wouldn’t
want to,” he said as innocently as possible. Then he turned and
looked out the window, trying to make me feel sorry for him. For
some reason, it worked.
“It’s okay,” I murmured, not believing what I had just heard
myself say.
He turned to face me with a longing in his eyes that I had
8 Creative Writing
never seen before. It sent a bolt of electricity through my veins. My
heart pounded against my ribs. He gently took my face in his warm
hands, and as he leaned toward me, I closed my eyes against what
was coming. In the darkness, I held my breath in nervous apprehension. Tenderly, he kissed me. And at that moment the whole starry
universe went spinning out of control inside my head. I melted into
the seat, and my head fell back limply in his hands.
He pulled away. He was surprised to see tears streaming down
my cheeks. “Are you okay? What’s the matter?”
Turning my head away to wipe my eyes, I said, “I’m fine…
everything’s fine.” I was dizzy and disoriented.
I could feel him staring at the back of my head. After a long
pause he said quietly, “You’re different from the other girls I’ve gone
out with — and that’s a lot!” (He liked to remind me.) “I don’t know
what it is about you.” He stared out into the empty parking lot and
the streetlight illuminated a tear in the corner of his eye. He quickly
wiped it away. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”
Neither had I.
Creative Writing 9
Mrs. Robinson
Kirsty Winkler
Vignette Contest Winner
First Place
She lounges in a kitchen chair as the party swirls around her.
She grips her fifth beer, watching the ease of gaiety, wishing she
remembered how. It’s a younger crowd; only three know Max Headroom. The party migrates to the garage to play beer pong. One guy
lingers, looking sideways at her. She stares back. She’s not shy, and
she’s a sucker for blond hair and blue eyes.
“You work with Clint, don’t you?” he asks.
She nods.
“I’m his cousin, Jerry.”
That explains his good looks. “Nice to meet you, Jerry.”
He shakes her hand without letting go. “Can I kiss you?”
If you have to ask, there’s only one answer. “No.”
“I live around the corner from here.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“If you’re tired, you can crash there.”
“You’re too young for me,” she warns.
“You can’t be more than 25.”
She grins. She’s not going to disagree.
“I’m 24. I’m not too young for you,” he says.
Everyone else is in the garage. No one would see her leave with
him. “Okay.”
He smiles and leads her to the door. “It’s just around the corner.”
He sure is pretty.
10 Creative Writing
Miss Anna
McKella Sawyer
The apple was unusually warm in her hand. The morning sun,
filtering through the limbs of the tree, had already warmed the apple
as if it had been meant for her. She closed her hand around it and
tugged it off the branch. The leaves rattled as the branch snapped
back into place. Anna examined her prize and smiled, her white
teeth sparkling like morning dew. This would be her breakfast. She
rubbed the apple on the front of her pink sweater and took a bite. It
was crisp, tart, sweet, everything a ripe apple should be.
She began her daily walk down the dirt path. Dead leaves
crunched under her penny loafers, mimicking the sweet crunch of
the apple in her mouth. The morning itself was crisp. Warm enough,
but with a definite bite to the air that announced the arrival of
autumn. The brisk breeze ruffled her skirt and raised goose bumps
on her bare legs. The trees whispered to her, greeting her. Freshly
fallen leaves rode the breeze to rest on the ground before her feet. No
one could hear these trees the way she did; she was alone, and the
solitude suited her.
A quarter mile down the path, she met the larger dirt road
that led to the town. The rusty mailbox was perched on its post, lid
slightly open, like the mouth of a fish. The envelope was inside, as
usual. On the front in blue pen, her name was written in the familiar,
loopy handwriting.
Miss Anna
She tucked the envelope in her pocket and paused a moment to
look over the brilliant hills, blazing in their shades of autumn oranges and reds. No clouds at all, the sky was calm.
She dropped the apple core into the patch of weeds at the base
of the post and turned to walk back down the path. She breathed
deeply, absorbing the scent.
The wildflowers that surrounded her cottage were beginning to
droop; it was the end of their season. Before going inside, she picked
Creative Writing 11
a handful of bluebells. She would press these between book pages,
keep them with her through the winter.
The cottage was chilly inside. A single room, Anna’s bed was
tucked into the far corner from the door, neatly made with the edges
of the patchwork quilt hangThe trees whispered to ing evenly over the sides. At
her, greeting her. Freshly the foot of the bed was a small
fallen leaves rode the hope chest, which contained her
breeze to rest on the clothing. The kitchen consisted
ground before her feet. of a small two small cupboards
and a wash table with a pitcher
and basin on top. A small oval mirror hung on the wall behind it.
The only other fixtures in the room were a small wood-burning stove
and single wooden chair.
She started a fire in the wood burning stove, just a small one to
the chill from sinking into her skin.
Anna sat on the chair and removed the envelope from her
pocket. Cautiously, she slid her finger under the flap and tore it open.
Inside was a half slip of notebook paper which bore a single word.
You
Me? Anna thought. Well, all right, I suppose. She stood and
crossed the room to the bed and removed a thick leather-bound
sketchbook from under the pillow. She returned to the chair and
shifted it so that she could see herself in the mirror and flipped to a
clean page. She plucked the pencil from the knot in her hair, letting
her ruby curls unfold around her shoulders. Motionless, she studied her reflection, noticing the tiniest details and planning how she
would lay them on the page. Finally, she laid the tip of the pencil to
the paper and with swooping strokes, outlined the roundness of her
jaw. She worked quickly, using minimal lines to express her long
curls, her full lips, her large, dark eyes. She was careful to keep her
mouth closed; she did not want her slightly crooked teeth to be a part
of the picture. Within the hour, she found her reflection staring up at
her from the page. She was satisfied.
Gently, she ripped the paper from the sketchbook and rolled
it up, securing both ends with two paper clips she kept in one of the
12 Creative Writing
cupboards. She wrote the address on the outside of the roll.
Miss Connie
Anna heaved herself out of the chair and was surprised by the
effort required to stand. She placed the rolled-up drawing on the
wash table. A dull ache brewed in her exhausted muscles. Her knees
were feeling stiff.
She returned to the chair, with the sketchbook on her lap and
flipped through the pages, a catalog of memory. She poured through
her beautiful sketches of her cottage, the country path, the hills,
and the apple tree as well as the not-so-beautiful renderings of long
hallways, sour faces and a small, dull room. The pencil lines of each
drawing were slightly smudged from the contact of the previous page,
as if the images themselves were beginning to fade away.
Having caught a second wind, Anna pushed herself up from
the chair. The sunshine in the room was fading a little; the color was
melting from the room. She did not have much time.
With great difficulty, she rose to her feet and retrieved the
drawing from the wash table. Her hands trembled; the fingers did not
seem to want to move correctly. She was beginning to stoop under
the pain in her spine. As she turned for the door, she glanced at the
mirror and locked eyes with her reflection. The dark eyes in the mirror were wide with shock, framed by a web of faint wrinkles. The red
curls were stricken with gray.
There I am, she thought. Clutching the drawing to her chest,
she hobbled to the door, forcing her sore feet to move one in front of
the other.
The air on the path was no longer so sweet. The leaves did not
crunch under her feet, the trees did not speak to her, and the sun did
not warm her skin. As she dragged herself down the way, she could
not help but notice the lack of color, the absence of the wind. Instead, the air was stale and the sky had disappeared. She was under
a low ceiling with artificial light and her country road had become
a long hallway painted flat gray with the hard floor tiled in white.
She strained to hear the leaves rustling on their tree branches, but
she could no longer bring herself to hear them. The scream of her
Creative Writing 13
exhausted muscles and tired bones drowned out anything the wind
could have tried to tell her. Her world had completely faded away.
The mailbox seemed further away than usual. What was
usually a simple trip down the woodland path was now a long trek
down the barren hallway; each step was a struggle. At the end of the
hallway, a slender young nurse in purple scrubs strode around the
corner. Anna jerked her head to the side and stared at the wall.
“Miss Anna, what are you doing out here?” the nurse asked.
She placed a manicured hand on Anna’s shoulder, preparing to lead
her back to her room. “You should be napping. Are you hurting? Did
you forget to take your medication this morning?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m just leaving this out for Miss Connie
when she comes tomorrow.” She tightened her grip on the drawing,
hugging it to her.
“That’s very sweet of you, but you should be asleep. You need
your rest, Miss Anna.”
“I’ll rest; I just need to put this in my mailbox for Miss Connie.” The nurse reached for the drawing, but Anna jerked it away.
“Here, why don’t you leave it with me, I’ll see that she gets it in
the morning.”
“I want to put it in the mailbox.”
“It will be safe with me, don’t worry…”
“No! Let me go to my mailbox!”
“Miss Anna, I think you’d better take your medication, you’re
probably in a lot of pain.”
Anna scowled at the nurse. What did she know about pain?
Anna had been in pain for years, and it hadn’t killed her yet. She
was perfectly capable of walking another twenty feet to her mailbox
and back to her room, medication or no medication. But she couldn’t
hear the trees anymore. Finally, she shoved the box into the nurse’s
hands.
“See that Miss Connie gets this tomorrow. I can find my room
myself.”
Defeated, Anna turned and began her journey down the hall to
her room. Her feet tapped tunelessly on the hard floor. The artificial
lights hurt her eyes. Each movement of her frail legs sent spasms up
14 Creative Writing
her back. A deep, dull ache bloomed in her hips and melted down
into her legs; each muscle was in an iron vice.
She entered her room and dragged back the covers on the
neatly made bed. She eased her way up onto the mattress and pulled
the patchwork quilt and sheet over her body. Her head rested on the
squishy pillow. The pain throbbed in her bones and muscles, her
heart slammed against her fragile ribcage from the exertion of her
journey. Her eyes wandered around her room, seeing it as it was for
the first time in days. Her space heater hummed. The pitcher and
basin were in their places on the wash table. She realized that the
trunk at the foot of her bed was still open, but she lacked to energy
to get up and close it. The treasured drawings Miss Connie had sent
were taped to the wall opposite to the door. Drawings of horses, tree
houses, laughing young women wading in a creek. At the end of the
row of drawings was the portrait of Miss Connie herself, long curls
and wide, dark eyes set in a round, baby doll face.
Anna could see her reflection in the mirror over the wash
table. The fiery ringlets were now ashen gray. Her face was a map of
wrinkles, her mouth hung open slightly, the lips no longer full, but
deflated and colorless. The brown eyes had lost their youthful clarity. They were flat, tired, like faded cloth. Those eyes were the last
things Anna saw before sleep finally found her.
Connie strode down the suburban sidewalks, inhaling the scent
of the morning. Falling leaves danced to the ground on the breeze,
twirling in a downward spiral. She glanced at her watch. 7:18. That
left her plenty of time. Her first class didn’t start until eight o’clock,
and the college was only four blocks away. She turned up the pathway to the entrance of AppleTree Assisted Living Community.
“Hey, Dana,” she greeted the young nurse at the front desk.
Dana looked up and rolled her eyes.
“Hey,” she grumbled. “I am so ready to get out of here, I hate
graveyards. There’s no way I’ll stay awake in class today.”
“Well, only one semester left, then get a better job.”
“Can’t wait. I’m sick of dealing with old people. Oh, your
grandma was sneaking around again yesterday when she was
Creative Writing 15
supposed to be napping. She wanted me to give this to you.” Dana
retrieved the drawing from under the desk and pushed it into Connie’s hands.
“I think she forgot to take her meds, she was a little out of it.”
“I thought she was even more out of it when she’s on the meds.
Talking about whispering trees and cottages and stuff.”
“True, so okay, she was more lucid than usual, but grumpy.
Grr. Anyway, my shift is up. See ya.” An older nurse had just entered
the building, obviously Dana’s replacement. Dana hopped up from
the desk, punched her timecard, and bolted out of the door.
Dana sat on a chair in the corner of the room.
“What in the world…” Connie unrolled the drawing on her lap.
She gasped; it was like looking into a mirror. A young woman with
wild curls and dark eyes gazed up at her. Connie’s mouth hung open
wordlessly.
It was a game of theirs. They shared a love of drawing, so they
would take turns requesting subjects for the other to draw. On the
days she could only come early in the morning when the residents
were still asleep, Connie had left notes in her grandmother’s message box. The cottage. The apple tree. The hills. Lately, Connie had
been using this game as a way to understand her grandmother, to
actually see these hills and this cottage that her grandmother often
mentioned. That was when she had her medication. She was happier
when she was in her own reality.
The previous morning, Connie had left a note asking her
grandmother to draw herself, hoping to see the real Miss Anna, the
way she really was.
This was the real Miss Anna.
16 Creative Writing
Bus in the City
Alan Nordgren
Vignette Contest Winner
Second Place
The bus stopped. The driver put up his hand to signal to the
woman standing outside to wait. He set the automated wheelchair
ramp in motion and came back to unsecure the belts and clips attached to the heavy motorized wheelchair, which housed a man.
There we go. Y’er all set to go, sir.
Thank you.
No problem.
Thank you.
Have a good one.
Yeah. Thank you.
The man put his chair into gear and rolled forward and back,
getting his chair loose and into the isle, bumping into things. His
wheel nearly ran over my foot.
Sorry.
Hey, you missed, it’s OK.
OK. Sorry.
It’s OK.
He started forward in small jerks as he maneuvered his chair
to the ramp that was now unfolded and ready. The woman, still
outside, shifted her weight. Her arms were folded and she tapped her
fingers against her tricep. She was chewing gum and her hair was
ratted and her clothes were old. She looked up and down the street
and leaned forward to watch the progress of the wheelchaired man.
He was out.
The woman stepped into the bus, and looked at the driver, and
whispered,
I have no money.
Creative Writing 17
The Being: A Love Story, Skewed, From His Point of View
Niki Tadehara
Her eyes don’t see as my eyes see. Her ears sense more than
a mere fraction of what my ears sense. Her tongue tastes, but much
differently than the tongue held in place by your throat or mine. She
feels everything, her fingers working just as intricately as those of a
small child or fragile adult. And her nose, while resting delicately in
the middle of her earth-shattered face, picks up scents that you and I
could only dream to catch.
She’s closer to angel than demon. More illusion than reality.
Not a friend or foe. Never has she been a shoulder for me to cry on
or one on which to let loose my frustrations. But still, she’s mine to
think about. And she doesn’t even know my name...
***
A whisper, barely evident throughout the hum of the crowd.
She can’t hear me, and yet I speak to her all the same. Thoughts, fast
racing in my mind, collide as I trip over things I really could say. I
wonder what she’s thinking. It must be important. Surely she’s not got
such unimportant trifles as what to wear to the party Friday night,
who to go with.
She looks this way. What to do? But... oh, no. Not at me. The
clock on the wall. It reads ten past two. Her cheeks, the skin so
beautifully made, flush as blood rises effortlessly beneath the surface. But her eyes, they override the seeming look of slight embarrassment, reveal a look more of... annoyance. That look that is all too
familiar. Not to her friends, those she holds closest. But to me, oh
yes. And maybe to all else not in her realm of social scenes.
***
High school is long since over. I leave in a month’s time but
will inevitably be back. And still, my name is one that has not
graced those satin lips. Those lips, the perfect texture, perfect shade.
(The beauty resides within her.) It’s been... weeks since I’ve seen her.
I no longer work at the diner and so no longer know if it’s her usual
18 Creative Writing
eatery. We have no classes together. Spring semester has been over
for quite some time and, well, summer classes and me, we just don’t
mix.
I wonder how she is. More and more I see her in my dreams,
leading me to believe that was her place of creation. It would make
sense. How else would I know all the curves of her face, the way her
red chocolate hair falls over her eyes and down her back? Her voice
is like velvet, and yet it hasn’t fallen upon my ears in much too long.
The one thing that comforts me, the only thing, is Daniel. I see
him much too often for my liking, but never with her. Not anymore,
at least. It brings relief, knowing she’s not with him... he’s not with
her. Brings my chances up, at least by one. And then, to take all
his friends in consideration, that brings my chances up by maybe a
handful or two. It’s not much. But it’s hope.
***
I ran in to her once. She didn’t recognize me, of course. It’s
no matter. I didn’t expect she would. We made small talk, the first
time since we’d met. Or rather, since we’d had that first class together
sophomore year. She asked how I was. It almost sounded like she
cared... She was happy. Found her way back to Daniel, apparently.
But, no, I’m not married. Just haven’t... found the right woman yet.
You will. That’s all she told me: you will. Yeah, maybe. And to think,
I could have been her perfect guy. But her cell phone interrupted.
She said it was nice, before she said goodbye. Seeing me again, talking. Said we’d do lunch some time. She’d call me. She never even got
my number...
It’s been a few years since then, and I’m with someone now,
calls herself Evangeline. Eve for short. She and Daniel are still
together. Least I think. I rarely see either of them, which I prefer.
Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose. And really, it’s better that way.
No reason for Eve to know she’s only ever been my number two. A
runner-up. Second best. I’m not looking for trouble, after all. And
yet, not a day goes by that she doesn’t find a way in to my thoughts.
And then I have to remind myself that, well, she’s not mine. She
never will be... I should have just said something.
Creative Writing 19
Why Mothers Can’t Win
Janice Stringham LeFevre
Vignette Contest Winner
Third Place
In Saturday morning’s honeysuckle light, I marshaled my
grumbling troops. “We’ve got to save our veggies from the evil
weeds,” I announced as I armed my children with forked dandelion
diggers.
Soon, we were on our knees uprooting our jagged-leafed foes
from the garden. That is, everyone but thirteen-year-old Kannie.
Wandering aimlessly, she knighted the tomatoes and peppers with
her cleft-tipped sword and rolled the roly-poly potato bugs between
her fingers. Exasperated, I marked a six-foot square in the soil and
marched her to it. “When you’re done weeding this spot,” I said,
“you can quit.”
Ten minutes later, Kannie announced, “I’m done, Mom!”
Doubtful, I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yep!” She smiled and bolted for the house.
I inspected. Perhaps seven weeds were gone. Dozens more,
arrayed in golden helmets and with roots firmly planted, smirked up
at me. “Kannie!” I yelled just before she disappeared into the house.
“Why’d you lie to me? You said you were done weeding!”
“I didn’t lie,” she called back. “We just define done differently!
I meant I’m sick of weeding, and I’m not gonna do it anymore.”
20 Creative Writing
Providence Wilt Thou Be With Me
Lynette S. Oberg
mixed media
Painting / Drawing 21
Azure Realm Series
William Merritts
acrylic, polymer
22 Painting / Drawing
Bloom Induction
Chaise Payan
mixed media
Painting / Drawing 23
Bench, Pool Players
Catherine Rogers
ink, gesso
24 Painting / Drawing
Untitled from “Sommarvals Installation”
Amanda Åkebrand
acrylic, ink, watercolor
Painting / Drawing 25
Mischief, Vamp, Diva
Sarah Zimmer
woodcut
26 Printmaking
Book
(Selected Pages)
Catherine Rogers
silkscreen
Printmaking 27
African Woman
Rachel Griffiths
silkscreen
Two, One, Three
Angela Van Wagoner
linocut
28 Printmaking
Patrick’s Baby
Adrian Stumpp
Weber State University
Ogden, Utah
Angie’s baby was six months old and had never met her father.
Cleo was a sweet baby, Angie decided, and was irritated it had taken
her six months to reach this conclusion. Angie really didn’t want to
be a mother. Still. But her indifference was easier to suffer because
the child was not difficult. Cleo required minimal upkeep, and Angie
knew that was the reason she’d been able to stick it out this long.
She’d lived with her parents throughout the pregnancy and
for several weeks after Cleo had been born, before being approved
for state housing. The apartment was bigger than she’d expected,
and older, with vintage shag carpet and floral wallpaper. The walls
sweated cigarette stains when the upstairs neighbors ran their
dishwasher, the bathroom sink was chronically backed up, and the
tub leaked and couldn’t be fixed. Still, it was outfitted with central
air, and Angie got used to the dripping after a while. It bothered her
mother more than her anyway.
Her mother liked to visit every Wednesday afternoon after
Cleo’s nap. The anticipation always made Angie anxious. She paced
the living room, biting her fingernails and watching out the blinds
for the maroon Oldsmobile. She stopped suddenly and listened to the
mute apartment for the telltale signs of life but received only resounding peace. She told herself it was fine, Cleo was sleeping, and
paced. She peered terrified at the dark rooms down the hall, listened
hard, and cursed herself for being a worrywart. She checked the
window again, and forced herself to remain composed as she clipped
down the hall to Cleo’s room.
Angie stood over the crib holding her breath. She wanted to
hear if Cleo so much as exhaled. The baby didn’t move. Carefully
Angie lowered the guardrail and placed her ear next to Cleo’s mouth.
She couldn’t tell, cursed herself again, and pinched the baby’s thigh.
She had to pinch twice more, and hard the second time, to get the
wail she wanted. Relief washed through her, and she picked Cleo up
to comfort them both.
National Undergraduate Literary Conference 29
“Anybody home?” her mother sang from the living room. Angie
had given her a key, and for some reason that made her mother think
she didn’t have to knock anymore. “Where’s that granddaughter?”
she called, and Angie came back up the hall to meet her.
Her mother wore a sharp lavender pantsuit and too much
perfume. She liked to dress as though she had somewhere important
to be, but she never did. She had just come from her hairdresser’s
with a new short style. Her fifty years showed only in the broad gray
streaks, which she refused to dye. Her mother thought older women
who dyed their hair advertised poor self esteem, which she considered to be a very graceless behavior.
Angie forced a smile, but saw there was no need; her mother
looked only at Cleo. She scooped the baby out of Angie’s arms,
twirled, and bounced the baby about the room. She cleaned the forgotten tears from Cleo’s cheeks, careful to keep her long thumbnail
away from Cleo’s eye, and said, “She’s been crying.”
“Babies cry.”
“Babies cry because they need something. She’s dirty or hungry or scared.”
“Sometimes they just cry,” Angie huffed, and threw herself
down on the antique couch her parents had given her when she’d
moved out. She’d hoped, for no deserved reason, her mother wouldn’t
be like this today.
Her mother looked very concerned, but Angie hardly noticed,
concern being her mother’s natural state. Her mother made sure the
skin folds under Cleo’s chin were clean, checked her for rash, her
mouth for thrush. She asked if Cleo might have colic and then was
absolutely certain Cleo’s diaper was too tight.
After that was fixed, her mother checked the windowsills,
showed Angie the dust she’d found, and wondered aloud if the untidy
home she kept might be why Patrick hadn’t asked Angie to marry
him yet.
“How is Patrick?”
“He must be fine or I’d have heard about it by now. He hasn’t
been over for a few days, which is fine with me.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
30 National Undergraduate Literary Conference
Angie yawned, determined to enjoy being baby-free a little
while. Patrick had asked, and Angie had said “no,” though she had
no intention of sharing this with her mother.
Angie’s mother didn’t like Patrick because his job was unreliable and undignified. He worked graveyards at a grocery warehouse
filling orders for stores in the surrounding area. She only wanted
him to marry Angie because she thought it indecent for a girl to be
unwed with an infant, even if, unlike Angie, the girl had been married at the time of conception; single with a baby meant you could
barely keep a husband long enough to get in trouble. Angie’s mother
schemed unsuccessfully for months to get rid of Patrick, decided him
a dupe she could con into supporting her daughter and granddaughter, and changed tactics. Lately she’d been finding him not so easy to
take advantage of, and Angie loved it.
Most of their conversations were really arguments, though her
mother refused to call them that. She was obsessed with Angie getting married to someone, anyone; to whom seemed to matter less as
Cleo grew and stubbornly refused to remain inconsequential.
Her mother was convinced Angie couldn’t take care of herself.
She harped on the squalor Angie inhabited, the welfare she accepted
with no job and no prospects, and wondered what kind of life was
Angie fit to provide for herself and her daughter? Angie was forced to
acknowledge not much of a life was possible.
“You can’t think about yourself anymore,” her mother said. She
was furious because her visit was almost over and Angie refused to
have the only discussion that interested her. “If you think it’s decent
for Cleo to grow up in this filth—well, all I can say is you ought to be
ashamed. I raised you better.”
Late May in the mountains, Angie thought, was the most
glorious of all nature’s miracles. Her apartment was not far from the
canyon mouth, and sitting in the grass she had a great view of the
mountains. It seemed she hadn’t spent time outside in ages because
the apartment was on a state highway and the traffic sounds terrified
Cleo. Angie had no car and the hassle of packing Cleo on the bus exhausted her so that by the time Angie got anywhere, all she wanted
was to go home. She felt like a cave-dweller in the stuffy basement
National Undergraduate Literary Conference 31
apartment, and though she kept the blinds open to let in sunlight, the
mountains weren’t visible from the window.
“Angie,” her mother asked, “are you listening, or are you staring out the window?”
“Window,” Angie muttered. It was the same old lecture—
Angie was unfit to be a mother, she wasn’t good at anything, if she
wanted Patrick to marry her, she’d better make some changes—she
could recite it in her sleep.
Her mother waited for a proper response but Angie coolly ignored her, and her mother, irate, slung Cleo into Angie’s lap and left
without closing the front door behind her.
Angie knew from the beginning she wasn’t ready for motherhood, but only now did she understand there was no way she could
have been prepared. It was like nothing else she had experienced;
like having a third leg or arm—it was literally a second stomach. For
weeks all Cleo did was eat and purge, and Angie had been expected
to know the new stomach was empty without feeling its hunger. She
had expected a new instinct to kick in when it was time, and she
would know what to do.
She harped on the
She’d thought a change
squalor Angie inhabited, the would come over her, like
welfare she accepted with when her breasts grew or
no job and no prospects... her hips widened or her
period came, she would just
be newly inconvenienced by the nesting instinct, the god-given magic
of maternity. But that never happened.
Four years ago, when Angie was sixteen, she had been obsessed with ghost-hunting. She and her friends would explore the
abandoned warehouses downtown for some remnant of loose spirits.
Her favorite sites were the brick and mortar carcasses of the last
century. They would break into the buildings with the witching hour
and walk room to room, drawn like mourners to a corpse. The eerie
quiet of the midnight city all around, broken after breathless hours
by a police siren or a street fight. They would bring an assortment of
equipment—ion detectors and Geiger counters and infrared cameras—hoping to break the patient deceased.
32 National Undergraduate Literary Conference
Angie never saw a ghost, though, until one night walking down
the hall past Cleo’s room. And then only from the corner of her eye.
He wore a black duster coat, his blonde hair long in his face
and stringy as though he’d walked in from a torrent. He had a blonde
beard streaked with red. His mouth was pale and thin and set hard,
but the lines around his eyes and brow were soft and warm. He stood
over the crib whispering something to Cleo, and when Angie walked
by, he looked up at her. It was Patrick. His shock of blonde hair had
grown half down his back, and the beard was new. The face was
lined and leather-hardened, and the hairline had receded. Decades
older, but it was him.
It was only a second. When she looked again he was gone. Cleo
was fast asleep.
Cleo’s name had been chosen before she was born. Shortly
after Angie watched the pointillist map deciphered by the doctor—
the cold jelly lubricating the hump of her beneath the impersonal
hardware—the pronouncement had been made it would be a girl. To
Angie the image on the screen had been nonsensical and the magic
of seeing her unborn daughter had been overshadowed by her increasing discomfort with the pregnancy. Her body was intolerably hot
all the time and she suffered insomnia. She combated this by watching infomercials long into the night, stark naked. She would spray
herself down with a water bottle and lie on top of the covers glistening like an enormous shucked snail.
Angie’s mother hated the name, but Angie had researched it
and was quick to supply its ancient etymology: from the Greek kleos,
meaning glory. Really, Angie named her daughter after her favorite
late night fortune-teller.
Her mother had always been a generous dispenser of uncherished advice. She had told Angie not to breastfeed, it would ruin
her breasts and no man would want her after that. Only she didn’t
call them breasts, of course, she called them bosoms. Chickens
had breasts, tramps had tits, and boobies were exotic fowl. Angie
had ignored her as usual; she’d read that babies raised on mother’s
milk were less likely to get sick and formed a stronger bond with
their mothers, and Angie had a superstitious faith in everything she
National Undergraduate Literary Conference 33
read in the baby magazines. She had not enjoyed breastfeeding. She
leaked wet spots on her blouses, her nipples ached like clenched
fists, and the pitiful look on Cleo’s face when she gummed the air
before finding the nipple provoked in Angie a resentment she was not
comfortable with. Angie weaned Cleo onto bottle formula just shy of
the one month mark, and re-met Patrick. The two corresponded to
the day.
Patrick was an old high school friend she’d not seen in years.
The fast-paced lifestyle of her late teens had prevented them from
crossing paths, and only now, domesticated by a new baby and forced
to slow down, had she found time for him again. In those first weeks,
she had come to rely heavily on Patrick’s company, as no one she’d
known more recently bothered to visit anymore. She couldn’t go to
parties and found she didn’t miss them. She was content now with
being boring and wanted boring people, like Patrick, to surround her.
Cleo was in love with Patrick. The whole time he held her that
first day Angie had felt embarrassed, as though she were eavesdropping on a love affair. He held Cleo to him with an intimacy Angie
had not assumed with the baby. It was unbearably sweet, and Angie
felt relieved when Cleo started to fuss. She thought for sure Patrick
would hold Cleo away from him in that awkward way boys have, and
hand her back to Angie. But instead he cradled Cleo closer to him,
in the hollow below his chest, and rocked her gently to sleep.
He came often after that. He would hold Cleo for hours,
clean, change, dandle, and play with her. When he got her to sleep
he would put her down in the crib and go home. Angie thought it
strange but appreciated the break. When she handed Cleo off to Patrick, her whole body tingled like a blood-rush through a sleepy limb.
Patrick offered to babysit, but Angie found the things she’d enjoyed
in her former life to be a greater burden than Cleo, and understood
she felt no desire to change back. She preferred to stay in, and one
night Patrick lingered after the baby was put down. They quickly
ended up in bed, sweaty, and thoroughly spent.
At least now, six months after her birth, Cleo was beginning
to look more like Angie than Cory. Their basic body structure was
the same: lithe arms, stocky necks, long legs, short torsos, high
34 National Undergraduate Literary Conference
foreheads. They made similar facial expressions when surprised,
panicked, overjoyed.
Cory had been disgusted with her decision to have the baby,
and part of her refused to fault him for it. She hadn’t seen him since,
nor had she tried to see him. She had told herself that Cory had a
choice to make just as she did. He had chosen an abortion; Angie
had chosen a baby. As far as she was concerned, Cory had no daughter, and Angie didn’t assume the right to ask for child support, or any
help whatever, much to her mother’s chagrin.
The nurses had put a swaddled prune on Angie’s chest in the
delivery room. Cleo had beady ferret eyes and her skin had looked
waterlogged for weeks, purple and wrinkled. She had Cory’s floppy
ears, miniature porcelain replicas of his feet, the longer second toe
and strangely curved pinkie. In fact, all of Cleo’s particular body
parts were whispers of Cory, her gray-blue eyes, disproportionately
large ears, double-jointed elbows, her skin prone to rash, to oversweating, the inventory was endless. Angie stopped taking this inventory, but months ago she had been obsessed with cataloging every
shadow of Cleo’s sperm-donor.
When Cleo would wake in the night and need to be fed and
comforted back into the darkness, Angie would pace the nursery
with the limp body dangling in her arms and scour it for pieces of
Cory. She hated him with a cold, composed hatred. Thinking of him
made Angie icy to her most unfathomed reach. It had frightened
her at first. She had never experienced anything like it. Anger had
always been hot in her and boiling; there had been an element of
revolt to it. This was an acceptance of defeat, and it didn’t scare her
anymore. She frankly found it soothing.
It was the same sensation that came over Angie when she
started seeing Patrick in Cleo. She’d somehow absorbed his looks.
Cleo inherited Patrick’s hunched posture, his swaying gait. Cleo’s
favorite toy was a plastic ball covered in variously shaped holes
through which corresponding blocks could be inserted. This bright
blue puzzle earned her ire more than anything she’d yet encountered.
Cleo longed to punch square blocks through oval holes. She had an
angry passion for proving Angie’s insistence on the square hole un-
National Undergraduate Literary Conference 35
necessary. The slightest suggestion of the square hole would kindle
all her anger, loud and brief as a firecracker. Cleo’s face would twist
while formulating new strategies against the insolent ball, eyes half
closed, her tongue pasted against the corner of her upper lip, just
in such a way. It was the face Patrick made while fiddling with the
bathtub leak. Exactly.
When Angie held Cleo, sealed deep in the apartment’s humid
dark, humming distracted lullabies and peering into the haunted
bundle against her breast, this is what she saw: Cory’s pale eyes
beneath her own high forehead, and behind them, where all Cleo’s
physical attributes came together—the creases and her eyes and the
stoic intelligence behind them—the child harbored Patrick’s soul.
Whatever lurked behind their four eyes, Angie knew, was made of
the same stuff.
The night Angie had seen Patrick’s ghost standing over Cleo’s
crib, Angie had rushed up and down the hall as if expecting to find
him, but she hadn’t. Of course, she hadn’t. But she had told him
about the encounter the next time he came over. They had sat naked on the disheveled bed watching black and white reruns of Perry
Mason on PBS with bowls of macaroni and cheese balanced on their
bellies.
“It wasn’t me,” Patrick had said without looking. Patrick loved
Perry Mason and it was difficult to get him to pay attention to anything else once the show had begun.
“You weren’t there. You didn’t see it.”
Patrick had shrugged. “I’m not dead. How could you see my
ghost if I’m still alive?”
“It was your ghost.”
“I don’t have a beard,” Patrick had pointed out, “or thinning
hair. Or a duster coat.”
But Angie wouldn’t be persuaded. “I know what I saw. It was
you.”
Patrick slept all day. The warehouse had been busy, and he
didn’t get off work until six Friday morning. According to Angie’s
wishes, he kept his own apartment during the week—she refused to
live with him—but spent weekends with Angie and Cleo. He finally
36 National Undergraduate Literary Conference
woke at six o’clock in the evening and stumbled into the living room.
He looked confused.
“Where’s my stuff?” he wanted to know. His toiletries and the
change of clothes he kept in Angie’s closet were missing.
“I had to hide them,” Angie said. “My mom came over, and I
didn’t want her to know you kept stuff here.”
Patrick stared back at her sleepily and said, “I can’t find my
stuff.”
A shower and change of clothes put him in his usual high spirits. Cleo was giddy to see him and burst with erratic laughter as he
swung her through the air. He grabbed a handful of Angie’s flabby
rump and kissed the top of her head.
“What do you want to do tonight?” he asked.
Angie shrugged, “Usual, I guess.”
“Usual it is,” Patrick said, and showed her the B horror movie
he’d rented from the small selection at the little grocery store across
the highway. He got a discount for working at the warehouse that
serviced it. There were perks to dating a warehouse boy, but Angie’s
mom couldn’t see that.
‘The Usual’ meant that Patrick would exhaust Cleo while Angie
made dinner. They’d eat in the living room while watching game
shows on network TV. Then Patrick would put Cleo to bed—she
wouldn’t let anyone else do it if he was around, not even Angie—
while Angie made popcorn.
Patrick woke the next morning wanting to make love. Angie
didn’t love Patrick, but she loved having sex with him. It drained her
of anxiety, made her peaceful, somehow full when she closed her
eyes, and at home in the world. She spent so much time in an emotional and intellectual panic; sex was the only thing that grounded
her. It gave her a sense of presence on the earth, made her feel more
permanent than she really was.
Patrick dozed afterwards. Angie could hear Cleo stirring from
her nap across the hall. She sat Cleo on the bed between the adults
to play in molehills of rumpled blankets. Angie ran her fingers along
Patrick’s back, and wished that she loved him. For months she’d lied
by claiming to herself that she did love him, but it was too exhaust-
National Undergraduate Literary Conference 37
ing now. Their affection was genuine and tender but not at all deep.
Her connection to Cory was deeper, even if she hated him. Perhaps
the reason their relationship had been so brief was precisely because
it’d been so volatile. Neither Angie nor Cory had been able to function under the mutual feeding frenzy they’d wrought.
When Patrick woke they had a long kissing session, and he
proposed again. She declined again. Unfazed, Patrick threw Cleo in
the air and caught her by the thighs. She
Angie had felt
giggled like a motor. She screamed at
embarrassed, as him her unquenchable love. They nuzzled
though she were one another, cooed into each other’s ears.
eavesdropping on Angie went to the kitchen and brought
back a banana for Cleo’s lunch. She softa love affair.
ened it between her fingers and distractedly let the baby eat out of her palm, and they both were quickly
covered in yellow drool thick as paste.
“Angie! Hey!” Patrick gasped, and lunged, and he didn’t
need to explain; Angie could see Cleo had stopped breathing. She
slumped forward like a sack among the blankets. Angie had only
looked away a second but already that fact was beyond her comprehension. She held Cleo beneath the armpits but could not bear to
pull the lolled head and blue lips to her body. Angie’s senses drifted
softly away from her as if exhaled. She couldn’t move.
Patrick grabbed the baby and sat her like a doll across his
lap. He thumped Cleo’s back as if keeping time, one, two, three. He
put his ear to her mouth and laid her straight down the length of his
forearm and thumped her back again. He made a sound like trapped
vermin and trembled. He put Cleo on her back and crouched over
her and sealed his mouth over her mouth and nose, and sucked. His
back went rigid and he sat straight up on his knees, his head and
shoulders thrust out as though he were emerging from water. He
coughed up the banana he’d inhaled, and Cleo screamed her tiny life
that once and for all had fought to stay.
Patrick tried to give Cleo to Angie, but Angie would sooner
cut her arm off than take that child from him. “Hold her,” she told
Patrick, “she wants you.”
38 National Undergraduate Literary Conference
Angie had feared what would happen if Patrick were suddenly
gone. Would Cleo be destroyed? Had she come to think of Patrick as
her father? That fear had passed, though. It was obvious Cleo thought
of Patrick as hers, father or otherwise.
A new fear descended on Angie: did Cleo know that Angie was
her mother, that Angie was connected to her more than Patrick? Angie didn’t think so, and was devastated. She realized it was for this
reason she had developed the habit of pinching Cleo while she slept:
Angie was convinced that if Cleo died, she would not feel her baby’s
last breath.
Angie looked out the window from where she sat on the couch
and imagined the mountains she could not see. The hours in the
middle of the day while Cleo napped were lonely. The unusual quiet
was often cruel to Angie and she invented daydreams to amuse
herself in which Cleo despised her and accused Angie of being the
reason she had no father. Angie would imagine that in years to come
Cleo would denounce her, find her long lost father, and forge a loving
relationship. She took a certain masochistic pleasure in these daydreams, and found in them an escape that is the primary function of
fantasy.
Angie had made Patrick promise last night not to tell anyone
Cleo almost choked to death. She especially didn’t want her parents
to know. Angie felt responsible, like she should have known what
to do. But instead of acting, she’d just stared like an idiot. Angie
wanted to forget about it, and she thought this could happen if no
one knew but her and Patrick. She didn’t want to admit Cleo would
be dead now if Patrick hadn’t known what to do, and yet the thought
stayed with her, thrilled her with its morbid self-indulgence.
She thought to get her mind off it she might take a bath, since
she hadn’t had one in over twenty-four hours. Last night, after Patrick
had put Cleo to bed and gone home, Angie had drawn a bath, but
she couldn’t get in. She couldn’t say why. She’d had every intention
of bathing until she’d taken off her clothes and sat on the toilet seat
watching the steam rise from the clear water. She’d finally checked
the water with her fingertips and discovered it had gone cold, and
she’d realized she’d been staring at it for hours.
National Undergraduate Literary Conference 39
She looked in on Cleo and stroked her hair and kissed her
cheek and whispered to her how very lucky she was, she would be
dead right now if her daddy hadn’t saved her. Cleo was dreaming,
and her tiny eyelashes fluttered like chick down. Angie started the
bathwater running and hung her bathrobe from the doorknob. She
undressed and stacked her clothes in a neat pile behind the door
and sat on the toilet seat wishing she could get in the water, but she
already knew it would be impossible. She wondered what Cleo might
be dreaming about. Probably Patrick’s ghost. She hoped Cleo didn’t
have nightmares about last night, hoped it had already been lost to
her. Angie didn’t want Cleo’s dreams to be anything like her own.
While pregnant she’d had supernaturally vivid dreams. Everything, in fact, had been saturated with an aching sensuality. Food
had tasted better, cold pierced deeper, emotions lasted longer; her
whole body had soaked for nine months in a chronic state of physical hallucination. Now, Angie sometimes had bad dreams about the
nurses confusing her baby for some other and sending her home with
the wrong one. They chased her into wakefulness and as she stirred
in the place between her dreams and her life, she was impressed
with the feeling that she had never been pregnant with Cory’s child,
it had been some other girl, and Angie had only been conned into
accepting responsibility.
40 National Undergraduate Literary Conference
Satan’s Lobby
Amber Allen
Vignette Contest Winner
Fourth Place
What is that smell? My eyes shift left, then right. Is it the
creepy 40-year-old pedophile or the 786 pound woman with man
hands? I’m going to say the woman. I’ll bet she has purple carpets
in her house. Please let me be next. Turning up my iPod, I slouch
deeper into my chair. Could fifty-five bucks a week be worth my disgust? Of course it is. Ironic that I would rather be taken into a frigid
room and siphoned with a needle by what is probably a professional
heroin addict than sit sandwiched between Big Bertha and Merve the
Perve. What on earth is that wretched smell? My eyes plead with the
receptionist. Me next. I’m begging you.
“Amber?”
Praise the Lord, it’s about time. Standing up, I turn to retrieve
my bag off the back of my chair. Bertha grins a farewell. No teeth.
Splendid.
Creative Writing 41
Bumper
Joshua Davidson
I never did kill that guy in Virginia Beach. I sure wanted to,
though; he did, after all, bump into me on the boardwalk and never
apologized. That bastard just kept on walking.
My memory could be fooling me, as it often does, but I believe
he was also talking on a cell phone. Either that or he was listening
to one of those damn MP3 players, completely oblivious to the rest of
his community including me, especially me.
I wonder if God would be so nonchalant and uncaring to his
creations crossing his cosmic boardwalk. Of course, I don’t believe
in God anymore. Even if I did, I doubt he’d listen to music. Such a
pastime seems so selfish for a creature of infinite power.
I did eventually find the man who bumped into me about three
miles down the pier; at least I was pretty sure it was the same man.
Actually, it could have been a woman.
Well, whoever he or she was I was most understandably upset
concerning the actions of him or her. A lesser man would have killed
that parasite where it stood without as much as a question. But I
chose to question him or her as to the intentions of the most nefarious act of shoulder-bumping, an action worthy of capital punishment
if the government had any sort of common sense.
Hell, come to think of it I believe the bumper was a man, a
man worthy of lethal injection. Or maybe even a good old-fashioned
hanging where the townsfolk could picnic and use the occasion as a
cautionary tale to their innocent children as to the dangers of bumping into innocent strangers.
If shoulder-bumping is tolerated by society, what’s next? Public
nail biting? Greeting complete strangers in a friendly fashion? Tolerance towards homosexual behavior? My non-shoulder-bumping moral
compass shudders at such blasphemies.
Sorry, I tend to ramble on and on.
At first, the bumper didn’t want to talk to me so I had to bring
42 Creative Writing
him back to my apartment to make sure that justice was carried out.
We drove the fourteen miles up the coastline to my apartment complex in near total silence. Apparently, he didn’t feel like talking. For
whatever reason, he did mumble rather passionately.
When we arrived, I took the
duct tape off of his mouth and waited
A friend of mine...
for him to settle down before beginning
advised me to plead
my line of questioning. The bumper
seemed to be a very odd man. Why the insanity, whatever
that means.
hell was there tape over his mouth and
what was he so worked up over?
Come to think of it, how did I get from the boardwalk to my
car? No matter.
The first and most important question that I ask all of my
friends was whether or not he believed in God. Seems a decent and
common enough thing to ask. But he wouldn’t answer. He just kept
blabbering about how he had a family and asked me what I planned
to do with him.
What a stupid thing to ask. I planned to question him. That
was it. That should have been obvious when I asked him if he believed in God. As well, what did his family have to do with anything?
I had a family once and it didn’t make me special.
I asked him the question again, and then a third time. He just
continued his incoherent blubbering.
The blubberer was apparently as untidy as he was obstinate,
because the next thing I knew there was blood all over the floor near
his chair and my hammer was left out of its drawer. I decided to
clean up the inconsiderate twerp’s mess later, as his inquisition was
what most mattered at the moment. I asked him again and this time
he answered. He said he did believe in God.
I asked him why. It was because he just knew. Why did he just
know? He wasn’t sure.
I then asked him why he chose to bump into me on the boardwalk. He apparently didn’t even notice he did.
How is that even possible? That’s as incomprehensible as a
man committing murder without notice.
Creative Writing 43
So I asked him if he believed God would punish him for his
sins and transgressions. Of course, he said he did.
I asked him if he thought the bump on the boardwalk would
qualify as a sin. He said, “Maybe.”
I spent the remainder of the hour questioning his various other
theological beliefs. Unfortunately, they were all quite boring and not
even worth getting into.
I don’t remember much after that, I believe the man (or maybe
it was a shadow, or perhaps a TV show) called me a freak.
Several hours later, I remembered that there were some recently filled trash bags that I had to bring down to the ocean. I did,
of course; I do consider myself a neat freak.
Is that what the voice called me? A neat freak? I don’t think so.
I assume I must have brought the bumper back to the boardwalk because when I returned to my apartment he was no longer
there. Before leaving, the man had made an additional, larger mess
of blood in the bathroom. The miscreant even stole some of my
knives.
Did I tell you that already? Well, I thought it and that’s just as
good.
So, when the police came to me a couple days later and asked
me if I recognized the bumper in a photograph, I said I did. They
asked me when I last saw him and to what capacity I knew him. I
told them that he bumped into me whilst talking on a phone or possibly listening to music. I also said that he did in fact believe in God
and that it was his belief that his sins would be answered for in the
next life.
They looked puzzled and disturbed. Or at least, they look like
I imagine one would look if puzzled or disturbed, having never been
either myself. I don’t remember what I said after that.
The next several months were a blur, or at least more of a blur
than usual. A lot of sitting and listening and more sitting. My apartment now had bars on it (no doubt another act of littering by that
damned bumper) and I didn’t have to go to work anymore. Instead,
I traveled to a room with people wearing suits and carrying briefcases. They all wanted to talk to me at length about the bumper.
44 Creative Writing
Apparently, he did get to meet God. At least it was his belief that he
did.
I asked the man sitting in the tall chair if the bumper was being punished for his transgressions and if the bumping into me was
indeed a transgression. He never did answer. Not that I remember
anyway.
A friend of mine who also wore a suit (and earned more money
than I did) advised me to plead insanity, whatever that means. I said
I would if he would tell me whether or not he believes in God (he
was, after all my friend.) He wasn’t sure, but he said he’d like to.
Good for him. I would like a tuna sandwich.
So now here I am several years (or maybe days, hours?) later
with nothing to do but sit and take pills. I never did remember having so many pills in my apartment. And I also recall being able to
leave my residence, on occasion. But as I have already alluded, my
memory is quite poor.
The TV in the corner and the various shadows around the room
told me not to take the pills anymore. I don’t think they like it when
I do, because they always give me the silent treatment for a while
afterwards.
Sometimes I wonder about the bumper and how he got home. I
assume I must have dropped him off after “Wheel of Fortune” called
me a neat freak.
I also wonder about how he died. All I know is I never killed
him. My best guess as to the culprit is either God or his cell phone.
Not that I believe in God. Or cell phones.
Who are you again? I apologize; I do tend to ramble on and on.
Creative Writing 45
Meet Death
Ryan Bowen
I was hesitant to let Thomas ride the coaster at first. It seemed
that so many things could go wrong. I wanted him to have fun, not
get scared silly. But I decided as long as I was there to watch him,
everything would be okay. He was so happy about it his eyes filled
with excitement and remained that way throughout the wait of a very
long line. My little boy’s first roller coaster. I was so happy for him. I
was ecstatic that I could experience these things with him again. It
had been too long.
It wasn’t until after we’d cleared the second turn that I suspected something could be wrong with the ride. The cars seemed
more uncontrolled than I had remembered from my own childhood. I
convinced myself it was only my imagination. It had been ages since
I had last ridden a roller coaster and I was sure my mind was playing
tricks on me. I reminisced about how the butterflies in my belly had
been replaced with total delight after I survived the first steep drop
of a coaster and I saw the same expression on Tommy’s bouncing
face as we plummeted downwards. It was all in my head.
But as we cleared a small hill, I almost felt for a split second
like our car had jumped off the tracks. ‘Stay calm, Debbie,’ I told
myself. I could be such a wuss sometimes.
It wasn’t until we reached the peak of another large hill that it
hit me like a punch in the face. Our roller coaster was out of control.
Normally when a coaster starts up a new incline it slows down a reasonable amount, or so I thought. But ours didn’t. When we reached
the top we were still going so fast I thought right then and there that
the cars would fly off the tracks and we’d all die.
I heard Tommy beside me yelling, “Mommy, I’m scared!”
through what I’m sure had to have been a sea of tears.
Someone in one of the cars behind us yelled, “Oh my god!
We’re out of control!”
And I stood staring in a state of total panic as we raced down
46 Creative Writing
the second steepest incline of the ride with a fury. I couldn’t breathe.
The seat restraint was pressed so hard into my stomach that it was
becoming unbearably painful. People were shouting and screaming
all around me and they were becoming more and more incoherent,
the babbled screams of pure terror. I looked at Tommy. I tried to
yell comforting words to him but they’d fallen on deaf ears. He was
crying his eyes out and the look on his face is one I’ve been unable
to forget since. I’ve been afraid before and I have seen people scared
senseless, but the look of certain death on a child, especially on my
own little boy’s face, was more than I could handle.
I burst into tears and squeezed his hand in a feeble attempt at
reassurance, but I knew what was coming. The seconds had passed
like minutes. The ride felt like it was lasting an eternity but I knew
we were only about halfway through it and the turn was coming
up. The spine tingling u-turn at the edge of the ride that veers the
coaster back towards the loading area to pick up new passengers was
legendary to locals. Its purpose had always been to provide one last
cheap thrill before the ride came to a close.
We wouldn’t make it. We were going way too fast. I could feel
the dread in my guts and I could see it coming. My glasses had long
since blown away in the wind and I could only make out its blurry
outline through my tears. But it was there.
I wanted to look at my boy one last time, but I couldn’t. I was
so petrified that my eyes locked at the upcoming horror. I didn’t want
to move. I didn’t want to do anything. Was this where my life had led
me? After all my work? All my sacrifices? I’d given up my husband
and my own son. My choices had all led me to this moment in time?
What a waste.
We hit the turn with a malevolence that tore through part of the
track, sending ours and the other cars skyrocketing through the air.
Some smashed through the wooden supports of the ride while our car
spiraled through the air, narrowly missing splinters and other shrapnel bombarding us from all angles. And my hand, which had been
clutching Tommy’s through it all, slipped away from his. My little boy
was gone and the ground was approaching too quickly.
We hit the ground.
Creative Writing 47
I awoke to the sounds of sirens. Coughing blood, I tried to move
but couldn’t. One of the cars had landed on top of me and pinned me
facedown against the cement. What I could only assume were pools
of my own blood and the scattered fragments of the cars surrounded
me. At a second glance I noticed that they weren’t all car fragments.
Some were the bodies of other riders. None of them moved. I started
to cry.
I was the only one.
I couldn’t look around anymore. Not for Tommy. Not for anything. Paramedics came rushing, but I almost wished they would be
too late and I could just die here with my son and everyone else. It
was my place. It was my time. But they wouldn’t let me. They yelled
instructions to each other after they’d found me, trying to comfort me
with their soothing words and consolations.
“It’s all right, it’s all right. We’re going to save you!” said one.
“Everything is going to be okay, just stay calm,” deadpanned
another.
No, nothing was okay. The hypocrisy of it all was choking
me. They finally managed to get the car off of me. I heard a ripping
sound as it was lifted off. It was several moments before I realized I
was screaming hysterically from the pain. I blacked out.
When I came to, I was in a hospital. I tried to move to no avail.
They had me strapped down. I started screaming for my son and a
nurse came rushing in and told me to calm down.
“Where is my son!” I yelled frantically.
“Please, ma’am, if you’ll just calm down. It’s going to be okay,”
came the timid reply of the nurse.
“Shut up! My son, goddamnit! Where is my son?!”
A doctor rushed in and the nurse explained the situation to
him. Something was put into my IV and I was out like a light again.
I gradually awoke for longer periods of time every day. My exhusband John came to see me every now and again. It was him that
explained that Tommy was dead, a look of accusation in his eyes.
Tommy had been killed instantly by the fall and I had been the only
survivor. I’d been out of it for so long that they had already buried my
son. My last memory of my son was of that look of horror on his face.
48 Creative Writing
It was burned into my retinas.
I asked John to leave. I couldn’t stand that look in his eyes.
That glint of anger that flashed occasionally as he was talking to me
was too much. What did I do? What could I do? Was this my fault? I
wanted to die.
Paramedics came rushing,
By this point I had
but I almost wished they
already been told I was
paralyzed from the waist
would be too late and I could
down. There were no straps
just die here...
keeping me from movement, only myself. I was a prisoner inside a dying husk of a body.
God’s coup de grace. I sunk into a deep depression and my recovery
was slow and painful.
Eventually I was released from the hospital but was kept on a
suicide watch by friends, family or hospital employees. I had made
the process of rehabilitation extremely difficult. Fought them at every
turn. I hated them for keeping me alive. I hated them for not appreciating what they had. I despised them all. But the suicide watch made
me realize my mistake. The last thing I wanted was for them to be
around me at every turn, watching my every movement. So I began
co-operating.
I tried to rebuild my life. I accepted the paralyzation and even
started working from home again. After having fought them every
step of the way, the doctors were surprised by my sudden attitude
change and by the drastic improvement that followed.
I was taken off of suicide watch and things slowly returned to
normal. As normal as things could be without a son, or a career, or
the ability to walk. Life was funny in some ways. Things are violently
ripped away from us and yet we are still expected to want to live at
all costs. But why? Maybe some things would eventually return to the
way they were but I never would. I’d changed.
For the rest of my life, I would remember Tommy and his final
moments of suffering. My legs and my inability to have kids would
serve as a constant reminder of this fact. Am I supposed to just forget
everything? Create one final injustice for my dead son by forgetting
him and happily move on with my life? I didn’t want to live in a world
Creative Writing 49
where I could lose everything and shrug it off a couple months later
with no regrets.
Maybe somebody else could accomplish these things, but I
refuse to. If they know me at all, my friends and family will understand. And if they don’t, then to hell with them. I don’t care anymore.
The bathtub is big. This is not exactly what I planned on using it for when I had it installed but its practicality now is tragically
ironic. I want an end to the pain. I want an end to everything. I am
so tired. The water washes over me in an almost soothing fashion.
An excitement flows through me and I think of Tommy once
again. Do I have that same look in my eyes that he had before things
turned so sour? That look of someone who has their entire future
ahead of them.
The water submerges my head and I day-dream . We’re playing
in a meadow at dusk. The sky is beautiful shades of purple and red.
I call to Tommy and he comes leaping through the grass and lunges
at me. I grab him and we hug. I tell him we need to get going and he
begs and pleads for ten more minutes. He just found a really awesome bug and he wants to find it a girlfriend. I laugh and tell him it’s
okay and we hug again and he runs off.
I hope I will see my son again and that he’s happy so I can
enjoy it with him. I feel like I’ve reached the end of a very long, very
bleak winter’s night and with the emergence of a gentle sun, I can
finally breathe a sigh of relief.
50 Creative Writing
a lesser known fact
Adrian Stumpp
there have been certain discoveries
made by anthropologists as of late
which suggest the serious possibility
that before poetry was invented
no one died
and no one made love
because there was no reason to.
Poetry 51
Crouching Down
Kristin Jackson
Last night it rained
and everything blooming
crouched down in it.
My body tangles
with the quilt,
the cotton, more ragged
in the settling light.
Parting from the familiar
space
between hips,
between mouths,
and breath
I wake,
pour the coffee,
and pick handfuls
of berries
for your plate
I want to love you
wild and unbound
You
in your necktie
Me
in my sensible,
white robe
52 Poetry
To linger on
and fill up
the margins between
our solitary
hands,
between root
and seed.
but in the dust filled
tug of day,
in the expanse
between
the fields
and the road that leads
toward town,
the wash hangs,
thigh deep
in wheat,
waiting for something.
the lonely edges
of sun-stiff sheet
whispering to the wet ground.
The Garden
Brittanie Stumpp
the garden goes untended
cold wind runs through the trees
the crimson fruits fall
on wilted grass
the birds leave their nests
a quiet descends
a quiet
descends upon the leaves
shards of past embers
burn bright
reminding vines of
former morning glories
they grow upon the ash
they grow shallow
the winds stir more and more
the solid oak
stately patriarch
stands tall
unwavering
yet deep inside
the worms fester
growing fat and flaccid
obese conquerors
in shadows lie
in shadows
lie
the sickness spreads
the virulent weed
Poetry 53
The Wall
Lindsey Scharman
A wall of stone lined the path of packed dirt.
The stone was old, faded in color, and missing small bits of itself.
Reaching up to test the strength of this barrier,
a cool but rough texture met my hand leaving small scratches.
The scratches now lining my palm matched the white lines
found in the crumbling foundation below.
But below was not where I wanted to go
and so I altered the stare of my blank blue eyes
to allow a prolonged assessment of the top.
Curious, I lifted myself up on the balls of my feet
allowing my inquisitive nose to barely clear the top of the wall.
Straining for a glimpse of what might be held on the other side
I was gratified to find another world so neatly hidden.
54 Poetry
Glaucoma
Keats Conley
College of Idaho
Caldwell, Idaho
At first, I thought
it was a pretty word.
Three syllables like I love
you, Graffiti, Good morning.
It wasn’t pretty when
my father started seeing
flickers in the edges
of his eyes that weren’t real.
Like cameras flashing
without the warning
of Say cheese! Then
the word was ugly
like, Leprosy, Treachery,
Defeated. It was a coma,
the sequel to a car crash;
what happens when you can’t
wake up. It was a robber
for which there was no
Robin Hood. I knew it
by the scenes it took
away: the sea-ridge
shade of his iris, his
peripheral vision, my trust
in the sounds of things.
National Undergraduate Literary Conference 55
I am, again, stripped
Bonnie Russell Nelson
Lavender and mint kelp
soap
washes the day
off my skin,
running it in slick lines down my body,
pooling it around my feet,
Lilacs and grays.
The steam,
humid and sticky,
tangles my hair,
clinging it
down my back.
Later,
thick mango terry cloth
wraps my imperfections.
56 Poetry
Council
Brittanie Stumpp
They sit
round table, holding council
with hookahs and whiskey
discussing the world
and all the words in it
round a fire
copper tone warmth
cedar ashes and aspen
They define urban generica
endemic gridlock, end of days
doggy elysian buffets
and the relationship
between Beatrice and Dante
while smoke saturates
their pores…
Dusky skin, charcoal stains
and they sit
and they manifest
words
in spring’s deification
of green.
Poetry 57
A Slippery Anchor
Alana Faagai
Almost, the essence of failed ambitions, of success filled with empty,
Consumes all that remains unfinished and unattained.
Almost--mysterious and complicated, somehow incomplete in its entirety.
‘I almost had you’ does not satisfy the soul; it evokes agony
because almost having something is having nothing, with nothing lost or gained.
Almost, the essence of failed ambitions, is success filled with empty.
Straining, struggling, and sparring with tangled words longing to be free,
trying to express baffling, fragmented thoughts that are reigned
forevermore by almost is complicated and always incomplete in its entirety.
A void in the soul damaged by the burdened idea that inadvertently
every almost in life is brought about by disappointing failures, forever pained,
revealing almost as the essence of failed ambitions, defining success as empty.
‘I almost’ foretells an unsuccessful juncture; better to refrain silently
to nurse unacceptable defeat, and instead, display completeness feigned.
Almost provides mysterious complications, incomplete in its entirety.
Almost is an inexplicable loss and yearning for that fleeting grasp on sanity,
a slippery anchor to that forgotten dream unclaimed.
Almost is the essence of failed ambitions, of success filled with empty.
Almost is mysterious and complicated, incomplete in its entirety.
58 Poetry
dig
Rebecca Samford
the morning sun presses on my neck and shoulders
it is early
and the task has not begun.
balancing tools unknown to my hands
i march toe-to-heel
measuring, marking the six-foot rectangle.
with decisive force, i strike the ground
breaking through
the grass-and-soil crust.
Mother Earth, forgive me.
a clump of clay is all that sits on the curved metal
this will not be easy
and i have forgotten my gloves.
muscle and sinew burn and endure
where others have no fire
and closets of memory open past cobwebs of mind-dust
seeing my little lost child.
i wonder what people will do
when there is nothing to dig
when some great caterpillar of technology reaches instead
when coin and paper are exchanged for sweat
when tears and anger and remorse stay bound in the chest
when the world is cold on a bright summer day
when ‘good-bye’ is all that lips can offer
and then, silence.
the hole is dug deep
i will fill it with sand
and laughter will shelter this place
Poetry 59
Paradise Discarded
Adrian Stumpp
1.
I don’t remember where I was the first time I realized
Good doesn’t always prevail over evil
All men are not created equal
Love doesn’t conquer all
though I do know that no one ever whispered
these things in my ear no
cloak of night no fork tongued serpent
no bitter loss
2.
Adam to Eve:
I have always been charmed
by shapely, red-headed
women from the wrong side of town
who chew with their mouths open
I knew this
as surely as I knew I would die
the first time I saw you eating forbidden fruit
underneath the ash tree
3.
Creationists and Evolutionists will argue
whether men or women are alone in the universe but
they tend to agree that they have only each other
alone, on earth
whether cast out of a bang or a garden
it does not matter
4.
No cloak of night, no fork tongued serpent
But for a brief moment perhaps
we stared into the eye of God and perhaps
God blinked first, no bitter loss
60 Poetry
C.H. Esperson
Jamie A. Kyle
photographic tableau
Photography 61
Nude Series
Angela Van Wagoner
inkjet print, acrylic
62 Photography
Equinox
Scott Jensen
digital art
Graphic Design 63
Broken Ecstasy Series
Nancy Rivera
color pigment prints
64 Photography
Sliced
Amy Gillespie
digital art
Graphic Design 65
Typography 1
Kathryn Lundell
digital art
66 Graphic Design
Untitled 4 & 5
Ruth Silver
color pigment print
Photography 67
Identities
Angela Van Wagoner
inkjet print, acrylic
68 Photography
If We Are Not Evening
Jeremy Brodis
Maybe we are a series of mornings —
sealed coffee cans and appleskins.
Maybe we are the ripping of wrapping paper.
Our thinnest parts destroyed,
what remains is less disposable.
Maybe we are the open, empty parts
in the middle of a morning.
Maybe we are sealed for freshness,
the way a morning is sealed
from the discovery of evening.
Maybe we are a pale-pink banner,
bending at the knee with the coming of a breeze.
Maybe we are timing in motion.
Timing
and motion.
Poetry 69
After the End
Eric Pope
A rifle hangs across his shoulder in a sling.
Wet boots and a heavy step.
Thick beard and hat hair.
Brown trees stab through layered snow.
A steep slope shows evidence of a slide.
He wanders through choosing his steps.
He reads blood on the snow.
Trickle here drop there and a smudge.
The longer it lives, the further he drags.
Survival is his goal, he trudges on unafraid.
The trail turns downhill and becomes a skid.
Crumpled buck against a tree looks at him.
Frightened eyes, a quiver and a muscle twitch.
Prey views predator with terror.
His family is hungry. He draws the colt.
It struggles to rise, fear lending strength.
He aims, regretful yet resolute.
In cold air, gunshots hurt your ears more.
Claps echo each other across the valley.
A hillside loosens and cascades into a draw.
The deer’s limp body steams red life onto the snow.
Fresh meat, fat, and bowels warm his hands.
His knife is as much a part of him as his rifle.
He leaves the refuse, and builds a sled of hide.
70 Poetry
A frozen hell descends upon him as he works.
Sweat steams and freezes as he drags and is
dragged across the hill toward the flat.
Fingers lock in place around the rope.
Exhaustion clamors for frequent rests.
The competition howls at the scent of blood.
He wants to get home before he has to fight
to keep his food from the wolves.
Before the forgotten toes turn black.
Poetry 71
Once
Kristin Jackson
We painted our house against
the landscape,
the sultry red of August leaves.
We dug at the earth
with our fingers
pushing bright seeds
into pulpy ground.
We ate.
The fur of berries
stained our lips.
We gave each other
vows and children,
coffee,
and a warm bed
in the morning.
Hand over hand,
we tugged our lifeline
through empty
cornstalk,
through slanted light,
through years,
filling up with dust
and brokenness.
I talk to you now
in whispers,
sending words
into the deep expanse
between our pillows,
between our dust filled fields,
and this house,
peeling red.
72 Poetry
The Track
Brittany Barberino
Lynn University
Boca Raton, Florida
The concrete is contagious
In its grey, harkening, beckoning
Come closer, take this,
Eat, ingest
Your good body, swells,
The stomach engorged with verbs
Fly faster to this relief,
Some sanctuary, find it in me,
My sin, my stratosphere, the stretching of your pores
Absorb the steam, smog pouring through the limbs
Tell me then, what is not true.
The pain of digestion
It refuses to leave as easy, without grace,
Gestation, bourgeoning with heat,
Lay down this burden, your hand on my hand,
Place it on the concrete
Put not in what you cannot take out.
Do not take out what you cannot put it.
But you, you are hysterical
Post partum assessment states you haven’t your cake
And you seem to be starving.
National Undergraduate Literary Conference 73
L.A. Bowl, January 1977
Josh Sims
Lonely Les Paul lying
stage-right only four-sixths whole.
snare still burning,
stick stuck in its face
Microphone like a noose
around the neck of the bass
hanging from the monolithic amp,
swaying, still humming.
Empty amphitheater rows save
stray cups, empty Zippos,
torn stubs and a single, rent
’74 World Tour t-shirt.
No tears,
just a safety-pinned leather jacket
disguised as a white riot.
74 Poetry
Letter to a Little Bean
Brittanie Stumpp
I go to the clinic
with its cold walls, sterile scents
and teenage girls ripe with sex
sitting silently, crossing their fingers
I walk to the counter
with its candy dish condoms jar
and say, “I need a Plan B,”
as in “Better hurry before it’s too late,
not ready for Baby,” Plan B
Nurse in powder blue, the color of
infant boys
hands it over for a minimal fee
I hold two blue pills
in the palm of my hand, like you
and see
you who will never be
and the lives We could have with you
Wonder how many of you there have
been already
little beans, never to sprout legs
and toddle
For a moment, I pause
then change my mind
No, the timing’s not right
We have things to do, people to see
books to read
no place for you—yet
So with one cold swallow
beneath the harsh beams of
fluorescent light
I erase your entire history
Poetry 75
Three Minutes ­— for: Michael
Rebecca Samford
Three minutes passed
since his curly head had broken
into sky from water,
and 800,000 others had done
the same
splitting skin and air with voice and
blood.
Three minutes passed
since his chubby fingers had tugged
blue from red. Squealing delight —
while dragon-green eyes spoke
Patience —
shattering shelter with laughter and
“Mine!”
Three minutes passed
since his tall frame had splintered
the door into light,
and forever family became
just Words
fragmenting “I love you”s into anger and
shards.
Three minutes passed
since his clear voice had rung over
miles — towers of sound,
and renewal was reborn in dreams
posed ‘loud.
Tear the shadows from Pan’s toes, growing
Man!
76 Poetry
Three minutes passed
since thin plastic had fitted
his mouth,
and, clinging, dioxide had hung in
his throat.
Demanding, Reaper requires he give up the
ghost.
Three minutes passed
since his curly head has cleaved
a space in the soil,
and 144,000 others have done
the same.
Disinherited of his laughter — we, here,
remain.
Poetry 77
The Apple of My Eye
Morgan Taylor Finder
Stretching towards the heady fragrance of an apple not yet ripened
My head in the clouds... my head in the boughs
The musky fragrance excites me
The search for the blush in the skin
That faint tingling of red that portrays a readiness for my plucking
Twirling leaves playfully hide his cheek
Spinning stems show a flash of blood...
then the innocent green circles round again
It is out of my reach... the stretching of my body awakens the rush
Awakens the muscle
To reach him by body will tremble with the strain
Stepping stones of knots, crooks, knolls, whorls in the rippled wood...
Each step closer to my lover of the sky... pulling and straining the arms
The hips swivel, the legs push and propel
Whole bodies awaken by my passing and they wonder...
They wonder at my determination to hold and pluck you from your growth
78 Poetry
Small Habits of Inertia
Bonnie Russell Nelson
The bread sliced,
the cups on their shelf.
This life
built on routine.
Linens in the closet,
the cat in the window.
Once we were spontaneous,
Love.
Now,
you at the computer,
I in the bedroom,
the radio
fills the chasm of all we do not say.
Water boils in the pot;
the chairs face each other — empty.
Small habits:
coffee,
then wine.
Inertia holds.
Your touch
as familiar as my own
complacency.
We’ve settled
into this home.
We’ve settled
into this routine.
Settled.
Poetry 79
The Wedding Vow
Quincy Bravo
Love, let me be like the sinner who rests in sorrow
To confess my apprehension for tomorrow.
Your ice laden eyes, void of a soul,
An effect of the times that my malice
Laid you into a lifeless corpse.
Until a thousand bodies pile up
And then we’ll laugh as we cry,
As memories purge our minds
Like the earth was purged with Noah.
Then we’ll recall a time
Before our fall from grace.
When your figure is before me
Shining brighter than diamonds,
In a gown you’re forced to wear
By friendless families
For a frivolous fantasy.
Your eyes, not yet iced and void,
Stand sacred and lonely.
My words wisp out in solitude
To be returned by yours,
As nameless masses shower us
In rice and flowers
And those whose names are known all too well,
Precariously drink all the champagne.
80 Poetry
Then we will return to our desolate world,
Wishing always that we could close the lid
On things we’ve lost.
Masking our affliction with a face
Half forgotten from cheap whiskey.
Admiring the tonic more than gold,
And entrusting in it more faith than Holy Water.
Praying that a miracle may be found
Hidden in the bottom of the bottle,
Allowing us to return to that time
Filled with gaiety and glee.
Else may we least be able to forget
The memories of feelings long past.
Against these unfavorable forecasts,
How long can we retain our innocence?
Above it all, I vow to reach the end with you.
For tomorrow logic may fail,
And our hearts may endure the test of selves.
For each time your words cut me open,
And my body lies bloody and broken,
I will mend myself, and kiss your head softly,
Just to prove how much I adore
Every single word that rolls off your tongue.
To show you how much you mean to me;
All I’m asking for is your life.
Poetry 81
Meeting Place
Jernae Kowallis
There’s a place
where the floor meets the wall.
Carpet to brick.
Sometimes there are gaps,
scuff marks and dirt.
There’s a place
where the walls meet the ceiling.
Brick to plaster.
Untouched with water marks,
spider webs, and holes.
There’s also a place
in your life where the past meets present
and present meets future.
And in that place
where they meet;
Don’t forget to see the joys of your life,
the ones that led to those marks.
82 Poetry
To My Waiting Room Fellows
Jeremy Brodis
This wait is not the waiting for a bus
or for a turn at the counter.
We are in a different wait,
measured on a different scale —
A scale of long blinks and short hours.
The clock is seven minutes slow.
Even when you’re here on time,
you’re already too late.
We cradle People and Newsweek
by their spines, gazing through them.
With our elbows on our knees,
we settle into shoulder breathing.
Our coffee has cooled at the rate
Newton predicted all bodies will.
In the silence we remember things.
How nice it was to share a meal
before the hard work.
For each loud mistake,
we made three soft ones.
We should take a ride
and not hurry back.
Maybe burn some cheatgrass in a field.
Poetry 83
Sourire 101
Tom Hughes
Vous pouvez sourire aussi
Juste soulevez le côté gauche,
Alors punaise le
Á votre crâne.
Ce n’est pas difficile d’être `heureux
Cela prend seulement une petite douleur.
Après que vous pleurez —
Élevez le côté droit,
Et commencez encore.
Smiling 101
(translation)
You too can smile
Just lift the left side,
Then thumbtack it
To your skull.
It’s not hard to be happy
It just takes a little pain.
After you cry —
Raise the right side,
And start again.
84 Poetry
My Cardboard Box
Brittany Hackett
I found you behind the liquor store.
Stamped “Jack” on each side.
Perfectly square, clean and sturdy.
I took you home.
I gave you little parts of me,
two tickets to the opera,
the blue blanket I made, still unfinished,
my grandmother’s bronze jewelry box,
and several valued treasures.
Assured you’d store them securely,
I filled you corner to corner.
For a year you held up.
Perfectly composed.
Shut tight.
I took you from place to place,
until, one day
I found you torn.
I attempted to fix you, tape you.
I bought the strongest kind.
I’ve tried staples and glue,
but, no matter what I do,
you just keep falling apart.
Poetry 85
Instinct
Brittanie Stumpp
He entered the room and she quivered.
She would always remember this
His tall shadow, too long limbs
shifty eyes and
awkward, nervous gaze
the musky scent of lust
smoke and pheromones
and the sound or her own fingers
against beard stubble skin—
sand paper and dust.
Far away from the
keeping up appearances
and the crooked house,
compelled to this tiny room
littered with manuscript corpses.
Her face in his hands,
he lowered his mouth
to her forehead
and with one deliberate act
became like an eagle
devouring a cat
whose greatest desire
is to be eaten.
Kneeling low, driven
to a deeper kind of slumber
transformed and utterly invaded.
86 Poetry
Mary Shelley Talking to Her Therapist
Brittany Hackett
Born in a sanguine dress, they say,
I lived as my mother had died.
I wished to feel her warmth and breast
but I clutched air and only cried.
I would not give another loss,
although, I had felt monstrously.
I would not take my life away;
My father raised me graciously.
I fell in love at seventeen.
Our union was showered in shame.
I finally felt some happiness.
I believe he felt the same.
We had five children together.
The outcome was severe and gray.
One joined us in our family.
My curse at birth took four away.
I lived a life of certain loss.
I lost my husband to the sea.
I felt it was what I deserved:
Eternal life of misery.
Poetry 87
Tell me the color of your deep blue funk
Rebecca Samford
Is it the back of eyelids at night when the
Moon
Is silvery white and surrounded by speckles of
Stars and you can’t sleep for
Dreaming
Thinking
Wishing life were different
somehow, but your pillow smells like sleep?
Could it be the color
Of the chlorinated swimming pool
Heated
Just enough to not shock your skin when
You dip inside its gentle curls
And the tiles glide under your
Toes
And you push off the edge into the
Depths with your legs together
Like a mermaid that doesn’t need to breathe?
Or is it the shade of veins
Tucked shallow and deep underneath skin
Wrapped tightly around
Her little gray head
And her lips are blue
And all the dreams
And all the making
And all the best laid plans
Are shattered for a moment in a room filled with light
But
No color, except the blue of her lips?
88 Poetry
Tell me, friend
What hue is it that holds you so tightly
In your own chest
Stealing your imagination and your
Strength
Until
Breathing in ashes becomes the
Only way to survive?
Poetry 89
Composer Meet Your Relapse
Rachel Boddy
I’m lit on fire and casually counting.
Counting the columbines, junebugs,
the freckles on imaginary skin my beautiful friend.
Burning I pick at the grass, the daisies,
and mention how bright the sun feels today.
I’m lit on fire and wait on not waiting,
I call over her manipulative voice
and tell her to sing me a song,
as I’m pooling in the high grass
Next to the Columbines,
the buzz of the junebugs,
the blur of someone next to me.
I exhale autumn leaves
and drain to form a new raging flow
of imagery, spark, and meaning.
90 Poetry
Going Under
L.K. Hill
Treasure buried in the sand
I ran to beat inane demand
My son helped dig with just his hands
While I used costly tools of tin.
He found an earthworm on the crawl
A shard of glass, a sunburned doll
And he was happy with them all
But I tunneled toward the win.
The prison rising—dank and new
My boy is hidden from my view
But I must find some telling clue
To diamonds in the din.
The walls—too high—I can’t get out.
I climb and slide, I heave and shout
But I’ll find treasure there’s no doubt
While darkness closes in.
Poetry 91
Touchdown in Giants Stadium
Josh Sims
Grounded one-wing fuselage cuts into meticulously groomed
turf prepared for cleated quarterbacks, not unshod aircraft-grade
titanium.
Tackling
thirty rows of blue plastic seats, titanium finishes in a concrete dust
cloud at row thirty-one. Recorded attendance for the Wednesday-night
carnage: 123, hardly a sellout.
Inside
Boeing’s proboscis, Black Box confesses no foul play, or pilot error, only a
midair freak fall. Yet rows 1 through 25 agree
it doesn’t matter.
Lenny
Cockpit logged his last hour. Two thousand four hundred twenty-three
hours of “This is your Captain speaking” and “ we have reached cruising
altitude” only to be punctuated by “good Lord it’s
over!”
Outside,
the tomato juice, finger-sized vodka, cola and ginger ale cart form
Kent’s wet tomb. His securely-buckled belt prevented
in-flight escape from undignified
death.
Albert
1A’s fingers wrap the ankles above his security-ready penny loafers.
Overnight bag slid under-seat no longer will ease escape from the
bulkhead upon landing.
Laura
7C, would hang her head to know People’s fanned pages at her feet of
Maybelline and Brangelina provided her last memory of human
contact.
Nasir
13D, meets his end with a photo of Marji in hand, a now-crimson head
wrap unraveled on his shoulder, and a foot pointed in direction of
his Kent-assigned duty cruelly-marked
“Emergency Exit.”
Rory
25F, slumped back against the wall, is oblivious to the iPod and siren
duet in his right ear. Rory blinks, wiping his eye of the trickling
red.
iPod
25F is left to sing alone as Rory is carted from the field.
92 Poetry
Shopping at the Salvation Army
Kristin Jackson
We kneel with our wet brows
waiting
for them to light the city.
The shelves lay bare
save one lone cup.
The blue one
with the pink flowers
that held so much.
The shirts hang,
waiting to be chosen,
to press again against
the skin of need.
To feel the winter
on their brass buttons.
The snow falls down
around us all.
The weak,
the resolute,
the hopeful.
Our bodies,
winter trees,
hunched
with a wild white
weight,
we grant each other
side-long glances
on the street.
Briefly together,
brows knit,
we trudge
toward that fixed point
of humanity,
bent with light.
Poetry 93
The Request of an Artist
Tom Hughes
When I die, moosh my body
Into a fine colored paste,
The consistency
Of a cerulean blue.
Like the color of
My favorite moments.
But don’t paint me with an artist’s brush,
Use your hands
And get dirty with it.
Feel the fleshy paste between your fingers,
And as you smear me across the world,
Take in the fragrances of a wandering soul’s life.
94 Poetry
I have a tiny Existentialist
Jeremy Brodis
He’s in my shirt pocket.
Whenever I need him
he emerges, lights a tiny cigarette,
and tells me things I don’t fully understand.
When I can’t ignore him,
I try to make him useful.
And that is how it happened,
that we started having discussion.
He teaches me important things
that I ought to know.
And in exchange I give him rides
to the library every Thursday.
I can sometimes see him staring
at the quiet parts in movies.
And I pay him as much indifference
as I hope he does to me.
Poetry 95
last time i saw
Adrian Stumpp
new york city on a gray day, i arrive the day after
the worst snow storm in years. i look up at a great
marble sky like the one i was born under in
wyoming. streets lined with snowbanks taller than
buildings and soggy with filth. on
31st street and 9th avenue, a limousine pulls up and
two women, powdered and perfumed and half
naked in evening gowns, their long hair piled
high as crowns, shiver in the forty
degrees and crane their necks at the tower
where their johns wait.
the buildings, close sky scrapers that
teeter against north-atlantic gusts, leer
at me like whores and the whores leer at me like
nightmares.
vapor night, unconscious as my birth.
my, how the wind did blow.
96 Poetry
Inner Space
Robert Brown
Brigham Young University - Idaho
Rexburg, Idaho
It’s like the line between
the Pacific and Indian Oceans, or
like two stick figures drawn with no outlines.
the separation between me and us
is like the space between wax;
or the difference of intonation
that transforms a quarrel
into an argument. It is as large
as the intersection in wireless cables
where cell phone frequencies
conjoin with baby monitors.
or the exact increment of time
when jetlag causes disorientation.
We’ve traveled to a place where me
is us, and sometimes when I’m falling asleep,
And I can’t feel you against me
I wonder where I’m at
National Undergraduate Literary Conference 97
Nothing Left Between Us
Bonnie Russell Nelson
Seeing you again
was like stepping in water
with socks on.
You with her.
Your perfect peach palm
tracing her shoulders,
down the narrow pitch of her back.
Until it finally settles,
on the curved span of her hip.
You always said the one for you
would be a lot like me,
the blonde of her hair,
the blue of her eyes.
Does she unleash your nasty little urges?
Does she bend where I could not fit?
The crook of your arm holds her to you,
where I once was
before.
98 Poetry
Aspen
Brittany Hackett
Your ashen skin reflects
the cremated limbs
of filial trees.
Letting them know
they did not die alone.
Shaking your jazz hands
and laughing in the wind,
you embrace life.
You and your circuit
take a stand.
Poetry 99
The Bridge Builder
Clint D. Spaeth
The sound of the forest is thick
light and shadows show
A brilliant contrast in the leafs
In the stream a hint of snow
The path is as crooked as my walking stick.
I found it, the bridge dark and old.
Overgrown, look closer to see
Fine workmanship and care taken.
Pause and wonder who it could be
What time was spent? How long was life on hold?
It spanned the creek with care.
The planks were handmade.
The rails set with steel.
Even the shores were just the right grade.
Who was this person? What load did he bear?
Time has gone by without slowing.
The wood has grown weak.
How many people have crossed here?
Never they thought or wonder who to seek
To thank for the effort and care that is showing.
100 Poetry
Armor
David Powell
hand-tooled leather
Sculpture 101
Raku, Lidded Pots
Lindsay Huss
ceramics
102 Ceramics
Puzzled
Melinda Taggart
ceramics
Ceramics 103
Contemplation
Andria Hill
copper, silica sand, jade
104 Sculpture
Pom
Clint D. Spaeth
bronze, patina
Sculpture 105
Bubbles,
Flamingo Dance
Danielle Weigandt
ceramics
106 Ceramics
Big Bull
Kyle Guymon
ceramics
Ceramics 107
Veneer
Leah A. Wadman
hog gut mask, video installation
108 Sculpture
Tennyson’s Lament of Industrialization in “The Lady of Shalott”
Lola Duncan
At the dawn of the Victorian Age, industrialization sank its
teeth into the vulnerable flesh of British society. Merciless socioeconomic change ravaged the land, tearing from the people their
agricultural livelihood. Factory noise shattered the peace of the
sleepy country, and smoke clogged the lungs of London. Tennyson
laments England’s fate at the hands of industrialization in “The Lady
of Shalott.” Tennyson uses the cursed lady as a symbol for England,
the flippant Lancelot as an industrial symbol, and the sympathetic
Camelot as a mourner for the death of agricultural England. Tennyson reveals his abhorrence for the mechanized change grinding
across the country in the form of cruel, indifferent industrialization.
Tennyson paints Camelot to represent the peacefully secluded England existing before industrialization. The Lady of Shalott’s
surroundings resemble the lovely English countryside. She lives in a
secluded world on an island, simultaneously representing England’s
literal geography and mindset. Isolated and unperturbed, she peacefully watches as “up and down the people go” without worry or care
(6). England peacefully watched the world pass by, content to remain
separate. The nation saw the rest of the world through the mirrored
perspective of agrarianism, just as the lady sees the “shadows of the
world” through her mirror. The lady sees the world nearly as it really
is, just as England did: through a layer of protective and indifferent
glass.
The atmosphere of the story further represents ancient and
mystical England. The story is set in Camelot: the root of fanciful
English tradition. The lyrical nature of the poem, with its dancing rhyme of AAAAC, BBBC, adds to the ethereal ideal created
in the first lines. The rhyme weaves its way through the poem to
enhance the beauty of Camelot. The little island is enchanted since
the “willows whiten, aspens quiver, / [and] little breezes dusk and
shiver” with anthropomorphic life (10-11). Clothed in protection and
Academic Literature 109
“willow-veiled,” the sleepy land cares not for outward woes (19).
Life drums forward without hurry, leaving Camelot unaware of the
impending disaster. The magic and mystery of the great land permeate the poem as if to resurrect the leisure of disappearing English
tradition.
Tennyson adored the fragile, simple beauty of traditional
England, showing his love by writing a picturesque description of
the Lady of Shalott. She is just as mysterious as ancient England
because no one has ever seen her. The speaker questions her enigmatic existence: “But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the
casement seen her stand?” (24-25). As in fairy tales, the villagers
can hear her song before they ever see her. In the early hours, they
hear a “song that echoes cheerly/ from the river winding clearly” (3031). The farmers pause and whisper, “’tis the fairy/ Lady of Shalott”
(35-36). She is merely a noise on the wind, a spirit from the clear
babbling brook, and the voice of England’s fragility. Her mysterious nature adds to the feel of ancient England, but it also makes
her vulnerable. Without a clearly defined nature, she is in danger
of destruction. The curse upon her is likewise mysterious. No one is
sure what will happen if the Lady of Shalott looks down to Camelot;
even she “knows not what the curse may be” (42). Just as England
attempted normalcy amidst social change, the lady continues weaving despite distractions below. However, change looms in the poem
as the lady grows restless, being “half sick of shadows” that fill her
mirror (71). She longs to experience all that she sees, yet she is confined to her endless weaving. At the advent of change, England held
its breath for the inevitable as the need for cultural revolution grew.
The peaceful image of the Lady of Shalott representing England is juxtaposed by Lancelot’s representation of industrialization.
He shocks and energizes the drowsy tone of the poem. His entrance
diverts the reader’s attention. The “bowshot from her bower eaves”
shakes the reader from the lady’s internal world as the arrow whizzes into the poem (73). As Lancelot rides to Camelot, the sun comes
“dazzling through the leaves/ and [flames] upon the brazen greaves/
of bold Sir Lancelot” (75-77). The reader squints while reading the
description. He is like a flaming star, reflecting the sun in his belt,
110 Academic Literature
bridle, helmet, and silver bugle. Tennyson used the shining metal
to represent mechanization. Lancelot’s armor alone isn’t reflecting
the light from the outside world; his whole person exudes industrial
symbolism as his “clear brow in sunlight glowed” (100).
In addition to the visual imagery, Tennyson employed auditory
images to announce Lancelot. Lancelot’s “bridle bells [ring] merrily,”
and he sings out as he enters Camelot (85, 108). He is the loudest sound and sight in the poem. His presence arrogantly fills the
scenery till nature heralds his entrance with flashing meteors. His
entrance shatters the quiet of Camelot, revealing that industry came
upon England with little propriety or tact. Industry rudely barges in
on the peaceful, agrarian way of life, dragging its dire consequences
behind it.
“She saw the helmet and the plume, / She looked down to
Camelot” (112-113). The flashy Lancelot distracts her from the
drudgery of her weaving in a single instant and thus brings on her
demise. Lancelot’s careless boisterousness seals her fate. The ideal
England lies in shatters like the shards of the broken mirror on the
tower floor with the advent of industry. Nature again bends to the
action of the story as the “stormy east wind [strains]” and “heavily
the low sky [rains]” (118, 121). Additionally, the woods are suddenly
yellow: the color of disillusionment. Along with the lady, her entire
world suffers from sudden chaos. Likewise, no aspect of English society escaped the assault of industrialization. The suddenly tempestuous landscape highlights the effects of the curse.
The lady’s death is expected, however. Tennyson litters the
poetic floor with foreshadowing, making death a theme throughout
the poem. The lady dies with lilies in her hands, an image mentioned earlier in the poem. The lilies are in bloom, at the peak of
their beauty, and close to the state of wilting. England is in its prime
at the beginning of the poem, yet the image of summer leads the
reader directly into fall. The first images of nature introduce a subtle
disturbance in the pristine, secluded world. The “willows whiten,
aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver” (10-11). Though these
images seem benign, they indicate a sense of fear or foreboding.
The trees tremble with fear, turn pale, and worry as the unknown
Academic Literature 111
approaches. “Four gray walls, and four gray towers” imprison Camelot with gloom, a detail overlooked until the lady’s death (15).
The foreboding tone increases when the focus moves from
the surroundings to the people. The reader glimpses the “reapers,
reaping early,” a strategic symbol for the grim reaper, the harbinger
of death (28). Additionally, they thresh the field early in the day, indicating that the lady is in danger of having her life reaped too soon.
Trapped in her weaving prison, the lady sees another omen of her
own fate as a funeral passes. DeThe magic and mystery spite the maidens, shepherds, and
of the great land
clergy that pass by, the lady vents
permeate the poem as her boredom with her solitary life
soon after she sees the funeral,
if to resurrect the
leisure of disappearing as if pulled by the force of death.
With Lancelot’s flashy entrance,
English tradition.
clues indicate the lady’s fate. Tennyson builds him out of blazing fire and places him on a war horse.
Lancelot does not come meekly but crashes in as the harbinger of
the second coming, ready to destroy the old world. As the lady looks
down to see the destroying angel, the mirror cracks from side to side.
In religious symbolism, the image reminds one of the temple veil
ripping from top to bottom as a sign of Christ’s death. As revealed by
the foreshadowing, the lady’s innocent life is snatched from her too
soon.
The lady’s final actions indicate Tennyson’s attitude toward
her through symbolism. She can neither delay nor prevent her death,
and she goes almost willingly as if death is inevitable. She lies at the
bottom of a boat and sets sail as the “broad stream [bears] her far
away” (134). Nature is reflected in her languid journey as the river
of fate carries her where it may. She personifies nature as her loose
robes drift in the wind as gently as the leaves falling around her. She
seems to nearly disappear into nature, connecting England to the
symbolism of the agrarian lifestyle.
Tennyson doesn’t blame her for her mistake; in fact, he mourns
her death with his lyricism and imagery, eulogizing her passing.
The descriptions of her last moments take on an elongated quality
112 Academic Literature
with long, sorrowful o’s. The people hear “a carol, mournful, holy,
/ Chanted loudly, chanted lowly/ Till her blood was frozen slowly”
(145-147). The poem moans, and the reader slows to hear the lady
pass. The sight of her death adds as much mourning to the scene
as the sound. Majestically and tragically, she lies “robed in snowy
white,” symbolizing her purity (136). Even death does not hinder
her beauty as her gleaming figure passing by attracts the gaze of the
common people (156). England’s simple past lies stretched out in
gracious death. By lengthening and beautifying her death, Tennyson
mourns and emphasizes England’s death as industry usurps the nation of tradition.
The common people mourn the loss of the lady, thus completing Tennyson’s lamentation. Though no one saw or knew her, all
other action ceases as the ship pilots her to the center of town. “Out
upon the wharfs they came, / Knight and burgher, lord and dame”
to see the poor lady (159-160). Curiosity turns to lamentation as
they realize she is dead. The whole countryside feels the effect of
her passing since the news ripples to a nearby castle and halts the
festivities. “In the lighted palace near/ die the sound of royal cheer; /
and they crossed themselves for fear” (164-166). Their joy dies with
the Lady of Shalott because the people sense the import of the lady’s
death. Likewise, England is unaware of the malignant forces working
to destroy the past, yet the people sense disaster as industry escalates.
But not everyone is mourning. The lamenting is abruptly contradicted by a volta in the tone of the poem. “But” stands out on the
new line as Lancelot once again invades the scene (168). While all
the other knights, lords, and ladies mourn the loss, “Lancelot [muses]
a little space” and says, “She has a lovely face,” nonchalantly wishing her soul the best (168-169). He lacks compassion, caring, and
understanding. Not only does he miss the gravity in the atmosphere,
but he also ignores his responsibility for the disaster. He waltzes into
Camelot completely ignorant of the turmoil he causes. After all the
pains and care taken to beautify and idealize the Lady of Shalott,
Tennyson throws in this flippancy to prove his point: industry doesn’t
care. It is merely a machine grinding up the past without regard.
Academic Literature 113
Sadly, Tennyson offers no consolation. The reader is cut short from
beauty with these harsh words, revealing that no solution exists. Tennyson leaves the reader stricken with grief at the blind march of fate.
Industry killed the beauteous English way of life, and Tennyson wrote “The Lady of Shalott” as a eulogy to the fate of the nation.
By way of imagery, rhythm, and foreshadowing, Tennyson idealizes
agrarian society over the grinding Industrial Revolution, expressing
his belief that England has been doomed. Each tactic in his poem
appeals to the reader’s emotions, thus causing the reader to lament
England’s industrial change. Fate struck England in its prime and
elicited Tennyson’s poetic catharsis for the tragic loss.
Works Cited
Lord Tennyson, Alfred. “The Lady of Shalott.” The Norton Anthology of English
Literature, Volume E: The Victorian Age. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. New
York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2006. 1114-1118.
114 Academic Literature
Sex and the Destruction of Self
Rebecca Samford
Tennessee Williams believed that sex is destructive — a
contradiction to words like holy union, sacred, and beautiful. This
idea is not only explored, but also blatantly presented as an allencompassing truth without boundaries of male or female, married
or unmarried, in his play “A Streetcar Named Desire.” The play is
steeped in drug use and spousal abuse, adultery and rape, but these
manifestations are only symptoms of the destructive nature of sex.
This paper will demonstrate the inevitability of sexual destruction of
the self through several of the play’s main characters.
In the text, most of the scenes seem to swirl around the character of Blanche. Williams himself described her as “a demonic
creature” (Norton 1976). In the context of her behavior, readers and
theatregoers would agree that this character is experiencing selfdestruction. She is a single widow whose promiscuity and alcohol addiction has steadily chipped away at her. Her interactions with every
other character are so full of falsehoods that it is difficult, at first, to
tell fact from fiction. But, even she admits that “a woman’s charm is
fifty percent illusion” (1993), leading one to understand that it is not
Blanche’s mental state that has been destroyed.
Blanche’s sexual escapades are outside of what is widely and
traditionally held as “normal.” She is not married, not monogamous,
and not keeping her seductions to adults only. Blythe Danner, an
actress who played Blanche in 1988, recognized the connection between Williams and his character. In her words, they were “attached
to the things that were going to destroy [them]” (1978). Through
Blanche, Williams questioned the contradictions found in the essentialist philosophy that the ideals or truths about sexual norms span
both time and culture and reached forward, just a bit, to modern-day
social constructionist philosophies in trying to justify and explain his
own deviance. Social constructionists believe that when we look for
truths, we seek out those that fit what we want to believe, claiming
Academic Literature 115
that they are “innate” and “universal” (McAnulty 208).
Some of these socially constructed norms for sex in the U.S.
include: heterosexuality with defined gender roles, that sex is for
“adults only,” and is limited in its expression. Social constructionists
recognize that “there are… limitless numbers of ways in which we
criticize ourselves… for our deviations… from the perceived sexual
norms” and that “if we over- or undershoot any of these targets… we
are labeled [negatively]” (McAnulty 206). As readers, one expects
the sort of conflicts and self-destruction that Blanche is undergoing
because we recognize that she
As an educated society,
is choosing to live outside of
our socially constructed sexual it is difficult to believe...
ideal.
that men are left to
Williams was a homo“think about raw sex”
sexual playwright in the 1950’s
constantly.
when the idea of “coming out”
and living openly outside of the culturally and clinically accepted
norm would have had grave consequences. Homophobia was “institutionalized” by way of military “screening standards.” Rejection from
military service for homosexuality could have detrimental effects on
employment as employers had the right to review applicants’ draft
records (including information regarding dismissal due to homosexuality) and military raids of movie theatres and bars were frequent (Paller 25-28). Whatever trouble Williams may have had with
reconciling his own sexuality at this time, he later entitled himself as
“the founding father of the uncloseted gay world” (Paller 11), leading
one to believe that although Williams felt sex a destructive act, it was
not because of self-loathing. His explorations of the self-destruction
brought on by sex within the play “A Streetcar Named Desire” didn’t
stop at those living outside of the culturally accepted norms, however, and neither does this paper.
In the text, the most prominent male character is Blanche’s
brother-in-law. Stanley fits the cultural norm of masculine sexuality.
Williams describes him thus:
He is of medium height… strong… compact… Since earliest
manhood the center of his life has been pleasure with women,
116 Academic Literature
the giving and taking of it… with the power and pride of a
richly feathered male bird among hens. Branching out from
this… satisfying center are all the auxiliary channels of his
life… He sizes women up at a glance, with sexual classifications… determining the way he smiles at them (1987).
In meeting the social expectations of a heterosexual male (as
one whose motives are sexually driven and as an average, working
husband), one expects Stanley to always “come out on top.” As the
power-struggle between Stanley and Blanche escalates, Stanley realizes he can’t turn his wife Stella against Blanche. Afraid of losing
and frustrated with Blanche’s deceptions, he gains power and domination by raping Blanche. The play is ended with Stanley playing
seven-card stud. This game is “the ultimate bluff” and shows that
although Stanley appears to be experiencing a triumph, relying on
sex to define his relationships has destroyed his humanity.
Legend and mythology have often been a reflection of humanity’s ideals. Although a god, Zeus represented the epitome of manhood to the Greek culture. He seduced nearly any woman he wanted.
When seductions weren’t enough, he resorted to raping Leda, bringing about his own destruction by way of the fall of Greece orchestrated by two of the children conceived in this violent act. “A shudder
in the loins engenders there / the broken wall, the burning roof and
tower / And Agamemnon dead” (Yeats lines 9-11). Rape is a crime
and considered, by modern psychologists to be an act about power
and not sex. Yet, it falls into the social justification that “men are
physically unable to control their sexual impulses” (McAnulty 209).
These male examples initially seem to be fulfilling their sense
of self in relation to the “tyranny of testosterone.” As an educated
society, it is difficult to believe that an adult male’s identity and
behaviors are “constrained… by steroid-stoked sexual compulsion”
and that men are left to “think about raw sex” constantly (Wassersug). Both of these texts demonstrate the self-destruction to the
male identity in NOT controlling the circumstances of their sexual
impulse and in basing their relationships on their sexual prowess.
Stanley, who chooses to objectify women by assigning them with the
one function of sexual gratification, has truly limited his own identity
Academic Literature 117
— cutting himself off at the knees (Saul).
Stanley’s relationship with his “sweetheart! Stella!” is limited
to the physical. He prides himself on having “pulled [her] down off
them columns” and giving her sexual pleasure (2001, 2026). Stella
is a character in the text whose sex acts are completely within the
socially constructed norm. She embraces marital fidelity, she willingly and “serenely” submits to his advances, and even finds pleasure in the “colored lights” sex with her husband brings her (2002,
2026). However, accepting her life within her marriage bed has led
to Stella’s self-deception, and, therefore, self-destruction.
Williams’ observations of the marriage state for women are reflected in Stella’s name, which seems to be a play-on-words — “sell
out” (Crimmel). Stella justifies her choice to stay with Stanley saying,
“I couldn’t believe [my sister about the rape] and go on living with
Stanley” (2036). Her self-deception has much earlier beginnings,
as Stella is a victim of Stanley’s brutality. An outside observer (and
friend of Stanley), Mitch says the couple is “crazy about each other”
(2002). Both Stanley and Blanche make references to Stella not being the girl she was before she got married (or had sex).
The conflict of selling out oneself to keep the marriage commitment has been the subject of much literary exploration over the
last century. D.H. Lawrence observed in writing that married couples were like “separate strangers” whose “den[ial of] each other in
life” is “obscured by heat” and “nakedness” (2257). This inability to
foster and accept a separate sense of self while maintaining a united
relationship is not the expectation many people have of “becoming
one.”
The commonly accepted Judeo-Christian belief system requires that “twain become one flesh” and this sexual consummation
of the marriage contract is supposed to unite and perfect the relationship (Matt. 19:5). But the irony of the association between the
words consume — which is to “destroy” or “to waste away” — and
consummation, and the fact that in many languages these words are
interchangeable; should not be overlooked (Dictionary).
This irony is inevitable even at the cellular level when one
understands that “sex and reproduction” are not the same thing.
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“One cell divides to become two — that’s reproduction. Two cells
fuse to become one — that’s sex” (Sykes 80). Focusing on the act
of sex, not the possible beneficial consequences, one can see that it
is destructive. The two cells — now fused — cannot be considered
the same as they were before sex occurred. On the human level, two
individuals, having joined in this way — whether sanctioned by marriage, criminally via rape, or just for the “fun” of sex itself — are no
longer the same self as they were before sex. This destruction of the
self opens up the possibility of improvement, but may have disastrous
consequences.
For most of humanity, the expectation is that out of this destruction a sort of consummation — being perfected or completed
— will occur. In studying psychology, many have noted that we are
defining our “self” from the time of our birth. We move through
stages of autonomy, initiative, and identity (Myers 118) trying to define our own person as separate from those around us. Yet, our need
to belong and to achieve intimate closeness with other human beings
conflicts with this separate sense of self. When we enter our teens,
our desires for intimacy overcome our need for separation and most
human beings seek out physical companionship via sex (whether
it conforms to social ideals or not.) The loss of self that a person
has spent a lifetime building up can cause many problems — the
symptoms of which Williams so easily intertwines in his play. This
process seems to be especially destructive to teenage girls who must
reconcile the loss of virginity with a “bad girl” reputation (Daughters).
All who have participated in sexual acts must face the destruction of self. In couples where the individual self is valued above
sexual desire, sex eventually becomes almost nonexistent. Classified
as “Peer Relationships,” these couples report deep satisfaction on every level including “parenting, financial and domestic collaboration,
friendship, and communication,” but report “problems” in the bedroom (Iasenza). Initially, this “problem” was thought to be a symptom
of lesbian dysfunction — stemming from the idea that women are
not socially trained to initiate sex. However, research has shown
that this lack of sexual desire is common in heterosexual couples
Academic Literature 119
that live as “equal partners” as well. This development within Peer
Relationships is “the hardest couples issue to navigate successfully”
(Iasenza). This may be due to the fact that these couples are subconsciously determined not to upset the balance of their union by harming their partner’s sense of self and that sex is no longer required “to
keep a relationship” (Daughters).
On the other hand, it is not necessary to completely deny one’s
desires for sex to achieve a renewed sense of self. In light of the
Self-determination Theory of psychology, one can reinstate a positive identity that takes into account one’s sexual behaviors without
resorting to self-loathing, withdrawal, and drug or spousal abuse.
The requisites for this transition are “feeling autonomous, competent,
and related” (Smith).
With the tools of observation and the relative benefit of his
sexual orientation being outside the socially constructed norm, Tennessee Williams noticed something about sex that further studies
in psychology confirm on the human level and microscopic studies
in DNA confirm on the cellular level — sex is the act that literally
destroys our separate self. The word “destruction” may lead us to be
initially repulsed by the idea, but by pondering further, we can see
that the inevitable destruction of the naiveté of youth through sex
opens the way for a renewed sense of self with endless possibilities of
growth, or further destruction, before it.
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Works Cited
Bay-Cheng, Laina Y. “The Social Construction of Sexuality: Religion, Medicine, Media, Schools, and Families.” Sex and Sexuality: Ed. Richard McAnulty and M.Michele Burnette. Vol. 1. Connecticut: Praeger, 2006. 3 vols.
“consume” and “consummate.” Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1).
Random House, Inc. 28 Feb. 2008.
<Dictionary.com http://dictionary.reference.com>
Crimmel, Hal. “Discussion of characters in William’s play: Contemporary
American Lit. 4550.” Weber State University. Ogden, Utah. January 2008.
Holy Bible. King James Text. Great Brittain: Cambridge UP, 1979.
Iasenza, Suzanne. “Problems in Bed?” In the Family; Vol. 10.3 (Winter 2005):
8-13. GenderWatch. EBSCOhost. Stewart Library, Weber State. 22 Feb
2008. <http://proquest.umi.com.hal.weber.edu:2200/pqdweb>
Lawrence, D.H. “Odour of Chrysanthemums.” The Norton Anthology of English
Literature; Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. New York: WW Norton, 2006. 2245-
2258. Myers, David G. Exploring Psychology. Holland, Michigan: Worth, 2002. 118.
Paller, Michael. Gentlemen Callers: Tennessee Williams, Homosexuality, and
Mid-Twentieth Century Broadway Drama. New York: Palgrave, 2005.
Saul, Jennifer M. “On Treating Things as People: Objectification, Pornography,
and the History of the Vibrator.” Hypatia; Vol. 21.2 (Spring 2006): 45-63.
GenderWatch. EBSCOhost. Stewart Library, Weber State. 27 Feb 2008.
<http://proquest.umi.com.hal.weber.edu:2200/pqdweb>
Smith, C. Veronica. “In Pursuit of ‘good’ sex: Self-determination and the
sexual experience.” Journal of Social & Personal Relationships; Vol. 24.1
(Feb 2007):Academic Search Premier. EBSCOhost. Stewart Library,
Weber State. 27 Feb 2008
<http://web.ebscohost.com.hal.weber.edu:2200/ehost/>
“Stuck in Old Roles.” Daughters; Vol. 8.4 (Jul/Aug 2003): 3. GenderWatch. EB
SCOhost. Stewart Library, Weber State. 22 Feb 2008.
<http://proquest.umi.com.hal.weber.edu:2200/pqdweb?>
Sykes, Bryan. Adam’s Curse. New York: W.W.Norton, 2004.
Wassersug, Richard. “Beyond Male and Female; On the Border: A Eunich’s Tale.”
Voice Male; Amherst, Fall 2005: 18. GenderWatch. EBSCOhost. Stewart
Library, Weber State. 22 Feb 2008.
<http://proquest.umi.com.hal.weber.edu:2200/pqdweb>
Williams, Tennessee. “A Streetcar Named Desire.” The Norton Anthology of
American Literature; Ed. Nina Baym. New York: Norton, 2003. 19792041.
Yeats, William Butler. “Leda and the Swan.” The Norton Anthology
of English Literature; Ed. Stephen Greenblatt. New York: WW Norton,
2006. 2039.
Academic Literature 121
Does it Take a War to Establish an Identity?
McKella Sawyer
In the chapter entitled “Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong” in
his novel The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien studies the effects
of war on society by examining the effects of war on an individual
and touches on the parallels between women’s struggle for independence from their social roles and society’s fight for independence
from the government and traditional ideals.
In this particular chapter of the novel, Mark Fossie, a young
soldier, has found a way to bring his sweetheart, Mary Anne, to the
swamps of Vietnam for a few weeks. The girl’s initial state of innocence and beautiful naiveté is very much like the state of a society
untouched by trauma. She has no idea what is about to happen to
her; she is completely oblivious to the concept of violence and war.
Like America, she is young and full of potential, full of dreams.
At this time, she is very much in love with Mark Fossie and “her
relationship with [him] emblematizes the simple allurements of the
American Dream” (Chen). She is curious and strives to learn as
much as she can about the environment, the culture, and the equipment used by the soldiers. She is seduced by the romance of the
country.
All the morning, Mary Anne chattered away about how quaint
the place was, how she loved the thatched roofs and naked children,
the wonderful simplicity of village life. “A strange thing to watch,”
Rat said, “like a cheerleader visiting the opposing team’s locker
room” (96).
Such is the view of a person who casually observes the war
from afar. Someone who has been in the middle of the war, such as
Rat has been, tends to see past those pretty things and only understands the hidden violence under the surface. Also, this statement
may point out the differences between the typical male and female
perspective. When civilized and conditioned by society, most women
tend to take a gentler view on things, while men, who are conditioned
122 Academic Literature
to be tough and capable of violence, tend to see things in a more realistic, even pessimistic light. The woman chooses to see the simplicity and beauty, the man sees the harshness without inhibitions. Mary
Anne’s enthrallment with the location may also be also reflecting
America’s fascination with the new and exotic and its ignorance to
the true condition of a place.
However, after the initial awe has faded, the girl’s countenance begins to change as she grows closer and closer to the war
on an internal level. She develops a fascination with the war itself
as well as with the landscape, especially the parts that no one is
familiar with. This change parallels the bursts of free thought and
new cultural movements that often take place in a society in times
of war. New ideas crop up, such as equal rights and opportunity for
women; people begin to wander into unknown realms. Mary Anne
continually asks her sweetheart to take her to the villages and out
into the jungles. Her desire and request for knowledge and expansion
is symbolic of the push for change that many protesters placed on the
government in this time period.
Mary Anne then begins to adopt the habits of the bush, such
as neglecting her personal hygiene and choosing not to wear cosmetics and cutting off her hair. This change in her habits runs parallel to the changes in women’s roles that tend to come with war. She
learns to use weapons and dress wounds; she disassembles M-16’s
and learns how they work. Like women left behind to fill the male
social roles, she rejects her feminine habits and adopts masculine
ones by learning to do what is often considered to be “man’s work”.
The changes in women’s roles are often drastic during war-time,
which often resulted in strong movements in feminism. “There were
many women who identified themselves as working class who came
to a feminist consciousness through their experience in the male
domain of the workplace” (Gilbert). This change doesn’t sit well
with Mark Fossie. He urges her to think about going home, but she
responds, “Everything I want is right here” (99). When a war ends
and men return home, they tend to be uncomfortable with women’s
newfound independence and ‘masculine’ edge. As a result, they often
urge women to return to their former roles as stay-at-home wives and
Academic Literature 123
mothers. Like many women faced with this type of disapproval, Mary
Anne makes it very clear that she is content where she is.
The changes in Mary Anne’s relationship with Mark Fossie
mirror the changing ideas of family and sexual independence that
America was experiencing at this time.
There was a new imprecision in the way Mary Anne expressed
her thoughts on certain subjects. “Not necessarily three kids,”
she’d say, “naturally we’ll still get married…but it doesn’t have
to be right away. Maybe travel first. Maybe live together. Just
test it out, you know?” (99).
The notion of being independent with relationships and sexuality was a novel idea that was part of many non-conformist movements
in the 1960’s. Cohabitation was one idea of the “sexual revolution”
that became popular in this time period. Of course, Mark Fossie was
not fond of this idea, just as the idea of sexual independence did not
sit well with many more conservative and traditional members of
society. This contradiction also contributed to much cultural unrest
in the 1960’s.
Mary Anne morphs from the bubbly, innocent young girl she
had been previously to someone much harder.
The bubbliness was gone. The nervous giggling too... her voice
seemed to reorganize itself at a lower pitch... she would some
times fall into long, elastic silences... Fossie asked about it one
evening, Mary Anne looked at him, “... it’s nothing... really. To
tell the truth, I’ve never been happier” (99).
At this point in time, Americans were beginning to challenge
traditional ideals and exercise their freedom of speech and freedom of thought. Many protests in this time period such as marches,
“teach-ins”, riots, and boycotts were dominated by college students
at various acclaimed universities, such as Iowa State University, Kent
State University, Ball State University and others (Gilbert). This suggests that these protesters were educated people. Knowledge has a
way of changing perspective, and of stealing innocence. As it did to
Mary Anne, thinking, knowledge, and experience had evaporated innocence in America and had turned it into something much harder.
Mary Anne starts disappearing overnight with the group in the
124 Academic Literature
platoon known as the Green Berets, or “Greenies.” She never bothers to say a thing to or ask permission from Mark Fossie, which is
another representation of female independence. While out with the
Greenies, she takes part in
The girl’s initial state of ambushes and strange misinnocence and beautiful sions with violent results. Mark
naiveté is very much like Fossie is furious and attempts
to regain control of the situathe state of a society
untouched by trauma. tion, which is similar to men’s
struggle to regain control after
women had settled into their new, more independent social roles.
Mary Anne complies, to an extent, just as women often did. She
starts showering and dressing like a lady again; however, there was
still an unresolved tension between them that neither of them was
comfortable with. This tension fueled future rebellions of Mary Anne
and American women altogether. The tension between these two
forces also reflects the tension between American society and the
government that was taking place during this time. Society rebelled
while government struggled to maintain order and control.
As this tension builds, Mary Anne’s fascination with the
unknown jungle progresses to a full-blown obsession. “The wilderness seemed to draw her in. A haunted look…partly terror, partly
rapture. It was as if she had come up on the edge of something, as
if she were caught in that no man’s land between Cleveland Heights
and deep jungle” (105). It is as if she is questioning her own identity
and ideals, challenging them. The deep jungle is a metaphor for the
unknown, the new ideas and free thinking that were taking place in
America. Also, this inner conflict reflects the contradicting state of
the nation. Society is often divided in times of war; some believe in
the war, some openly oppose it, and then others attempt to hide from
it or run away from it. A divided nation struggles to claim an identity
because in this state, it is only divided.
Mary Anne then disappears for several weeks with the
Greenies. When she returns with them, she is someone completely
different — almost a ghost of the person she had been before.
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A column of silhouettes appeared as if by magic at the edge
of the jungle. At first, he didn’t recognize her — a small, soft
shadow among six other shadows. There was no sound. No real
substance either. The seven silhouettes seemed too float across
the surface of the earth, like spirits, vaporous and unreal (105).
Mary Anne had transformed into someone who was unrecognizable from the person she was, just as a society often changes so
drastically in times of war. Over the course of history, many cultural
revolutions have taken place during times of war; time periods are
often measured and defined by wars. America had become a completely different society with a different culture and ideal system
than it had before the war.
The utter distrust and disregard of certain members of society
toward government authority that took place in the 60’s is made evident as Mary Anne strolls back into the camp and completely bypasses Mark Fossie and instead goes to the Greenies’ tent. Now that
she is comfortable with her newfound independence and is aware of
her capabilities, she completely and purposely disregards the main
authority figure in her life, just as some members of society disregarded the word of the government and the press.
At this point, the narrator pauses. Previously, the writer had
stated that the word of this narrator usually had to be taken with
a large grain of salt. Throughout the narrator’s telling of the story,
the listener questions the story’s truth. This questioning of truth in
general is representative of questioning authority in general, just as
much of American society questioned and even outright distrusted
the government and the press during the war. Radicals created their
own truth and made their own publications broadcasting their own
version of the truth. At this point, the reader must also question the
value of truth, and whose version of truth can be trusted.
The story of Mary Anne resumes as the narrator tells of the
drastic change in her countenance upon her arrival. “I saw those
eyes of hers; I saw how she wasn’t even the same person no more”
(107). She was dangerous and violent, which is often the case when a
person or a society is thrust into the midst of war and violence. This
development in Mary Anne’s character sheds light on the point that
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many women were discovering about themselves and their capabilities: “Women who never go to war are not innocent so much as they
are ignorant to their own capacity for violence” (Smiley). The narrator
also points out that women are as capable of violence as men are.
“You got these blinders on about women. How gentle and
peaceful they are. All that crap about how if we had a pussy for
president, there wouldn’t be no more wars. Pure garbage. You got to
get rid of that sexist attitude” (107).
Mark Fossie eventually confronts Mary Anne in the Greenies’
tent. He is struck by the scent of the place. It is a smell with two
layers: first, the overlaying scent of incense, a sweet, exotic smell that
is representative of the proper, conservative side of society and the
gentle and conforming facets of the individual, but then there is the
foul stench lurking below this one, the strong, thick, animalistic odor
of blood, burnt hair and excrement. This pungent odor is symbolic of
the wilder, more dangerous, rebellious side of the social order. In the
metaphorical conflict of the two scents, it is clear that the latter has
dominated.
Finally, Mary Anne appears, dressed like a lady in her blouse
and skirt; however, she is sporting a necklace of human tongues
bound together with copper wire. She appears completely at peace
with herself, and she justifies her actions to Mark Fossie:
“You just don’t know…You hide in this little fortress…and you
don’t know what’s it’s all about. Sometimes I want to eat this
place. Vietnam. I want to swallow the whole country — the
dirt, the death — I just want to eat it and have it there inside
me. It’s like... this appetite... but it’s not bad. I feel close to
myself... to my own body... like I’m full of electricity and I’m
glowing in the dark... but it doesn’t matter, because I know
exactly who I am. You can’t feel that anywhere else” (111).
Mary Anne claims to have found her identity while fighting
in the bush. Her experience and newfound identity is “clearly destructive as well as empowering. That she, or any other American
can only encounter personal potential and visionary truth in the…
practice of institutionalized death is the story’s most disturbing
implication” (Wesley). A society experiences drastic changes in the
Academic Literature 127
midst of violence, when one of two conflicting sides eventually wins,
more or less. In Mary Anne’s case, the animalistic, free-willed side
conquered the humane side. When faced with crisis, society often
becomes more liberal as its citizens stretch to exercise their rights.
Because of the war, this young woman discovered an identity for herself. Does it take a war for a society to discover an identity as well?
When a person or society is changed by a war, there is no going back. The narrator states:
What happened to her... was what happened to all of them. You
[are] clean, you get dirty and then afterward it’s never the
same... she wanted more, she wanted to penetrate deeper into
the mystery of herself, and after a time the wanting became ]
needing, which turned then to craving (114).
Mary Anne continues to go on ambush with the Greenies, but
she begins taking chances that amazes even the Greenies; she becomes so accomplished that she seems to be more of a creature than
a human. “She was lost inside herself” (115). Mary Anne’s internal
chaos reflects the chaos and confusion taking place in America that
was fueled by various protests, riots, and radical cultural movements.
Finally, Mary Anne disappears into the wilderness altogether.
She simply wanders off into the landscape that had intrigued her
and eventually, she becomes a part of it. This event is representative of America’s entire cultural revolution that took place during the
Vietnam War. The American society was swallowed by the new ideas
of independence and individuality until it finally embodied these
notions and became the epitome of independence and individuality;
these are the values that America now stands for.
War transforms individuals and society simultaneously, with
each cause and effect situation affecting the other. “... the Vietnam
conflict again elucidated the limits of human endurance and the way
in which internal strife…transform the character of the conflict itself
including its... human and social consequences” (Kolko). War is the
key ingredient of revolution in both individuals and a nation.
128 Academic Literature
Works Cited
Chen, Tina. “Unraveling the Deeper Meaning’: Exile and the Embodied Poetics of
Displacement in Tim O’Brien’s The Thing They Carried” Contemporary
Literature 39 no. 1, spring 1998, p77-97.
Gilbert, Marc Jason. The Vietnam War on Campus. Westport, Connecticut:
Praeger Publishers, 2001.
Kolko, Gabriel. The Age of War: The United States Confronts the World. Boulder,
Colorado: Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 2006.
Smiley, Pamela. “The Role of the Ideal (Female) Reader in Tim O’Brien’s The
Things they Carried: Why Should Real Women Play?” Massachusetts
Review 2002 vol. 43 p602, 12p
Wesley, Marilyn. Violent Adventure: Contemporary Fiction by American Males.
University of Virginia Press, 2003.
Academic Literature 129
Santiago
Bernice Olivas
Boise State University
Boise, Idaho
It’s fall again, and I can hear souls on the wind. They drift
under the door and caress my cheek. I wake in the night and I can
smell Mexico on the cold Idaho air. In the mornings I hear fresh tortillas, cactus and bacon crackling on a cold stove. On November first,
the first day of the festival of the dead, I visited every flower shop in
Boise and in the end all I had to show for it were some washed out
sunflowers and a few sad marigolds. I bought them all, and a few
early poinsettias. I know they’re not your favorites, my love, but getting Texas bluebells this far north seems impossible.
I bought fruit, last season’s oranges, a few sad papayas and
mangoes. I wanted better for you, but the growing season is so short
here, only the finest stores carry imported fruit and some things just
can’t be had. The bananas are ripe, though, a buttery yellow. I went
to the liquor store, the one where we bought our first bottle of champagne after we closed on the house. Do you remember how it popped,
silver froth running over the bottle and shimmering on the floor? Do
you remember pulling me into your arms?
“We made it,” you whispered. Then you tugged me to the floor
and we made love in the spilled champagne. I can still taste it if I
try, mingling on my tongue with the taste of your skin.
The altar took hours to set up. Do you remember celebrating
Noche de Muertos together? Setting up the altar first for my mother,
then your grandfather, and then for my sweet Abuela? I miss you all.
I envy you. I envy how it must have felt to see them again.
You were always so good with your hands, weaving the flowers together, and setting up the candles, everything so beautiful. I
wanted everything to be just right, but I’m still clumsy. My flowers
are lopsided, my fruit jumbled, the oranges keep falling off out of the
bowl and rolling away. I miss you so much. I miss the way you smell,
the way you taste, I even miss the way you used to sleep. Curled up
into yourself like a child. I started cooking late, and this morning
130 National Undergraduate Literary Conference
the house is heavy with slow roasted pork and cumin. I am making
tamales even though I swore I would never, ever do that again.
Do you remember how angry I was the first time you tasted
my tamales? You spat them out and said, “Mi Mama will teach you
to make proper tamales, and I won’t marry you until you can do it
right.”
I was six and they were made of dirt and grass. You were seven
and you knew everything.
“I’ll never make tamales for you again,” I shrieked. And I
never did. You were so arrogant, the son of La Bruja, the little prince
of our corner of Monterrey. “I don’t want to marry you anyway.”
I threw dirt on your new shoes, a pair of Nikes, a gift from your
Tio Roberto. You didn’t talk to me for days until you found me hiding
in the dark, cool well house, crouched against the stone sobbing. You
leaned against the door and scuffled your feet in the dust.
“Go away,” I said.
“Can’t,” you said.
“Why not?”
“Cause you’re sad, and it makes me sad.”
“Why do you care, you don’t like me!”
“You’re my best friend.”
“Forever, do you promise?”
It was our first kiss, your lips on mine, landing like a butterfly,
so quick I wasn’t sure it was ever really there.
I never told you about the hours in the kitchen with your mother, when I was twelve and you went away with your cousin to work at
the big American hotel in Yucatán. You spent the summer learning
English and doing dishes and I learned to make tamales. It kept my
mind away from missing you.
I’m making tortillas, rice, beans, and flan. I’m making tuna
casserole, all your favorites. The tuna casserole is the one I learned
to make at the Catholic halfway house in Elsa, Texas, the one that
harbored people like us. I hated it there, the way they kept us apart
even though we’d been married before we left Mexico. Too young,
they said. Fourteen and fifteen is too young to be married. It isn’t
legal. It isn’t right.
National Undergraduate Literary Conference 131
“She’s my wife,” you said. You drew yourself up as tall as
could be. Five foot nine and so skinny. “In my country I am a man
and I demand to be treated like one.”
The nun tossed us in separate dorms, shaking her head and
muttering about savages, barbarians and lice. The next day we left
the church before the sun came up, spent the day calling the numbers Padre Miguel gave us until we found a job and a place to sleep
at the migrant camp.
Tomorrow I will the light candles.
I spent night going through our photos. I’m so glad we bought
the fireproof box after the fire in Michigan, the one where Marta lost
her babies. I can’t stand the idea of them, blistering in flame, being eaten by fire, curling into ash. My favorite is the wedding photo
in Monterrey. We are sitting on the stone fence in front of Abuela’s
small adobe house. We are so brown; everything is so brown, the
little house, the cat. I can see our mothers in the background, crying. It’s nothing like all the flashing lights and neon of Vegas, where
we finally had our American wedding. I found one of my wedding
ribbons on the bottom of the box. I was so young, just a child in my
wedding dress, so serious with my thick black braids and big eyes.
We grew up fast once we crossed the border, didn’t we?
It seems like only yesterday we crawled into Roberto’s trunk,
hot and terrified. Each bump and tremor shaking through us, each
pause and stop making me dig my nails deep into your arm.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered when the engine roared to life.
“My mother, my sisters, they’re all in Mexico. We can make it here,
we can move to the city, get jobs, and find a way. I’m scared.”
All I could think of were the horror stories. Cassandra, raped
by the border guards, little Dago getting shot at a gas station in
Galveston, Benito killing those men on the highway.
“I can’t stay,” you whispered. “I can’t just be one more Ortiz,
just like my brothers, my cousins, and my uncles. There’s so much
more out there.”
I was sure we would never make it but you believed enough
for both of us. We made it without trouble and I felt strangely disappointed when we rolled across the border. I wasn’t even sure we were
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in the States. It looked like any other border town in the dark.
In that picture of Monterrey your hair is long, hanging almost
to your waist. You’ve tucked a rooster feather behind your ear. I’m
leaning against your chest, my cheek against your heart. I remember
when you cut your hair short. The day you were promoted at the factory.
“Please don’t,” I begged. “I’ll get up early, every day, I’ll put it
into a tight braid and nobody will care.”
“It makes me stand out, looks Mexican.”
“You are Mexican. You may have changed your name from
Santiago to James, but you were still born in an adobe house with
a dirt floor, just like me. You still ran around naked in the summer
climbing mango trees and playing fútbol with the other boys.”
“Mary.”
“My name isn’t Mary! It’s Blanca Marie Flor, Castillo de Ortiz.”
“Blanca, listen to me. I can’t stand out. I need this job. The paperwork is almost done. Five years we’ve worked for this. El jefe, he
says I need to blend in. He’s our sponsor. We need to listen to him.
Mija, in a few months we’ll be Americans, and I’ll let it grow back. I
promise.”
You never did, though. I saved the hair after you cut it. I sat
there in the bathroom crying like a fool. I keep it in my Bible, a
single braid marking Ruth 1:16-17.
In our family portrait, you look so proud, so ready to face the
world. So did I, convinced that together, we could face giants. And
we did, didn’t we? I wish I could remember what it felt like to be
so young. Sometimes I even miss the fight, the constant tension of
making ends meet, of getting by day after day, you and me, standing wrapped in each other’s arms, facing anything the world threw at
us. These days I feel like I’m slowly sinking into plush carpets, into
down quilts, drowning in the quiet of this big house.
I can’t imagine you ever really being old. Even when you were
so sick, even after the diabetes took your toes, your heels, then your
entire foot, you were so strong. You looked ridiculous dancing with
your cane, one good foot moving with the music, hips swinging.
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You never stopped living,
I remember when the fences
never slowed down, never
were meant to keep people
took care of yourself and
like us out.
it killed you. Do you know
how I hated you after you left me? How angry I was when they put
you in the ground? I was so sure you left me on purpose, that you
gave up, because I knew you were too strong for diabetes, too strong
for a heart attack. I knew even death couldn’t make you leave me if
you didn’t want to. I felt like I was losing my mind.
It still amazes me to wake up in this house, this big beautiful
house, all fenced in to keep us safe. I remember when the fences
were meant to keep people like us out. I remember the tiny little
apartment in Garden City, the smelly trailer in Nampa. ¡Ay Dios mío!
We’ve come so far.
You look so different in the photo of our citizenship ceremony.
Your hair is so short; you’re wearing a blue suit and tie. You look
nothing like the boy who spent hours nursing baby goats, who used
to sing them lullabies in the night. We’ve both changed, I guess.
On November second the kids call, first Tomas, my boy, our
baby.
“Whatcha doin’, Ma?” he asks. I hate it when he calls me Ma.
It sounds like one of your goats, bleating and whining. So different
from the way I called my own mother Madre. “You’re not moping,
are you, Ma? It’s not healthy. Papi would hate for you to be sad. You
should get out more, go see some friends.”
He prattles on and on about his classes, his teachers, the
Day of the Dead presentation he’s putting together for his cultural
anthropology class. He wants to take pictures tonight, wants me to
talk about you into a recorder. My American dream all grown up and
the boy still sounds like a goat. It’s not his fault, I spoiled him. Gave
him everything we didn’t have until he was sick and bloated on his
American childhood. He’s a good man, though, under it all.
Sonya calls next, so soon after her brother I wonder if they’ve
planned it. “Mom, how are you?”
My smart girl, my firstborn, she was always so serious, so
intent.
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“I thought I’d bring Sam over tonight. I explained to her that
we were having a party for Grandpa tonight. She thinks it’s like Halloween and a birthday party all rolled into one. She doesn’t really
understand but she’s excited. Sam, come talk to your grandma, come
show her your Spanish.”
I wait endlessly while she chases down Samantha, who looks
just like you, a little brown princess, so arrogant, royalty in her own
little corner of the world.
“Hola, Abuela,” she says, slowly, carefully. “Te quiero.”
“I love you too, hija,” I say back. I remember how we sounded
just like her once. Sounding out, A,E,I,O,U and sometimes Y.
Sounds that never stay solid, sounds that change, hard, soft, and
sometimes silent.
“Grandma, you’re supposed to say it in Spanish.”
“Te quiero, hija.”
“That’s better, here’s Mom. See you tonight.”
Sonya talks about her job, about Sam, about the weather but
she doesn’t talk about you. I think she blames me for feeding you
tortillas, even though I knew they were bad for you, for letting you
drink, for not making you go to the gym. She just doesn’t understand
why I didn’t make you do all the things the doctors said. I can’t
explain it, I don’t know either. She misses you but she won’t talk to
me. While I pushed her to go to school, go to college, get married, to
succeed, you pulled her close and sang Sana, Sana in her ear. She
sings it to Sammy, who sings it to her teddy bear.
Sana, sana,
Colita de rana
Si no sanas hoy
Sanaras mañana
After dark the kids come, Sonya and Sammy. Tomas brings
his girlfriend. She’s all pink and gold and she’s just so fascinated by
everything. She’s fascinated by the sugar skulls, with their hollow
eyed grins and she’s fascinated by the food, the pictures. She asks so
many questions.
–Why marigolds?
Because they attract the souls of our loved ones.
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–What are they called in Spanish?
Flor de Muerto.
–That means dead flowers, right?
Flowers of the dead.
–Why tamales?
Because they were his favorite.
–Why skeletons? They’re so creepy!
Of all the American habits I hate this never-ending barrage
of why, why, why, the most. If I’d asked such questions of my own
Abuela she’d have taken her wooden spoon and beaten me until I
figured out I was being rude.
We celebrated, we drank. Sammy squealed with delight when
we brought out the skull-shaped Pan de Muerto. I’d painted Texas
bluebells in shimmery frosting, painted silver leaves on the pale gold
crust. It was almost too beautiful to eat. That didn’t stop Sammy. She
eats just like you, eyes closed, working each bite carefully, pulling
every ounce of satisfaction until she swallows. I wish you had more
time to get to know her. She barely remembers you, three years for a
child is forever. She pretends, though, makes up “me and Grandpa”
stories; in her dreams you go fishing, horseback riding, and to the
moon. Sammy thinks heaven is like Oz or fairyland. Has another
year really passed?
“My dad,” Tomas said, “was a crazy sombitch, I remember the
two of us parking at the edge of a corn field and sneaking over the
fence. We picked corn all night. Then we high-tailed it home. I asked
him why we didn’t just buy the corn and he said because stolen
corn tastes better. He was right.” My boy brought a few ears of corn
and laid them near the marigolds. “I stole these from my neighbor’s
garden, Papi.”
The kids talk as if we’re at your funeral all over again. They
can’t quite bring themselves to talk to you so they talk about you.
“Daddy was a good man,” Sonya said. “He worked hard. He
was one of the first Mexicans to own a home here, one of the first
to start his own business. He built the Mexican community center,
donated to the school. You know what I remember best, though? I
remember the way we used to dance. How he’d pull me up so I was
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standing on his shoes and he’d whirl us around the floor.”
We ate tamales and Tomas said they were almost as good as
his Abuela’s. Then they all went home. For them it was over, the rites
had all been observed; the rituals taken part in, you were properly
remembered.
Before she left, Sonya touched my shoulder. “Mama, come
home with us. Please. I don’t like the idea of you sleeping here all
alone.”
I shook my head. “How would your daddy find me all the way
across town?”
“Mama, please, you know Daddy isn’t actually coming.”
I just smiled. My little Norteamericanos, they don’t believe in
Ojo, in Señora de Guadalupe, God or the Devil. They believe in Wall
Street, in McDonald’s.
“Mama, please.” Sonya holds out her hand.
I hug her close. “I’m tired, hija, I’m going to bed.”
She nods, and I can see that she’s grateful I won’t be disrupting
her routine. They leave and the house is empty.
But I wait. I wait for you all night, play your favorite song over
and over, and finish off the tequila. I fret over the candles, were they
too dim? The music, was it too quiet? Did you go to home to Monterrey instead? I dance to our wedding song, eyes closed, remembering
the gentle weight of your hand on my waist. Finally, when it is darkest out, just before morning, I slip into bed and you’re waiting for me.
With that same little smile you used to have when I checked, then
double checked, then triple checked the kids. I pull you close, bury
my head in your chest and breathe, breathe, breathe you in. Some
mornings I wake up and I can’t quite remember the curve of your
cheek, the exact shape of your smile, but I can always remember
your smell.
Your hair is down to your waist, your big brown eyes like
melted brown sugar. You smell like cinnamon and chili powder. You
pull me into your arms and in the candlelight the stretch marks on
my belly have faded. My skin is clear, and unmarked. My hands are
soft and smooth. My hair is so black it looks like ink on the pillow. It
was grey this morning. Were we ever really this young? This eager?
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You kiss me and you taste like papaya, you stroke my body and I cry.
“Shh,” you whisper. “Let’s just enjoy this.”
You have a marigold in your hand and you brush it all over
me. Even the bottoms of my feet, which are so ticklish I laugh until I
almost pee. You laugh as I sprint to the bathroom, and my joints, my
bones don’t hurt. The cold doesn’t slow me. When I come back we
make love and it’s sweet and then it’s fierce, we cling to each other
and cry out to God. Finally, we lay panting, and I fight to keep my
eyes open, to stay awake, but you kiss my eyelids and I sleep. When
I wake up you’re gone, the stretch marks and wrinkles are back. I’m
tired and sore. The candles have burned out. I can smell the marigolds and warm candle wax but I can’t smell you. I miss you already.
Sonya calls to check on me, tells me she dreamt you, woke up
feeling your breath in her ear, hearing your voice singing softly. She
giggles like a nervous child. She wants to come over to help clean,
but I talk her out of it. I want to hold this feeling in the palm of my
hand as long as possible, cuddle it close, like a baby. I wish you
could stay. I know you had to go. The wind is empty, soulless this
morning. I can feel you, I never stopped feeling you. But you’re so
far away. Can you see me? Do you miss us all the other days of the
year? What is it like where you are? Is it beautiful? Does it smell like
home? Some days I feel like all I want to do is be with you but on
others the sun is warm, and Sam is laughing and holding my hand
and I know I’m not quite ready yet. Will you wait for me?
Are you really watching over us? Somehow I hate that image
of you, sitting around doing nothing but watching us live. I don’t
believe it. I know wherever you are you’re dancing to a cumbia beat,
drinking cold beer on hot days and eating anything you want without
getting sick. I can see you closing your eyes and taking every bit of
joy and satisfaction out of every moment.
Next year I’ll special order some guavas and tamarindos.
138 National Undergraduate Literary Conference
Music Section Editor’s Notes
When I was asked to be the Music Section Editor for Metaphor
this year, I knew that the end product would be a musical CD. How
and why would we focus on accomplishing something that has never
been done before? Several reasons. First, music is not music to most
people without actually hearing it. Unless you are trained to see the
subtle changes and differences in the lines of notes on a composition
or guitar tabs, you will have very little idea about what is going on.
However, when the chords are played, the notes sung, and the piano
or trumpet accompanies a melody, the listener will be confronted
with a song that is universally understandable. Secondly, as Music
Director at Weber State University’s radio station KWCR, I have
become acquainted with the level of talent the undergraduate musicians have.
The artists on this compilation are some of the best that Weber
State University has in their musical community. We were presented
submissions representing a plethora of styles from hip-hop to punk
rock to singer-songwriter, jazz and funk. As in the other sections of
Metaphor, we chose, blindly, from the selections those we judged to
be the cream of the crop; however, all of the songs that we received
for this project were good and showed some degree of promise. Out
of the fifty submissions we received, we have published those that
demonstrated excellence in songwriting skill, production skill, and
overall listenability.
Music Section Editor
Matthew Winters
Music Selection Committee
Jamie L. Ratcliffe
Matthew Cranford
Rebecca L. Samford
Music CD Selections
1 Current
Jeff Jepperson of Fullers Field
2 I Can’t Wait
Vaden Thurgood
3 When I Wake Up
Margie Chadburn
4 Rachel’s Song
Adam Rosenberg
5 Elizabeth
Adam Smith
6 The Driver
Jebu
7 When That Day Has Come
Ascension Tribe
8 This Is All We’ve Got
2-Face
9 Fallen Down
Cody Powell
10 Code Green
Shaky Trade
11 Donnie, Put the Gun Down
Cecil Bullard
12 Two Things That Once Were People
Tim Sessions
13 Alfalfa, Machetes, and Shovels
Arvis Tatom
14 When
Sally Yoo
15 In My Religion There Are No Laws
Thys Pendley
16 Happy
Rollin Mitchell
17 Overcome
Greg Mann
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